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howyouloveyourdragon · 1 year

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Remnants

pronouns: she/her warnings: smut, use of the word ‘whore’, angst, disease, character death, fluff, infidelity, slowburn, classism at first (daemon is a shit) summary: They say that you never forget your first love but the vultures are prey to weakness and intend to infiltrate Daemon’s own desires to preserve his adere riñus (slippery girl). Some say the woman will forever remain in his conscience, guiding his bloodied sword and singing sweet lost lullabies to lay his rest. For it has been too long since the volatile dragon slept peaceful. A prince with more gold than he can keep. A prince who can demand whatever he wishes and command any army. And yet all he is left with…All he is left with are the remnants of her which he swore to cherish as religiously as he would an idol. A/N: reader has dark hair for a plot point to work but i think you can still ignore it if you want to :) dividers by: firefly-graphics wordcount: 6,797

There is nothing like a sunset that is more comforting to him and yet his comfort is limited. How he stares at the strewn stars like figments of grace and kind. How he stares each as though in the eye and recounts sonnets as they emit. How he begs and pleads for the Gods to last the warmth of sunlight just a little longer each time. And each time it fades. Each time his eyes grasp any trace of her to sew back into his mind after it has been torn from him with viscous delight. He should have known. The Gods do not listen to begging. Not even from Crown Princes. No matter how many bottles he shatters in the heat of his dreams. He likes to think that their love was red and as flowing as his ever-heating dragon’s blood. A Syrax in its own right. But there was no Goddess of ecstasy blessing them. No. It was a curse of bluebells and belonging to that of Gaelithox, surely to punish him for his foolishness. He looks up at the sky. The dark array of black and blue. Of silver specks and promising folds of purple. There is nothing like a sunrise better to send the Rogue Prince into a spiel of decay and sickness. The absurd golden bonds squeezing out another day like an artist with their last inch of oils. The crawling brightness that comes to threaten the moon. Abysmal lies sung to him as his brother attempts to push him into seeing beauty in all that inductees his churning stomach.

He wills the flowers to wither.

It was under the rising sun that Daemon had stumbled and forced his way out of the obnoxious hooting Street of Silk. Perhaps he had been desiring only ale or the rancid smell of sweat to intoxicate him. At just two and twenty, he had been visiting the volatile heap of taverns and brothels for the past eight years. It was religious in his dark desires. For dragons did not obey the whims of men and Daemon did not obey the whims of his brother nor father. And certainly not the whims of his wife. His nose turns up at the thought. Marriage would not contain him like they desired and yet still, he receives the constant demands to visit her. Of course he only intends to sink them in water until soft enough to shred, rejecting their presence all together. It would be easier to burn them but he does not think them worthy of his flame. His begrudging circle had even begun threatening to hail her to the Red Keep. To keep her in his presence all torturous times of the day. He knows his mother wouldn’t have let this happen, surely. Never would she sell him like prize cattle just to tame him. He is a dragon does not fuck plain featured sheep, he burns them but he would not devour them like his brother wished. His tastes were precise and he would not settle. He is a prince. He deserves nothing less than a woman matching his silver strands. Which is what he thinks of as he stumbles through the dark night struck streets, hopefully back to the castle gates at least. He despised people seeing him in such a state but he could usually hold his liquor better than tonight. And he assures himself that all will be well…until his cloak catches on a hook and he crashes to the floor in a surge of red blurred vision.

He blinks awake the next morrow with a pounding headache the size of Caraxes. A wince cracks at his muscles. Daemon grunts, a rough sting along his left cheekbone. A blur of dark hair and feminine presence has him assuming he had fallen asleep in the whorehouse again but instead his eyes flit across the plain room, brows pinching at the plain room. It is unfamiliar, he realises. His lips part in time for a resounding click of the unknown woman's fingers to snap him into alert. Anger swells in his chest but his limbs are weakened with exhaustion and ale. His sharp eyes choose to narrow instead as quickly as she takes a step. His brain swishes with questions. Where is he, why is he here and most importantly, who is this already insufferable cunt of a peasant? "You." He sneers, clicking his own fingers but she ignores him, returning to a small room he presumes to be a...kitchen? It is small and brown and littered with pans, some empty, some filled. "Tell me, who are you?" It is a demand. They both know it is a demand and yet it goes ignored. Rage firms his brittle state. "Answer your prince!" He stands on slightly shaky legs, uncaring to his indecent layer of clothing, or rather, lack of. His tunic...Where is his tunic? It isn't panic that raises the bile but it is discomfort. The odd woman merely chuckles at him. Anger flares once more. Daemon's swift hand snaps to his scabbard only to find it empty. "Relax, your highness," He doesn't like the mocking lilt seeping from her untrustworthy tongue. "it will be returned to you, I merely made certain you would not awaken with a missing appendage." His face scowls petulantly at her and he takes a step forward.

Daemon builds up his broad shoulders to square though he is not entirely a man full-grown yet and his boyish features attempt to harden. Intimidation is a powerful tool he knows. "You will hand me my possessions and I will take leave far from your slums or I will–" She spins around, facing him not with fear or mal-intent but with curiosity. Her sly smirk is the first thing he notices alongside her narrowed fox-like eyes. “Or what?” She returns, impishly .His mouth hangs. She had been washing one of her thick pans but now she has tucked the pathetic wet towel into her small apron and folds her arms. The pan is left forgotten on the side after a loud clang. She raises her brows. “Or what, your highness?” She repeats as though he is nothing more than the village idiot or town fool. Begrudgingly he has never felt more like a child, not even after marrying the bronze bitch. Daemon’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. She snorts. “Will you harm a sweet village girl? Add blood to your taxes? Ah, apologies, my lord, you are no foe of such demands, you are the taker.” The snide doesn’t pass him. “No girl is of worth to a Dragon.” He says, finally regaining composure. She doesn’t cower, she sneers. “In that we can agree.” Her voice, once mellifluous and playful, now turns cold. “Except the ones fucking dragons and I assure you, I have no intentions.” He swallows, noticing just how close they have approached once the hit of warm breath fans over his mouth which towers just above her. He ignores when his eyes flicker to her wet lips. How can a peasant look so nourished?

Daemon may ignore it but the peasant does not, her lips slowly curling upward smugly. She hums as she takes in his dilated pupils now wielding more than just rage. Slowly, her calloused hand begins to dip into her apron pocket. In a flash, his palm snatches her wrist and rips it out of reach. She blinks, slightly disoriented, but then raises her brows comically. “Do you not wish me to return your sword, my lord?” She lilts, Daemon’s face softens. “I am your prince, not your lord.” He snarls. Again, her sickening chuckles lift in the stale air. “You are an ingrate that we are all in service to, my prince. Do you wish for your dagger or not?” He hesitates. Who is to determine that she is not attempting to fool him? That she will not snipe his weapon and slice it through his throat; would she leave him bleeding on her floor or scatter him amongst the mongrels of flea bottom? Daemon casts his eyes at her apron. She sighs, allowing his thick fingers to swipe through the various utensils stashed away. The prince grunts when he makes contact with a blade, groaning behind his taut lips. He slides it out once he finds the hilt and dances it between his fingers like a peacock presents its feathers. A smirk twitches.

The peasant girl sighs, unamused as he watches the shining steel. “Do you intend to frolic through the streets and freeze?” She asks with a thin layer of mocking. His eyes narrow on the blade. “No,” He articulates in a frozen phrase. “You will lead me to the garments you have stolen from me and in return I shall allow your pitiful life to remain.” It isn’t a chuckle that escapes her this time but instead a snort. His nose wrinkles at the unabashed noise. “Will I?” She returns, biting the inside of her cheek. Daemon lets a glower settle, breath heaving at the disrespect. He clenches his jaw. “You will or you will taste your own blood.” Daemon spouts the words, attempting to poison her flesh, he can already imagine the boils that would litter her soft skin. The peasant merely winks. “It wouldn’t be for the first time but I am afraid that it would be in your best interests that you stay a moment more.” She sighs as though the fact physically pains her. A hand sneaks behind her back, which connects against the rough counter edge, and produces a small wooden bowl, heat emitting in steam from the top. “Would you not prefer to break your fast before you leave? A weak prince is not a wise one.”

He leans down, sneering. “I am not weak.” She leans up at him and tilts her head. “Then how do you know I was talking about you?” She pushes the strange broth to his chest and slips past him once his confusion lessens his hold on her other wrist. His head snaps to face her figure again. “You are an insinuating little tart.” Daemon comments but much less interrogative than before. He eyes the broth cautiously as he takes a seat at her short stocky table. His legs plead for freedom under the trapment. He ignores them. The girl glances him over and he can feel the scrutiny piercing his skin, ready to seep inside. Begrudgingly, the heir seats himself at the small table of her home and huffs like a petulant child. The threat of judgement crawls like an insect over his tense muscles, it feels like twenty-thousand little cockroaches are bumping one another from the inside of his skin. It begs to clamber into the strange peasant instead, what does a peasant fair against a prince? She must know that it would be further than a sin to place judgement on a Targaryen prince while she is nothing more than a lowly film of dirt atop his shoe; filth he is desperately trying to scrape off until his hands are raw and bloody.

His eyes take this moment to rake over and through her as she stumbles around the much too small hobble. Her hair reminds him of toiled waves, crashing messily and unkempt–even though it is tied up–against the harsh wind sneaking through her window. Her apron is dirtied and there is flour on her face. She looks every inch the commoner he despises. Because she thinks she’s better than him, he’s sure, he can see it in her smugness, her eagerness to keep him dependent on her already. She has a vile brown dress beneath it, his skin itches just looking at the rough worn-in cloth. The prince’s eyes trail to her bare feet, he winces but attempts to ignore it, glancing over the muddy wet end to the dress. He lets a sigh release and shakes his head, inspecting the rest of the abode. Just looking at her made him long to cleanse himself. Daemon’s nose turns up at the sight of a myriad of blue wilting flowers in the corner, well he supposes to her it is reminiscent of a myriad. Her. Why is it her mind, her thoughts, that he wants to explore like the depths of the great sea he has always been kept from? Then his eye catches on the deep red cloth that drapes along a lone wooden chair. His eyes narrow. Is it stolen? She doesn’t look as though she could afford such vibrancy. Or perhaps she is a whore and it was gifted by a client. That must be it. She’s a whore. Daemon clicks his tongue and looks down at the half-eaten broth. He stirs at the odd liquid, raising the too large spoon and pouring the broth back in the bowl before dipping it back in again. It takes all his willpower to stuff it into his cheeks and let it play on his tongue.

He swishes it across his taste buds. Daemon wants it to be foul, he wants it to reek of vomit-inducing grossness. It is a childish word but he is running out of insults. His hope also falls flat because for some reason it tastes good. It tastes better than any soup the high paid cooks have ever offered him, it tastes almost better than any rich meal he’s consumed. His eyes narrow. Is she a witch? Is this set to bewitch him or send him into sleep? No, it makes him feel much too energised. Then is it to gain his favour? Constituted to trick his submission? She will not achieve it, he refuses. He finishes the lukewarm meal while taking his time. He watches her hum and shimmy about the room, searching for something he does not know. He scans her curiously. “My garments.” He states in demand, standing and approaching her swiftly. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even stop humming. She moves about a few thick books, all handwritten and all with olden pages–yellow with use.

His fist rests sideways against the presumably oak bookcase so he can lean over her, forearm following suit. He wants it to reflect dominance but instead it twists his gut and warms his lower stomach. “You have something that belongs to me,” Daemon purrs. His eyes narrow. His free palm outstretches. “I want it back.” “I have more than one thing, milord.” The snark drips from her tongue with charisma he loathes. His jaw clenches at the forced display. “Then return them and I shall return this.” Her eyes snap up to him and frown at the sealed letter in his grasp. Daemon can see as the panic swells and tenses her muscles, he can see as she takes in an inhale sharper than Dark Sister, he can see as her eyes widen because Daemon is not merely a swordsman and soon-warrior; Daemon Targaryen is also an observer. The peasant girl swallows. “Very well.” She chokes out and he finds himself surprised to have won this game of cat and mouse. Of dragon and sheep. Almost disappointed. The prince nods and steps back but as she prepares to swipe it from his hands and pulls it back with a visibly pensive expression. “I will give it to you once you return my possessions.” Eyes meet and again, his gut twists. She tilts her head, guard seemingly lowered. “How curious,” She breathes out. Daemon’s brows knit. “What?” He questions. “You said possessions not belongings. Most would use the latter.”

When he eventually does return to the castle, fully clothed and prepared to sleep off the remainder of his disturbed night, He keeps a firm stance and intends to forget the strange day so far but his mind circles the events like a fly. Daemon growls as he shrugs off his shirt to replace it with one of pure white and tosses the prior into a drawer. He roughly grasps a red doublet in his hands and tugs it over. His breath comes out in grunts and curses until he is redressed. It is the same shade as the peasant girl’s cloth, of course it is. It was his favourite until today and now childishly, it feels tainted by the resurging memories of humiliation being sewn inside. His nose scrunches up, a grotesque taste rubbing against his tongue as he recalls one incident in particular. The prince, a man to be respected, can visualise as he was shoved to a thin mattress and tossed up the mix of bile and sickness from his stomach. All. Over. Her. Floorboards. Daemon winces and shakes his head, trying to shake the memory into the deepest depths of his subconscious, never to be seen again. He sighs and turns around, pausing when a slight fluttering falls as soft as a petal from his trouser. He frowns and peers down at the paper. There sits a thin parchment, not unlike the letter he had returned to the peasant girl. This one however is in cursive words much more eloquent than the past one and written in a phrasing he’s unsure of. He looks at the wax seal this time. It’s blue and the paper around it is curled. Daemon glances over the creases. Perhaps his business is not yet forgoing.

A moon passes before he finally returns through the winding streets, trying to recall the pattern in which he returned home, backward. Daemon finds himself humming a tune to which he should not be familiar with but it is the only thing that consumes his mind as he passes through the Street of Flour. Finally, he reaches a small doorway and raps at it. No one answers to which he sighs and takes a step back, peeking through the opening of his hooded cloak at the abundance of civilians. Daemon’s eyes dart amidst the unknown area and his feet follow, investigating a series of yells and glances one last time at the door. The street is in uneven bumps and the people there are clumped together as they holler and whistle. Daemon halts his tune and uses his substantial height to attempt to see over the large mass of bodies. He can barely make out the sight of steam and two large wooden stands. The hollers burst through his ears like pellets of rain, forceful and punishing as a storm.

Then a familiar voice is raised above the others, a mock resounding in his ears but with the playfulness and wit of a friend. His violet eyes snap up to find the woman haunting him. She’s laughing raucously, obnoxious and loud. Daemon’s lips slightly twitch at the teeth she bares. Again, his gut stirs. The heat becomes smothering but that doesn't stop him in his pursuit in finding the peasant girl who he now sees tossing around a pan filled with water and meat. From the brief glances he can snatch up, she’s almost finished while a man beside her is kneading a similar meat lined in fresh pink. Daemon pulls his lips taut, tensing as he watches the show. His little peasant seems to be enjoying herself. Witch, he thinks briefly but she doesn’t look like a witch and nor does she particularly sound like one. Are witches not supposed to be tantalising and hibernate an illusion of raw sex? Of primal appeal to tempt him? She doesn’t appear to be trying very hard. The flour is gone from her face now, he notes, but in its place lays a curved slice, colour as deep as that of Dornish wine. If she is a witch, would she not surely cover it? The hiss of her heated pan hisses throughout the street and Daemon finds himself surprised that no one has stolen from the small bag of coins in the centre.

A cacophony of enjoyment and not one has a trail of bitterness. He watches as the girl glides a hand around her neck to push back the hair escaping its tight wrap atop her head. Only joy amongst the miserable. Perhaps that should worry him but he is too enthralled in the display. The woman’s hair is tied high again but much clearer than the moon prior–the day he last saw her. She is still wearing the same rags but this time that revolting red cloth is wrapped around her shoulders like a shaul. Not a whore either then. A whore would not be parading her squeals for free and nor would she wish to wear rags when surely many men had solicited them. So she is not a witch and not a whore and yet he finds himself stalking after her presence like an injured pup. Daemon growls at the very thought. He is a prince. How many times must he remind himself? Princes do not chase after strange peasant girls. The scolding floats through the wind when the peasant girl cheers and hurls the pan down on the wooden market stand. Her opponent groans half-heartedly, grinning like a mad man as he stretches out his arms and embraces the girl, one rough large hand resting to cup the back of her head and his other reaching to slap her back like Daemon has seen other knights behave. But this is not a knight, this is a peasant. The fact twitches his nose in distaste. But so is she. A voice whispers in his ear, he swats it away, watching as the surrounding peasants cheer.

Daemon watches as the children let their little hands grasp the food and jump in bubbles of excitement. If he had a warmer heart, he may have found the sight sweet. But he does not, he has a mission to complete. He approaches the peasant girl with sly steps but she has already noticed him, how, he does not know. He steps behind her and opens his mouth but she beats him to it. “My prince,” She speaks with a burning smugness he doesn’t have to look at to be aware of. Against his better judgement, a sly smirk spreads across his pale lips. “You remembered.” He quips to which she hums in approval and folds her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately I did.” Daemon shifts in intrigue. He hesitates for the first sun of his existence. “I almost thought you wouldn’t bring it back.” She comments, amusement slipping in between her teeth. A snicker passes his mouth, a mouth rarely barred. “I had not imagined you would need use of such a thing left so easily misplaced.” Daemon’s hot words burrow through her ear, as determined as their wielder. She turns her head, baring her soft neck and piercing eyes to look up into his. The heir’s breath hitches.

“I misplaced nothing, my prince.” The peasant purrs boldly. The intimacy of a whisper drips from her like an aphrodisiac. Daemon grins. “Is it my name or merely my title that you know of?” He chuckles, a confident hand reaching wind at her waist. Her own hand cups it. “Of course, my Prince Daemon Targaryen.” He swallows and a shuddered chill draws down his back. “Might you tell your prince your own for adequate compensation?” She leans a little closer, only a breath apart and fanning across his twitching lips. She interrupts his thoughts by slapping his hand enough to stun him. “I shall not.” With him vulnerable, she twists away from him with cautious grace. “I like to leave my men wanting.” She calls with a growing impish grin. He surprises himself by returning the gesture, straightening his back as he does so and raising his brows. “And I am one of your men then?” He retorts easily and watches her sashay apart from him. Before she is too far, he pats down to find the letter in his pocket but already knows it has been swiped. Instead of berating his own foolishness, he smirks at the smart, slippery girl and steps away, sure to see her more in the growing time.

As the moons pass and his brother grows increasingly irate with him, Daemon Targaryen sneaks away into the night. He ignores the hailings of his Lady Bronze and replaces her calls with the sweet melodies his newfound companion intoxicates him with. The soothing lilt of her lullabies and the calm braids she strews across his hair. Daemon stands, now a man of 27 years, at her side. Y/n, she had told him. Her name was Y/n. She was of no surname and no wealth but she was beautiful and kind. She was fresh and witty and every inch the insinuating tart she had been the night they met. Her fingers stroke through his tangled mane with a snort before landing her hands, rough with work, on his shoulders. He leans back and flutters his eyes shut. With all the bread she has kneaded, this is not the first time he longs for her embrace. He hums in swift pleasure, reaching up to coil his fingers with hers. “How is sweet Rhaenyra?” Y/n asks, voice ripe with interest and honey as always…Only this time, there is something burrowed beneath, he can feel it. He can feel it better than he can sense Caraxes’ heartbeat. “She is well…Almost full grown already.” Daemon responds, his fingers lingering as they caress Y/n’s hand. Why does it feel so much frailer than it did before? “Are you hiding something from me? Are you aware that it is a crime to lie to your prince,” The joke falls flat as she leans forward and shakes her head, arms stretching across her lover’s chest. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t pry but they are both aware of the deep mulberry bags beneath her eyes.

But Daemon has always been a man of actions and impulses and so, he lets instincts take over, leaning back his head to look at her. His hands both reach up to cup her face and descend it toward him with gentle prompt. “I brought something for you,” He breathes, twirling a strand of her hair around his fingertips. She tilts her head and tightens her lips. “Whatever for?” He lets a mischievous grin twist his mouth and stands, settling Y/n down in the chair instead. Daemon cups her cold hands in his warm ones and folds them in her lap. “Close your eyes.” She does so begrudgingly but she is long past arguing with him when he’s in his moods. She chuckles. “You told you there was nothing you required for your namesday and while I respect–” She interrupts him, groaning with amusement. “Because it is not a namesday, I will never know my namesday,” She chuckles but her tickling throat gives her away, choking the words out of her dry throat. Daemon hums lowly. “But it is the day that you were given shelter.” She rolls her eyes at the quip. “That place was hardly a shelter.” He leans down to kiss wetly along her jaw and up to her earlobe. “And yet it brought you to me, kept you safe and waiting.” She snorts and raises her brows, a pointed expression inching over her. “I was hardly waiting.” He chuckles this time and kisses up the column of her throat. As she begins to breathe out gentle moans, he takes her distracted presence to skillfully thread his hand over hers, sliding cold steel onto her finger. She gasps and flutters her eyes open to see his cocky smirk. “Well?” He asks and kisses the finger. He licks his lips and lets a shaky breath flow through him.

Y/n regains composure and stares at the ‘something’ he had brought her. She brings it to just in front of her sights and swallows. “Is-Is it…?” “Yes,” He whispers and looks at the carefully crafted jewellery too. “I want you to have a part of me, always. And in return…” He pauses and turns the ring around her finger slowly to reveal a carved dragon, its wings spread for flight. “I want all of you.” He slowly kneels in front of her. “I want you to marry me.” It’s instantaneous that her mouth parts and her eyes widen. “Daemon…” “That woman is not my wife.” He states coldly before warming at the sight of her softening brows. “You are my wife in body, in soul and I want so in law too.” He takes in a breath. “Please, do not this deny of me. “I told you I would give you everything and I intend to. “Your brother will never approve of it.” A growl ripples through his mouth. “I do not care, he has tried to be my dictator since we were children and now I am a man grown, I should be allowed to choose my own wife. To let her choose me. He has not yet had an heir, let me take you to Dragonstone.” He leans closer until only a single breath can part them. “Let me make you my wife in the ways of my ancestors.” Silence cups them in a bubble, so easily popped. Too easily popped…and yet, she turns the ring, roaming the dotted rubies that form the dragon’s eyes and in slow movement, she stares into violet irises as she kisses the dragon’s head. “Yes.” She whispers. “I will be your wife.”

He doesn’t take a moment more to grasp the sides of her face and kiss fervently at her soft pliant lips. She returns the force in tandem as the sun sets behind them. The golden rays darken in a way only the most beautiful of moments could demand. Daemon’s hand drops to scrunch at the material at her thigh, at the skirts of her dress. It is in moments that both his hands reach to pop and tear at the incriminating fabric, ripping away her bodice until he can paw at his prize like an animal starved. Her teeth sink into his lip and the wet resounding noises surface upon their lips. His breath grunts as hers quickens in high pitched desperation. Her own hands slash roughly at his doublet, shoving it away from him like a criminal. His hips grind against her in hard strokes, desperately trailing his kisses down her neck while she clutches and pulls at his long silver hair. A high moan tears from her mouth as he sucks his marks into her, the need for possession clawing at his veins. Her pearl throbs as she twists to plunge him onto the floor. She straddles his thighs and wraps her arms around his neck and pushes his face against her neck again. He growls and snaps off her smallclothes. “When we met,” He groans, eyes fluttering back. “I thought you were a whore.” A breathy cackle drips from her animalistic mouth. “I’m starting to rethink denouncing that. You are much, ah, much too talented to be a baker.” He moans and burrows his head into the pillows of her breasts, lips wrapping to suction once more, to claim. “And you,” She interrupts herself to moan, tossing her head back. “Are much too unkempt to be a prince.” He bucks his hips. “Tell me,” A shriek breaks as he tugs roughly at the pelvis of his own trousers, desperately trying to be rid of the material. “Tell me you’re mine, Rogue Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.” A gasp drips from his tongue while he finally gets a grip of his fabrics. He tosses her to lie on the floor, her back pressed against the wood. “Fuck, I’m yours,” He babbles like a hormonal desperate teenager. With thick hands grapple his own trousers and tears them off with haste. “All yours, only yours.”

He throbs as he kisses down her body, planting wet marks as violet as his eyes and crimson as his blood. He props up her right leg to drape over his shoulder and sucks at her thigh. His tongue probes at the flesh. His palms squeeze at her thighs as he slowly dips down between them and worships her mound in deep licks, drinking in the slick. He wants to drain it into a flask and carry it in his satchel. He wants to carry her around to sip from at any moment. He could die happily between her legs. Daemon Targaryen does not need wine or whore because she is his sin and he will anger the Gods happily if he can keep this temptress at his side. He pulls back to fan his breath along her throbbing cunny. Such a sweet filthy little thing, he thinks to himself, blowing down on it and revelling in her small jolt. His tongue drops to play with the bundled pearl, rolling it over the muscle and sending vibration as reward for every little moan that she lets pass. Her hands reach down and tug at his hair. “You should not have tempted me, adere riñus,” (slippery girl) His dark eyes level to meet hers. “I told you I want all of you and I intend to take it.” With an animalistic grin, his mouth descends once more to lap at her. Her back arches, grinding into him impatiently. “Be careful,” The woman pants. “Or I may start suspecting you to be a whore yourself.” He growls as she smirks and pushes up her body, slamming a forearm by her head and stretching her leg. She winces for a moment but recovers as his fingers replace his tongue. “A private whore then.” He speaks, removing his hand from her bud to palm at his length. “For a have already told you,” He grunts, chasing her mewls as he plunges into her entrance. “I am yours.” And so he pushes deeper, pushing roughly and lets his sweat pound into her flesh until they absorb one another.

Months have passed. He knows they have but he doesn’t feel it. All he can do is fight and slay and watch as men burn and bleed. So long it has been since he last saw his true wife, since he last kissed her lips. A comment in passing has devoured his entire mind. A half-hearted promise that he has clung to now is visible but only in part. He wants it now more than he has ever wanted anything. “Yes, well, you may marry her if the Stepstones are ever retaken.” A King will be true to his word and his brother has never proved untrustworthy but the phrase was meant in jest, he knows. However, Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince and man of twenty-eight years, will let himself be damned before he rejects the prospect. He will make his wifey his own if it is the very last thing he does. He has returned to his brother, a crown of bone within his grasp and presented it to him with but one request. He shall take his own wife and he shall take her at court for all to see. Before every lord, lady or royal proudly. For the first time, it isn’t frustration or malice in his brother’s gaze in response to his boldness. It is gentle and merciful. Because that is what it feels like to be gifted the honour of his adere riñus. It is mercy, it is a blessing, it is his salvation. It is the rise of his sun and the fall of his stars because he only needs one. He only needs one shining star to keep his moon afloat and begging.

Finally he can return home to her with more than a title and unfair vows. He can return with a heart full. Daemon’s hand twists at the wooden door he has slipped past so many times before but he freezes at the sight. An array of mess greets him and horror balls in his throat to gag him. His eyes snap at every corner, panic rising like the flow of sharp wind. His feet travel through the cluttered space, wariness biting at him but then he sees blood splatter on a cloth. It is as crimson as the shirt beneath his tunic and that alone makes him scream for her. Her name resounds through the open space and his legs run swiftly to the only other room there, the one where he had professed his devotion to her until the words bled out. He bursts the door open with the force of ten thousand men, the hinges yelling at him. He settles his sights on his weak love. She is shivering. With widened eyes and swiftly snaps to her side in one breath and kneels there, clutching her hands. “What is wrong, my love, who has hurt you?” The words are loud, demanding and cold. She almost doesn't respond and his heart stops. “I am well, husband.” She calls him such…She calls him such without even knowing the good news, the news he had only dreamed of whispering into your ear but not like this. Never like this. “My love, you are not.” Daemon chastises and fumbles with her bedsheets. He reaches to cup her cheek. “My love what has happened, has someone thieved you, please tell me what has happened.” She merely shakes her head. “I,” She coughs into her hand, rich thick blood dripping from it like a cursed potion. His face hardens but he lets her finish, lets the quiet remain. She’s trembling like a little lamb. “You knew that I was in an…unseemly state when you left. I am glad to have you return to me.” She has never spoken so proper, so rehearsed to him before. How long had he been blind? “I am taking you to a healer.” He snaps instantly and stands. She winces. “No,” She begs weakly. He shakes his head. “No, please, I do not wish for you to see me in this state.” “Shame is not for this time!” He yells. “I return home to my wife sickly and bedridden and you expect me to not alert a maester? Nonsense, you are coming willfully or I will make you.”

The nights are cold and they pass without progress as he lays by her side at all hours. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling. “It is in the sky that you are free,” She utters. “Caraxes will be missing you.” Daemon shakes his head and glides a hand up her waist. “And if I should fly him then I shall be missing you.” “He is an animal as wild as you, my love,” She berates with the softness of an angel. “And he will wait.” “And for how long? Until I am old in my grave.” “Do not say such things!” Daemon chastises. “It is mere truth, husband.” She sighs and curls his hair in her fingers. “He needs flight and so do you.” He doesn’t respond, his petulance growing.”I am not getting better.” She wags a finger in his face when he tries to argue. “I will continue not to but if you do this justice for me then I will grant you an army of love.” The mischief still holds on her tongue after all this time. The gentle mocking of his salvation and he smiles. He smiles as water pricks his eyes. He can’t speak. He won’t make it so, not if it is only going to claw at him.

Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches as the ivory moon lowers before him. He watches as gold forgives the darkness and they embrace. The twine of beauty and misery thread together in a beautiful seal. A seal of love and beauty. He twists a ring in his hand, one made of Valyrian steel and shattered promises. He sits upon a red cloth. Parchment is strapped to his thigh, awaiting acknowledgement, a web of bluebells encapsulates it. A letter of hopes, a letter of dreams unfulfilled. Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches the sun rise and with it, his future. He has felt his slippery girl slip from him and now it is time for him to breathe new air. He is only left with the remnants of her but that is enough for him to resume his newfound duty. A duty to her, to her memory and to her desires. As he watches the night close, he finally takes acceptance. He accepts peace. Her love is not red, it is not blue. It is in what she has left behind and it is in what she has gifted onto him. Finally he understands what she meant that fated day. She does not own him. He belongs to her.

Her love is her remnants. And he has an army of it.

Remnants Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @chompchompluke @eyelinerandcigarettes

HOTD Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @wrendermedone @hopelesswritergall @blackdreamspeaks @its-actually-minicika @gettheetoanunneryimmediatly @adelusionalwriter

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x fem!reader #daemon x you #daemon smut #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x fem reader #daemon x reader #daemon x fem reader #hotd x reader #daemon targaryen x reader smut #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x fem smut #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x reader angst #angst

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heliads · 1 year

Note

Kai Parker x male reader — them being a absolute power couple ? 🥹

yes yes please let me write for tvd

masterlist

Mystic Falls is a wonderful place to ruin a few lives. Not yours, of course. You’ve done your time of suffering, taken your turn for hating who you are and what you’ve become. The only thing you want to do now is get your revenge and have fun while doing it.

Now that is something Mystic Falls can do indeed. It’s an old town, full of older vampires who like nothing more than sitting back and watching the young ones take the fall for all the things they couldn’t do. The Salvatores tend to bother you, what with their time-honored tradition of letting their actions be decided by something as fallible as a conscience, but you’ve long since outgrown that.

Consciences don’t get to exist in a world like this, that’s something Stefan Salvatore will never understand. You knew that from the first day you met him. Any vampire worth his salt would never try the small woodland animal method of getting blood if they could do anything else. If he wanted to pretend he was a good person, he could kill criminals and whatnot. It would at least let him maintain his hero’s ego.

You understand why he wants to pretend he’s better than he is, though. It is wonderfully tantalizing to let yourself believe that you’re so much better than any of the other bloodsucking monsters around you. You spent enough years catering to guilt, that pathetic voice in the back of your head, but you’re done with that now.

No, you could never agree with Stefan for long. Damon had caught your interest for a while longer– there, at least, was someone who could mangle and maim with the best of them, but even the black sheep of the vampire family softened up over time. That’s what love does, you suppose, especially when you fall in love with someone as self-sacrificial as Elena Gilbert.

Damon was fun, though, especially at the start. You arrived in Mystic Falls a few months before Damon, which gave you more than enough time to get to know him before he started slipping. While Stefan and Elena were running themselves ragged trying to contain Damon before he went on another killing spree, you were out drinking people dry with him every other night.

It was good, that beginning. You’ve been a vampire for decades, more than enough time to accept your place in a never ending life, so you’re perfectly content to sit back and relax as the Gilbert-Salvatore circle continually gets themselves into trouble. If you’re ever bored, you can always count on one of them showing up at your door to beg for help.

They try not to, of course. Every time you have to save the day, they swear over and over that it’ll never happen again, that this is only a last resort, a bloody and dangerous Hail Mary they’ll never touch in a thousand years. These ends of days seem to happen at least every few months, though, so you keep in touch.

You still deliberate over an exact label to place on your relationship with the Salvatores, Elena, Bonnie, Caroline, and the rest. You’re not friends, not really, not when they’re evidently so horrified by your lack of inhibitions regarding murder (hey, if it passes the time…) but they’ve saved your life at least half as often as you save them, so that counts for something. When they’re willing to ignore a few crimes here and there, the lot of you have a good time when you’re out saving the day.

The problems come about when it comes to motive. The Mystic Falls crew have good hearts, even if they (read: Damon) like to pretend otherwise most of the time. Although they’ve all had a bad spell at least once in their lives, they try to follow the rules if they can help it.

You, though? You’ve lived enough lives to give up on such bothersome tactics. So what if you get bored every now and then, go out to some town in the middle of nowhere and drain a few bodies worth of blood? So long as they live, they’ll be fine, and even if you lose one or two out of excitement, it’s not like they’ll be missed. You only ever attack the criminals, the lowlives, the assholes who hurt others. Call that justice, call it what you will. It’s worked for you for decades, and it’ll go on working until pretty much forever.

Now that you think about it, there’s definitely at least one thing that separates the Mystic Falls friends from ever fully trusting you, and that would have to do with your boyfriend. See, you’ve already spoken on love, and how little you wanted it. Being a vampire tends to put such an idea on hold. Sure, you’ll flirt when you feel like it, but every relationship is underscored by the lingering knowledge that it won’t last forever, because you will.

What’s worth the trouble of changing your whole outlook on life for someone who’ll be gone in what feels like the blink of an eye? You like this existence of yours far too much to lose it over someone like a human.

It should have come as no surprise, then, that were you to fall in love with anybody, that lucky person would be someone like you. Still, you don’t think anyone expected you to get with Kai Parker of all people.

Certainly not you. Not at first, at least. You were minding your own business when Bonnie knocked frantically on your door, begging for help in taking down Kai. You were the only one who knew how he thought, she said. Not even Damon was that dramatic or crazed. You thanked her for her kindness, then set out to kill Kai. Easy as that.

You didn’t kill Kai, though. He didn’t need to die. Bonnie specified that he shouldn’t be a threat at the end of all this, so you stopped when he wasn’t. Sure, you were definitely supposed to kill him, but by the time you got close enough to have that opportunity, you were enjoying yourself too much to commit the murder. You expressed your regret over what should have been a satisfying kill, and instead of getting weirded out, Kai just nodded and said he felt the same way.

Bonnie would have lost her mind had you just allowed Kai to wander Mystic Falls free, so you offered Kai a different option: namely, the chance to wander the rest of the country on a murder/mayhem spree and come back in a few months once all the hubbub over his arrival died down. He said it sounded like a good plan to him, so the two of you set off.

Important note for vampires: if you’re going to find yourself a road trip partner, make sure you pick one who’s just as down with murder as you are. You made that mistake once before. That whole circle in Mystic Falls had to drive over to a down a few hours away to track someone down. You’d volunteered to take Matt Donovan. Talk about a buzzkill– every time you so much as snapped your fangs at somebody, he looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel.

Kai’s much more fun than that, though. Although he is rather prone to complaining about how much popular music has gone downhill since the nineties, Kai’s running commentary on anything and everything he sees makes for excellent entertainment. Before you know it, you’re chuckling under your breath at his one-liners, then laughing wholeheartedly at some of the better ones.

There are plenty of nights when you think he might be your best friend, and then, as the weeks turn into months and neither of you seem to want to leave the road, when you think he might be more. Kai is the only person who understands the way your mind works, why you’ve given up on treating the world like good actions are ever rewarded with anything but more pain. He doesn’t force you to start loving the world again, he just makes you want to keep being in it.

That’s worth more than you expected. You didn’t realize how jilted you’d grown until you had a standard to compare your attitude against. Kai doesn’t hate the world, he laughs at it. It’s better than screaming. You learn to laugh too. You learn a lot.

Kai teaches you one final lesson, however, and that is what it is like to love. You haven’t felt something like this, something as strong as this, in quite a long time. You almost forgot that an emotion could hit you this hard, but it does. Even Kai, who has skillfully trained himself out of feeling anything, starts second-guessing his words in an effort to make you laugh as much as possible. You can hear his heart rate jumping, the beats skipping over themselves every time you’re around.

It takes the two of you a while to recognize what you’re feeling, and believe in it enough to finally vocalize it, but once you do, it’s as if the entire world becomes that much better. At long last, you’ve got someone by your side who’d kill for you, both for life-saving necessity and the thrill of it. At last, you have someone who doesn’t try to change you. Kai has the mind of a monster, you have the body of one. It all works out perfectly.

You still laugh when you think about the reaction you got when you and Kai rolled back up to Mystic Falls after your extended road trip. You’re half sure that the rest thought you two were dead, but no; you’re back and as bad as ever, if not worse. The two of you had barely moved in before the Salvatores, Bonnie, Elena, and Caroline took it upon themselves to visit and attempt to rectify whatever was going on.

Damon took one look at the two of you in your shared house and looked as if he wanted to stab a stake through his heart to save himself any future trouble. “Why is it that the two most insane men I’ve ever met had to fall in love? I feel like you’re going to slaughter all of us for a fun honeymoon.”

“That’s a good idea,” Kai begins, lingering over the TV remote somewhere behind you.

Stefan and Caroline turn in unison to glare at him. “Don’t even,” the younger Salvatore begins.

Kai just chuckles. “Hey, if you don’t want me to think about fun stuff, don’t bring it up.”

Bonnie groans. “I don’t understand how you can stay with him, Y/N. You know what he did.”

“You know what I’ve done,” you remark casually, “tell me, is it really such a surprise?”

Stefan pinches the bridge of his nose, trying unsuccessfully to ward off an oncoming headache. “This is ridiculous. We should have just killed Kai when we had the chance. Hell, we still have a chance.”

You stand up straighter, daring them to try. “If you so much as touch a hair on his head, I will slaughter all of you with a fury unlike anything you have ever known. You thought you were scared to be around me when I was fighting on your side? Trust me, I’ll stop pulling my punches if you cross us. The streets will run with your blood.”

The group swallows uneasily, doing their best to seem as if they aren’t unnerved by that threat.

Kai, meanwhile, just grins proudly. “I love that. Total power couple moment, am I right?”

Damon grimaces. “I need a drink. Heading back to our place, if anyone wants a shot, come around.”

Caroline swats him on the shoulder. “Hey, you can’t give up that fast.”

Damon just rolls his eyes. “Come on, we all knew the intervention wasn’t going to work. Might as well cut our losses so we don’t have to see them making heart eyes at each other anymore. It’s unsettling, frankly, given how willing they are to murder us if we get in the way.”

The rest seem to accept that, so they drift out in twos and threes. Kai watches them go, then shrugs. “If that was the welcome wagon, I think that went pretty well. That wasn’t everyone who knows about vampires though, right? Say, I think I really want to meet that Donovan guy.”

You shudder. “No, you don’t. Let’s save that fun for a rainy day.”

Kai grins proudly and walks over to where you stand. “That sounds good to me. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

So you do. That, at least, is a very good sign.

tvd tag list: @thatfangirl42

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actualori · 8 days

Text

sausage possessed a red sheep???? mythland music

playing???????? everyone saying all hail to him??????????????

guys i can’t take this anymore i miss empires

but i DID predict blood sheep sausage :D

#mcyt #mythicalsausage #minecraft sos #sos smp #empires smp

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happyk44 · 1 year

Text

No one asked and I dunno what’s going to come out of this but I’m going batshit so fucking have at thee.

Jason creates lightning storms. It crackles across his skin, glows inside his veins. Thunder cracks the sky when he screams. He howls and prowls the ground like a wolf, hunched over and licking his teeth. His eyes glow. He’s haunting. He speaks to birds, coaxes them in close before snapping at them whole, scarfing down blood and bones and meat. Doesn’t care the mess on his mouth. Doesn’t care the mess on his hands.

Tornados ripple when he’s mad, rolling up from every angered breath he exhales. Summons lightning bolts from the sky and wields them in calloused reddened hands like swords and spears and daggers and bows and shields. It rains when he cries. Pours down viciously the longer his sadness last. The louder he cries, the harder it hits the ground. Forming hail that breaks the earth.

Manipulates the wind around him to run fast. One minute he’s there, the next he’s gone. He can pin you down with a look, steal the breath form your lungs and hold it vicious above your head as you wheeze and sob without sound and die.

His father is the god of justice and order and it’s like switch goes off in his mind. The Underworld conducts fairness on what it sees in your soul, the life you lived. He conducts justice on what he wants, what he thinks you deserve and Cupid screams as everything burns, his blood boiling under the heat of lightning wrapped around his body, as Jason floats above him, empty-eyed and rippling like a storm, until Nico screams at him to stop it. Pulls him down with shadowy tendrils, grabs the scepter, and drags Jason away into the shadows.

It’s only when Cupid no longer in his line of sight, his range of smell, his hearing perimeter, that he switches back on. Happy kind Jason who holds Nico’s hands and asks if he’s okay with gentle tones and assures him that no one will hate him if he chooses to come out with his feelings and Nico stares at bloodied teeth and glowing eyes and know it’s true because Jason wouldn’t let them.

When you ask him why he feels the need to bloody his hands and teeth and burn electricity along the skin of those who’ve done wrong, he will simply say, “They deserved it.” Camp quickly beats this out of him with demands of regality and logic and snappish tongues and people cowering away from him so harshly he gets upset but there are moments where his eyes glow a bit too much and they fear the return of a bloodied six year old sitting hunched over like a dog atop a pile of groaning, moaning, dying bodies because they dared to call his friend names.

He’ll torture you and see nothing wrong with it. Find the electricity inside your skin and electrocute you without touching. Ramp it up by ten, by a hundred and watch you cook from the inside out. Grappling him down does nothing. He shouts and you splatter.

He’s inhuman, a god among demigods, a wolf among sheep. A predator through and through. He smiles more than stares the older he gets but the campers know what he is and they watch him emerge from Mount Othrys thrumming with the same kind of energy he had when the wolves threw him to them. Blood smeared on his mouth and hands, golden as the weapons that they grip tighter in their hands with every pounding step he takes forward.

And he smiles and laughs and it’s manic and horrifying and with the thrill of defeating a Titan single-handed still rolling through him like a live wire, everyone else goes down. All enemies burned out and emptied. Gasping for breaths that never come. Struck down by lightning. Blown apart by determined bursts of air.

And Jason is standing there in the carnage, delighted. His laughter sounds like howls. The wind rockets against him, the air, the sky, the rain, the clouds - it all twists against his skin and heals his wounds, heals his bruises, invigorates him over and over again to burn, to break, to destroy, until all their enemies are justly defeated and he can confidently declare the war is won.

Order, they realize, comes in many forms.

This is Jason’s.

#children of zeus can be paranoid or have anger issues #guess which one jason got lmao #jason grace #feral!jason #wolf!jason #happy talks pjo #i am envisioning so much stuff rn and it's a shame i can't draw because i think it would be neat to show #i wish i could project my thoughts into other people's heads because i think that would make it SO much easier #anyway 30 minutes to midnight i am ending the year off with a BANG

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ariel-seagull-wings · 4 months

Text

THE SNAKE WHO WAS A PRINCESS

@tamisdava2 @adarkrainbow @themousefromfantasyland @the-blue-fairie @princesssarisa @faintingheroine @softlytowardthesun @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @professorlehnsherr-almashy

(Brazilian Folktale)

In ancient times there was a Kingdom that was not happy because its Queen had never had a child. The King was sad seeing the day when he got old, died and couldn't leave a person of his blood on the throne. The people made promises, the queen prayed, and the much-desired heir never appeared.

One day, at the sound of the Hail Marys, the Queen lost her patience and said something she shouldn't have said:

“God my Lord!”

She said:

“Grant that I have a child, even if it's a snake!”

After a while it seemed that the Queen was actually going to have a child. The King ordered the news to be celebrated with parties that didn't stop. Night and day the people danced and sang in front of the palace.

No one paid any more taxes, the King walked around with his teeth bared in contentment, satisfied, treating his slaves with kindness.

And it was like that until one stormy day, with thunder and lightning cutting through the clouds, the queen gave birth to a girl, very beautiful, with blue eyes, blonde hair, a beauty. But the girl had been born with a snake wrapped around her neck.

Everyone in the King's house was disgusted. When the Queen looked at her daughter, she burst into tears. And no one wanted to go near the crib for fear of the snake. Doctors from other kingdoms came, doctors, prayers, diviners, and the more they did to remove the snake from the little princess's neck, the more the snake stuck to the beautiful girl.

And the years went by. And the years went by. And the princess created a sisterly affection for the little snake, which was green and had a head with human eyes. For whole hours the princess would spend playing with the snake by the sea.

And when the snake saw the waves of the sea, it liked to get out of the princess's neck and walk happily through the waves. She was so far from land that her friend didn't even see where she was going.

And that's why she started to cry, afraid that the little snake wouldn't come back. She cried so much that the snake returned to the girl's neck, curled up, joined her friend, and the two returned together to the king's palace, where no one knew about these games on the beach. But one day, the snake entered the sea, going further than the other times. The princess cried, cried a lot, until she came back to say:

“My rich princess, my day has come, I'm going far away, far away, to a land that is a thousand leagues lower than the bottom of the sea. You will be alone, my sister, but I will not abandon you, I will help you whenever necessary. My name is Labismínia. Scream for Labismínia, and you can rest assured, I will come to your aid.”

And having said this, the little snake ran into the sea. The princess stood on the edge of the beach crying. So many tears flowed from her eyes, like a stream of streams. Then she fell silent. Labisminia, her sister, was gone. And she was alone in the world, alone.

At home, when Princess Maria arrived, without the snake around her neck, there was a commotion. The king danced with joy, immediately ordered a great party to be prepared, and called the kings of the other kingdoms.

The people ate cake, they killed oxen and sheep for the people. And the slaves worked without shackles on their arms and feet. But Princess Maria was sad. It didn't even seem like it was all for her.

Every morning, when the sun rose, she went to the seaside to see if Labisminia appeared. And the sun arrived from far, far away and brought no news of Labismínia. In the afternoon, the princess returned to the beach where she played so much with her friend. She wanted to see if the moon said anything.

The moon could tell if she had seen Labisminia, if she had passed through her sister's land. The moon was floating so much above the waters of the sea!

But nothing. Neither the moon nor the sun gave news of Labisminia, which was in a land that was a thousand leagues further away than the bottom of the sea. Then the princess cried.

Would God grant that she would go to the land that was a thousand leagues below the bottom of the sea…

Oh! If she could descend like a fish, escape the world and meet Labisminia again! Her neck was already used to the snake. And it went on like this, until one day the whole kingdom became sad.

The King ordered the slaves to be shackled again, the king forced the people of his kingdom to pray. The Queen had started to get sick. There was no doctor who knew what it was.

Doctors came from all corners of the earth, sorcerers from all corners of the world. And when the Queen felt she was going to die, she called the King and, in front of the entire court, said to her husband:

“When you have to get married again, she said, taking a ring off her finger, it can only be with the princess on whose finger fits this ring that I give you.”

The king cried a lot, but after so much crying, he began to think about his marriage.

And for this he sent messengers to all sides of the earth. First for the princesses of Castille. And the ring didn't fit on anyone's finger. Then, to the daughters of the French peers. Anything.

The king then sent to speak to the sovereign of England. And no princess appeared for the king's ring. In the Austrian court it was the same thing.

And so it took a long time. The King was already convinced that he would no longer find a girl to marry, when he remembered his daughter, the Princess, who was the greatest beauty in the world.

Who knows, he thought, if that snake around Maria's neck might not be a sign from God for him to marry his own daughter?

And thinking so, he sent for the Princess. And the ring fit on his daughter's finger, as if it had been made for her.

When the princess learned of her father's intentions, she ran to the edge of the beach and began to cry loudly, crying so much, shedding tears like the eyes of water from a mountain range.

“Labismínia, Labismínia!”

She shouted:

“Come and help me!” And when she saw it, it was a noise that came from the bottom of the sea. A big wave hit her feet, and the little green snake, with human eyes, appeared in front of her, magically, saying to her:

“Why is the beautiful princess crying, my sister?”

Maria told her whole story. She was the most unfortunate girl of all the girls in the land, as she would have to marry her own father.

“There's nothing, my sister.”

Labismínia told her.

“I will save you from everything. Ask the king that for you to marry him he needs to give you a dress the color of the field with all its flowers.”

Then the sea made another fearful noise and a wave carried Labisminia into the depths.

Princess Maria returned home comforted and told her father what she wanted. The king was surprised by his daughter's request, but he was not disappointed. Messengers, servants, slaves went out into the world looking for the dress. The princess, in the palace, was already resting, when her father appeared with the requested dress, which was the color of the field with all its little flowers.

“I give you the dress of your desires. It cost me more than the Kingdom I won in the battle with the Moors.”

The princess looked at the dress, which was a beauty like she had never seen. But as soon as she thought about the wedding, she started crying again. And with that agony in her heart she ran to the beach shouting for the snake:

“Labismínia! Labismínia! Come save me!”

Then the sea gave a groan, and a wave brought the little green snake with human eyes to the princess's feet.

“Labismínia, the King my father sent people through the hollow of the world looking for the dress that was the color of the field with all its little flowers. It's beautiful, Labismínia, but I don't want to marry my father.”

“There 's nothing.”

Said the little snake:

“There 's nothing. Ask him for another dress, a dress the color of the sea with all the fish.”

Princess Maria consoled herself again. And a big wave, all white foam, took Labismínia to the bottom of the sea.

The King, when he found out about the princess's new request, put his hands on his head. Where to find a dress like that? But he had to marry his daughter.

And he sent his messengers out into the world again.

One day the sea-colored dress arrived with all its fish, and he gave the dress to his daughter. The princess found it a beauty, much more beautiful than the other. She dressed up with him, looked at herself in the palace mirrors, but when she remembered that she had to marry her father, she found herself crying. And she went to the beach after Labisminia. And the little snake didn't take long to arrive to console her sister.

“There's nothing, my sister Maria. There's no need to cry so much, Labismínia has to find a way. Go back and ask your father for a dress the color of the sky with all the stars. There's no need to cry, my dear sister.”

And she reassured so many good things that the princess returned home happy with her life. She immediately went to talk to her father. She wanted a dress the color of the sky with all the stars. The king gave in to despair. Where to find a dress like that? So he called his vassals, called his treasurer, opened his chests and said:

“Damn you for the world. Bring me this dress, even if it costs all the gold I won in the war with the Turks.”

And the messengers went out into the world. The princess, happy, sang. She went out through the garden, walking among the rose bushes, which smelled so much as if each one were a bottle of scent.

And the birds in the trees sang. Many came to play at the feet of the princess, who was the happiest creature in this world. Princess Maria played with the birds, happy, content, in the trust she had in her sister Labismínia.

And times went by.

But one day the King arrived in her chamber.

Behind him came a hundred slaves who carried in their hands the dress she had asked for from her father.

The stars in the sky on the blue silk sparkled as if it were made of diamonds. The train of her dress went so far that she couldn't even see the end.

“My daughter…”

The King said to her.

“I bring you the greatest wealth of all the kingdoms on earth. For this dress I gave all the gold and all the stones that I brought from the wars with the Turks. Now, my daughter, let's set our wedding day.”

The princess didn't even wait for her father to leave her room. He soon fell to the ground, crying. She had been deceived by Labismínia! And at the edge of the beach she went to call for her companion, screaming in pain. Tears flowed from her eyes like water from a casagrande toe.

“Labismínia, Labismínia, where is my heart’s little snake?”

A noise was heard coming from the bottom of the sea. And the green snake with human eyes approached the crying princess. Maria told him everything. It was okay, said the little snake.

“Go home, pack your bags, with all the dresses your father gave you, and go back to the seaside. Here where I am, you will find a ship that will take you to a beautiful kingdom, far away from this world where you have suffered so much, my little sister of the heart. But look carefully: when you're on the happiest day of your life, scream for me three times, so that I can become disenchanted and become the princess I am again.”

No sooner said than done. Princess Maria fled with her dresses on the ship that Labismínia had sent for her.

The King had gone out on a hunt.

And the princess filled the ship with her suitcases. And she was gone into the unknown realm.

Once there, she did everything as Labismínia had told her.

She jumped ashore, and when she noticed, she no longer saw the ship, nor did she see the suitcases with her dresses anymore. She was changed into a servant, a poor girl, the poorest girl on earth.

And arriving in the unknown kingdom, she went to ask the Queen for a job, who, seeing her so poor, ordered her to take care of the chicken coop.

Maria slept among the chickens, dirty as she had never seen one of her father's slaves.

At night she cried, seeing that Labismínia had lied to her.

Poor her, she was the poorest girl in the world!

Even so, Princess Maria still gave thanks to God. Better to sleep with the chickens than marry her father.

Where was the prince that Labismínia had promised her? After a while, they started talking in the kingdom about a very big party that they were going to give in the city near the castle.

And on the day of the spoken party, in the early evening, Maria began to notice the carriages that passed, clinking along the road. So, after wrapping up the chickens, she thought about life. She was the poorest girl in this world of God.

Everyone went to the castle party, the poor and the rich, and she alone stayed there, smelling the dirt from the king's chickens.

But all this was better than marrying her father.

She had this thought in her head when she heard a voice coming from far away:

“Take your carriage, Maria, and go to the party.”

Suddenly, she saw herself in her dress the color of the fields with all its little flowers. A carriage with a silver harness, with six black horses, was waiting for her. And that's how Princess Maria went to the most talked about ball in the city. When she entered the hall, she admired everyone. They had never seen a richer and more beautiful princess. Her dress filled everything with beauty. It was as if the most beautiful field on earth had entered the room, with all its perfumes, with all its colors.

The King and Queen immediately wanted to meet that Princess of such distinction. And the one who noticed Maria most was the king's son, a very handsome Prince, with black eyes. But the Princess didn't stay until the end of the party. When the roosters began to crow, she returned in her carriage to her corner in the castle. The other day, it was what everyone was talking about, in the king's palace.

What kingdom could that Princess be from, with such beautiful clothes, with such blond hair, with such blue eyes?

The Prince only talked about her with his mother. I didn't want to know anything else there, other than that girl in the dress that was the color of the field with all its little flowers.

The next night there was another dance in town.

Along the way to the city, Maria saw people passing by in carriages.

Very sad, she was seeing so many happy people, so many loved girls, and she was there among the chickens, so poor and so alone.

Despite this, everything seemed better than marrying her father. Soon she heard a very familiar voice:

“Maria, Maria, take your carriage and go to the party.”

Waiting for her was a beautiful carriage with golden harnesses and two pampas horses.

And with her dress the color of the sea with all the fish, the unknown princess entered the room, amazing.

The people's astonishment was even greater than the other night.

Where had that girl gone to get such a beautiful dress?

The Queen's dress, next to Maria's, looked like a poor man's outfit.

And wherever Maria passed, there was a wave of smell. Her golden hair, her blue eyes, were unnatural, they were so beautiful.

The Prince didn't take his eyes off her.

There was a buzz around the room. Where did that girl come from?

And the coachmen at the palace door stared open-mouthed at the carriage.

With its golden harness, all made of glass, Maria's carriage far left the king's cabriole, which looked like a poor man's car next to hers.

The huge horses had never been seen so big in that area. And the coachman dressed like a court grandee.

That was wealth. And when the roosters crowed, the princess retired to her room, where she went to sleep among the filth of her chickens.

The other day, at court, all the talk was about the beautiful princess.

The Prince did not sit still.

Spies were already on every corner of the road to see where the most beautiful Princess who had ever crossed the royal roads was coming from and passing by.

In her corner, Maria didn't even show a sign of pride.

Mixed with her chickens, she was dirty like the poorest girl in the world and still giving thanks to God.

Better all that than marrying her father.

And in the afternoon, when she was taking her chickens to the pigsty, she saw the black-eyed prince standing on the road.

“Where did you come from, chicken farmer?”

He said looking at the girl's face.

“Yesterday I saw a princess at the city party who looked just like you!”

Trembling with fear, Maria replied:

“Who am I, your Highness, to look like the most beautiful princess at your party?” But the Prince left bowing his head.

That day was the last night of the party.

Maria, sitting at the door of her room, looked at the moon coming out of the sky, very round, covering everything with silver.

A wind came from afar and blew the Princess's enchanting hair.

Along the road, carriages rushed to the ball.

Then she heard Labismínia's soft voice:

“Maria, take your carriage and go to the party.”

A carriage with diamond harnesses, with six white horses, waited for the most beautiful princess in the land. When Maria gave faith, she was wearing her dress that was the color of the sky with all the stars.

In the large ballroom, everyone stopped to look at her. The dancing stopped, the music stopped.

The Princess entered and all you could see were people admiring the beauty she brought.

The Prince was so filled with love that he ran to the princess and fell at her feet, kissing her dress, with tears in his black eyes.

“My beautiful Princess, keep this token with you …”

He said.

And he gave Maria a beautiful jewel. Just as the roosters crowed, the princess returned to her room. And the Prince, with so much love for her, fell ill in bed. Nothing existed for him, he didn't eat, he didn't sleep, heaving sighs for the princess who had left.

The Queen called all the doctors in the kingdom to see her son in that state. But no one knew what he had. Poor thing, he didn't even want to drink a cup of broth. From no one's hand did he accept food or drink.

The poor mother asked others to see if her son received from anyone what she did not want to receive from her hands. But the Prince refused.

He wanted to die, telling everyone that only the beautiful Princess at the party existed for him.

The Queen called, one by one, all the women in her court.

She called the princesses, she called the wives and daughters of her vassals, and the prince didn't want to look at any of them.

That's when they remembered the girl from the chicken coop.

Maria was called to the palace.

The Queen immediately ordered her to take a broth to the Prince's room, which he didn't want to take from anyone's hands.

“My rich lady, who am I to deserve so much honor from Your Majesty? All I can do is prepare a broth.”

The Queen accepted, she was so distressed. Maria prepared the broth and put the jewel that the prince had given her at the party into the cup.

And when the prince put the spoon in the cup and saw the jewel, he got up from the bed, shouting to his mother:

“Mother, I'm fine. Order the creature that prepared the broth to be brought here.”

They sent for the chicken farmer.

And when the messengers arrived from the chicken coop, they found the princess of the party, in her most beautiful dress, with a hundred slaves to serve as her servant, with a thousand suitcases of clothing, with three large carriages.

And Princess Mary married the black-eyed Prince …

But on the day of the wedding feast she forgot to call Labismínia three times, as she had promised.

And the poor princess was not disenchanted.

She remained a snake for life, with those human eyes. And that is why even today the sea moans so much, screams so much, makes so much noise.

It is poor Labismínia who, from the bottom of the sea, calls for her ungrateful sister who did not remember her on the happiest day of her life.

#brazil #folklore #folktales #fairy tales #fantasy #literature

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vic-draws-sometimes · 1 year

Text

La messe

Ghost had never been much of a nations man. Sing to the country, hail to the queen. Follow the orders so you can die a hero. It was never for him.

The fight? Now that was his language. A punch in the jaw could do much more than an hour of reprimanding.

‘’So what, you just follow every order? What are you, a robot?’’ The words had struck Ghost for many years. A robot? No, just a lowly man who loved getting orders. Now... Well now he got it. As he shrugged off a bullet wound to finish the mission, stepping over bodies of people he used to know... He gets it. He feels the pain. He feels it just as anyone else would. He feels the longing of people he could’ve know, if he tried harder. Could've grieved. He feels the blood seeping through his clothes and make his skin shiver. But the order take priority. He’s a damn good soldier. If he doesn’t do it, someone else will. Someone else will suffer his pain and will do the job right. Might as well be him. That’s how he got through childhood, torture and so many mission. He came out of it alive because of the mission. The order.

When the adrenaline wears off and he’s in a bed, wounds patched up and body recovering. That’s when it hits him.

The pain, the grieving.

He cries until there are no tears. Scream until he has no voice.

And then another order comes in and soothes his soul.

If he just gets through that. If he can just be useful, then maybe next time off he’ll feel alright.

After years of wondering if it’s worth it, the answer came to him. It wasn't a sentence, like he imagined. Or a medal, like so many suggested.

No, it was something much simpler and more naïve.

A damn smile.

Johnny’s smile.

Kyle’s smile.

John’s smile.

If he can protect them, if he can protect all the people that can smile like them. Then maybe this is the answer to all his hardships.

It wasn’t, as it turned out. Those smiles disappear for reasons outside of his own doing. He could punch and stab and fire, but he couldn’t smile back. He couldn’t do everything so they could be happy all the time. That was simply impossible.

He felt helpless. Sitting on that dirt road waiting for death, grilling in the sun. He’d lost so much blood he couldn’t safely give a transfusion. And in a couple of minutes the enemy would arrive and shoot him for good. They wouldn’t even take his tags. It would take a week for Price to send someone new to discover his corpse, eaten by the animals of the area.

An entire life, 30+ years of fighting, and for what?

Usually, the initial order would drive him. He would ignore the pain and weakness and get up, find a weapon. But now...

He was wondering why.

Why would he get up only to be sent in another fight? Lose that sunly smile of his Johnny?

Johnny...

The thought of him made him want to cry, if only he was hydrated enough. He was tired, so tired, and only wanted to go back around him.

Wanted... Now that’s new.

He wants to go back to him, see him again and finally say those words outloud. It would be crazy. Johnny would tell him so, tell him he can’t just quit, can’t just go back to being a civilian. And it’s true. They can’t.

But what if they tried?

Wars are endless and soldiers are sent to be killed. If they come back alive, they’re just sent again and again until they’re finally KIA.

Simon is nothing without Ghost. But Johnny... Johnny has a family to come back to. Simon wants to meet them. He wants to go to Scotland and see the sheep and chickens. He’s never seen a chicken. Not alive at least...

Before he knows it he’s back on his feet, ignoring the pain for one last time...

Title : the mess, so like a messy room but also the religious gathering, get it? I'm so clever /j

But yeah this is a mess of thoughts just spiraling in my head. I do believe that Simon is the type to just stop functioning when he's not around people and is driven solely by orders. He's not a robot he's just autistic

And if you're about to say ''you're stereotyping autistic people aren't robots!1!!'' I'm autistic and exactly like that. I'm far from being a robot I feel so much all the time, it's just not showing in ways you folks can understand

And this gets with the thing of ''I like the military for the structure but I hate what they do'' thing

#ghostsoap #autistic simon ghost riley #ghoap #autistic rambling #im not a writer

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n3cr0p0l1s · 1 year

Text

i have been right all along

i've got a secret, you won't believe it

well i got this feeling, that i was put here for you

dabi x reader

summary: another night you can’t sleep. you get out of bed, frustrated, deciding to at least be a productive insomniac, but destiny has other plans.

wc: 2.8k

warnings: gn reader, dabi threatens reader once, mentions of blood/injury, drug use (weed), typical dabi/reader scenario, very heavy theme of destiny/fate, soulmates implied (kinda) but this is NOT a soulmate au, title is i have been right all along by armor for sleep (author is here to push the emo touya agenda), see end of work for a very ramble-y author’s note

you glare at the ceiling. you’ve tried all the typical techniques, yet sleep evades you for another night. no matter the number of sheep you count (hundreds, thousands) sleep does not greet you. the popcorn of your ceiling seems to glare back. frustrated, you rise from bed and slip on your sweater, figuring you may as well be productive at—you tap your phone screen—1:56am. ugh.

it’s as you shuffle down the hallway that you hear it—a quiet, repetitive thud.

the building you live in is old, and you’re more than familiar with its strange creaks and groans, but this is not the thump or hum of an old building. you still instantly—the sound is too close to be from somewhere deep within the building. you refuse to let that thought, the chill it shoots up your spine, to take hold of you. taking a deep breathe to steel your nerves, you move to the end of the hallway.

from what you can make out in the darkness everything is as you left it only a few hours ago—fuzzy blanket still crumpled in a pile on the couch, dirty coffee mug still on the table. light from the nearly full moon pours in through the glass sliding door that leads to your balcony—it’s small, quaint, but it and the view were the reason you chose this apartment—the peacefulness of moonlight something you would bask in if what was on your balcony didn’t force a sharp gasp past your lips.

the glass of the door, usually covered in nothing more than dust, is smudged and smeared with blood. a trail crimson leading down to the heap of what, you assume, to be a man, with his head leaned back against the glass. had he been hitting his head against the glass? the bloodied stranger does not give you the opportunity to continue that train of thought—his head turns, fixing a piercing blue eye you, his glare sharp. you freeze, mouth agape—if it hailed razor blades, you think, this is what it’d feel like.

your gasp must have been louder than you thought. the man turns his head forward again, staring through the gaps in the balcony’s banister. the man’s voice is low, threatening, as he speaks, “run or scream and i'll torch the entire building.” his hand raises, blue flame coming to life in his palm to underscore his threat.

you don’t actively keep up with current events for the sake of your mental wellbeing. you catch enough of the news to not be ignorant of the world around you, but that flame—you’ve glanced it on the news more than once.

a man, beaten and bloodied, on your balcony at near two in the morning could only ever be trouble, but this man—dabi, you remember the newscaster calling him, the cremation villain—is more than trouble. he’s dangerous, deadly. your anxiety spikes. you can’t leave him there …right? you can’t run or call for help, his threat and reputation make that clear, and trying to defend yourself would only cause you to embarrass yourself in the last moments before he kills you. but—you think—even if he hadn’t threatened you, you wouldn’t want to alert anyone to his presence anyway, to be the catalyst that gets him in tartarus.

you’ve heard enough about the league of villains to learn their purpose, their mission, and can’t say you disagree with them. their choice of actions certainly cross more lines than you can count, but the hypocrisy and deceit inherent to the current hero industry is something you are intimately familiar with—it makes your blood boil.

silence has settled over your home once again, the lack of sound becoming a roaring buzz in your ears. the man—dabi, you remind yourself again—still stares ahead, paying you no mind. with a quiet determination, and the little courage you can muster, you insert yourself into the course of his night. “are you… do you…” dabi’s head turns lazily to you, turned enough this time that both his eye are on you—they rove up and down your figure, taking you in.

dabi can sense your fear, it rolls off you in droves, your anxious heartbeat palpable (or—is that his?). he can’t gauge the extent of his blood loss, hasn’t been able to with how woozy it’s made him. the darkness beginning to creep in at the edges of his vision is enough to tell him it’s far from good.

it’s obvious you’re putting significant effort into hiding your fear, all but shaking in your pajamas and house slippers, dabi wants to laugh, mock you for trying to hard, but a steadfastness in your eyes stops him. his gaze lingers there—something within him tumbling into place the longer he stays fixed on you—he hopes you’re too frightened to notice. s’just the blood loss, he thinks, doesn’t matter.

you clear your throat to break dabi out of the trance he’d slipped into. the eye contact is stifling, too much for your nerves to handle right now and it feels like you can’t fucking breathe. “if you–i can… help you, if you want…”, the air still in your lungs rushes out as your stint of bravery wanes. for a moment you think the skin around his eyes crinkles in amusement at your terror, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared—a trick of the moonlight.

“ya sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart?” he sneers, “i get the feeling you know who i am.” his head thuds against the glass again as a shock of pain seems to run through him. your body jerks towards the door to help him, moving before your brain catches up, only just stopping within arm’s reach of the door. “no-yes, kind of? but i really would rather you not bleed out on my balcony?” your tone raises up in question, unsure. dabi seems to find the uncertainty at your own words amusing—he barks a laugh before taking a sharp inhale and clutching both arms around his torso, curling in on himself in pain. you move again, hand making contact with the door handle. slowly you unlock the door, waiting to see if dabi registers the click of the lock.

he’d give you another warning before he made good on his threat, right? your intuition is telling you he won’t hurt you—there’s zero fucking logic to it, this gut feeling, but it has hold of you and it won’t let you go.

the sound of the door sliding open pulls dabi’s attention back to you. with the glass no longer separating you, you can hear how ragged his breathing is, see the pallor to his unburned skin—not good. he looks seconds from keeling over and you really don’t want him, or anyone, dropping dead on your balcony. under even these circumstances you’re dumbstruck by his features—he’s gorgeous.

you crouch down and offer out a hand to help him up. if dabi notices how badly that hand shakes, he does not mention it.

---

getting dabi inside is nothing short of a feat—for someone so lithe he’s heavy (you’re not weak per se—at least, that’s what you’ve always said—however lifting a grown man, nearly dead weight as he leans on you, has you reconsidering your self-assessment). he drops unceremoniously into the dingy, chartreuse eye-sore of an armchair you keep banished to the corner of the living room. (you can already see his blood seeping into it, muddying the old fabric. it’s going to be ruined, already is, and you’re glad, you fucking hate its mocking shade of yellow-green.) under the light you see the extent of his injuries. it that gut feeling showing up again, causing something to twist in your chest that you refuse to name. (you know it—the feeling of not being able to protect friends, loved ones—rage.)

dabi can sense your unease, has sensed it this whole time, and feels the need to break the tension—whether for you or himself, he refuses to think any deeper on it. his head rests on the back of the chair, face towards the ceiling. “comfy chair”, only a mumble, still his voice makes you jump. you stop for only a moment in your assessment of his wounds, seem to relax some. you huff a small laugh, “i fucking hate the thing.”

---

dabi is compliant in your helping him. you remove his coat and shirt, his torso having the worst injuries, with only a slight shake to your hands. you’re confused by the large gashes that trail into fresh burns—a moment later you realize he must have cauterized them to slow the bleeding (another something you will not name sinks in your gut—sorrow). periodically you ask if what you’re doing hurts. he only huffs, “nah, sweetheart. ‘s fine.” you glance up and see the his lips pulled up in an almost smile (the crinkle around his eyes is back—it wasn’t a trick of the moonlight).

having dealt with the worst of dabi’s injuries you sit back to asses your work—definitely not the best, you think, but his breathing is no longer ragged and a bit of color has returned to him. his head rests on the back of the chair again, eyes closed. you take the opportunity to really look at him—the contrast of healthy and burned skin mesmerizes you. (you don’t understand the suddenly craving to touch that comes over you—to graze your fingertips along his staples, to acquaint yourself with the patchwork of his body).

dabi peeks his eyes open, watching as your gaze travels down the expanse of his exposed skin. so lost to your thoughts you do not see him move until he’s invaded your personal space. you startle, sucking in a harsh breath and jerking away from him. “didn’t mean to scare ya, sweetheart”, his voice is quiet, sheepish. then, with a gentleness you’d think a villain incapable of, his hand grips your forearm and strokes his thumb back and forth along the skin—an apology you realize. your brain sluggish as the earlier adrenaline wears off, you look at his hand, blinking dumbly as the last few seconds process. you mutter a “’s okay” and place an unsure hand on top of his. (he’s so warm—how did you not notice earlier?)

dabi pulls his hand away and looks away, missing the way your face falls at the loss of his touch. you clear your throat to grab his attention, “you can, uh, shower if you want.” you refuse to make eye contact before continuing, “your clothes too, i can wash them, if you’re okay with it.” there’s no response, you look up expecting him to be mean, to laugh at you—a silly girl being fooled into safety by a villain, but dabi’s expression is confused rather than smug, “ya sure?” you nod and there is a long pauses as he stares at you, his expression unsure (dabi should spit in your face—burn down your building like he’d threatened hours ago, show you how foolish it is to offer hospitality, kindness, to a man like him. a criminal, a murderer. but dabi is a selfish man above all else, so instead he shoves down down down the feelings you cause to flare within him).

you wait for him to continue, worried you’ve crossed a line. then—the smugness you’d expected before is there, “was expectin’ ya to tell me to get the fuck out”, he laughs, dry and harsh. “surprised you haven’t.” he gestures vaguely to the room, “’specially after bleeding all over the place.” your response matches his in tone, digging your usual personality out from underneath the night’s layers of fear and anxiety, “not the worst it’s seen actually, ‘m kind of a klutz”, you shrug and laugh, the sound twinkling in dabi’s ears (he shoves it down down down). “you ruined that god-awful chair so, thanks, for bleeding all over the place.” you feel woozy when you stand, your body’s weariness making itself known, “um, g-gimme a sec to grab you a towel and stuff… first door on the left is the bathroom”, you point towards the hallway and excuse yourself to grab a towel and clothes for him—an old pair of your sweatpants, a t-shirt you stole from an ex.

---

while dabi showers you pick up the bloody heap of his clothes and throw them in the wash. the remnants of your first aid kit lay scattered around the living room—you’ll pick up the disarray tomorrow, you’re too tired to care right now. moving to the kitchen, you grab the window cleaner from under the sink and glance the time on your stove—3:26am. ugh. you head to the sliding door wanting to at least attempt removing as much blood from the glass as you can. in the dark you’re sure you miss some, but it’s clean enough that a random passerby won’t call to report a blood spattered balcony. you roll your eyes at the thought.

the shower is still running when you walk back inside and beeline to the bookshelf to grab the old cigar box off the bottom shelf. it’s been a fucking long night (christ—still is a long night), you think you deserve a little substance abuse, as a treat. you slip back onto the balcony, placing the box down onto the small patio table and sit in its matching chair. you pull your supplies out of the box and pack a bowl.

it’s been a while and the first hit burns but—god—it’s exactly what you need right now. you close your eyes and listen to the ambient sounds of the at night city. the past few hours replay over and over in your head, unable to move make sense of the gut feeling that has now dug its claws into you—you don’t know how much time passes like that.

the scrape of the door sliding open dredges you from the depths of your thoughts. lazily you look over and see dabi leaning against the wall opposite you, his arms crossed over his bare chest—he’s only wearing your sweatpants. he’s beautiful—ethereal in the moonlight.

you hold out the bowl and lighter to him, his eyes unfocused and staring off into the night, you hum to grab his attention. dabi quirks an eyebrow at you, not moving otherwise. you give a small shrug of your shoulders and he deems that enough of an answer to his unspoken question. he takes the bowl only, not the lighter, from you. and raises it to his lips. he takes a hit by bringing a small flame to life on his fingertip—its the most radiant shade blue you’ve ever seen, more brilliant than the ocean glittering in the sun. you wonder if it’s possible to drown in flames, if they’re as blue as dabi’s.

your mind feels far away from your body and you don’t realize you’re staring until dabi breaks the silence for the second time tonight. you can hear, almost feel, his smirk, “ya good over there, sweetheart?” your eyes flutter as you come back to yourself, “yeah. sorry, ‘m tired.” you look down, bashful at being caught staring. unsure what to say you start fidgeting with your fingers.

dabi hesitates—he wants to apologize for ending up on your balcony out of all the others, for ruining you night and chair (even if you said you fucking hated it). the words are too heavy on the tip of his tongue so instead he sighs and looks out into the night once more, “wasn’t plannin’ to bleed out on your balcony” he pauses and turns to face you again. “but thanks for”, he gestures vaguely to the wounds on his torso “this, ‘s not gonna happen again. but i won’t bleed all over your place if it does, pick some asshole’s balcony to fuck up, promise.”

he’s going to leave, you realize, the villain that bled all over your home is going to walk out of your life just as suddenly as he appeared. you don’t want him to leave—it’s ridiculous, you know—but you choose to trust that damned gut feeling. “your clothes are mid-wash, gotta wait for that unless you plan on wearing my sweatpants to wherever you’re going” you fix him with a pointed glare, “and those are my favorite, i'm not letting them outta my sight.” you force a laugh, hoping it hides the dejection in your voice. dabi rolls his eye at you, the slightest smile gracing his features, “whatever you say, sweetheart.”

(you want to ask how he ended up there on your balcony, with you—why you. something about the night weighs heavy in your chest, the yet unknowable significance and consequences of tonight. whatever cosmic fucking bullshit the universe decided to make manifest on your balcony, you can’t help but feel a little rueful. there’s no logic to these thoughts, you know that, but down to the marrow of your bones you feel it. and you know, cosmic bullshit or awful happenstance, you are fucked.)

note: hello! thank you for taking the time to read, it’s very appreciated ♡ this started as a short thing i couldn’t get out of my head and then turned into a very self-indulgent beast LMAO. after not writing for so long it’s been really enjoyable getting back into it (all it took was a little bit of dabi induced brainrot). i’ve actually become really attached to this, and have bits and pieces i (still) can’t stop thinking about. so there’s a small chance i write more to this? but i’m just going to let it all swirl around in my brain for now. again, thank you so so much for reading!!

#dabi x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #touya todoroki x reader #dabi x you #iadfakdjsnadfkj very nervous to post this #fic: mine

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capriciouswriter207 · 3 months

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What does history sound like?

History sounds like the wind caressing the wheat, Gilded Helianthia would say. It is the sickles and scythes taking the harvest, the bubbling Helianthian brews, the clash of blades within the arena.

History sounds like the growl of blood sheep, Mythland would say. It is drops of blood hitting the group, the strange pulses of corruption, the careful whispers in the street.

History sounds like magic, the Crystal Cliffs would say. It is the simplest spells being cast daily, quills scribbling all sorts of incantations on parchment, the mighty roar of dragons.

History sounds like the forge, the Grimlands would say. It is metal hitting scalding hot metal, the echoes of pickaxes in a deep mine, the exasperated sighs of experiments gone wrong.

History sounds like paint strokes on clay creations, Mezalea would say. It is pottery shattering on the ground, the crackling flames that support the hot air balloons, the diss tracks against those who wronged them.

History sounds like the waves crashing ashore, the Cod and Ocean Empires would say. It is the song of the deep, the cry of the seagull, the music found within the shells.

History sounds like nature, the Overgrown and Undergrove would say. It's the howls of wolves during a full moon, the rustling of leaves, the chimes of amethyst and other crystals.

History sounds like a tiger on the prowl, the Lost Empire would say. It is parrots squeaking in the distance, the crumbling of ancient buildings, the ancient chants of the worshipers.

History sounds like gentle snowfall, Rivendell would say. It is the hail on the roofs, the crunch of snow under heavy boots, the bleating of sheep.

History sounds like the wind moving dunes, Pixandria would say. It is the crack of thunder on a clear day, the buzzing of the bees in a few small parks, gentle candle flames.

History sounds like the Dragon's death throes, the empires would say. The sound of history informs the present and lays the groundwork for the symphony of the future.

#empires smp s1 #This is what happens when I listen to a song I haven't heard in a while #“in your voice i hear the sound of history”#That's the specific line that inspired this #anyway guess I'm in a mood to write for empires now #might be a few more coming this week #and perhaps the next too #capricious writings

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iolaussharpe-24 · 18 days

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Wolf in Sheep's Clothing - Chapter Two

Shoutouts to @reallyrallyauthor, @redeyerhaenyra, & @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction who are all my biggest inspirations for this story. (Grace Smith is my OC inspired by Samara Weaving. I have no experience writing 'xreader' fanfics and I have no talent for writing in the 2nd person POV.)

(I'm gonna leave this one marked as 'For Everyone' because there's nothing too explicit. Little bit of gore, but it's hand waved away. Brief mention of a sex dungeon, but no one uses it.)

Story part under the cut. Cross posted on my Wattpad page.

She knew too much about him. There was no leaving. There was only dismissal. And that would likely mean a hail of gunfire that would cut her life short in the living room before his massive bodyguards took her away to some place where she’d never be found again.

All because she caught his eye.

~ One Month Later ~

It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal.

It really wasn’t.

Tony Thompson wasn’t really anyone to Grace. He was just another rich asshole that did business with Mr. Vogelweide. Not even big business at that. Just gambling. As far as she cared to know at least.

He was a young man. Younger than her. It showed. He was a naïve idiot. Exactly the kind of person Mr. Vogelweide liked to work with. Someone easy to manage. Tony was the kind of guy who could be told that the sky was green and believe it without a second thought until someone else told him to go outside and look up.

Thank God he was good in bed.

Grace had started seeing Tony about two weeks after her nerve-wracking “talk” in the office. Tony had been over to the mansion to pay off a debt he owed after some high school game and Grace had been working that same day. She’d been the one to open the door for him and the one to lead him to the office.

They’d talked during the walk and found that they had a lot in common. And, once his meeting was done, they’d talked a little more and Grace had been given Tony’s number. After that they’d gone out a time or two. And they’d gotten physical with one another.

Grace couldn’t say she loved Tony – not so early in their little relationship – but she liked him. He was friendly enough. Though, it was incredibly hard to believe that someone like him could have business with someone like Mr. Vogelweide. Mostly because Tony was.… what’s the word?.... spineless. He was spineless. Like a jellyfish with no stinger. A small one that can fit in the palm of your hand.

He was the best kind of pathetic. He’d never hurt anyone. Not in a million years. He oozed affection and took every single micro chance he got to show it. He was like a clingy little kid always hanging on her leg because he didn’t want to be alone. She liked it. She liked him. A lot.

For a while, her life was good. Surprisingly good. Well paying job working for an obscenely rich gangster, a friendly and non-threatening “boyfriend” that knew how to show a girl a good time, and a free dorm room in a smaller building on the same property as the house. She didn’t have to worry about travel expenses or rent. She didn’t need to worry about a lot of things. Despite everything, Mr. Vogelweide took care of the people under him. He made sure everyone was comfortable. He kept everyone safe from external threats. (Though, protection from internal threats like Mr. Vogelweide himself was off the table.)

Of course, all good things must eventually come to an end.

The day started off normally. She went to work in the mansion, cleaning up fresh blood from the back patio where some poor schmuck tried to run and failed to get away. She found a chunk of bloody meat while she was scrubbing. It was the size of a coin. Maybe an earlobe? She couldn’t know. Instead, she wrapped it up in a handkerchief and gave it to someone else to take care of.

Afterwards, she dusted the bookshelves in the library. Snuck a few peeks at a couple of books while she was at it. Old literature that was written in German and smelled sour. She couldn’t understand a word of it besides ‘ja’ and ‘nein’ but, judging by the pictures, it looked like a sex ed book from way back when. Then she found a fake book. The cover opened to reveal that it was hollow and… contained a dildo. A very strange one at that. Shaped like an octopus tentacle. Had to be new.

From there, she went to the bedroom and changed the sheets. The white ones came off and the gold ones were laid down. Tomorrow, it would be the navy sheets, she reminded herself as she unfolded the burgundy comforter that went with the gold sheets. She took her time setting it on the massive bed. This should be a two-person job, but since she was the only one doing it, she needed to make she that everything was straight and that there were no ruffles or lumps. If the other maids were to be believed, there was one girl who apparently lost a finger for making the bed wrong back when Mr. Vogelweide was younger. Grace didn’t want to find out. She’d just gotten her nails done and she’d prefer to keep all ten of them.

She ate lunch outside in one of the smaller gardens. Óscar passed by, going to the shed to get his cleaning supplies. When she waved, he looked down his nose at her in disgust and kept walking. Clearly still upset by how he’d been treated lately. It wasn’t really her fault, but there wasn’t much she could do about it aside from what she was already doing. Which was to pretend that none of it had actually happened.

The sex dungeon was next. Good god it was a mess. Every time she had to come in here, Grace wore latex gloves on top of latex gloves, a face mask, a pair of goggles, and a shower cap because she never knew what to expect from this room. Especially after the incident. After that day, she could come into this room wearing a full hazmat suit and it still wouldn’t feel like overkill. It always took her forever to completely sanitize everything. And then she did it again just for good measure.

Mr. Vogelweide had a meeting with Tony and a few other associates that day. Grace heard the gunfire while she was dusting outside.

She went in to clean up the blood once everyone was gone and the body had been taken away. But, she quickly realized that she wasn’t alone when a pair of hands grabbed her around the waist as she bent over to start cleaning. She jumped up and turned to see Tony behind her.

“Go away, I’m working,” she told him with a smile.

He grinned and kissed her cheek. “Come on, how could I come all the way here and not say hi? I missed you, Gracie. Didn’t you miss me?”

“You’re crazy. But yes. I missed you. A little bit,” she teased. “Now go away. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“Okay, okay. Today’s… Friday, right? You get off a little early?”

“Yeah. Donut day. Get up early, get out early. Off day tomorrow. Why?”

Tony grinned wider and wrapped his arms around Grace’s slender waist. “I’m taking you out to dinner tonight. And then, I’m not bringing you back until Monday morning. Just in time for the laundry. That sound like a plan?”

She gave him a quick peck on the lips. “That sounds perfect. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Yeah. Tonight. It’s a date.”

“Shoo.”

He laughed, kissed her cheek, and left the office so she could get back to work.

She knelt down again to clean, only to be startled by the sound of feet quickly stomping back into the room. Looking up again, Grace caught sight of Tony just as he slapped her ass and then took off running again.

“Hey!” she shouted, getting up to chase him. “Come back here you perv-” She froze in the doorway and lowered her head. “Hello, Mr. Vogelweide.”

“Having fun?” he asked, raising a thick eyebrow over the frame of his glasses.

“I… I’m sorry; it won’t happen again.” She turned on her heel and went back into the office. This time, she actually got back to work and started scrubbing the blood out of the rug.

“You seem quite close with Mr. Thompson. Is this a recent development?” Mr. Vogelweide asked, his tone light and unbothered.

Grace nodded. “Yes sir. We uh… well…. He’s nice to me.”

“Did this happen before or after our talk last month?”

She swallowed, unsure where he was going with this. “It was after, sir.”

He didn’t say anything else. He just stared at Grace through those gold lenses while she went back to cleaning. Part of her regretted telling him that. She shouldn’t have done it. For all she knew, she could have accidentally put Tony’s life at risk. But… shit, if she hadn’t there was always that strange chance that he’d know anyway. He always seemed to know everything. And if he knew and she tried to lie about it that would piss him off. And when Mr. Vogelweide was pissed off, the guns come out and heads get blown off, and then bodies get taken away to be disposed of, and-

She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw Mr. Vogelweide staring down at her. For fuck’s sake, that leg brace announced his every step, how was he constantly managing to sneak up on her like this? He idly trailed his fingers over the top of her head, curled her baby hairs around them, and said, “So long as you are happy, I suppose. That is the important part. You’re such a lovely woman.”

“…. Sir?”

He removed his hand from her head. “Go enjoy yourself. I’ll have Ms. Baxter finish in here. And… tell Mr. Thompson that I will cover your expenses for the night.”

She sat up on her knees and stared up at him, surprised and , quite frankly, shocked. She heard his breath hitch as he stared down at her. Which, granted, she probably should have expected from a man as hypersexual as him. He caressed her cheek for a moment, just like he had a month ago, and smiled. Not for the first time, she wondered why he did it. Was it because he wanted to make her feel comfortable around him? Was it just a sensory thing? Or… was he inspecting her? Honestly, it felt like the latter.

“Thank you, Mr. Vogelweide. You’re too kind.”

“No. I’m not. Run along now.”

Grace stood up and slowly walked away, only taking a brief moment to look back at him over her shoulder for a quick goodbye before she left the room entirely.

~ Dinner ~

Grace stood outside the restaurant, wearing a skintight black dress, with her hair pulled up in a French twist. Tony had told her to be there and ready at six for their reservation. She’d arrived early, wanting to meet him outside, but he hadn’t shown up yet.

When her phone beeped at six, she went inside without him and used his name to be seated. She was handed a menu, a glass of ice water, and a basket of hot bread was placed in front of her. She thanked the waiter and decided to wait for Tony before she started eating anything. Instead, she alternated between reading the menu and watching the door for him.

Half the things on the menu didn’t even sound like real things. And most of the descriptions sounded… disgusting. The pictures didn’t look much better. Thankfully, there were a few things that seemed normal and edible. The pastas looked good. Maybe a nice alfredo.

…. He’s twenty minutes late. He’s never been this late before. Did something come up?

She checked her phone for any sign that he’d reached out to her. No text. No missed call. Nothing on any of his socials. His last post was a week-old beach selfie of him in a speedo. Oh, and there was Grace in the background. Sitting in the sand. Wearing a bikini that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

She zoomed in on the background, staring at her own tits for a second. Right along the edge of the cup was a circular mark on her skin. Darker than the rest of her porcelain skin. Not a bruise, she could tell that much. But she didn’t know… oh.

“Oh, shit. That’s a nipple. Jesus, that has to be why so many creepy people were looking at me that day.”

She put her phone down and looked up towards the door again. Still nothing. He wasn’t there yet. Somehow. He was usually early. Usually already waiting at the door ten minutes beforehand just so he could see whatever she was wearing before she made it in. He said that she looked good in low light. It gave the illusion that he skin glowed, according to him.

It wasn’t normal for him to be late. It wasn’t normal for him not to say anything. He’d cancelled on her before. Why should this be any different? That is, if he really needed to cancel… he wouldn’t stand her up, would he? No. He was too sweet for that. And he sounded so excited in the office when he asked her out. Made it sound like he had plans for them. And the stars had finally aligned so that both of her off days landed on Saturday and Sunday. She was the lucky one with the blessed schedule. Why wouldn’t he be here?

Did she do something wrong? Did Tony think he did something wrong? Could it be traffic? What does traffic look like where he lives? …. Where does he live? She’d never asked. He’d never shown her. When they spent the night together it always involved an overnight bag and a nice bed and breakfast he picked. Hell, her bag was packed. It was sitting in the trunk of her car. Not that it was her car; per se, it was one of the rentals that Mr. Vogelweide kept on hand for his staff. It wasn’t even a nice one. She deliberately took the car that got used the least just so no one would miss the vehicle.

God, she felt scatterbrained!

“Grace!”

Startled, she looked up to see the last person she was expecting to bump into outside of work. Mr. Anselm Vogelweide himself. She’d never seen him leave the mansion, what were the odds that he’d show up here and now?!

She quickly rose to her feet as he limped over to the table, a smile on his bearded face. Hoping to make it easier for him, she walked towards him as well, meeting him in the middle. She kept a bright smile on her face. The same one she tended to wear while working. It was… something. Fake. Wide. Joyless. She felt like a Barbie doll. Blonde and plastic with a perfect white grin molded onto her face. She asked, “What brings you here, sir? I… had no idea you’d enjoy places like this.”

“I do not leave my home often, it’s true. However, this fine establishment has treated me well for many years. More, I believe, than you have been alive.” He looked around for a moment. One person at a table for two. Two menus. One drink. An untouched basket of bread. “I thought you were supposed to be out with Mr. Thompson?”

“I am- well, I will be. He’s running a bit late. But I’m sure that he’ll be here soon. He’s never let me down before.”

Her heart was pounding in her chest as she spoke. To hide her fear, she kept her smile plastered on her face. She’d done this before. It was something she was good at. Hiding her emotions. Pretending to be something she really wasn’t. It kept her alive. And, before that, it got her ahead in life where she would have fallen behind.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?”

#anselm/oc #anselm vogelweide #fanfic

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lady-astras · 4 months

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Lost to Time (Excerpt)

Location: Mythland

Time: 4:21 PM, Friday, November 1

Gem swooped on her wings into the beautiful kingdom of Mythland, ruled by King Sausage. Despite its scenic gardens and hanging vines, it was a deadly place, where many entered… but only the strongest made it back out. It was also home to the Assassin’s Guild, where Sausage himself set out to assassinate people’s enemies. He held no loyalties but Mythland and Gilded Helianthia, where Gem’s friend Queen Pearl lived.

She stepped cautiously into the seemingly unsuspecting bar. Sausage was behind the counter, cleaning glasses, but Gem’s sharp sense of magic and her keen eyes did not fail to overlook the deadly sharp knives lining the walls, some spattered with rust. Or… something else. Gem preferred not to think about those knives, so focused on the king.

“Gem! Just the person I was looking for! So I’ve noticed a strange amount of blood sheep lately, don’t know why. Really all I’ve been doing is taking care of the Guild-“ here, Sausage motioned to the wall of knives - “and being in the summoning circle. Just chanting these. Nothing much.”

“The summoning circle? Sausage what have you been saying?!” Gem cried.

“Nothing, just what’s in this book.” Sausage said, as he tossed a book to her. It was surprisingly thick.

“What page?” Gem asked apprehensively.

“The first one.” He said, waving off her concerned expression with a wave of his cleaning rag. Gem opened the book.

All hail the blood sheep

…

“Sausage! What is this?” Gem snapped. “Don’t meddle in such things, it can and it WILL have bad-“

“What was that?”

Just before Gem could finish lecturing her fellow ruler about dark magic, she saw a glimpse of a person-like silhouette… but different. Gem shivered violently - something definitely was not right. And if nothing was wrong, the usually warm kingdom of Mythland was now very cold. Which was still wrong.

“Is everything alright Gem?”

“I am… I think. Sausage, we need to get out of here.”

“Relax! This is Mythland, I’m here! Nothing will happen. Only good things.”

“Magic, Sausage, magic. It’s telling me to go! Maybe… if we are going to stay we should go and get my crystals. They’ll help ward off evil power.”

“I… see… you…” a raspy voice said seemingly just behind them.

Sausage jumped and Gem shrieked, and whirled around to look. But there was nothing there save falling particles of deep purple and red.

#empires smp #empires s1 #geminitay #mythicalsausage #mythland #crystal cliffs #xornoth #crystals

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blubushie · 1 year

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RANT/NSFT/SOME TRAUMA-DUMPING INCOMING

Sometimes I think about how I could just suddenly decide to make this a Sniper roleplay blog one day and not tell anyone and no one would notice because nothing would change.

"Yeah nah I'm out in New Mexico for a job–" I've already been to New Mexico for work. Expected.

"This month's target is–" Sometimes I do have specific targets. Sometimes I take bounties. Massive razorback that's already gored 2 sheep to death and wounded a third? Gonna pay me $500 to kill him? I'm on it. I'll bring the bastard's hide back in two days.

"Dad's yelling at me about my job again. Mum's begging me to come home. I've always been an other in my own country. I've never fit in. My own country doesn't want me." All me, baby.

There'd be no difference.

And sometimes people forget that this is my life. That I'm not a roleplay blog. Sometimes people kinda romanticise the whole bushman thing. They only see the upsides and don't see the downsides. I've been involved with some rough crowds. I'm damaged as a human being. I've done some bad things to survive. I'd done bad things because I wanted to. I've lost my head a few times too many. I've almost lost my life a few times more.

How do I look into my father's eyes and expect him not to see the person I've become? How do I hold my mother's hands and expect her not to see the blood on mine?

What people think my life is like—maybe that's my fault. Maybe I talk too much about the fun bits. Maybe I preach too highly of the stars, or the sunrises and sunsets, or the summer storms, or the beaches, or my encounters with the wildlife. Maybe I don't talk enough about how terrifying Australia can be. What it's like to wake up to the smell of smoke and be forced to outpace a bushfire with a smoking engine and a terrified, screaming dog next to you. How I'll wake up in the middle of the night to thunder in the Outback and I'll get Misty and leave because I'm not going to be caught in another tornado. How I've had my windscreen shattered with hail the size of billiard balls. How I've been chased up trees by angry pigs. How I've been caught in floods. What it's like to feel the moisture evaporate off your tongue as you die of dehydration. How I've been so thirsty I've drank my own urine. How I've been so hungry I've eaten dog kibble.

I can't read social situations. I'm autistic, so that's always been difficult, but I've lived in the bush since I was 19. I have spent most of my adult life without human contact. I've tailored myself to Australia's wildlife and that makes me act strange sometimes.

I piss in jars so I can pour them out near my camps to keep dingos away. I think I could take a dingo, but I'm not going to risk the safety of my dog.

I have a tendency to stare because when you stare at dingos and keep eye contact it's a territorial challenge. Stand your ground and they won't attack you. I find myself doing this to people that are no threat to me. It's the clerk at the servo, an old man at the shops, the lady across the street. I've been told it's creepy, and I can't help it.

I've forgotten how to act around people. I've built up this façade all my life to mask the autism because it's ostracised me, so I can appear more "normal," and it's funny how 15 years of masking can be thrown out the window by 3 years alone. Combine that with gradually going more and more feral over the past 3 years and is it any wonder why I can't hold conversations?

I don't smile with teeth because showing teeth to a predator is a challenge. I wake up at every little thing that goes bump in the night. In a house—a house, it's been years since I've lived in a building—sleeping out on the porch is the only way I can sleep. It works until someone drives past the street and I hear tyres and then I'm awake, and it's another half hour until my heart calms down enough to sleep again. I can slow my heartrate by force to get a good shot, but it doesn't work for waking up in a panic because I can't hold my breath long enough to make it work.

I have to sleep with a knife. Usually it's one. If I've had a rough day it becomes two or more.

There's things you see in the bush that change who you are as a person. Things you can't unsee. It's not all peaceful campfires and stargazing and pretty sunrises. There's things that are out there that people know are out there but no one talks about. That other people would call you crazy for saying you saw. Sometimes you'll meet an old blackfella in an Outback town who'll talk to you about it. Most won't, but every now and then there's one that will. It's no consolation. He'll just give you a name, something muttered under his breath that you probably don't catch and definitely can't pronounce, and he'll clap you on the back and tell you that it happens, and if he really likes you he'll give you a tinny and offer to shine your boots "to get the bush off." He'll act like he understands but then he'll turn to the bloke beside him, the one who's just listened in silence the whole time, and say "He's crazy" in words he doesn't know you understand.

Chihuahuas are popular in California. They sound like dingos, and I can't take my dog to the dog park.

I can't sleep. I wake up in cold sweats like I've been running a marathon. I dream of eyes watching me from the darkness, always the same dream. They get closer and I'm trying to keep some pitiful little fire going but it always goes out. I grab my torch, and the battery dies. I hear howls. I wake up. My dad's neighbour has huskies and they let the dogs out every morning at 5:30 on the nose and I can't sleep.

I don't know how to be intimate with people. My clothes stay on. My hat stays on. My sunnies stay on. I treat it like a job. I do my part, and I leave. I've never pursued someone. I've never approached someone first. I don't know what people see in me. I've never let someone kiss me, but I dream about it.

I can't sleep unless I have my back to something. I always have to face the door, see the door, when I'm in a building. I'm left-handed, so my left hand is always empty. I carry four knives on me at all times, or five if I'm in the bush and you count a machete.

Touch was never an issue with me before. Now it is. What few mates I have know not to stand behind me. I have to be approached like a horse--don't approach me from behind and if you do, make sure I know you're there.

I don't show emotion. I express it through touch—hands, or arms, or shoulders. I communicate love like I do with my dog, my best friend and my only companion. I feed her. I provide for her. I pat her head, I pat her back, I run my fingers through her fur, I share my meals with her. I hope she knows I love her. Matilda is my home, and I tend to her carefully. I wash her windows. I keep her petrol tank topped off. I keep her clean and tidy. I fix her flats myself, I never curse her when something goes wrong, I keep her parked in the shade when I can so her engine doesn't overheat. I hope she knows I love her. My rifle is my lifeline, and without her I am useless. I clean her every night, even if I don't use her. I buff out her scratches with a gentle hand, I handload the ammo she fires, I polish her walnut stock. I've memorised her serial number. I know her better than I know myself. She knows me better than I know myself. She's seen me at my worst and at my best. I hope she knows I love her.

I hit a low point last year. I saw a therapist in Melbourne for three weeks. I hate the cities. She wouldn't call me Blu. She called me by my legal name. Strike one. She asked me too many questions about my job, about where I go and what I do. "You said you live out in the bush. It's the 21st century. What are you doing out there that makes you flinch when a car backfires? That makes you so untrusting of people?" Strike two. "You have PTSD symptoms on par with a veteran who's seen combat," she said. "I want to refer you to a doctor who can get you on medication for your anxiety." I've been put on it before. I asked if it'd make my hands shake. I can't shoot with shaking hands. "Living in the bush isn't any way to live. You should sell your guns-" I hate that term, guns. She's a rifle. "-And move somewhere permanent. You should reacquaint yourself with society." Strike three. I never went back.

I can't communicate well through words. People forget that, or maybe they aren't aware to begin with. I'm a good listener, I've been told, but don't expect an articulate response.

Too many people think that trauma is just "something bad that happened to me." Bad things happen to everyone. Most people don't have any kind of trauma. Most people do not have PTSD.

It's one of those things that really bother me. It's usually just edgy teenagers going "oh I'm so traumatised" or just people on social media proclaiming their trauma when it's just "bad thing happened" and not actually trauma. It's been downplayed to a detrimental degree, to a point where any bad thing that happened is now trauma and so nothing is. This also applies to things like intrusive thoughts. I have intrusive thoughts. They're not random impulses like you hear people talking about on TikTok—they're obsessive, disturbing thoughts that you can't stop thinking about. That's what makes them intrusive. Oftentimes they include violence toward yourself or others. Sticking your hair in a bowl of pasta is a random impulse—it isn't an intrusive thought. Seeing someone walking down the street and picturing their dead body is.

One thing about actually having trauma is that you become really good at picking up when people actually have trauma or when they're just saying shit to be edgy and get a reaction out of you. Here's the tip: if they're constantly bringing up their trauma, fair chance they're lying. The thing about trauma is that it's traumatic. It's traumatic to remember, it's traumatic to think about, and you don't want to talk about it. You might bottle it up so much that you end up screaming into the void like I'm doing, or if you really feel safe with someone you might be willing to discuss it, but you don't talk about it unless it's really eating at you. You don't bring it up out of nowhere all the time to remind people of how traumatised you supposedly are. That's attention-seeking, edgy behaviour.

I had a mate dump some pretty heavy stuff on me without warning a few days ago, about some violent thoughts they said they have. That's another tipoff: people who actually have violent thoughts are ashamed of them. They don't talk about them unless very prompted, they don't bring them up out of the blue. I'd only been talking to this person for a month. They were the edgy type, but they're overall kind. I was edgy as a teenager too. I was hurting and I wanted someone to listen. I understand where they came from. I grew out of it, but I understand.

That said, I've got my own stuff going on in my life. Stuff that's happened to me that I don't talk about. Stuff I've done that I don't talk about. I've got my own secrets that I'll take to my grave. I don't have the mental capacity to really handle more. Sure, I can take some venting. I can even take some trauma dumping if you warn me first and don't blindside me with it. If I know someone well enough I can make the effort and try to figure out how to smooth things over, but most of the time I'm at a loss. I am not the person to come to for an emotionally compromising conversation. I am not a therapist.

I told them this and they laid into me. "Can't I tell my friend how I feel? I'm not a therapist either but I listen to people I care about." I reiterated that it's a discussion for a therapist and I'm not one. I was uncomfortable with this conversation. I told them I'm not good at handling emotional stuff. Their response?

"My advice? Fix that. No one will stick around with someone who can't even pretend to care. It took me a long time to learn but I did. I help even when I'm at my lowest. I listen and I care, or I pretend to." I've pretended my whole life. I'm tired of pretending. It's exhausting. "Whatever, you can't help people who don't want help."

People wonder why I don't open up, why I'm stone cold, and that's why. Because when you open up, people will use that shit against you. My job's taught me to be ruthless. I must fire true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will.

And sometimes there's a crack in that façade I've made. Sometimes the soft parts seep through like the solder in a bad weld. Sometimes it drips through my fingers, or my mouth, or my eyes. The difference is that in my line of work it's not something I can let people see. It's a weakness I can't afford to have. But I think the desire for companionship is human. To desire to be intimate, to form friendships, is to be human. My hands were made for holding more than rifles and cartridges. I have more of a purpose in this world than being an equaliser. I'm more than the weapon I've made myself to be.

But then I hear things like that. I hear the parting words of a mate I've lost—"With this attitude you will go on being alone in the bush"—and I wonder if I've already stopped being a person. If I've just solidified the other I've always felt I've been.

I think I lost my humanity a long time ago.

#blus blues

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br3adtoasty · 1 year

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Mariam Okropiridze

Dorm banner and template belong to @witchinghouracademy

Basic Info

Japanese マリアム・オクロピリズ

Twisted from Medea

Voiceclaim Satomi Satō

Birthday 29 October

Height 178 cm

Eye Color Violet

Hair Color Dark Brown

Homeland The Golden Glades

Misc. Info

Sexuality Asexual

Best Subject Potionology

Dominant Hand Right

Likes People who keep their promises, loyalty, being helpful, diced meat

Dislikes Oathbreakers, being taken advantage of, being abandoned, her ex

Talents Scheming I mean, what?

The intelligent sorceress-princess, Mariam.

- Order aligned… Most of the time.

- Calm and collected, Mariam still hasn’t forgotten all the manners she learned from her time as a princess.

- Very good with potions and alchemy. Some consider them a genius.

- She excels in the art of making poison. Its potency rivals those of the Pomefiore’s housewarden, and even the bygone Fairest Queen herself.

- Knows multiple ways to put people down. Don’t ask her how she got that kind of information.

- Sometimes misses the luxurious life of a royalty.

- But upon remembering how they will tear each other limbs from limbs just to stay in power, she decided she’d rather stick with her books and research.

- The jacket she wears was originally her family’s heirloom. After helping her ex stealing it, betraying her family in the process, she reclaimed it for herself. As for the fate of her past lover? Who knows.

- Was manipulated into dating her ex, has deep-seated trust issues because of that. But we won’t get into the details ^^

- Doesn’t really consider anyone her friend, despite her courteous front. She always keep people at arm’s length.

- Actually wants to get close to people but… Never again.

- Will never go back on promises ever. Be careful though, she expects you to do the same too.

- Probably has a list of criminal records but their aunt, Anella, helped them be absolved of some of that, so no worries!

- People say the reason she’s still alive and well despite all her misdeeds is because of her family’s connection. But in reality, it’s because of her wits.

- Mariam’s bloodline, the Okropiridze hails directly from the god of the Sun, the guardian of oaths and the all-seeing. A possible reason why she hates oathbreakers so much.

- Due to her divine blood, she has several mystical capabilities, most of which she uses to help enhance her sorcerous prowess.

- Admires Vero’s strictness. Sometimes you have to teach people a lesson.

Playlist ⤵︎

◓ Noro - Shimon

◓ Poison Apple - DECO*27

◓ Waltz of Malice - Kikuo

◓ Tongues & Teeth - The Crane Wives

◓ Wolf in Sheep's Clothing - Set It Off

#twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #twst fanschool #twst fandorm #witching hour academy #ryxabyss #ryxabyss dorm #mariam okropiridze #my art #profiles

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pearlescentlynx · 1 year

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Sausage Lore Update Again

You know how he said 'no side effects'? In his latest episode, there was far less worry for the sculk, and he refers to the other one doing things, as him doing things. Also the enthusiasm when told to kill Jimmy. ALSO HE LITERALLY SAID ALL HAIL TO A BLOOD SHEEP WHEN EVERY SINGLE OTHER TIME HE'S SEEN ONE HE HAS WANTED TO STAY AWAY,

Worrying? Yes. Certainly.

(The fae literally warned us help im dying from his lore)

We're not even gonna talk about the fact empanadas typically have meat in them.

#mythical sausage #empires mythicalsausage #empires smp #empires lore

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ceph-the-ghost-writer · 1 year

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Phagophobia Pt. 17

Summary: Curiosity killed the cat (but satisfaction brought him back).

Words: 4106

Content Notes: Supernatural horror (darkness/shadows, mirrors, body), mild eyestrain image toward the end (you'll notice blank space before and after it), descriptions of systemic abuse/violent authority figures and institutions, torture mention (fingers), emotional breaking point, cardiac and respiratory arrest, loss of time, temporary memory loss, just trauma trauma trauma all around but there's some comfort at the end don't worry

While mundane, nagging anxieties could deny sleep, looming danger held no such power. Shortly before sundown, Isaac slipped into a doze on Breezy’s couch without a single sheep counted. So, when the gentle string music of the wake up call she’d programmed into the holo system thrummed into action, he popped right up. Not refreshed, but not fuzzy-brained either. His hand went to his throat. Beneath the collar of his shirt, his fingertips found the charmed red twine wrapped three times around his neck. So far, so good. The last thing he needed right then was another bout of dizziness.

He shut the alarm off with the remote. To the right, he caught sight of Breezy, dressed in a flannel shirt and denim overalls, standing at the living room archway.

“Witching hour’s about to strike, kid. You got any last minute thoughts of chickening out, you’d best share them.”

Isaac checked in with his pulse and the pit of his stomach. Neither came close to what he’d been put through while at the mercy of someone else’s hidden agenda. He shook his head. “Let’s go.”

She led the way upstairs. Swaths of moonlight streamed in through every window, making the walk easy. The rational part of Isaac’s mind chalked it up to coincidence, a natural break in the storm. Kinslayer’s parting words played on repeat everywhere else.

Breezy stopped outside a doorway toward the end of the hall. The five-gallon bucket of salted water they’d hauled up together waited by her feet, along with a mug. Hands tucked in the pockets of her overalls, she nodded. It was all him from there on out. Holding a deep inhale, Isaac crossed the threshold into the room. Darkness closed over him. He waited, listening to the rush of blood in his ears, for his vision to adjust. The sheets of aluminum foil they’d taped over the windows were definitely doing their job. Eyes aching from strain, he had to resort to sweeping his hand in front of him at waist level while he shuffled deeper in. His forearm bumped into the backrest of one of the dining table’s chairs. Okay. Step one, check. Keeping one hand on the seat as a landmark, Isaac sank to his knees and patted the floor, moving in advancing arcs. Sure enough, his fingers closed over the box of matches. On his fourth try, he got one to strike. The flame seared dancing afterimages into his retinas, but he found one of the candles laying on the rug and lit it, setting it in the bronze holder also transplanted from the dining room earlier. Isaac, slipping the matches into his jeans pocket, hoped he wouldn’t need to repeat the process. Judging from how he’d just performed, he doubted he’d manage to get another burning under any real pressure.

Last bit of prep over, he pulled himself up into the chair. Smoothed his hair and jacket down. Jumped when he heard a knock on the wall behind him before remembering the signal he and Breezy had agreed on. The hour had struck. Gripping the armrests of his chair, Isaac trained his stare on the one placed a conversational distance across from him, mindful of not looking directly at the decorative mirror propped up in it.

“Kinslayer.” He cleared his throat to drive out the squeaks. “Kinslayer, I bid you cross my threshold. Kinslayer, I bid you rest by my light. Kinslayer, I bid you hail and welcome.”

Isaac held his breath. Let his gaze flit around to every flickering shadow lurking in the corners of the room. And…nothing. Not even a timely moan from the wind in the eaves. Had they lied? Were they having a laugh at his expense? He didn’t think so. The summons they’d had him write down didn’t strike him as silly—it didn’t even rhyme. His attention continued to wander around the perimeter, alert for anything about to slither from the darkness and attack. Maybe he’d screwed the words up. Magic got tetchy about details. Even though he’d been confident he memorized everything, he might’ve missed a word. Mixed something up. Nerves caused slips like that. He shouldn’t have left the damn magpad downstairs. He should’ve just read off of it so there’d be one less thing to—

What tripped his body’s alarm system, Isaac couldn’t pinpoint. A charge thrumming to life in the dead air, like a circuit had snapped closed. Or a cold caress of dread swiping up the back of his neck. Whatever the case, a soft gasp from out in the hall let him know it wasn’t just his on-edge imagination.

The candleflame sputtered and hissed, whipped by a sudden breeze Isaac didn’t feel. His head spun along with the frenzied shadows. A surge of survival instinct compelled him to rise.

Hands dropped onto his shoulders and shoved him back down. Weight, increasing with each of his hummingbird-speed heartbeats, doubled him over, pressed his face into his knees. The wood of the chair and floorboards groaned under the pressure. Just when he thought he’d hear the snap of his bones next, it paused. Eased off enough for him to struggle upright again and gasp in an overdue breath.

“Sorry about the landing, bookworm. Didn’t mean to be so rough. Not used to doing this when the human’s sitting up.” The amiable alto voice came from right next to his ear. Fingers kneaded his stiff shoulders. Fingers that, by the undulating way they moved, had a joint or two more than expected.

His eyes lifted to the mirror propped in the chair across from him, but swerved away at the last second. He caught only a glimpse of the shape hunched over him, blotting out the exit, the natural darkness around it pale and washed out by comparison.

“Ki…Kinslay-yer?” His chattering teeth had nothing to do with temperature. Unlike the time in the front seat of their car, the presence behind him didn’t radiate life-leeching cold.

The smooth, too-long fingers slithered under his shivering jaw, helping to hold it shut. “Who else? You invite some other vampire into your boudoir tonight? I did notice we aren’t alone.”

“Mutual acquaintance,” he managed between the horror hand and his own blubbering terror.

Kinslayer—or the abominable shape with their voice—fell silent. If Isaac had dared, he might’ve seen whatever passed for its head cocked, as if listening, in the mirror. At last, there was a humming rumble that sank into his rigid back and gently rattled his spine.

“Well. Really is a small world, ain’t it?” Another vibration. Laughter, he realized. Kinslayer was having a chuckle. “First the sergeant, now the hexbreaker. You keep some eclectic company, bookworm.”

Since fighting the urge to run screaming from the room took most of his mental capacity, Isaac didn’t attempt any one-liners. Instead, he spent what few brain cells he had left on puzzling out who they’d meant. Sergeant. So…Curry. Right. They’d killed another enforcer Curry knew. And hexbreaker: Breezy. A stolen—borrowed—van.

Isaac wondered if there was any middle ground between those two outcomes when dealing with Kinslayer. And dreaded discovering where his own encounter would land.

“Um, so, questions,” he said. The initial shot of fight-or-flight through his system was wearing off, the tremors in his limbs fading into periodic twinges. “About how this works, I mean. Not my actual three questions.”

The tendril-fingers slid away from his face, returning to his shoulder. “Skipping the pleasantries, huh? Okay, have it your own way. Let’s cover the fine print.”

“Do I have to ask all three right now? Tonight?”

“No. Spread them out however you want. But as soon as you get at least one in, payment becomes due, regardless of when you get around to using your remaining questions.”

All right. So, no stringing them along, even if he’d had the guts to risk it. “What if you don’t know the answer to something?”

“Then I’ll tell you and you can ask something else. This isn’t a monkey’s paw type of deal. I’m not out to screw you over technicalities or word choice or whatever. It’s a garden-variety transaction, when you get right down to it. I give you information, you give me a willing meal. End of story.”

“Willing. Are you saying I could fight you?”

Sharp points pricked at his shoulder through the fabric of his jacket, like the talons of a bird of prey. “You could certainly try.”

He swallowed and prodded his brain for follow-ups. At that point, anything further would just be stalling.

“I think…” Another cough to tune his voice to its usual pitch. “I’m ready.”

“Query me, bookworm.”

“What, exactly, is my best bet for staying alive and getting out of this…out of whatever the hell I stepped into between the Coven and the people Renato says he works for?”

A snort tickled his ear. “Gonna make me earn my keep, I see. Fine. I know some of the details already, but let me hear your play-by-play breakdown.”

He covered everything from when Renato snatched him off the street to leaving the clocktower apartment. Kinslayer listened without interruption, only the occasional tap or squeeze from those inhuman hands to prove he hadn’t bored them to sleep.

“That brings us to our little parley here, huh?” they said once he’d finished.

“From what I understand, yes. So?”

“So…your best bet is to go back to your hotel. Lie to the enforcers about where you were. Cross your heart you’ll be a good little bookworm from now on. Then run up a tab for room service and porn until they tell you the coast is clear.”

Once again, Isaac had to avert his eyes before he could check the expression of whatever lurked in the mirror. “And, what? That’s it?”

“You asked for advice about your best shot at survival. I gave it.”

His foot started to bounce. “Well, yeah…sure…”

“I feel a ‘but’ coming on.”

“I’m just…surprised, I guess. I thought you hated the Coven.”

There was a faint, wet smacking noise by his ear, like lips peeling away from teeth in a sudden snarl. “I do. Doesn’t change what I said, though.”

“That’s your advice then. Just go back to living my life like nothing happened?”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure you’ll need some therapy. But, basically, yeah. Go back to work, don’t draw any more attention to yourself, don’t go yakking about anything you saw, and your chances of survival are pretty good.”

His fidgeting increased in tempo. “I thought you said no word games.”

“You calling me a cheat?”

“I’m saying there’s something you’re leaving out, and I want to know why without using up a second question.”

Silence. Then: “Because you already have the answer.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but another razor-pointed squeeze shut him up.

“Do you know what the Coven’s penalty for consorting with me is?” Kinslayer asked.

Swallowing, he dropped his stare to his sneakers and prayed his face wasn’t glowing red in the dark. “Uh, not off the top of my head.”

“But you’re aware what you’re doing at this very moment is a big no-no.”

“What’s that got to—”

“And let’s not forget how you failed to snitch on an unregistered bloodborn and Dorian St-Ange, whom I’m sure must’ve been reported AWOL by now.” Elongated fingers glided over to play with the hair at the nape of his neck and launch a shudder down his spine. “You could’ve gone right up to Curry or Watts or any of the Coven’s finest. But no. You’re here with me, conspiring in the dark instead. Now why’s that, bookworm? Think about it. Think hard.”

He didn’t need to. Because they were right. He’d known what kind of choice he was facing before he’d even shown up at Breezy’s house. He could go slinking back to the enforcers with his tail between his legs. No doubt. Tell them some bullshit about needing to decompress (though was it a lie if it was probably true?) and that he’d gotten blackout drunk. Had passed out in a stranger’s bed and that’s why he hadn’t called. He could distract himself in a dozen different ways while Watts and his team hunted St-Ange down and gave them much more than just a bruise the second time around. What did it matter? They had it coming, right? For defying orders? For associating with scum like Renato? Things that Isaac or anyone he knew had famously never done. Not even once.

Given enough time and alcohol, he was sure he could wash away the taste of all the boots he’d have to lick to believe that.

Isaac’s cheeks ached from how tight his lips pressed together. Maybe it was his posture, or the tremble in limbs, but Kinslayer made a hum of acknowledgement.

“I take it we’re all clear on that matter.”

“Second question,” he said gruffly.

“I’m on tenterhooks.”

“Are any of the enforcers agents like Renato? From the…whatever he called it?”

“Ahh…now there’s a question worth a million in prizes. But I can’t give you a sure answer.”

Isaac jerked his shoulders, attempting to reclaim some of his personal space. “Then speculate.”

“Simmer down, bookworm, simmer down. I’ll give you some dirt on who you’ve been hanging around with, how about that? Then you can decide for yourself.

“Let’s start with the one with a shaved head who was with you in the car. Looked like she could bench press it without breaking a sweat?”

“Corporal Cristina Yi. What do you know about her?”

“Nothing. Haven’t tangled with her personally. Sure wouldn’t mind changing that, though.”

He glared at the candle. “Not the sort of information I’m trading you for.”

“It’s on the house.” A buzz of laughter. “Now Keenan Watts…him I do know a little something about. Strong practitioner, not just with root work and fixing tricks, but magical combat too. A natural leader, with a devoted squad, as you’ve seen. And always on the lookout for ways to climb the company ladder. I’d say he’s a likely candidate for an Unseen Hand pawn, though he’s not actually one of them. Not yet.”

“How do you know?”

Kinslayer touched his neck where the pulse jumped just under the skin. “Because he’s still breathing. If he’d been initiated into the real movers and shakers behind the Coven’s magic department, he’d be undead.”

A fidget creeping back into his leg, Isaac mulled that over. Undead sorcerers behind the scenes? That could account for his run-ins with the gate guardians back at the house Renato had kept him captive at.

“And Sergeant Zamora and Lieutenant Quinn?” he said. “I already know one of them is willing to throw punches.”

“Hm. Last I knew, Mariluz Zamora and Ewan Quinn belonged to a different squad. Must’ve been transferred to Watt’s after the torture incident.”

Every muscle in Isaac’s body petrified.

Kinslayer didn’t wait for the inevitable question. “They were after some shithead class three for a bounty. Tracked down a class four he’d had dealings with, looking to get a lead on his whereabouts. Medical science has come a long way from leeches and astrology, but it’s still pretty touch and go when it comes to reattaching stuff like fingers. She’s lucky she got away at all though, I guess.”

“How…if they did something that cruel…” He shook his head, the answer to his own question showing up halfway through the asking.

They’d gotten away with it for the same reasons Zamora had been able to hit St-Ange. The rest of the Coven would excuse their actions as long as the only ones hurt were perceived threats or criminals. Like a self-professed traitor. Or someone on her way to becoming a full-blown psychic vampire. Or Isaac, if he didn’t watch himself.

“And Curry?” he asked, hands clenched into fists and braced over his stomach.

“Saved the best for last. That scruffy-chinned turd nugget helped frame me for the murder of two researchers. Then had the gall to use his partner as a human shield when trying to collect the hiked-up bounty on my head went sideways. Probably milked all the pity that kid’s death could get for him too.”

We’ll get you back to HQ in one piece, Soto.

He’d trusted Curry to protect him. Had slept in the same motel rooms. Sat in the same car across hundreds of miles and bickered over who’s music got played next. He’d shown no sign of being either a liar or a coward.

Kiss a kelpie’s ass, mind-raper.

Except for that windswept night out on the highway. And it hadn’t been Curry who’d knocked on his door to share St-Ange’s info with him either.

“I’m guessing you have some evidence to back this up.” Couldn’t hurt to be thorough.

A tsk. “You’ve proven yourself a capable snoop. Ask around. People’ll talk.”

The direction things were headed, Isaac doubted whether he’d have the opportunity. If anything, it looked like he’d be busy with fleeing to the most remote part of the States he could find and hiding under a rock until everyone he knew forgot about him.

“Fine. Final question then.”

“No,” Kinslayer said.

“How do I—” His teeth clicked together. He blinked at the bottom edge of the mirror’s gilt frame. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“That’s it. We’re through for tonight, bookworm. I’m cutting you off.”

Isaac made to rise from the chair. Once again, Kinslayer shoved him down.

“You can’t do this.”

“I can and will—though you’re making it awful hard, I’ll tell you that.”

“We made a deal!”

“Oh, you gonna leave me a bad review? Good grief, bookworm. Emotional overload’s making you pushy. Call me back once you’ve cooled off some and we’ll get to your last question.”

The supernatural weight bearing down on him lifted. They’d dropped the knowledge on him that the only thing he had left to live for was corrupt. Probably a threat. Maybe even a lie when it came down to it. And they were just leaving him to sort through the rubble. Slinking back into the shadows, another life destroyed without them having lifted a finger.

Isaac spun around and grabbed the retreating darkness by one of its many, many arms.

Head scraping the ceiling, it turned to look down at him over its hunched, spiky shoulders.

“You’re not going anywhere until you give me my last answer.” His skin glowed against the unreflective blackness. Although his fingers clenched around it hard enough to throb, he picked up no texture, no sense of weight or mass.

That was still easier for him to process than the two empty points in space where Kinslayer’s eyes should’ve been. His brain scrambled to fill them with something, anything, he could understand. Bloody sockets. White static. No matter how hard he visualized, though, they simply refused to be.

Stubborn little fool. Kinslayer’s voice reverberated inside his skull like the toll of a funeral bell. Look away.

“No.” Despite the rhythm of his heart wearing down to the occasional erratic thump, the word came out clear. Or was that only in his head too? “Not until…you can’t just…”

Four hands caught him when his knees wobbled, threatening to quit their job. I have no answers that will give you comfort or purpose. Not even lies. The great head with its vacant spots where eyes should’ve existed leaned down. This is your last chance, scholar. Accept my mercy, such as it is, and look away.

Isaac’s lips parted, though no sound followed. Will kept his head up, but did nothing to expand or fill his lungs. But even without speech he’d make this thing of void and lightless shadow understand. This was no mercy. Running had never saved him. Not from the wolf, not from Renato, and not from his own loneliness. He was done with rising from the ashes. It was his turn to start some fires, and whoever got in his way could go up in the blaze.

Fingers from a fifth hand closed around his throat, lifted him into point blank range of that hollow gaze. Didn’t matter. Not without any breath or circulation to cut off. His own arm shook, remaining strength poured into just raising it. He managed to sling it around the hulking shape’s neck like they were getting one last drunken slow dance in before the bar closed for the night. His brow came to rest against its inky one. A growl made the air between them quiver. Despite being right in front of him, flittering impressions were still the closest he could get to defining Kinslayer’s shadow’s eyes.

The undertow of a dead ocean sucking him into crushing depths churned by sinuous, scaled beasts.

Bookworm.

Civilizations, layered one atop another, buckling under the successive weight, crumbling, eroding to become indistinguishable from the dust.

Scholar.

For all its swiftness, for all its brilliance, light dragged into the irresistible pull of a black hole and rent a…p…

…a……

…r………

…t……………

Isaac came back to the world the same way he’d arrived the first time around. Sightless. Shocked by cold. Shrieking.

Something grabbed at his flailing limbs. He flailed harder. Hit the something, which let out a grunt.

“Isaa—Agent Soto. Can you hear me? It’s all right now, you’re safe.”

Isaac froze, heart bouncing off the slats of his ribcage. Did he…Was that voice familiar? No. That was impossible. Everyone he knew was dead. Nothing but mulch and splinters of bone beneath marble markers he’d never seen since he’d never bothered to visit their graves. The knowledge wrung a broken sound from his chest.

“Well, don’t just stand there and let him cry!” Another voice he couldn’t possibly know. “Get in there and give him a hug, wipe his nose—something.”

“Ms. Shelton, I assure you I’m the last person on Earth he’d want a hug from.”

“Well, you’re all he’s got at the moment, fancy fangs. I can’t watch him and fix up a tincture at the same time. So, either you quit being such a damn weenie or I’ll go across the street to borrow my neighbor’s golden retriever. At least she’d be useful.”

“I…I’ll figure something out.”

Silence. Then, a dip in whatever surface Isaac was sprawled on.

“Agent Soto? Are you able to open your eyes?”

He could, as it turned out. One lid cracked open. Light, soft and golden. Candles? He got the other eye working. Whimpered when he saw the dark shape looming over him. No—no, just a person with the usual number of arms. Someone with discernable features. Young, handsome if disheveled. Eyes the color of a warm southern sea filled with relief.

“You’re conscious. Good.” The person or potential figment cleared his throat lightly. “That’s good. Do you want to sit up?”

Isaac didn’t have a clear grasp on where he was in space yet, but nodding struck him as the right thing to do. Hands (a normal number of them) slipped underneath him, one at his back, the other behind his neck. He gasped as they lifted him and answered his biggest question at the same time.

Real. Not some desperate hallucination caused by chemicals spilling from a dying brain. The warmth and weight of the other person’s (where did he know him from?) touch wasn’t imagined. Isaac’s awareness of the chill in his limbs and the throbbing ache in all his joints continued to grow by the second. This was happening.

He mewled when the hands went away. Fumbling to grab them with his own, he managed to catch hold of a shirt sleeve, making its owner’s mouth fall open in surprise.

“Please,” Isaac choked, fingers clutching the familiar stranger’s arm. “Don’t leave me.”

He tried to say more, but it dissolved into gibberish churned to mush by sobs. Salt from the (real, real, they hurt too much not to be) tears streaking down his cheeks burned whenever one ran across his dry lips. Yet the touch returned despite what a mess he was, pulling him into heat and safety and comfort.

“Shh, lindo, shh.” Hands pet his hair, rubbed soothing circles into his shoulders and back. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’ll do everything I can to help. Though heaven knows that didn’t make anything much better last time, did it?”

The meaning of the words slid right through one ear and out the other, but their soft tone lulled Isaac. He snuggled deeper into the embrace with a hiccup, a few last stray tears falling as his eyes closed. No fears followed him into the darkness. Not with someone to keep watch.

#dysthanasia #urban fantasy #paranormal fantasy #vampire fiction #tumblr ate this chapter #and the next in the update #so apologies for the repost

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