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revasserium · 3 months

Note

In case you hadn’t noticed I utterly ADORE your LaDS fics 🫣 You write the boys so well I squeal when I read them!

Can I request prompts 27 and 142 from the prompt lists for our boy Raf? Could it be nsfw? 👉👈

Eagerly awaiting all of your fics about Raf and Xavier especially!

send me one + a character and i'll write u a drabble

eventide (27. follow me + 142. in the still of the night)

rafayel; 2,413; nsfw !!!, lvl 55 spoilers, piv sex, fem!reader, no "y/n", riding, heat??? adjacent sex???, smut with feelings, fluff and smut, pwp-ish

summary: "my life? what if you just take it instead?" said the sailor to the mermaid.

a/n: this is probably the best i've felt about a smut piece i've written. that ebb & flow lvl 55 story has me in a chokehold, i tell you.

“Maybe from the start… it was all a trap. Maybe the mermaid was after the sailor’s life all along.”

You reach forward to press your palm to the side of Rafayel’s face, feeling the heat of his skin burning against yours. Gently, you run your knuckles along the sparkling scales dotting the tops of his cheeks like so many pieces of a misplaced sea. You see his eyes go wide, feel his breath quicken impossibly in his chest.

“Okay.”

Rafayel blinks, and the barest hint of a frown creases his eyebrows as he turns to look at you.

“Okay?”

You smile, leaning forward with a soft sigh, letting your fingers trail down to his neck, where his pulse beats hummingbird fast beneath your touch.

“Mhm… you were saying earlier that you’d be so weak tonight that I could take your life if I wanted it…” you slowly shift your leg, one and then the other, over till you’re straddling Rafayel’s lap, both your hands resting on his shoulders. Fish-tail flashes of emotions flicker behind his eyes as he holds his breath, his fingers trembling as he reaches up to catch your wrists; he holds them tight, but he makes no move to either pull you closer or push you away.

You can feel his uncertainty thrumming in the air between you, static — electric.

“I — did…”

You let your head fall sideways as you flash him a sweet, helpless smile, “Then… if it were all a trap for my life… I’m saying that you can have it.”

You lean forward, and like this, your eye line is just a bit higher than his, forcing him to crane his head upwards to keep ahold of your gaze.

He is so warm beneath you that for a moment, you wonder if he’s activated his Evol by accident.

“I can…” for a moment, he seems confused, even drunk as he stares up at you, and then, the flicker of something behind his eyes as he goes stiff beneath you. Then, his fingers are digging into your hips and his breath is nearly searing across your lips. Your newly released wrists burn where his grip had been just seconds before, and you slowly sink your fingers into the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean — or make promises you’ve no intention of keeping.” There’s a razor’s edge glinting beneath the soft hiss of his voice as he glares at you, a longing as deep as the sea roiling behind his gaze.

You steel yourself, shifting slightly in his lap, your cheeks warming as you feel him quivering beneath you. He’s still hot, too hot, but he holds impossibly still as you lean in, your lips ghosting over his in a phantom kiss.

“Please…” it comes out as a ragged plea, and you’ve never known him to sound so desperate or so utterly broken, “if you don’t — if you’re not —“

You run your thumb along his jaw as you force him to look at you.

“Rafayel… kiss me.”

It is a breaking dam, a cresting wave, crashing against the crumbling edges of his self-restraint — his lips on yours, his tongue pressing, hungry and demanding, into your mouth as he surges up to kiss you. It’s all you can do to cling to him, your hands looping behind his neck as he crushes you to him, his hands suddenly everywhere as he tugs at the hem of your clothes, rucking them up just to press his palm to the bare skin of your waist, your back, to trail them up the ridges of your spine.

He tastes of salt and desire as he groans against your mouth, your fingers tangling in his foam-soft hair, heat tingling through you as he forces your hips against his and you feel him — hot and hard. A soft whine escapes your lips as he pulls back, panting, his eyes misty and dark as he watches you with a wildness that chases shivers down your spine.

“Are you scared?” he asks, his voice low and just a little breathless, “do you regret staying?”

You swallow and shake your head, trailing your fingers down into the already-opened front of his shirt, grazing your nails along the skin there. A delicious, heart-rending anticipation sizzles through you at the way his stomach flexes, and the next moment, he’s dropping his lips to your shoulder, his teeth sinking into the bare skin there even as he grabs your hand and forces it lower — and then lower.

Heat pulses through you as your palm meets his clothed cock and his head drops back with a moan. Like this, the scales on his neck and jaw are even more pronounced, glimmering in the dim, moonless night. You loosen his belt with one hand before tugging it down with the other, but before you can reach for him, he catches your wrists and pulls you bodily back up the length of his torso.

You almost yelp, shocked by his strength and the ease with which he’d hauled you over his lap once more. There’s an intensity to his hooded eyes, so much darker than their usual lost-treasure brightness, but he smirks as he sees the obvious blush marring your cheeks.

“Already embarrassed? Didn’t you say you were going to give me your life?”

You purse your lips, “I — I am.”

A strange expression crosses his face as he scoffs, “I told you… don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

And then he’s kissing you again, harsh and hungering, a ravenousness carving through him into the hollow of you as you roll your clothed core down over his throbbing cock with a loud, hapless moan.

“S-says who I don’t plan on keeping them?” you ask, breathless and panting as he lifts your hips with a hiss and literally tears away your underwear. Shivers shake through you at this blatant display of strength — you’d always known he was strong, stronger than he lets on but you hadn’t expected this. It caves your stomach and curves your spine as a want so carnal it sears your mind threatens to take you over.

“Mm — fuck —”

He swears as he shoves down his own pants and his cock springs free, thick and leaking as it slaps against the tight muscle of his lower abdomen. You can’t help the way your eyes wide or your breath hitches at the sight — your mouth waters, your throat tightens.

Heat pulses between your thighs as you press your lips and reach down to wrap your fingers around his base, giving him a soft, experimental tug.

The low, guttural moan that spills from you threatens to steal your sanity from you entirely. And suddenly, it’s not only him feeling the effects of the eventide night — you too start to wonder if there’s something in the thick heat of the air, in dark moonless skies.

“Come here, princess —” Rafayel’s fingers dig into your arms as he jerks you up again, pulling you up till you’re hovering over his weeping cock, your core throbbing with want, the nickname somehow sending another thrill tingling through you. You wonder if you had been a princess in another life — if Rafayel had known you then too — if you’d also wanted each other as you do now —

“R-Raf — ay — yel — ah!” you brace your arms against his shoulders as you slowly lower yourself over him, both of your eyes caught on the intoxicating sight of him sinking into you, inch by inch, thick and unrelenting, until finally you’re seated fully in his lap again, your breaths coming in quick, harsh gasps as you try to adjust to the sting, the stretch.

“H-hey…” Rafayel strokes a hand along your cheek, his own chest heaving even as he checks in on you, “how — how do you feel?”

You keen, rolling your hips down over him just to watch him shudder, “G-good — ah — fuck — there —!”

You plant your palms on his chest and lift yourself up a few inches before sinking down again. The friction nearly drives all coherence from your brain as Rafayel’s hands fall to your hips, his nails digging crescent moon marks into the plush above your ass.

He groans, “Y-you’re squeezing m-me so… so tight — ngh — fuck fuck fuck — do — do you feel that — right — right there?”

He lets out a panting breath as he forces your hips forward and back as he flicks his eyes down at the place where his cock is disappearing into your cunt over and over, a ring of sticky white collecting round the base as he watches, his eyes glazed over with want.

“Yes — yes — I f-feel it —” you force your thighs to go faster, digging your fingers into his shoulder blades as you try to ride him harder, keening when he dips down to catch one of your nipples between his lips, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh, his tongue circling your sensitive nub. Fire chases down the length of your spine as pleasure explodes in your lower belly as Rafayel rucks up into you faster and faster, reaching up a hand to squeeze at your other breast, thumb kneading at the sensitive nipple till you’re twitching, falling forward into his embrace.

“You really — really like it when I fuck you deep like this, hm?” and he’s just as breathless as he should be, there’s sweat beading at his brow, an almost crazed, unfocused look in his eyes as he pulls back to look up at you, but it only serves you spur you on as you ride him faster and harder, tossing your head back, slamming your hips down into his to chase your own high as you cry out before falling forward against his feverish skin.

He shifts his hips and you go rigid above him, the tip of his cock hitting a particular place inside you that makes the entire world go fuzzy around the edges. Once, twice, three times — and then you’re collapsing, shaking and shuddering as you come undone around him, and he’s swearing beneath you, squeezing you to him with a thick, bitten-off groan.

“Fuck — i-if you keep — squeezing — around me l-like that — ah-ah-hah…!”

You let out a soft whine as you feel him spilling hot inside you, his cock twitching as he shivers, his forehead falling against your shoulder as he sighs.

“Mm… how… how do you… feel?” you ask, your voice hazy with tiredness as you pull back, grinning lazily down at him, twisting your fingers absently through the hairs at the nape of his neck. Rafayel peers up at you after a second, half-reproachful, half-amazed.

“You… really have no idea… do you?”

“No idea… of what?” you ask, cocking your head to the side even as he tugs you in, his softening cock still sheathed inside you, the sticky heat of your juices cooling against your skin.

“Don’t you know what it means to have sex with a Lemurian?”

You laugh, shaking your head, leaning forward to nuzzle into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. You rest your head against the sofa and dig your nose into his skin.

“No… tell me.”

Rafayel’s arms wrap around you, sweet and solid, even as a soft squishing sound alerts you both to the mess you’ve undoubtedly made on his artisanal couch. Neither of you pay it much mind.

“It means that you’re tied to me forever — for this lifetime at least, and that… if you ever try to have sex with anyone else…” Rafayel drops his voice, murmuring into the shell of your ear as you shy away at giggle, “You’ll suffer dire consequences.”

You laugh, shaking your head, “Well, good thing I wasn’t planning on having sex with anyone else then. In this lifetime… or the next.”

Rafayel goes still beneath you. And for a second, it’s just you and him and the catching of lost breaths, the remembering of things once forgotten, lives once lived and yet to be lived again.

“Haven’t I told you? Don’t say things you don’t mean…”

You lift your head to look at him, a soft smile lifting your cheeks as you sigh.

“You keep saying that… but I’ve meant everything I said,” you say, trailing your fingers along the high of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. You feel his skin burn fire-hot beneath the pads of your thumbs as you run them along his bottom lip.

“Promise you’re not lying,” he says, and he’s not indignant any longer, but reverent and eager, almost anxious.

“I promise.”

“Can your promises be trusted?”

You smile before leaning in to run your lips along his neck, tracing his pulse all the way up to his lips with a light, lingering kiss.

“You tell me, sly merman… weren’t you just saying that the mermaid of legend had set a clever trap for the sailor? So tell me, clever, clever merman… if you’ve bound me to you forever… what power would I have to lie to you, hm?”

Rafayel scoffs, pouting as he looks away, “Unbelievable.”

You laugh, lying your cheek back against his chest with a small sigh, “You should learn to believe it… I mean, I did just willingly give you my life.”

Rafayel makes a soft tsk-ing noise as he pinches you lightly on the thigh, “You really don’t know what you’re saying, do you?”

You shake your head, “No… I know exactly what I’m saying.”

Rafayel grunts, though you know by the sound of his voice that he’s grinning, even as he turns to face away from you. You fancy you can feel the heat as it kisses pink the tips of his ears. You reach up to run a finger along the bright scales still pressing up from beneath his skin as he lets out a soft hiss, turning back to look at you.

“You might not believe me but… at least… I have the rest of my life to prove it to you.”

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tteokdoroki · 6 months

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aali my beloved would you be willing to share some more thots regarding domineering consent-king-kiri,,,no pressure at all I am just delighted by the concept!! If nothing else I am holding your hand making microwave noises because this tickles my brain muah

☆༉ — EIJIROU KIRISHIMA. consent and condescension.

about. your wish is my command beautiful anon. this is definitely yuzuya adjacent LDKAKS !!

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact. smut, praise kink, consent heavy, condescension, scratching, afab!reader, soft dom/pro hero!kirishima.

“i only want to do this if it’s something you want.” kirishima says, his voice so quiet that it’s barely above a whisper. there’s a huskiness to it, as though he’s been holding back for so long that his tether and tie to sanity threatens to snap. the very simple fact makes a shiver run down your spine and shoot right between your legs.

kirishima let’s put a condescending coo as he shifts to sit with you on the bed, prying apart your shaky thighs to catch a whiff of your hot cunt, a view of how juices run between your folds like golden syrup that makes you shine. you’re eijirou kirishima’s favourite sweet treat.

“poor baby, if i hadn’t come any sooner, who knows what would have happened to you.” his voice drips to lower tones that turn on the sex signals in your brain — and as you whine out for more, the corner of the red head’s lips quirk up into a sly smile.

“all alone and unable to cum. well, don’t you worry. i’ve got you now.” you see, he knows you better than you know yourself. that you can’t get off without his thick fingers or his fat cock, and how frustrated you get when you can’t touch yourself in the same way that he does.

that’s why you called him at work, with a wobble in your saccharine voice and squelch from your cunt echoing down the line. you need eijirou.

you hardly notice how fast he strips, too dizzy and needy to speak your mind or even think. your level of desire to be fucked dumb by your man overpowers any logical reasoning you may have. taking hold of the globes of your ass, the mountainous man drags you towards him, pressing right up against your throbbing mound — looking down at you as if you’re the most beautiful, pathetic thing he’s ever seen.

you’ve not a clue as to how much you affect eijirou, with your big wet eyes and shaky hips as you rut into him for any kind of friction. he wants to ruin you and cherish you all at once, fighting with the two halves of him that join together and make him the person that he is. the hero that protects people, the man who loves you, the other that has such depraved thoughts about you. his sweet little thing.

“i’ve been dying to take you since the moment you called, fuck you against your cute little sheets, have your adorable ankles and frilly socks hangin’ over my shoulders….” eijirou’s next move is to tease your wet little slit, tapping his milky cockhead against your swollen clit repeatedly until you’re jolting and twitching from the slight streams of pleasure. “is it okay for me to touch you like this? i really want to but… your needs always come first to me.”

the question is masked with a patronising kindness in an attempt to hide the red head’s deepest and darkest dreams. if he truly wanted to, kirishima could have plugged your hole full of his monster-like girth and fucked you until that tight, unused hole of yours was coated in his cum. yet, he treats you (the object of his affections and desires), as though you’re a porcelain doll threatening to shatter under the weight of his touch.

the cracks begin to show and the dam begins to break. your pretty face crumples with ecstasy while eijirou pushes his length through your slick pussy, laughing breathily at your arousal that clings to every spiralling blue vein that decorated his shaft. it jumps against the pleasure bud tucked away between your folds.

you sniffle and his heart breaks for you. it does nothing to calm the flames of desire burning at eijirou’s healthy lungs — blackening them.

“e-eiji—!”

“‘m gonna put it in now, i know, i know, sweetheart. i gotta hurry it up,” he starts, tutting down at you and your clenching cunt as he hits his hips forward — pushing his bulbous tip past the tight ring of muscle at your entrance. “you’ve been so good, sweetheart. waiting for me to get home, so you could get fucked — i just don’t wanna hurt you.”

he brushes the pads of his thumbs over your body trembling beneath him. over your pebbling nipples, so hard they could cut diamonds because of the cold air. over your curves, your tummy and navel — every perfectly imperfect part of you. and when he reaches your thighs, they’re folded into your chest so he can give you exactly what you want.

“oh, little one. you’re so tight, and warm around me. fuck.” eijirou is the one who hiccups this time, gripping the sheets above your head while your warm, ribbed walls grip his cock the further he pushes into you. “so soft too, i can’t get enough of you. got me thinkin’ about you all the time.”

he starts thrusting then, forceful but fluid like a rushing river of ecstasy. eijirou pins you to the bed below, giving you no room to wiggle away and the only option being to take everything that he gives to you. his balls clapping against the curve of your ass, his harsh moans in your ear and tip bullying your g-spot before you can even register the sensation blooming in your lower tummy. there’s no room to breathe or think while he fucks you. like he hates you, all while loving you.

“i love your pretty face. how it looks when you take me. the way your brows furrow and your soft lips part when you moan for me. can you take it? just a little more for me.” the surge of praise you receive from eijirou is like a storm that angrily hits the shore. you feel like you’re drowning, clawing at his back to drag yourself to shore while he pounds you to the high heavens. your body jolts up the bed at every one of eijrou’s thrusts — contrasting with the gentle, wet kisses he peppers across your face.

each sweet word dipped in white sugar has you pliant and mailable under kirishima like freshly made candy. he praises you and your hips rise from the arousal soaked sheets to match his rhythm, sex spasming around him. “holy fucking shit. oh little one…so sweet and wet, hm? so pliant.” eijirou leans over you, shielding you from the world, and liick at your neck, humming in satisfaction at your whistle tone moans. “you were just aching for me to get you like this, right little one? your knees pressed to your chest and my cock…nice and snug against your insides. you don’t wanna let me go, do you?”

you promptly shake your head, your pretty bambi eyes fluttering shut while your body thrashes and shakes from the pleasure he feeds you — piece by piece.. “e-eiji…p-please, i need it. i c-can’t—!”

the red head squishes your cheeks together, grunting impatiently and pressing on until his cock is pressing comfortably against your womb. “oh you poor baby, i need to give it to you just as bad as you want it… but,” the rough pads of his fingers sink into your supple cheeks as he turns your face to look at him. “i need you to look at me first. look me in the eye, sweetheart. show me how badly you want it. you’re so pretty when you do it like that, you know.”

a wet whimper bubbles up on your lips, cherry bitten from where they’ve been caught between your teeth. they echo between your sweet slicked bodies and mingle with the saccharine syllables of kirishima’s words, as condescending as they might be. that with his domineering presence and constant stimulation of all your pleasure spots has you a ruined mess beneath him.

“i’m gonna make you cum. i have to make you cum, if it’s the last thing i do, little one.” eijirou promised lazily, circling his hips in a slow grind just he can drag out your pleasure for a little bit longer — torture you underneath him so he can keep on seeing your pretty face. he seals the promise with a sloppy kiss, sucking on your saliva soaked tongue until you’re begging him for air. “you want that too, right?”

#kirishima x reader #kirishima smut #kirishima x you #bnha smut #bnha thirst #bnha x reader #eijirou kirishima smut #eijirou kirishima x you #kirishima eijirou smut #✧ ₊˚✉️੭ — new notification #✧ ₊˚💬੭ — unknown messenger #✧ ₊˚੭ — writing #tteokdoroki

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wroteclassicaly · 4 months

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for kink hour I am so sorry (not really) but s3 of st actually gave me a huge piss kink for Steve after the elevator scene. I don't really know what it is about it but I kinda wanna piss with him? like maybe going on a camping trip and there's no where to go and I watch him piss against a tree and then he watches me go too. if this is too dirty I'm sorrrryyy lol

Lawd have mercy… NEVER be sorry for that! Because… guess what? *whispers* Same.

Warnings: Language, smutty-ish, piss kink, watersports, summer of 1985 Steve, perv!reader/ perv!steve, masturbation, & voyeurism.

This got outta hand. Oops…?

Steve would be the type to not know he’s into it until it literally happens. Sure it’s crossed his mind, because he’s seen a lot if different kinds of porn, read some magazines that venture out of the norm. But when he realizes that you’re into it too, that you’re literally watching him as he struggles to pull himself from the confines of his tight little jeans - he figures he has to piss fast before the hard on kicks in. He isn’t sure he can come back from this kinda animalistic release, not when he licks his lips as you bashfully apologize (knowing you’d be caught), his leg jiggling as he stops, his flow disrupted by the growing hardness. Your eyes have widened and you stutter.

“I didn’t mean - I’m sorry, I just had to go too, and —“

“Then go!” A little flushed with embarrassment, an aching that’s attached itself inside of his bladder and clinging to his ballsack - he snaps too harshly.

You swallow, tears threatening. That’s when his bolder confidence he hadn’t held since highschool bubbled back up. Yeah, he still has it with you…

“Come here a second.”

You’re hesitant, but he hears the crunch of sticks and leaves beneath your worn sneakers. His breathing is heavy, much like the weight of his shaft in his hand. He’s already begun swiping a calloused thumb over the sticky head. You stop behind him, panting visible and heard in the small wooded expanse.

“Steve, are you sure? Are you -“

“Not behind me. Get beside me.”

“Steve…”

“What? You wanted to watch bad enough. And I only perform on the weekends, so you better not miss your chance, sweetheart.”

You aren’t prepared in all of your lifetime to see the defined veins of his wrist, flexing tendons accentuated by the watch, helping his fingers wrap around his massive length. He’s wet, dripping piss and cum, balls drawn up nice and tight.

“Holy fuck…” you’re practically drooling, body propping on the adjacent tree.

“Yeah, kinda hard, pun completely intended, by the way, to piss like this. So if you get hit then that’s not on me.”

“Does this turn you on? I mean, it obviously does if you’re hard, right?” You’re waiting, breath baited and caught with the heave of your rising chest.

“Didn’t really know it did till just now. You’re the one who was watching me.”

“Well you’re the one that’s invited me over here —“

“Oh, fuck…” His voice cuts in with a diaphragm-deep rasp, cutting you off as that first wave sprays from the tip of his cock and splatters onto the tree, some splashing your bare leg. His spare, massive palm splays out and slaps the tree as he struggles to control his flow.

You’ve dug your fist into your t-shirt, balling it up within your grasp, knuckles pressed into your stomach. You swear your heartbeat has fallen into your ass.

“M’ going to. Fuck, I have to. Might make this easier… Can I?” He’s begging, his gentleman questioning clear as his need grows.

You nod. “Touch yourself.”

“Need you to do it too. Show me, please?”

You can’t find it within yourself to fight or have those reservations of insecurity. You’re too fucking horny.

Your shorts and panties come off, arousal strung down to the crotch. You kick them off across the dirt and grass as Steve jacks himself with his never ending flow, that’s coming in spurts again. You aren’t sure you can hold yourself up, so you resort to leaning back against the tree and parting yourself, unable to hold it back as your stream takes over, soaking the ground below, your creamy wetness mixing in. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so gone.

“Take your tits out.” You obey, shirt and bra cups raised, and you immediately grab your breast, legs spreading wider.

“Shit, I’m close, babe. So fuckin’ close.”

// Eat me paragraph //

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helianskies · 6 months

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Prompt #10 for england and a platonic relationship of your choosing

i have. just the idea :)

Instinct

Rhys would not say he usually feels instincts. That is, instincts of the brotherly kind.

Perhaps that is because he is one of the middle children, however. It just doesn’t seem to come as naturally to him.

Alasdair, he feels, nails it on the head every time. It’s almost freaky how fast he will get in touch with one of his younger siblings after something has happened, but… it is also testament to how much he cares, even if, most of the time, his phone call made out of concern results in an earful down the line.

Conor, too, is pretty attentive. He likes to text regularly—more regularly than anyone else—and usually, he somehow manages to text at just the right time for a nice, full conversation to follow. Sometimes it’s the highlight of Rhys’ day.

But Rhys himself doesn’t seem to possess the same kind of sixth sense. He isn’t the brother who calls, who texts, who even writes. He tends to do his own thing and the others don’t mind it. He’ll call them if he wants to, but… never because he feels a tingle that tells him he needs to at random times. He’d hazard to say that it is the same for Arthur, as the youngest.

Which, as he drives over the Severn to enter England—South Gloucestershire—and heads northbound to get to Arthur’s Cotswolds home, seems to be a theory now under heavy scrutiny…

The thought weighs heavy on his mind all the way to Arthur's front door. He felt something that morning that told him, go to England, cross the border, just check in on him. And now he is. He’s parked carefully on the side of the road and, having spied his brother through the front room window, he’s relieved to see he’s actually there.

He knocks. He takes one step back away from the thyme-coloured door and glances at the front bay window, briefly admires the wisteria that appears to be growing well, then returns to the door as he feet dragging footsteps.

When he hears a lock click and latch clank and lift, Rhys musters up a smile for his little brother and tries to prepare an excuse for his presence.

When Arthur opens the door and they look at each other, he realises that no excuse is needed. Arthur stares at him, a bit astounded to see him (understandable, considering Rhys decided against letting him know he was coming) but rather than asking, what are you doing at my front door? Arthur simply approaches, and gives Rhys a hug.

His instincts, it seems, are not as mystical as thought…

Arthur clings to his clothes for only a few seconds more—seconds in which Rhys loosely returns the gesture, confused himself, but assures him, “I’m here. I’m right here…”—before he pulls away.

He seems a bit worse for wear. His face is blotchy, he looks tired… and, perhaps the biggest tell-tale sign of all, he’s donning joggers and bed socks and a hoodie that is just a little too big for him. He’s trying to be cosy, trying to hide himself in clothing…

Rhys can see, now, that Arthur is upset over something. His drive has not been for nothing.

“Come on in,” the younger brother says. He stands aside to let Rhys pass, and then gently closes the front door behind them. Then he asks Rhys, who is sliding off his shoes, “Cuppa?”

“That’d be lovely,” Rhys replies. “I’ll make ‘em though.”

He’s met by hesitance. “I can… I can do it, it’s fine,” Arthur tells him.

“I know you can,” starts his response, “but I think you should get comfy on the sofa instead. Got biscuits?”

Arthur gives a meek smile. “‘Course I do,” he says. “Same place as always.”

Rhys nods, and makes sure Arthur heads back into the adjacent living room. A quick glance in the room reveals a box of tissues (and used tissues scattered around), a thick furry blanket pooled on the floor (probably from where Rhys disturbed him), and just terrible day-time television shows playing away on the screen. It’s a sight. It’s something Rhys, now that he’s there, can mend.

A cuppa, some custard creams, and a chat. That’s all he’ll need, he tells himself as he walks in the direction of the kitchen. That, and a nice hug.

He smiles to himself. Maybe he’s not so bad at this big brother thing after all…

#helia writes #hetalia #hws wales #hws england #i have wanted more excuses to write rhys #i do so love him qwq

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samsaurwrites · 1 year

Text

Captivate (Aymeric x Reader x Estinien) - Chapter 2

You don’t know what tales the conspirators in Ul’Dah are spinning. What prices they’ve posted for your head. You don’t know if they’re hunting you—if they’re gaining on you. You don’t know how many they are or how long you can keep going. All you know is that you are alone. Horribly and unspeakably alone.

After the death of the Sultana of Ul'Dah, you seek out sanctuary in Ishgard, in the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights. But Aymeric de Borel hides a dark secret, one that will bring you to your knees.

Tags: Heavensward Expansion, Cannon Adjacent, Mentioned Scions of the Seventh Dawn, Obsessive Aymeric de Borel, Dark Aymeric de Borel, Kidnapping, Emotional Manipulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Extremely Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content (eventually) , Stockholm Syndrome, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Other Additional Tags to be Added

Read here or on AO3.

Chapters: 1 | 2

They leave you in that wretched darkness for days.

Days.

Days you see and speak to no one. Days you waste away in your own filth.

Days your stomach cramps and growls and shrivels up in your belly; days when the chains feel so heavy around your wrists that you don’t bother lifting them, don’t even try yanking on them anymore.

Days where you don’t try at all.

Days you spend floating somewhere between wake and sleep, seeing phantom horrors that manifest in the dark—disfigured creatures, with hunched backs and long, bony arms that creep in the corners; eyes, staring from you from the mortar in the walls, cold and leering and primal; a ringing in your ears that sounds like whispers.

Like—they’ve forgotten you.

Like—they’re never coming back.

Then, when your lips are so chapped you can’t get rid of the taste of blood; when your stomach is howling so loudly you think your skull may split in two, Estinien returns. The noise, the sudden opening and closing of the door, startles you; the clank of his armor, his boots on the cold stone floor startles you.

You bolt upright. Chains rattling. Barely fighting back a wave of dizziness, of nausea.

The torch he slots into the wall nearly blinds you; straining your eyes, filling them with tears that trickle and burn. You shrink away, shrink into yourself because looking at it, looking at him—it hurts.

He walks closer, approaching you slowly, the way you would a wounded animal, and only then do you notice what he carries. Instead of his lance, a small bucket and ladle. Sloshing. Filled to the brim.

Water.

You swallow thickly, shifting onto your knees, fingers twitching into fists.

Want it, want it, want it—

He sits on the edge of the bed. Beckons you closer.

“Here,” he says, voice rough and low and like velvet against your ears because it’s the only thing you’ve heard besides your own breathing, your own muffled crying in what feels like an eternity. He ladles out a scoop of water. “Drink.”

You do. Scooting as close to him as you dare. Slowly, he brings the ladle to your lips. Tilts it towards you, and cool water flows into your mouth. Once you start drinking, you can’t stop. Drinking frantically. Sloppily. Gulping it down as quickly as you can, as quickly as he’ll refill the ladle and let you drink again.

Your fingers wrap tentatively around his wrists. Squeezing tighter when he doesn’t pull away. Water rolls down your chin, your neck. You drink and drink, clinging to him, drinking until there’s nothing left. Until your panting, shoulders heaving up and down and up and down, breath ragged in your throat.

Then, he starts to stand and—panic.

“Wait,” you croak, voice hoarse from neglect and disuse. “Estinien, please—”

You try to hold him. To grab him and keep him there.

But you’re so weak.

He pries your fingers from his wrist with ease. Retreats from your reach before you can make another grab at him—too weak, too weary, too slow.

You watch him. Dread weighing down on your shoulders, squeezing your chest tighter and tighter and tighter. Your fingers fist in the soiled sheets. You’re breathing fast. Too fast, and it makes you dizzy. Makes you woozy.

Makes you sick.

“P-Please,” you beg. You don’t even realize you’re crying until tears fall from your cheeks onto the backs of your hands. “Please don’t—”

Please don’t leave me here.

The door slams shut, plunging you back into darkness, and you can’t smother the broken wail that crawls out of your throat. The sobs that wrack your shoulders. You scream and cry until you can’t anymore. Until your voice has shriveled up into nothing, leaving you empty, empty, empty.

Please don’t leave me here.

You rock back and forth, arms wrapped around your knees. Dig your fingernails into your skin and pray to Hydaelyn, to anyone who will listen, to help you. To save you. To free you.

To kill you.

You fall asleep to the imagined sounds of claws scraping against stone.

A day later, Estinien comes back. No lance, but no bucket and ladle either.

You don’t bother sitting up. Just shut your eyes against the blinding brightness he brings.

The water had made it worse. Made you acutely aware of how thirsty you were, how dry your throat felt. How much your mouth tasted like dirt and dust and blood. Made you weaker. Listless.

“Come with me,” he says, crossing the room in long, brusque strides. “You’re filthy.”

He kneels down next to you, and only then do you pry open your eyes. Only then do you watch blankly as he unbolts your chains from the wall and takes them in hand.

“Up,” is all he says before he’s pulling you, stumbling, from the bed.

Standing, being upright, after so many days confined to a bed feels wrong. Your legs tremble and shake, unused now to supporting your weight, and your knees threaten to buckle. Your arms hang limply in front of you, held together by the manacles encircling your wrists, by Estinien’s iron grip.

“Do not fight me,” he warns lowly, before releasing your chains and drawing a long strip of cloth from his belt.

For the briefest instant, you imagine it. Imagine what would happen if you drove your shoulder into his stomach. What would happen if you managed to catch him off guard long enough to bolt out the door. You wonder how far you would make it before he caught you. Before he cornered you in a dead-end hallway. Before you ran into someone or something worse.

But you’re tired. So, so tired.

Instead of fighting, instead of running—instead of trying—you let him tie the cloth over your eyes, let him blind you. You cling to your bonds, breath heavy in your lungs, fingers wrapping around the chains, the only thing anchoring you to reality, to him. And then he pulls, tugging you towards the door.

The stone is cold against your bare feet, causing involuntary shivers to race up and down your spine. The clanking of chains is the only sound between you as he drags you forward, sightless, and you start to wonder why he hasn’t gagged or silenced you. Then, you realize, with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

That you must be somewhere where it doesn’t matter how much or how loudly you scream.

Because there must be no one around to hear you.

No one around to help you.

You choke on your next breath.

Estinien leads you onwards, and you quickly lose track. It slips from your memory like sand through your fingers. You can’t remember how steps you’ve taken, how many corridors you’ve turned down, how many lefts or rights you made; can’t remember what order you made them in either. Too tired to focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

Eventually, he stops, and you hear a door open in front of you.

Warmth billows out from it, washing over you, dewing on your skin, and you shiver.

A gentle tug on your chains is all it, and you follow him into the room.

Steam wraps around you like a blanket, heating your skin, your fingers and toes. The gentle scent of lavender, of vanilla and oil and soap, invades your senses, and you inhale deeply, sinking down in it, drowning in it.

Hands—not gauntlets or gloves—but warm, calloused hands lift your own, raising them in front of your chest, palms up, like an offering. You don’t recoil, don’t flinch, not like you should. You savor it, the contact, the presence of another being, of something other than the monsters that dwell in the corners of your prison.

You hate that you do.

Then, you hear a soft clanking, feel keys brush across you palms while he undoes your manacles. Removes them from your wrist and—and you feel like you can breathe again.

“Take this off,” he murmurs, voice flat, fingering at the sleeve of your sleeping dress.

Your shoulders tense, breath turning to ice in your lungs. Shake your head. Lower lip trembling, heart pounding—THUD THUD THUD THUD. Eyebrows pulling together, tears burning behind your closed eyes. You cradle your wrists against your chest. Take a half-step backwards.

He catches your arm, and you yelp.

“To bathe,” he bites out, and you can hear the scowl on his face.

A pause. One stuttering heartbeat. Another.

Still trembling, still leaking tears, you nod once. Again, when you still can’t find it in you to move. Then, you’re grabbing the skirt of your dress and pulling it up, up, up. Over your head. Leaving you naked, shivering, as goosebumps break out along your skin.

He takes your hand and leads you forward, guiding you towards the sweet smell, into a deep tub filled with heated water. He helps you slide down into it, placing your hand on the porcelain rim. And—

It’s bliss.

“Estinien,” you start, breathier than you mean for it to be, fingers prodding at the bottom edge of the blindfold, just barely slipping underneath—

But he stops you. Fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling your hand away from your face.

“Leave it,” he says, then guides your hand down to a washcloth, to a small glass bottle arranged on top of a small table next to the tub. “Use these to clean yourself.”

He stands again, and your head follows the sound, chin tilting up.

“Leave it on,” he says again, and slowly, you nod. “I’ll return soon.”

You hear him leave. Hear the door shut and click. And then, you’re alone.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

You feel watched. Feel eyes roaming down the length of your neck, across your shoulders, sliding down over your spine, over every inch of exposed skin. You sink down deeper into the water, until the water touches your chin.

Your breath comes out fast. In short, ragged puffs that just barely disturb the surface of the water. Despite the heat of the water, despite the way it wraps around you and seeks to soothe the ache in your muscles, in your bones, you still feel cold.

You shiver and quake and don’t dare think about why you haven’t ripped off the blindfold.

Why you haven’t dared to stand up.

Why you haven’t snatched your soiled dress and yanked open the door and run yet.

Trembling, you reach for the washcloth, patting around blindly for it until your fingers brush soft fabric. You take the bottle. Uncork it and pour sweet smelling soap into the cloth, rubbing it between your palms until it warms and suds.

You drag it along your body. Over your arms and legs, hissing when the cloth catches against the scabs that still litter your skin. You scrub at your shoulders, at your hips, rubbing at the dirt and blood and filth that’s caked there. Rub and rub and rub until your skin feels raw.

You discard the cloth, leave it hanging over the side of the tub. Slowly, you lean backwards, dipping your head into the water, back arching, breasts just barely breaching the surface of the water. You let the heat and the wet soak into your hair, your scalp. Lowly, almost without realizing it, you hum.

Gods, how you’ve missed bathing.

Sitting up, you reach again for the soap. Pour it into your hands and lather it into your scalp, working your fingertips around in gentle circles, scrubbing at the oil and the sweat. Again, you lean back. Hold your breath and submerge yourself completely. Try to rinse the suds out from your hair, as best you can, before resurfacing. Before sitting up. Before the water starts to seep from the blindfold, from your hair, to roll down your skin in tiny rivulets.

The silence stings. In the empty expanse of the bathroom, your breath seems to echo. To reverberate and bounce and ring in your ears. You pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. Curling in on yourself because you still feel eyes on you.

Still feel like you’re being watched, like you’re not alone.

“H-Hello?” you whisper, to the silence, to the steam.

You swear you hear an answer, an exhale—a laugh. Your head jerks towards the sound, breath catching in your throat. You almost rip off the blindfold. Almost shatter the bottle on the tub and wield it, jagged and broken, like a weapon. Almost stand, almost fight, almost run.

Almost.

Fear keeps you still. Rigid. Keeps you quiet.

You don’t dare whisper again.

Instead, you wait, shoulders tensed, fingernails digging into your legs. Wait for Estinien to return. Wait for the eyes to come closer. Wait for the breath to whisper across the back of your neck, to float past your ears. Wait so long the water around you grows still, grows tepid, then cool. Shivers wrack you. Tremors shaking you from head to toe, but still you do not stand. Still you do nothing, do not even dare to adjust the blindfold that has gone frigid against your skin.

Then, the door clicks open, and you nearly shriek.

Your head whips towards the sound. Towards the footsteps that approach you.

“Estinien?” you croak, releasing your hold on your knees in favor of the edge of the tub.

“Aye,” he answers. He pulls you up onto your feet, fingers firm around your wrists. Helping you climb out of the tub. Keeping you steady when you sway, when you nearly move your balance. He pushes a towel into your trembling fingers. “Dry yourself.”

You do. Wringing out your hair, wiping away the droplets that cling to your skin.

“Here,” he says, and hands you another dress, a soft, wispy feeling thing that you pull over your head immediately. You feel your breath even out; feel the unease ebb, feel your bones settling back into place; feel less of the burning gaze roving over your body, dampened by the gauzy fabric obscuring your skin.

Fingers touch the edge of your blindfold—and then you recoil. Then you jerk your head away; then the back of your thighs bump the edge of the bath, clattering into the side table. Sending the bottle crashing to the ground. Shattering. Tiny glass shards skittering across the tiles.

The sound is deafening.

You catch yourself. Barely. One hand behind you, braces on the opposite side, the other clasped tight in Estinien’s punishing grasp. He curses and yanks you forward, towards him, so that you sit upright on the edge of the bath.

“I told you not to fight me,” he snaps, tearing off the blindfold. Throwing it to the floor. And for a moment—you glimpse him. A flash of silver hair, of high cheekbones and a strong nose. Eyes the color of slate, of shadow and fog and smoke; eyes outlined with dark, heavy circles.

Then, another cloth is being drawn over your eyes. Cinched tight behind your head with no regard for the hair that pulls and twists within the knot. You wince, but say nothing, focusing on the nettling sting in your scalp instead of the shame that twists and squirms in your belly.

Without warning, Estinien scoops you up into his arms, and you bite back a yelp; arms shooting around his neck, clinging to him as he carries you over shards of broken glass that pop and crunch underneath his boots.

You hear the door open. Hear it swing shut behind you. Hear the sounds of Estinien’s footsteps echoing in the halls as he carries you back through the winding maze of cold, unfeeling stone.

You don’t hear Aymeric rise to his feet, standing from the chair sitting in the far corner of the bathroom. Don’t see the smile that still lingers on his lips as he takes in the scattered glass, the soiled dress, the sopping blindfold. You don’t see the dark satisfaction that ripples behind his eyes, don’t see the desire that smolders and burns there. You hadn’t fought, hadn’t run. You had listened.

Had obeyed.

When your feet once again touch the cold stones, somehow, you know that you’re back. Back in your prison, in your cell. Back to darkness and filth and hunger and thirst. Back to madness. To clawing and crying and begging for an end that won’t come.

Helpless.

You can’t stop the whimper that bubbles up from your throat, strangled and wet and desperate.

“Please,” you whisper, hardly even audible.

Estinien holds you still, hands firm. Unwavering. Slowly, he binds your wrists together, wrapping them in cold bands of iron that burn against your skin. You hear chains. A cacophonous sound that makes you dizzy. Makes sick. You feel the weight of them as he attaches them to your manacles. Gently.

Carefully, he unties the blindfold. Softly, he removes the cloth from your eyes.

Careful, gentle, soft, slow—

“Please,” you beg again, louder this time, voice laced with panic, with fear. Tears sting in the corners of your eyes, in your nose. Breath speeding—uneven—sharp, jagged, like glass skittering across the floor. “Let… Let me go, please. I… I—”

He merely watches. Doesn’t say a word as you clutch at him.

“Tell him I escaped,” you breathe, clutching at him. Trembling. “T-Tell him… Tell him Hydaelyn saved me. O-Or that the Scions did. Tell him… Anything—just… just please—” your voice breaks into two. “—I can’t take it anymore.”

Silence. Then, “you must.”

Thanks for reading!! You can check out my other writing here.

#aymeric x wol #aymeric x reader #estinien x wol #estinien x reader #aymeric de borel #aymeric ffxiv #estinien wyrmblood #estinien ffxiv #ffxiv #eventual smut #but we gotta do some ✨plot✨ first cause im classy #my writing #writing #fanfiction

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sebsunset · 7 months

Text

RED

Hunter's life with his uncle is like dancing with a devil - like anyone dancing, he trips.

OR: How Hunter got his scar. In a canon-adjacent way.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50483494

2nd whumptober entry for the month! Day 12 : ) read in ao3 or down here!!

Five in the morning.

The door to the throne room slides closed with a heavy, dragging sound. A body falls onto the linoleum, sliding a few inches before getting up onto his knees and palms.

Outside of the palace, the sun's yet to even start to peek from behind the horizon, the day cold and still dark, the palace devoid of its hustle and bustle.

The flickering lamps seem to breathe with him, as his pace shifts into a run.

Footsteps echo along those empty halls, deprived of the usual white noise from moving scouts and soldiers, these empty halls bear only Hunter and his echoes: the panting breaths slipping from bloody lips, the fogging of it on his mask, the heaving, swaying motions of the boy as he runs.

All he can see, staining the borders of his visions, is crimson.

That same color might be lining his armor, as it glints in his hands, catching droplets of the oily orange lights flickering along the halls.

The gold and marble reflect that same dancing flame, and Hunter, usually enraptured by the peaceful beauty of this time of the day, can't help but rush down the hall.

His usual composure is forgotten, gestures sloppy, rushed and shaky as the wound throbs, pain radiating outwards from his jaw to his cheek to the whole of his head.

There's the feeling of the fabric of the mask pushing itself into the wound, a gash of something sharp, sunken deep into the boy.

There is a vague understanding, as he races past the prophet's portraits, that this isn't how it is supposed to happen. This isn't what he's meant to be doing.

This was meant to be a special day.

It echoed in his head, as he climbed up the stairs he had, not so long ago, silently descended.

Belos had summoned him to his office, as it neared past an hour after the fourth of that morning. The golden guard he was made to be, obedient even when awoken at an absurd hour of the night, had carried himself to the throne room before he even blinked the sleep away from his eyes, had been rewarded with instructions:

Bring palismen. Take them from witches, if need be.

The denial sowed the seed of anger, and not much else.

The red swam along his visor, and he felt something tacky, sticky, cling to his face as he stumbled, catching himself against the wall, right outside his own door.

A hand in front of him, trembling like it's cold even when covered up by a thick glove, fumbles around, finding the knob of his door.

It rattles as his hand slips, struggling to grasp as he gags and gasp sin pain, tasting copper red in his mouth, disgustingly hopeless until he manages to open his own door.

Nobody saw him.

Nobody can see him, not injured - the position he will soon hold is that of prestige, and he knows there are many who target him.

Uncle told him as such, Hunter figures him right therefore.

So he shuts the door behind himself, resisting the urge of his knees to buckle, swimming across the diminutive, miniscule space of his room up to the small attached bathroom.

He collapses, finally - buckling knees driving him to sit atop the lid of his closed toilet, knocking his head back against the wall. His chest rises and falls, fast and shallow, and along with the red, spots of black swim along his vision.

Now that he no longer runs, Hunter can bask, fully, on the pain of his gash.

He wonders... How bad is the damage? Ever since he was a baby, he knew he'd never deliver a perfect body to the grave.

Yet, there was something scary writhing under the surface layer of agonizing pain - it tangles with the betrayal he feels for his uncle's actions, a complicated dance of shame, anger and fear.

His hands, shakey as they are, pull down his hood and follow on to find the clasp of his mask.

It drops to his lap, the backside of it facing up, against Hunter's swimming vision.

The back of the padded metal is dark, not red until Hunter touches it, and the brown of his gloves comes out stained as well.

The spilled paint drives him to grit his teeth, a sigh escaping through the gaps and uneven tips and edges of not-quite-fangs. He isn't losing enough blood to go unconscious, despite the pain of all his flesh having been torn through.

He hears nothing but his breaths and the beats of his heart, an unsteady drumming which echoes in his ears, even as they pin down against his head, folding over and back as a whine escapes his lips.

Shame burns through the pain. He should be silent and stoic, even in the face of pain. He has been through so much pain, the reasons for him to react so much have long slipped away from his grasp.

He braces himself on the edge of the sink, pushes himself up on shaking legs. A breath, as he squeezes his eyes shut, the pain beating him down and wrapping itself around him.

There is an unnerving wetness on his face, the salt of his involuntary tears mixing with the coppery blood, flooding into the wound that burns and bites its way through the flesh of his jaw.

He turns the tap on, water rushing down. Only then, does Hunter lift up his face, to gaze upon his own wrecked visage:

He shudders. "It's gonna scar." he murmurs to himself, all alone.

He pushes himself away from that thought, and turns the gears in his mind, pretending - somewhere in the childish, youthful part of him, twelve years old as he is, existent yet suppressed - that this is an assignment, not an injury to himself.

He dives into the cabinet under the running tap, opening the dingy door and finding himself staring at spare toiletries and the clunky, oversized first aid kit that is his only source of medical teatment on most days, good or bad.

He swallows dryly, shuts his eyes as he pulls his cargo and himself up, opens it and spills.

The towel for his hands under the sink, soaking in the water, before he wipes his face - the unshed baby fat of his cheeks, torn through from skin down to the muscles deep beneath, is red up to his eye.

The hauting ugliness of it drives him to scrub, until the white towel, run over his cheek and jaw, over the stains on the bridge of his nose and even the bit of blood that somehow would up near Hunter's neck, turns pink.

The color is blotchy and the smell is uncomfortable, and the bleeding isn't stopping.

Hunter swallows, dryly. He has to sew his wound. The pain drives him to bite the other side of his cheek, his half-formed fangs not quite chewing fully through the chunks of flesh.

There will be blood, though. He runs a towel under the tap, soaking up the water on the lightly-faded pink, until the cotton is heavy and he can drip it onto his wound, shaking his head.

He, sadly, was taught very well what he was supposed to do in these scenarios. It was inevitable.

But the part of him that is bitter feels such not for the wound, but for who caused it, for why he received it.

It is a punishment, a mark of his failure. He has to bear his head high and tall through it.

And he has to prove, to his uncle, that he is good enough.

Otherwise next time, he won't be hooking the black thread onto the needle for such a small, simple, bearable pain.

He hisses between his teeth, tap water dripping frm the needle as he drives it into his face. The wound runs a bit under his face over his neck. The pain is throbbing, pushing and pulling, as if it's trying to squeeze something out of him.

He assumes - needle comes into one side of the flesh, driven into the other, poking through the inflammed, pinkish skin, sinking into the flesh beneath to the glorious emergence of another drop of blood.

Everything is red, and Hunter can't help but sway to it, the pain and exhastion coupling and entangling like twin serpents, moving in tandem to slow down his movement.

He wants to sob. Each pinprick of pain, as he runs up his face and then down his neck, thread falling from the spool around him on the basin of the sink.

Trembling hands and a quivering voice.

"You'll be okay," Hunter re-assures himself, lightly.

But he wants to stop. He pushes himself just a bit:

"If you finish this, Belos will be proud." he says, "He'll be proud that you are so brave and resilient. He will make you the golden guard-"

He bites his tongue to stiffle a shout, pulling the needle too far, too tight and taut, the flesh and skin stretching together, pulling and crashing-

"He'll treat you much, much better."

That's all he can say, all he can promise himself - it's all he wants, and it's something he knows he probably won't get.

He hisses, dropping the needle so his noodly, trembling arm can wipe at his eyes, tears like a fauced threathening to scrunch up his face in ugly directions and disrupt his messy, uneven stitching.

He wants to cry, and maybe he will, once the day is over. Despite all the pain, Hunter has to work. Belos wakes him up early out of grace - for Hunter to fully resolve and relieve all his duties, in the end, he needs a few adjustments so he can do them along with meeting up, every three days, with his uncle.

Before him, he is a mere servant - and in his facelessness, he shall never cry.

Therefore he pulls the string and snips it down with a scissor, the small knot to finish his stitching hanging out, black as a mole, beside the unbandaged cross-stitch job across his face. It's red and swollen, and he swallows the pain and the building tears, the budding pressure at the back of his neck doing nothing to dissuade him from tidying up.

The only thing that can stop him is the footsteps he picks up outside his room, the rasping sound of knocks.

"Scout!" a voice calls from outside, a world's worth of distance in his pain, but usually just a few steps of his walking. He wants to hiss and snap and growl-

But he already learned his lesson for the day.

"Well, you've better get up!" the voice hollers, through the door, "Before I get in and drag you to the field!"

He swallows, pulling on the red-stained mask over his face once more, tying the straps behind his head as he yells, the taste of blood and the pressure of the mask against his wound, unbandaged and barely stitched and soon to be filthy once more, all overwhelming his senses.

"I'm up, I'm up!"

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nekyn-alb · 11 months

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Lies of P Demo: Gameplay and Style Review

Style and Narrative

The game looks excellent, from small clutter to massive building fronts. Every street corner is packed with traces of human life ripped apart by the puppet uprising without being stuffed, floating furniture or badly aligned windows are rare, although they do exist here and there. That's completely fine, it happens in every game and often more obviously than here.

Areas are interconnected nicely, although not particularly complex so far. Being able to climb to another level here and there and not dying for jumping off a low roof is good fun.

The hub is not too large, has a lovely atmosphere, and you can see from the stargazer teleport which (additional?) NPCs are in it. Being able to groove with sad tunes is a great design choice. When talking to NPCs however, I have to ask: why can't I talk to them from any direction and why do they take such long pauses between their lines when every other readable prompt disappears two seconds too early?

In many aspects, I find the game too derivative of Bloodborne. Blatantly so, to be honest. Stalkers are hunters, puppets are beasts, both appear to be bereft of humanity. Workshops are workshops, Sophia is a firekeeper (with standard greeting!), the petrification disease stands in for a beast plague driving victims mad, the aesthetic and layout of the city is vaguely adjacent to Yharnam--not gothic of course, but bridges and plazas and carriages and boxes are all so strongly reminiscent that I sometimes felt like recognizing Cleric Beast's bridge, Gascoigne's summoning spot or Arianna's alley. Ergo and otherworldly materials will probably develop into an alien influence adjacent to BB's Great Ones and the arcane cosmic.

But don't fret, the original story elements possess some intrigue of their own. Next to the mystery of maddened puppets, it appears we will come across fairy-like influences that explain the origin of Geppetto's automaton vision, which has been wiped from at least two puppets' minds.

The petrification disease could also be interesting. I am not sure if it comes from the puppets yet, maybe an influence of their ergo, but having more cause of chaos than brutal mayhem is always good.

I always love me a good critique of large companies, so the different depictions of how they influence Krat's life on the large and small scale are welcomed. Soulslikes tend to struggle to put meaning behind their copies, but here I can already posit theories, like the struggle representing P's drive to gain a speck of humanity.

Hooray for making the dingy Daedalians blow up, boo for implying that Venigni is going to be a rad wheel-spinning robogrinder instead of the greedy loser he is meant to be. Knowing the genre, he's probably going to end up mad anyways though.

P should be voiced. No reason not to, really. He is a character with development, not a blank slate. FromSoft allowed Sekiro to speak, you don't have to cling to other titles' concepts.

Gameplay

So you don't think I'm just salty, here's my Souls Cred (I'm a bit proud of these, fight me): Finished DS1, DS3, BB, Sekiro & Elden Ring, the middle three several times, and recently beat DS3+Ashes at SL1. I gave up on my BL4 and No Beads Runs halfway through because I hate getting one-shot. On my first playthrough, I beat every (and I mean every) ER boss bar five in less than 10 tries. I like these games a lot and would like to believe that I know what I'm talking about.

Let's start with the compliments!

Enemies appear in plentiful sizes and shapes with interesting models and varied move sets. Regular puppets have a fun amount of health and deal dangerous but not overwhelming damage.

P's quickly unlocked weapons are equally versatile, even if they only seem to have two light/heavy attacks each. For the most part, they feel appropriately weighty and I never noticed a swing being too fast or slow. Reassembling weapon parts can be strange because the handle determines the moveset, so a blunt mace head might adopt a rapier's quick stabs. Funny enough to not be off-putting.

P himself moves adequately well. He doesn't slip too easily from the thin catwalks bridging Krat's roofs and turns quickly. Same for the camera, this is the first game in a while where I didn't crank the sensitivity up to 8.

Dogs don't teleport. Good dogs.

I skimmed most of the tutorials because they are just Souls mechanics, but they do a fine job of explaining the basics. Being able to see that you have enough ergo by the number becoming blue is a wonderful idea.

The skills seem to be fairly extensive and might allow for a solid build once you get far enough. They should be unlocked earlier though.

There is a rewarding amount of items strewn throughout the world and even the frequent sawtooth cog drops feel nice. It's cool to have something to trigger traps with from afar!

Dropping ergo in front of the boss room is very kind and a good conclusion when you hand the player infinite homeward bones with the watch.

I like the pulse cell regain through attacking. Could go a bit faster though, you don't have that many to begin with.

And now we get to the detailed negatives, much of which comes down to the ever-maligned frame data.

Parrying needs a few more frames. Maybe guard should linger on its own instead of being spammable. Since they basically do not have to recover after a parry, slower weapons get one hit in, then they strike again and hyper armor through anything, even charged heavy attacks. This does not feel good by being unresponsive to player actions. Where's my reward for nailing three perfect parries in a row? And why do I sometimes take damage after I get the SUCCESS vibration and ping? Even red attacks shouldn't knock me down and punish me for perfect parrying.

Perhaps there should also be an indicator like Sekiro's red kanji, whose fading tells you when to act. The red sparks only tell you that a special attack is coming sometime in the next five seconds. Subverting Sekiro's kanji into not being able to dodge the red attack is also an odd choice, since you can dodge it with proper spacing. Without mikiri counter or jumps it only leaves parrying, and again, odd choice. The game didn't need this feature, considering…

Dodge has no travel distance and struggles to actually dodge. I am fine with limited iframes, but if I can't move out of an enemies range with two dodges, I question why I even have the ability. Another factor for the insufficient dodge is how little Capacity improves your carry weight. If I want to stay under 29% for a somewhat acceptable dodge, I can't use a club AND armor pieces. The legion arm was thrown right out because of how heavy it is.

Strongly delayed attacks a la Elden Ring are just annoying. Malfunctioning puppets have an actual reason for doing it, but it's not natural. You have to memorize attack patterns instead of reacting to them. Waiting three seconds for an attack to come down in an instant feels weird.

The waiting game makes for a lackluster combination of Bloodborne and Sekiro. There need to be larger windows between attacks for heavy weapons and less recovery after striking back.

The weapon durability system isn't very appealing to me. The game moves too fast for this tactical element, which would work better in something paced like earlier Souls titles. Bouncing off the opponent with everything, including weapon arts, is bad. That's not how durability works or should be represented. Just make me deal less damage instead of stealing my turn for surviving until the end of the fight. You also forget about it because the areas are too short for your weapon to degrade noticeably.

The stronger watchmen feel like they have too much health (I was level 30 with a balanced build + rapier at the end). Not a lot too much, but their resistance could be lowered for more enjoyable mini bosses inbetween areas of enemies.

Dummy traps could last about 1.5 seconds less.

Why do you only get rally on chip damage? There is no lore reason like in Bloodborne, and I doubt there could be any that would make sense for it to be restricted to blocked attacks. Enemies (bosses!) should not have access to rally, period.

Enemies feel like they have block or jagged models/boxes that won't let me pass. When P collides with them, they stick instead of sliding past each other, which often meant that I was stuck right in the enemy's weapon arm. This is particularly obnoxious with long-limbed bosses, who will just trap me with their left arm and attack with the right. Because of the long dodge recovery, I can't adjust after this happens either.

Why are there six enemies with what appears to be instant parry next to each other? Give that to one or two in a group, otherwise you'll be ganked (completely fine) and an attempt to strike back after parrying one enemy will be punished.

Watchman Paarl leaves shock traps that sometimes hit you as soon as you get up, making it an unnecessary double punishment. He also has two very fast attacks with barely any windup that are inconsistent with his regular attack speed (and another fast one that winds up for about 2.5 seconds). Since all his strikes are either right-left windup while crouching or standing, they and the grab are difficult to distinguish.

Since all his larger attacks place him right on top of you (slams and Sonic slam), he can just combo any attack from there and hits. The grab often caught me because of our models sticking together when I tried to dodge after such a slam or a shock trap. The grab also reaches too far and has unintuitive windup-followup, which messes with dodge timings too hard for an early enemy.

Speaking of shock traps, the radial burst with random lightning bolts surrounded by a ring of lightning doesn't feel fair. Where am I supposed to dodge with my half-inch frolicking steps? Run startup is too long to flee, what fires first is hard to foresee. And when he decides to do another Paarl burst right after, which doesn't have the appropriate charge before blowing up, you've just eaten three to five attacks without seeing any of them.

I enjoyed my time a lot, some improvements and this'll be a great game!

#nekyn talks #lies of p #lies of p demo #lies of p spoilers #review

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bus-ghoul · 1 year

Text

They want to make that intuitive leap

Of all things I could have written... This is a Quinn Fabray x Nancy Wheeler ficlet/drabble. We aren't gonna call it Quancy cause that's gross.

These guys are ... not romantically compatible imo so on a soul level this is more ronance/quinntana

but they are both screamingly comphet more than any other characters I know so I'm obsessed with them

I hope someone else can enjoy my self indulgence

Quinn isn't going to let herself acknowledge it, but she has a plan.

There were calculations involved in every step of getting to this point.

But, if she thinks too much about the fact she's traveled over an hour and a half away to get to the nearest thing she could find to a lesbian bar, then she'd have to start thinking about other things too. Like the fact her usual choice of a long skirt has crept up to barely her mid thigh. Like the fact she had spent the hour before classes this morning filing her nails short.

What works best for Quinn to just act. She has questions she needs answered.

She walks into the bar with the confident front she's been putting on since she was 13.

There are a lot of women.

Not that is is surprising, the Facebook post advertised 'Ladies night', but it's...weird and distracting so have no men in sight.

No one she would assume was a man anyway... There are people here she wouldn't know how to address.

The thought jolts her.

The first person to smile at her as she walks towards the center of activity has bright pink hair, cropped into a short mullet. They are wearing a white singlet that clings to their body, and their chest looks flat. Quinn tenses with anxiety that's a lot like curiosity.

The pink haired person is dancing with a crowd and turns away to laugh with one of them, so Quinn redirects to the bar.

There's a seat next to a girl her age towards the far end of the room.

She's pretty, Quinn thinks, petite. She's wearing some high-waisted trousers and a top cropped in a way that leaves a couple of inches of her back exposed where she leans forward on her stool. Her hair is dark, curly. Quinn pulls back the adjacent stool.

"What are you drinking?" She asks.

The girl next to her looks up. She looks surprised to see Quinn next to her, she thinks, but that might just be her eyes. They're wide and dark and searching in a way that makes her feel exposed before they've even really talked, but she smiles at her and leans back, straightening up.

"It's actually called a gold star" she tells Quinn, her voice drawling slightly. "I couldn't tell you what's in it, I just ordered the one that sounded least perverted".

Quinn smiles back.

"Would you recommend it?"

"If you want something that tastes good, no, but it's the cheapest cocktail on the menu and it'll get you drunk fast". The girl cocks her head and smiles at her again.

There's something in her eyes that makes Quinn prickle. Like this girl is trying to see more than she is currently allowed.

It is not part of how this is going to go.

"What's got you drinking to get drunk?" She asks, conversationally, as if she isn't asking to gain ground.

The girl looks at her, considering, for a moment. Her brows raise. "You want to have sex." She responds, cooly.

Quinn's mouth drops open for a second, before she snaps it shut. She had intended to be bold but she isn't sure how they arrived here after all of 30 seconds.

"Going to ask my name first?", she asks casually watching the other girl carefully.

"Don't need to, Quinn"

The build up to get herself to this point had involved resigning herself to a commitment of being steadfast, stubborn and determined in the face of overwhelming discomfort but that comment about sends her into fight or flight, before the girl gestures to the ID she is twirling between her fingers.

Quinn let's out the breath she's holding silently, through her nose, and flags the bar tender, ordering by pointing at random to the cocktail board.

"Why do you think that's why I'm here?" She asks in the tone she hopes is casual.

"You've come to a lesbian bar night alone and talked to the first single girl you saw" the curly haired girl supplies, looking at Quinn carefully. "Nancy, by the way.".

"Nice to meet you Nancy." Quinn responds flatly. "Want to share why you're here alone?".

Nancy raises an eyebrow at her and Quinn feels a rush of frustration. This is not nearly as simple as it is with boys. She's actually sure if she's closer to fighting this girl or flirting with her.

"I think I might be in love with someone, a friend. A girl" Nancy explains, looking back at her drink at the same time the bar tender slides Quinn hers. "It's confusing. I don't know if we're just really close and I'm not good at that so I'm misunderstanding my feelings, or... I don't know if she thinks of me... like that . I just don't know much about this. So I came here to learn."

"Hands on learner?" The bold question slips out before she can catch it but she feels a tingle of satisfaction when Nancy faintly blushes.

"Hmm, just very thorough." Nancy smiles again. "Have you been with a girl before?".

Quinn tapers down the instinct to balk at that, this girl has been honestly frighteningly open with her and it feels like something mutually satisfactory can come from this.

"Yes." She states. "A friend... we had a casual... encounter". Quinn looks up at Nancy, who's listening intently, and prays she never sees her again after tonight. "I can't stop thinking about it, about her. I've never...it's never been like that before."

Nancy asks softly, "How did it happen?".

"We were at a wedding. I'd broken up with another awful guy and I just wanted something. She was there and willing and I trust her. I was pretty obvious, really. Probably as obvious as just asking.".

"That won't work with mine." Nancy says, dejectedly stirring the ice left in her glass.

"I want to know if... If it was good because it was her or just because she's had a lot of experience"

"I see." Nancy nods. "Well I've never had sex with a girl so that should help answer your question".

Quinn grins. "What about your question?".

"Mine is more, will having sex with a random girl while I'm pining over my friend make me feel better?"

"I'm beginning to think my question has been answered" Quinn finds herself laughing. "This feels like a business transaction".

"Sexy for some." Nancy smiles again and her lashes flutter and Quinn experiences a similar sensation in her chest. "What do you find sexy Quinn?"

🍎🍏🍐🍑🍒🍓🥝🍍🍌🍋🍊🍉🍈🍇

An hour later, they've only had two drinks, but Quinn has lipstick on her neck and Nancy is dragging her somewhere private and she's more happy and excited that she has ever felt with a guy ever.

She tries not to think about how gay Santana would say that is.

#nancy wheeler #ronance #quinn fabray #glee #ficlet #stranger things #femslash #do not judge me 😭#quinntana #quinn fabray lesbian truther #nancy wheeler lesbian truther #fic

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scifrey · 1 year

Text

Keepsakes

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta'd

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature-ish.

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death. Some sexytimes. Some whomp and hurt/comfort.

Relationships: Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Patrick the Bartender, Harriet Butler, Matthew the Raven

Summary: Short ficlets set in the Hob Adherent world, based on prompts received from readers. Feel free to DM me or leave prompts in the comments, and if it resonates with me, I may write up a ficlet! Thank you for the inspiration in advance.

Set amid the events of Cling Fast and Carpe Diem

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

Postcards

"So, a sword in Buckingham's army, a bandit, a printer, a shipwright and then a merchant middleman for the dockyards, a knight, a beggar, investment broker--"

"Slaver," Hob interrupts Harriet as she counts off his professions on her fingers one slow, sunny afternoon at The New Inn. "Call the thing what it was."

Hari offers him a sympathetic smile. They're the only ones in the pub proper today, as Patrick is off to tend his ailing mother, Dee doesn't come in Mondays, and Morph is having lunch with his editor.

"After which you were an MP and staunch abolitionist, a soldier again in America for the North, an industrialist and labor rights advocate, a yuppie and silicone valley early adopter--"

"Apple paid for most of this," Hob agrees, selecting a glass and checking it for water spots or lipstick stains.

"--and now a professor and publican. Am I missing any?"

“Oh!” Hob remembers as he pulls a pint for her. "And I was ruler of Hell."

She leans across the bar from her stool, and thwacks his arm. “Fuck off, you were not, you old liar,” Hari laughs.

"Was so!" Hob protests, setting her beer down in front of her. "Ask my husband. He was there. I was ruler of Hell for thirteen minutes and seventeen seconds on my six-hundred and sixty-sixth birthday."

Hari raises a challenging eyebrow at Hob over her pint glass as she takes a sip. "I won't believe a thing the Prince of Stories tells me," she says decisively, when she sets the beer back down. "And I don't believe you."

Hob pulls a postcard from L.A. off the bar back, where it's been pinned to a corkboard among a handful of others, all from the same city. This card depicts a cartoon devil drawn over a photo of the Hills, lounging on the iconic Hollywood sign. It says "Greetings from Sin City!" in bright yellow font.

Hob hands it to Hari to inspect. Her face gets drawn as her eyes flick over the handwritten note on the back.

"To my fellow former ruler of Hell; I did it! I opened a nightclub, just like you suggested. Visit me at LUX any time you'd like, Hobsie. xxx Lucifer Morningstar," Hari reads in a voice that grows increasingly strangled.

She hands the card back to Hob with trembling fingers. Then she shotguns the rest of her pint.

"So hell is real, then," Hari warbles.

Hob shrugs. "Everything is real. Humans create gods, not the other way around. If someone believes in it, it exists."

Hari nods thoughtfully. "I suppose you would know, being married to a god."

Hob chuckles. "Well, former god-ish. And don't worry, only people who believe they deserve to go to Hell actually do. Self-punishment or fulfilling prophecy, or something. I try not to think to much about that Celestial stuff."

Hari nods again, and without asking, Hob refills her pint glass. He has a feeling she's going to need it.

"But it is something I'm going to have to worry about," Hari says softly, accepting the drink with a nod.

"Not any time soon, I hope," Hob says, folding his arms on the bar top and leaning close to offer her a comforting look. "And when it does happen, I can promise you that my sister-in-law is gentle and kind. You have nothing to worry about."

Harriet runs her arthritis gnarled finger up and down the side of the glass, collecting up the condensation. "You know, that is actually a comfort." She looks up at Hob with a wicked little grin. "Especially knowing your husband."

Hob throws his head back and laughs.

#losyark #cling fast adjacent #cling fast #carpe diem #the hob adherent series #hob adherent #hob gadling #hob x dream #dream x hob #dreamling fic #dream #dreamling #lucifer morningstar #lucifer #gaimanverse #sandman hob #retirement!Dream #keepsakes

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maniacwatchestheworld · 2 years

Text

Hearts Made Monochrome | Part 2: Running Away

This chapter can also be read on AO3 Words: 5635 Pairings: Ingo & Emmet (familial/platonic), No romantic pairings Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst With a Happy(?) Ending, Pokemon/Kingdom Hearts Crossover AU (More Pokemon than Kingdom Hearts. That is to say, Pokemon characters in a Kingdom Hearts or adjacent universe. You shouldn't have to know anything about Kingdom Hearts nor its lore to understand what's happening here.) Warnings: Child abuse/neglect, dehumanization, cannibalism if you squint, offscreen deaths Summary: He lost his Heart. Ingo was just a kid when he was taken, experimented on, and turned into a Heartless, all against his will. But from his body, a Nobody who decided to name himself ‘Emmet’ was created. And while the Nobody’s creation may have been unintended, fortunately for Ingo, this Nobody wants to help him escape. Ingo is a Heartless. Emmet is his Nobody. They may have never asked for this to happen to them- for them to have been torn apart and created like this. But now that they do exist like this, they’re going to do everything that they can to survive. Together as Heartless and Nobody. Part 1

Note: It/its will be used interchangeably with he/him pronouns for Ingo and Emmet throughout this story, primarily for the sake of clarity and variety. (The Gay Smut Pronoun Conundrum and all that, you know. When everyone is ‘he’ things can become a clusterfuck fast!) This is Pokemon so I am using it/its pronouns affectionately. However the characters within the story do not necessarily share the same sentiment.

Once again, huge shoutout to @penquinlori for beta reading this fic! We pretty much made this AU together, and they've been super helpful with everything regarding this AU! They're absolutely lovely and deserve all of the love!

Emmet had kept his word and returned to see Ingo the next day.

“Try to look like me,” he instructed the vague figure in front of him.

It was already an improvement. When he had entered the chamber containing the Heartless, he could tell that Ingo was trying to pull itself from the ground- that it was trying to become a physical being. Emmet just had to help it up, lending a hand to pull it from the floor.

Ingo studied its Nobody’s face for a long moment before casting its eyes down, focusing. Its wispy form began to settle, becoming more defined and solid until it looked like a perfect silhouette of its Nobody. A black shadow shaped like Emmet, but with no clothes nor features except for its own glowing yellow eyes.

Emmet nodded in approval. This was truly promising. “Very good!” he complimented with a smile. Ingo for its part did not have an expression that could be read, but Emmet assumed that the way Ingo vibrated as he held its hands was a good sign. “Now let’s see if we can get you to walk.”

Emmet did not let go of Ingo as he stood. “Your turn.”

Ingo hesitated before trying to move its legs underneath it. Its movements were clumsy and infirm, but slowly it began climbing up Emmet, its legs shaking as they took its weight. Emmet was helping his Heartless up where he could, but it was Ingo who needed to bring itself to its own feet.

It was slouching and clinging to Emmet for dear life, but Ingo was standing, even as its legs trembled under it.

“Okay…” Emmet whispered as he took a step, careful to not let Ingo lose its support. “Do you think that you can do that?”

Ingo nodded as it tried to move a foot forwards, but its foot seemed to be stuck to the floor. After a few tries, it was finally able to remove its foot from the ground with a squelching sound and move it forwards in a tiny step.

Ingo lifted its other foot and tried to move it forwards to finish bridging the short distance that Emmet had moved away from it, only to trip and lose its concentration, melting back into a shapeless blob on the floor. Ingo let out a sad sound that made the other Heartless look their way and put Emmet’s teeth on edge.

“Nonono! You did a good job! It’s okay! You’re okay! This was your first time trying to walk! You did great for your first time!”

There seemed to be a question in the way Ingo looked up at Emmet as he knelt down beside the puddle of shadow, grabbing handfuls of it, pulling it back up from the floor.

“I… Did…?”

“Of course you did. Now come here.”

Ingo tackled Emmet backwards onto the ground in a hug.

“... Ingo…” Emmet sighed, burying his face into the shadow. “Keep practicing. After we escape, you’ll need to be able to move on your own. For now, I’m willing to carry you, but if we’re going to survive out there, you need to be able to look human. It’ll be harder for me to protect you if you can’t. You understand, right?”

Slowly Ingo nodded.

“Good. And remember. We have to keep this a secret.”

“Se… Cret…?”

But before Emmet could say anything else, a voice came on over the intercom. “Nobody, your time is up.”

Emmet turned towards the glass and nodded. “I have to go, but I’ll be back soon. Promise. Until then, keep practicing.”

“What’s that on your shirt?”

The Nobody glanced down to where the scientist was pointing. “... Stains.”

“I can see that. But they weren’t there when you went in. What are they?”

“... Ingo was crying. I suppose that Heartless tears stain.”

“He can cry?”

“... He’s probably been crying ever since he woke up as a Heartless- ever since you created him. You don’t need to sound so suspicious. The other Nobodies will replace it. You really didn’t notice?”

“Heartless can be very deceptive when they want to be. It could be a trick.”

“... Or we’re just kids and he’s scared because you put him in a very traumatizing situation.” He rolled his eyes.

“Watch your tone. Remember who you’re talking to, Nobody.”

“Emmet.” He corrected with a tone of finality.

“... What was that…?”

“Emmet. I am Emmet. If he is Ingo, his name meaning, ‘in’ then since he is now a Heartless and I am his opposite as a Nobody, then my name should mean ‘out.’ So Emmet. That is my name. That is what I decided my name is, since you didn’t give me one.”

“You’re a Nobody. You don’t need a name.”

“... If you made another Nobody what would you call me then? I am Emmet,” he insisted, “I may be a Nobody, but I want you to call me Emmet.”

It took him some time, but Ingo figured out what it was about Emmet that made its presence feel so reassuring each time it was here.

He no longer felt like he was drowning. When Emmet was here, it felt like he had a line- something to hold onto to give him stability. Something that could help keep his head just a little higher and out of the water. It didn’t mean that he couldn’t still sink beneath the waves and drown, but it was something. A start.

Ingo did not understand the words that Emmet often said to him. Something about Hearts and Darkness and Heartless and Somebodies and Nobodies. But Ingo did get the sense that they were related somehow.

He didn’t know what the nature of this relationship was or what it entailed, but maybe it was this relationship that was keeping Ingo’s head above water. Or maybe it was Emmet’s kindness.

He supposed that it didn’t really matter either way. He just knew that he felt better with Emmet at his side. As long as Emmet was here and would keep being there for him, he felt that everything was going to be alright.

Emmet’s fingers were interlaced with Ingo’s as his form gradually solidified and began to look human, if featureless.

“Good. Now try to match my skin tone.”

Emmet watched as Ingo focused, eyes narrowing, as some sort of black film seemed to peel back from his fingertips, revealing a fleshy color underneath. The color progressed down Ingo’s arms until it reached his elbows before Emmet interrupted him. “Alright. Good. Your coloring’s improved. Now try your face.”

This was always a little more difficult for Ingo. He focused, and while it took a minute, the black film began to peel back, revealing imitation skin underneath. In time, the lower half of his face began to look very human. A nose, chin, ears, lips caught in a perpetual frown, and the beginnings of a neck could be seen. But the upper part of his face remained in shadow, his eyes continuing to be orbs that glowed with yellow light, and entirely inhuman. Emmet was nodding in approval as it watched, but couldn’t keep the surprise from its expression as hair began to form on Ingo’s head, straight, white, and angled, perfectly mirroring its own.

“Now you didn’t need to do that. We should be able to get along just fine without you having hair.”

“Want to… Look… Like you.”

Emmet sighed. “Well, I do look like you, so I suppose that only makes sense…”

“What does… That mean…?”

“You don’t need to worry about it.”

They had been at this for a while and thankfully Ingo was making fast progress. While his attempts at a human form often still bore the telltale signs that he was a Heartless- antennae sprouting from his head, large beady yellow eyes that glowed in the dark, fingers ending in points- Ingo’s ability to take on a physical form was getting better and better. He was able to become more physically solid and present with each attempt and more quickly. His fidelity to the human form was growing better and becoming more accurate the more he practiced. He was growing to be able to manipulate his body and the limbs he manifested from it with more ease. While in the form of a shapeless shadow, Ingo had learned how to move however he liked freely and at will. Walking was a slightly different story, but while he was not very certain in his steps and clumsy, he was now able to walk without falling over after a few steps. And while they would still need to clothe him in a way that would hide his various inhumanities, now that Ingo had gotten decent enough at being able to appear human, they would soon be ready to escape.

“You really should just cut it out with the expression already. It’s creepy on you.”

“... You mean the smile…?” Emmet asked in a perplexed tone.

The scientist nodded. “We both know that you don’t have any emotions. You’re unable to feel anything. Your smile is fake. So why do you keep pretending?”

“... You’re always smiling, and it seems to help you get what you want.”

“But I’m human and you’re not. Who do you think you’re fooling with that?”

“... Not you, certainly…” He shook his head. “I don’t know that I’m trying to fool anyone. I just… I’m not angry. I’m not sad. I’m not happy either, of course. I just don’t want people to think that I’m… Something that’s worth looking at…” He supposed that it was more of a survival instinct than anything.

“Well, you should quit it. It doesn’t suit you.”

Emmet’s smile widened just a little more. No, he didn’t think that he was going to. It was good that he wouldn’t have to deal with the scientist for much longer.

It was chaos. Nobodies roamed the lab’s halls, and the escaped Heartless chased after anyone who had survived the initial attack. There were bodies. Somewhere a fire had broken out and wasn’t being tamed. Screaming could be heard, only for them to be cut short and fall to silence. Meanwhile Emmet was helping Ingo get dressed, the two still in the cell that had previously contained the Heartless that were now stalking the halls, hunting for any surviving researchers.

“Here. Try to tuck your antennae into this,” Emmet suggested, handing Ingo a cap. “Try to keep the brim low. We don’t want anyone seeing your eyes.”

Ingo nodded as he took the hat. It took him a minute to figure out how to fit the protrusions poking from his head- whether they were supposed to be more like antennae or horns, Emmet was not certain at this point- into the hat, but he eventually found something that worked. In the meantime, Emmet was wrapping a scarf around the Heartless’ neck, trying to cover as much of Ingo’s pitch black skin as he could.

Once the hat was on, the brim of it pulled low over his eyes, Ingo glanced between the two of them before fixing a long stare at Emmet.

“There we go… That should hopefully do the trick…” Emmet looked over its handiwork before noticing how Ingo was staring at it. “What? What is it?”

Ingo pointed between the two of them. “Matching.” The two were indeed wearing identical but palette swapped outfits.

Emmet rolled its eyes. “It was the other Nobodies’ idea. I’m not a huge fan. If anything, I think that it’ll make us more suspicious.”

Ingo let out a sound as he shook. A gesture that took Emmet a moment to realize was something like a laugh or a snicker. “Twins.”

Emmet let out a sigh, taking Ingo by the hand. “Well, I guess you’re not wrong. Come on. We need to get out of here before-”

“What have you done.” The two turned to see the scientist standing in the open doorway.

“... I didn’t think that you would be coming to work today, sir.”

“What do you think you’re doing, Nobody.”

“... I’ve already told you that I want to be called Emmet. And isn’t it obvious? I’m taking Ingo. I’m freeing him. We’re leaving this place. Together.”

“And what makes you think that you have any right-”

“We’re at war, sir,” it interrupted, deliberately cutting the scientist off.

“... War…?”

Emmet nodded. “People like you get to live in the light. You make beings like us- Heartless and Nobodies- live in the dark. I never had much interest in working with you. I just wanted to beat you. Not that you made it very hard. You never thought to put in any precautions against Nobodies, did you? I guess that you never thought that you would have to. Nobodies don’t usually help Heartless out after all, I guess. Even if we are on the same side.”

“You’re doing all of this… Just to beat me…? Is this some kind of game to you!?”

“... Why not? You have no problem playing with people’s lives. And if this is a game, then I’m going to win it!”

“Win… If your intention all along was to beat me, then why were you trying to spare me from… This?”

“... Why win by a margin when I can go for total victory? You can’t know that I beat you if you’re dead. Isn’t it more fun if I completely humiliate you in my victory? Destroy your research, take the fruits of your labor as winnings for myself? I wanted you to know that there was nothing you could have done to stop this. Besides. I couldn’t risk you becoming a Heartless and joining our side.” Emmet’s smile widened mockingly. “After all. I don’t want you. Now leave.”

“Why you little-! You can’t threaten me!” Instead of leaving, the scientist marched directly towards the two boys, grabbing Emmet by the arm. He raised a hand to strike the boy, but before he could, there was a sudden and suffocating pain in his chest.

“Don’t… Hurt him.” Ingo growled. His arm was plunged deep into the scientist’s chest, claws tenderly wrapped around the scientist’s Heart.

The scientist froze as he realized the gravity of his situation.

“Let… Go.” It was an order.

The man wasn’t about to argue with the angry Heartless and immediately let the Nobody go, lowering the hand he was going to strike the boy with.

Ingo was heaving deep breaths in and out, a black smoke beginning to leave his mouth. His body was seemingly shifting and swelling, looking like he was going to burst from the clothes that were barely containing him at any minute. His mouth morphed into a jagged line that only emphasized the frown on his face. An unnaturally long, pitch black tongue rolled out from behind pointed teeth. “Hun… Gry…” Ingo could smell the darkness in the man’s heart, and it made him feel all the more famished.

“Drop it, Ingo,” Emmet ordered. “I’m not hurt. You can just drop it.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Ingo wanted to refuse the order. To just rip the scientist’s Heart out and feast on it. He was certain that it would taste delicious. But ultimately Ingo let go, falling back to Emmet’s side.

The man collapsed to the ground. He was panting, catching the breath that he didn’t realize he had been holding. Meanwhile Emmet started fussing over the Heartless.

“Now now. It’s alright. Just calm down. We can’t have you tearing any of these clothes. It would be difficult to find something to replace them on such short notice.” Emmet was closely examining Ingo’s clothes, pulling them back into place as Ingo’s form shrank back down to that of a boy’s, searching for any tears in the fabric or breaks in the seams. “Okay, I think that we’ll be fine.” Emmet let out a sigh of relief, seeing that Ingo’s disguise hadn’t been too badly compromised.

But Ingo was just staring at the man on the ground unblinkingly. “Hun… Gry…”

“Yeah, I know. We’ll find someone for you to eat soon, I promise. But we need to get out of here before someone calls the authorities.”

Emmet grabbing Ingo’s hand seemed to be enough to snap him out of his wild trance.

“Now come on! We need to go!”

Emmet led the way as they hurried down the lab’s halls towards the front exit. Once they were outside, Emmet guided its Heartless counterpart towards the nearest populated street before yelling out, “Help! Help! Please! Monsters! What the heck are those!? Monsters just tried to attack us down there! Help!” with as much emotion and conviction that it could pretend to have before heading in the opposite direction, making sure no one was following them as they vanished into the night.

As they continued to wander the streets, Ingo could not help but to stare up at the stars above them. They had really made it out. He was free. He didn’t think that it was going to be possible, but now here he was. Standing under the night sky, taking in the evening’s cool air. He didn’t even realize that he missed seeing the stars and moon until now.

“We’re here,” Emmet informed, only to look back and see how Ingo was staring up at the twinkling lights shining through the darkness overhead. “What are you looking at?” he asked after realizing that Ingo was not moving to follow him into the storehouse.

Ingo didn’t say anything, instead pointing to a patch of the night sky. Emmet looked up just in time to see a thin streak of light appear before disappearing again in an instant.

“Shooting star!” Ingo practically cheered, “Make… A wish!”

Emmet watched Ingo eagerly close his eyes as he made his wish. While Ingo immediately knew what he wanted to wish for, Emmet could only stare at the blank spot where the star had just been. A wish? Emmet couldn’t think of anything he wanted right now, much less something to wish for. So he just stared, digging in his head to find something, anything. But nothing came.

Ingo was practically bouncing when he opened his eyes again. “What… Did you… Wish… For…?” he slowly asked, words still being difficult for him to form.

Emmet just smiled. “You don’t need to worry about that. But are you excited to start traveling around up there?”

Ingo stared at Emmet with wide eyes for a full minute. “Travel…?”

Emmet nodded, leading Ingo into the storehouse where a handful of Nobodies and Heartless were already waiting for them so that they could be waited on. “We’ll be safe here for now, but the longer we stay here, the more likely it is that someone will find us. I want to get moving, to get off this world as soon as we can. We can start looking for transportation tomorrow. But then… Well... We’ll be traveling around up there among the stars.”

“Rea… Lly…?”

“Really really.” Emmet assured him, kicking off his shoes, but keeping his socks on as he crossed the concrete floor.

He passed by a table that had several food items sitting on it that the Nobodies had stolen for him. After picking a few that looked good to try, he sat down, letting a random Nobody tend to the cut he still bore on the sole of his foot. He opened a bag of what appeared to be some sort of candy and popped one into his mouth. It was sweet and chewy. Finding it agreeable, he began to consume one after another in quick succession, speaking with his mouth full. “We can also find you something… To eat tomorrow. Do you want one?”

Emmet offered the bag, already half empty, out to Ingo who, after a moment of consideration, shook his head. For his part Emmet didn’t know if Heartless could eat human food, but figured it was worth a shot. The texture of these were pleasing and he wouldn’t have minded sharing the experience. But admittedly he was eating the candies less because he felt hungry, but rather because the sensation of them was good and it distracted from a gnawing emptiness inside of him, filling it for fleeting moments before it came back again.

“Eat… Food… Humans…?” While it was nothing close to a full sentence, Emmet still understood what he was trying to get at. Ingo did not seem very happy to ask it.

“Unfortunately, yes. Now that you’re a Heartless, your food is Hearts and whatever Light and Darkness can be found within them. So that means that your prey are people. It’s not very good for us trying to stay under the radar, and technically speaking, you don’t really need to eat to survive. But I don’t want you to be hungry.” Besides, from what Emmet understood, the more he kept Ingo fed, the more powerful of a Heartless he would become. And he did want to know what Ingo was capable of, especially once he reached full maturity.

Ingo couldn’t help but to stare at the ground. The idea of consuming the scientist’s Heart had not bothered him, but now he was coming to realize that to satisfy this growing, gnawing, violent hunger inside of him, he may have to target innocent people… It didn’t sit well with him. Though he knew deep within his blackened heart that when the time came, he likely wouldn’t even hesitate.

After a few minutes of silence, Ingo’s eyes began to wander until they happened to drift towards the sizable scab on the sole of Emmet’s foot that the Nobody had just finished disinfecting and was now carefully wrapping in a bandage.

“What is…” Ingo pointed to Emmet’s foot.

“... Are you talking about the cut on my foot?”

Ingo nodded.

“Well, it’s just that. A cut.”

Emmet didn’t realize that wasn’t really what Ingo had been asking about.

“... How…?”

“How did I get it?” Emmet asked for confirmation, to which Ingo nodded. Emmet sighed. “When we were born- When you became a Heartless, and I started to exist- while you were put into a holding cell for observation… Well… I was chased out onto the street. Do you remember what you were wearing before we got separated?”

Ingo gave him a curious look. “Sep… Arated…?”

“... Yeah… I’m your Nobody. Everything that was left behind after your Heart escaped your body… Do you really not…?”

Ingo was still giving him that blank look, and when Emmet didn’t continue his sentence to elaborate, he shook his head. “Do not… Know… What…” Ingo was trying to get more words out, but it was to no avail. However it was just enough for Emmet to understand what he was trying to say.

Sharply turning to a random Shadow Heartless, he gave it a pointed look that may have looked angry if it was coming from anyone else. “You didn’t tell him about what he is now? Why didn’t any of you tell him!?”

The Shadow sank into the floor becoming a 2D shape, clearly trembling in fear. There was a tense silence in the air before a particularly brave Shadow started to click something to the human-looking Nobody who was clearly commanding the room.

After hearing what the Shadow had to say, Emmet slumped where he sat with a sigh. “Fine… Just… Don’t leave him in the dark like that ever again if it can be helped.”

The other Heartless in the room nodded their heads before going back to their business, many of the Shadows sinking to the floor in an attempt to stay out of trouble.

Ingo just watched all of this with an air of confusion, not having any idea what they were talking about. “What…?” Ingo asked.

Emmet merely shook his head. “... Okay. So, you know that you’re a Heartless now, right?”

Ingo thought for a minute. He knew that he was something… Different now. But he could never really put a word to what had changed within him up to this point. He knew that he wasn’t human anymore. Every instinct inside of him knew that. But ‘Heartless’ … Something about the term felt right to him. So Ingo nodded.

“Well, you became a Heartless after your Heart was consumed by so much Darkness that you couldn’t remain human anymore. I don’t know how, but that man somehow figured out a way to completely extinguish any Light in your Heart. Hearts consumed by Darkness tend to leave their bodies. Your Heart rejected your humanity and human appearance, and so left your body. You are that Heart. Like many of your kind, your corrupted Heart left your body and you were recreated as a Heartless. So after you left your body, what happened to it? Well, as it turns out, your Heart and will to survive was so powerful that it kept your body alive in your absence. And that’s me. Your body without a Heart. I was created out of your desire to live. And then you left me. That’s why I look like you. I’m your body. The one you left behind. You used to be me. I was born as you were leaving your body. Which was also when you were recreated as a Heartless. So in a sense, you can say that we were born at the same time. Twins.”

All of this was making Ingo’s head spin a little. “You… Are… Me…?”

Emmet shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I do know that you used to be me. But now we exist apart from each other. It’s hard to know what I am. I’m just a body without a Heart. I don’t know if I even exist, really. You need a Heart to actually have a strong sense of self after all. But I do know this. You are Ingo. You are Ingo’s memories and emotions and sense of self. You are everything that made Ingo exist as he was, and therefore you are Ingo. So that probably means that I am not Ingo. I don’t have any of that stuff. Memories, emotions, a sense of self. I am the absence of that stuff. I used to be Ingo, but whatever I am now, I’m not him anymore.”

“I… I see…” Ingo wasn’t certain that he fully understood, but thought that he was getting the gist of it.

“... So after we were created- separated… However you want to put it, you were put into captivity for observation, and I was chased off. He was only interested in you. Not me. You might remember that the only thing you were wearing when I was created was a hospital gown. You didn’t even have any socks or shoes on.” Emmet shook his head. “I was lost. I didn’t know where to go. It was dark and hard to see. My eyes don't glow and weren’t made for the darkness like yours are. So I accidently stepped in some glass. That was before they found me.” He gestured towards a group of loitering Dusks who waved back upon being looked at. “It was fine after that. They were able to clean and bandage it up. But it still hasn’t fully healed. I… I don’t want to damage or scar this body if it can be helped… It isn’t really mine after all... It’s yours…”

“I’m… Sorry…”

“... For what? There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. None of this was your fault. You couldn’t have done anything about any of this.”

“Still… Sorry. I understand… Your feelings.”

“... Feelings?” Emmet scoffed. “Were you listening? I don’t have feelings. You took all of those with you when you stopped existing in your body. Now come on.”

With his foot freshly wrapped, Emmet stood and started to once again lead Ingo through the storehouse. “You don’t need to keep wearing those clothes if you don’t want to, by the way. You can go back to your natural form if you’d like.”

But Ingo shook his head. “I like… Looking… Like you.”

“Suit yourself. But I’m taking at least some of this off.”

As they kept walking through the warehouse, Emmet was throwing off the outer layers of his outfit, strewing them onto the floor wherever he felt like until he was just in his pants and shirt. He knew that the Dusks would pick up after him and find a place for the discarded clothes.

It was only when the two arrived at a rather sizable pile of blankets and plush toys in some secluded corner did Emmet stop his confident stride. “This is where I sleep. You can sleep here too if you’d like,” Emmet informed Ingo before tossing himself onto the pile.

Ingo tried to copy Emmet’s movements, but once he fell onto the pile of toys, he was soon consumed by them, practically drowning in stuff and fluff. After flailing around for a few moments, Emmet grabbed Ingo by the hand and pulled him back up to the surface where he placed Ingo into the welcoming arms of a giant cat plush. The size of it would keep Ingo on top of the pile instead of sinking into the mass of looser toys around him.

Ingo blankly stared at Emmet for a moment.

“... What?” Emmet asked, not knowing what Ingo was staring at him for. But then Ingo broke out into that same laugh that Emmet had seen earlier as the reality of what just happened sank in.

“Almost… Drowned… A lot of toys.”

Emmet’s smile broadened just a little. “... Yeah, I guess there are.” Emmet tossed some blankets over the both of them and began to settle in for the night. “There’s a mattress somewhere under all of this… At least there used to be. Maybe the Dusks took it for some reason, I wouldn’t know. After the first night of sleeping here, they gave me a toy. I liked it, so they just kept bringing me more until… Well… You know.” He gestured to the massive pile of plushies they were laying on top of. Emmet started fiddling with the antennae of a nearby toy bug as he spoke. “I guess it’s nice… I do think that I like them… They’re soft… A nice texture. Good to squeeze.”

The expression on Ingo’s face was what Emmet assumed was the closest thing to a smile the Heartless could make. “Fav… Orite…?”

Emmet considered it for a moment, rolling around to find the right one before pulling out something that seemed to be some kind of massive eel. “I think that I like this one the most. It’s the softest one.”

Ingo gave the toy a good feel and squeeze before nodding in approval. “Good… Choice…”

Once Ingo was done with it, Emmet pulled it back in and wrapped his arms around it. “If the others find out, I think that we’d end up drowning in eels, so keep it secret, okay?”

Ingo snickered. “Promise.”

“... I guess that they’re just trying to be nice… We are the same after all… They can’t feel anything either. Nothing that isn’t physical at least. These toys feel good. I think that I’d like to feel more nice things like this,” Emmet yawned.

“Tired?”

Emmet nodded. “You look pretty exhausted too.”

It was Ingo’s turn to nod.

“It must be tiring having to keep that form up.”

There was a moment of hesitance before Ingo nodded again.

“You should get some rest.”

“Want to… Stay up… A little… Longer.”

“Alright. Suit yourself. But don’t blame me if I fall asleep on you.” Emmet snuggled deeper into the pile of toys.

There was a long moment of silence, and just as Emmet thought that he was going to drift off, Ingo spoke up.

“I’m glad… You… Saved me… I’m glad… You’re here.”

That caught Emmet’s attention just a little. “Don’t mention it. I was only doing it for selfish reasons anyway.”

“Selfish. Selfless. Doesn’t… Matter. Still… Grateful.”

Emmet just stared at the Heartless, blinking. He didn’t know what to say to that. “... Uh… Thank you…” It was all Emmet could muster.

“Never… Had a… Brother before. Glad that… I have… One now.”

Emmet let out a breath. “A brother you say?”

Ingo nodded before letting out a yawn. He started sinking into the giant cat, becoming incorporeal again. “I think... I’ll… Sleep now. Goodnight.”

“Yeah. Goodnight. See you in the morning.”

“See you… In the… Morning. Love you.” Ingo didn’t know what compelled him to say that last sentence. Maybe some kind of habit from a long lost memory. But either way, it just felt right to him. And with that he sank into the shadows, leaving only a black stain where he had lain a moment ago behind.

That last sentence shocked Emmet awake. Did Ingo really just say… No. He couldn’t have. The two barely knew each other, really. They hadn’t spent that much time together. Just some scattered hours together here and there. That wasn’t long enough to warrant… Right…? There was no way… Besides. He was just a Nobody. He was nobody. Certainly not anyone worth loving. There was nothing inside of him to love. And he was incapable of feeling something like that in return. He just didn’t understand it. And yet the words echoed in his mind over and over again.

Rolling onto his back, Emmet stared up at the ceiling, his mind swirling. He didn’t know what to think. Love… He wasn’t certain that he really knew what that was. And as he stared at the ceiling, waiting for the exhaustion of his body to take him away, he finally knew what his wish was. Deep within the hole in his chest where a Heart was supposed to be. He just wanted to understand.

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slaatape · 20 days

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Unveiling the Marvels of Masking Film: A Versatile Solution for Every Project

In the realm of renovations, DIY projects, and professional painting endeavors, the unsung hero often goes unnoticed—the masking film. This seemingly simple tool holds immense power in its ability to streamline processes, protect surfaces, and ensure precision. Let's delve deeper into the world of masking film and uncover the myriad benefits that make it an indispensable asset for any project.

Precision Protection

When it comes to painting or refurbishing delicate surfaces, precision is paramount. Masking film serves as a reliable shield against unwanted paint splatters, drips, or stains. Its static cling feature ensures a snug fit, seamlessly adhering to surfaces without leaving behind any residue. From window frames to furniture edges, masking film provides a precise boundary, safeguarding adjacent areas from accidental damage.

Time Efficiency

In the fast-paced world of construction and renovation, time is of the essence. The masking film significantly expedites the preparation phase by simplifying the masking process. The masking film swiftly covers large areas with minimal effort. Its adhesive backing facilitates quick application, allowing projects to progress smoothly without unnecessary delays.

Versatility Redefined

One of the most remarkable attributes of masking film is its versatility. Available in various sizes and thicknesses, it can adapt to diverse project requirements. Whether it's a small-scale DIY endeavor or a commercial painting project, masking film offers a solution tailored to the task at hand. Furthermore, its compatibility with different surfaces, including wood, metal, and glass, underscores its universal applicability.

Enhanced Safety

Safety should never be compromised, especially in work environments prone to hazards like paint fumes or debris. Masking film acts as a barrier, not only protecting surfaces but also minimizing health risks for workers and inhabitants. By containing dust particles and volatile chemicals, it fosters a safer and healthier workspace conducive to productivity and well-being.

Eco-Friendly Alternative

In an era increasingly focused on sustainability, choosing environmentally friendly options is paramount. The masking film aligns with this ethos by offering a greener alternative to traditional masking materials. Many masking films are made from recyclable materials, reducing waste and minimizing environmental impact. By opting for eco-conscious solutions, individuals and businesses can contribute to the preservation of our planet.

Masking film may appear unassuming at first glance, but its benefits are truly transformative. From precision protection to time efficiency and versatility, this humble tool enhances every stage of a project, ensuring impeccable results while prioritizing safety and sustainability. As the cornerstone of masking solutions, masking film continues to revolutionize industries and empower individuals to unleash their creativity without constraints. Embrace the power of masking film, and witness your projects soar to new heights of excellence.

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ad-adhesive123 · 28 days

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Unveiling the Marvels of Masking Film: A Versatile Solution for Every Project

Precision Protection

Time Efficiency

Versatility Redefined

Enhanced Safety

Eco-Friendly Alternative

#masking film

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eldritchtechno · 10 months

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High-Speed Roller Chase!

The challenge time had finally come, her billowing mist cloak and the smoke balls left with the attendant at the start of the course. In their place, Ebony had curled around her body, giving a supernatural warmth even as the pulsing energy from the generator on Paprika's back sent the odd jolt to the mechanical gauntlets on her hands. On cage, one chance to catch the wound up buzzing creature before her that zipped off the second the word GO! was shouted by the attendant.

The second they word was shouted, Paprika was off, having used her grappling hooks to launch forward into the first few sparks left behind the Spiralémon. It was fast, but each shock added some speed to the skates, Ebony occasionally moving an arm to aid with balance as Paprika raced up and through the city. Security soon started to follow after blowing through a picnic of some higher tier folk- at least the snagged sandwich was well worth the hassle after a spark had landed on their table.

The zip-zapper seemed to snicker as it sped along, the clock ticking down with every dodge of a railway or a person on the higher levels. Even with her hooks, Paprika's speed was just falling short. Nothing in the books said she couldn't use her own skills though, focusing on the beast and uttering words that ripples the air, placing a hex of dextrous nature on it. While it wouldn't reduce the speed, it would make turning at such velocity a bit more difficult, and apply a much useful tracker. Then, her gauntlets sparked up, being applied to the roller skates and giving them just enough of a jolt to add to their velocity.

One minute left. Security on her tail. The zip-zapper still outpacing even with greatly slowed reactions and a focused pin on it from Paprika. Would she even be able to complete this challenge? Good question, even when Ebony reflexively turned them intangible to avoid a collision into a person- a result likely to cause failure. Even if the Hex would fade soon, only meant for short bursts of use between casts, and she was no warlock like her mother.

Still, she was determined, lining up behind it in a trail of sparks. Both grappling hooks, shot at adjacent walls to lock, the reels likely in need of servicing after this insane stunt. A straight shot- all she needed as Ebony readied the cage. With a sigh and determined inhale, Paprika set the reels to emergency speed retraction, launching her with unaccounted for speed forward towards Aspidiske's little Spiralémon at a rate she could barely control. One chance. A chance taken with a cry from Ebony. A sputtering from the breaking grapples as the hooks broke on their way back.

Soon the course was completed. Paprika's face felt raw and worn, the wind having battered her from the acceleration. Her ankles hurt, and her arms felt like she had pulled them the wrong way. Her grappling hooks were shattered and useless, and Ebony was a bit frazzled from the electrical current of both the generator and the Sparks along the course. Security soon landed behind her after crossing the finish line with a few seconds to spare.

"I'm not. I'm not doing this again." She coughed, holding up the cage with the zip-zapper insider clinging to the bars with a tear in its eyes all 'let me out please.' "Reward. If you need me, I'll be in the hot springs."

#Drabble #event: the challenger's path #Word count: 585 final total

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kennedymclean52 · 1 year

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7 Minecraft Treehouse Ideas for your Next Build IGN

Treehouses in Minecraft provide a wonderful method of incorporating innovative and creative designs into your home. Whether you're just starting out and need some unique home ideas to build from or you're a pro in Minecraft but want to think outside of the box, we've got ideas and tips for you.

This list is primarily about treehouses. If you'd like to see more types of houses, we have 8 Best House Minecraft Ideas to help you start!

Minecraft Treehouses

When you browse through our top treehouse design ideas There are two points you should consider:

The size of your treehouse will depend on whether you're building a new build or a hub. - Furthermore the biome you decide to build in will dictate the extent to which you can utilize naturally-generated trees or trees that you artificially create yourself.

We've rounded up some of the top treehouse design ideas for Minecraft, from simple, beginner tree houses to advanced designs and challenging builds and everything in-between.

1. Simple Treehouse

If you're having difficulty building a Minecraft treehouse, it's best to start simple. Attach the small, four-walled home to a tree with adequate height. Whether it's actually suspended in the air from the tree or just on the ground adjacent to it, it doesn't really matter!

Simple Treehouse in Minecraft

You can extend up and out, even artificially increasing the size of the tree as you progress through the game. If you're new to Minecraft or building this type of home, you should start here.

2. Jungle Treehouse

It is logical to construct an high-rise structure in the biome with the highest trees. The abundance of tall trees and hanging vines allow an easy method of interconnecting numerous small structures.

How to Easily Build a Jungle Tree House via Mr Mirror:

Video via: Mr Mirror

Not only do the vines that adorn many of the trees in Jungle biomes function as a natural ladder however, you can also set them on the leaves all the way around the tree you've built upon to create a natural cover or camouflage.

Jungle Treehouse in Minecraft

This can be fun and easy if playing in a multiplayer game. Each house is a beautiful Ewok-style village.

3. Leaf House

Can't quite get your house to look right by clinging to the side of the tree? Explore other options and make your home base within the leaves of trees. Using Shears to gather leaves from trees around and create an encircling of leaves over the natural growth by the trees.

Inside a Leaf House in Minecraft

This may restrict your decorating options and make it more difficult for your house to blend in with its surroundings.

Outside of the Leaf House in Minecraft

As a tip: turn your graphic settings from fancy to Fast, and the leaves will cease to be transparent, which means any build underneath the leaves will be completely invisible.

4. Literal Tree House

Literal Tree House in Minecraft

You can take your creativity to the next level by making your own tree. While it's not the most efficient method to make use of resources, it can be fun to build your house so that it looks like an actual tree.

5. Nether Tree House

With the Nether gaining forest biomes in recent times it is possible to take advantage of the new leafy real estate to construct an up-high home in the lower levels. You might lose your home if you build it using blocks that are exclusive to the Nether such as Crimson Blocks or Netherrack.

Nether Tree House in Minecraft

There are dangers abounding in the Nether If you have access to an abundance of Obsidian and other Obsidian, it could be worth building your house (or the outer shell at the very least) with it. This will help reduce the damage from any Ghast fireballs found near your building.

6. Tree Root House

Do you would like to be a bit different? You can go underground and create a tree root using Stripped Logs. You can build a house using the roots from the ceiling of the cave.

Tree Root House in Minecraft

To give your underground home an organic look include Spore Blossom, Pointed Dripstone and Glow Lichen.

7. Bonus: Create an Tree House to Support Every Type of Tree

You can also create a tree house to fit each Minecraft tree type if you're feeling up to it. All of them: Oak, Spruce Birch, Dark Oak, Jungle and Spruce.

Video via TheMythicalSausage

What are your top tree house designs in Minecraft? Let us know in the comments.

MINECRAFT - EVEN MORE

The best Minecraft Build Ideas (if you want to build a massive Minecraft) For more inspiration, see Minecraft Legendary Collaborative Buildings How to Build a Home in Minecraft and complete Building Guide (for anyone who is new to Minecraft) Minecraft Kitchen Ideas to enhance your build Samuel Heaney is a freelance journalist who is an expert in Minecraft guides and everything Minecraft. Follow Samuel on Twitter.

Wexmail

#WEX MAIL #Wexmail

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samsaurwrites · 1 year

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Captivate (Aymeric x Reader x Estinien) - Chapter 1

Read here or on AO3.

Getting out of Ul’Dah had been easy.

The bodies of the Scions, of your friends, had made sure of that.

Yda and Papalymo were the first to die. Urging you onward with a confidence, a bravado you nearly believed. With flashing eyes and brilliant smiles, they reassured you—

We’ll catch up.

Yda and Papalymo—slaughtered like cattle, skin and muscle rent through by savage, unrelenting steel. Cut down in front of each other, drowned in their own blood, their own screams.

Y’shtola and Thancred were next. Bones splintered, snapping—ground to dust by stone and mortar. Y’shtola and Thancred, suffocated beneath a mountain of rubble, beneath the tunnel brought down by their own hands.

We’ll catch up.

Minfilia was the last; clutching at your hands, stumbling, bleeding, begging you to find the others. To save the Scions. To run as fast, as far as you could.

Because you are their last hope. Their only hope.

But your hope only carries you so far. Fear and desperation and dread only carry you so far.

You don’t know what happened to Alphinaud. You don’t know what happened to Cid or Urianger or Tataru or anyone else back in The Rising Stones.

All you know is that you are alone.

Horribly and unspeakably alone.

It takes you days to stumble from Ul’Dah to Mor Dhona to Coerthas. Days you hardly sleep, hardly eat. Days you spend looking over your shoulder; days you spend listening out for the wolves that nip at your heels.

It’s slow, arduous, traveling by foot. You blister and bruise and burn, but you cannot risk using the aetheryte cores to speed your journey for fear of who might await you on the other side. So you cling to the wilds, to the shadows and the crags until you arrive in Mor Dhona.

Part of you—your weak, fragile hope—splinters when you see the Crystal Braves swarming the city. Part of you fractures when you manage to sneak into the city only for Haurchefant to send you away once again.

To send you to Ishgard.

Your pace slows after leaving Mor Dhona. Dwindles to little more than a crawl as you ascend the mountains of Ishgard, starving, freezing—cracking, splitting, crumbling.

You’re their last hope, their last hope—

You’ve lost hope.

You drag yourself up to the city gates, just after dark. Barely conscious. Mind spinning out of control—drowning in the fear, the dread, the pain you’ve shoved down, down, down. Your legs give out, and you crumple under the weight of your armor, your exhaustion.

“State your business, outsider!” a guard shouts, voice gruff. Angry. But you can barely hear him. Weak. Shivering. Gasping for air. He steps forward, spear pointed down at you. “Who are you?!”

“Aymeric—” you choke out, on hands and knees, head hanging low. Panting. Head throbbing. Tears sting and burn and your voice breaks in two. “Please, I-I need… I need to see Ser Aymeric—”

Your vision swims, going dark and hazy.

“Please…”

You slump forward, limbs going limp, going numb. You can’t take it anymore. Your body can’t keep up anymore.

You’ve lost—

“How many know that she’s here?” Aymeric asks, voice low.

He’s distracted, only half interested in the answer, more interested in you. In the cuts, the bruises that mar and discolor your skin. In the way your hair is splayed out on the pillow. The way your brows furrow, the way your lips tremble, even in sleep.

More interested in dragging the tips of his fingers along your hairline, brushing back the oily, matted strands. In listening to the strangled whimper that bubbles up from your throat, so quiet, so fragile.

“Other than myself, only the guardsmen at the gates,” Estinien answers from the foot of the bed the Lord Commander sits upon. The one you currently sleep upon. “However, I doubt they recognized her, given the state she was in.”

Aymeric hums.

“She’ll remain here then, for the time being,” he muses, tracing the pad of his thumb along the swell of your lower lip, savoring the feel of your breath, hot and shallow, washing over his hand. “She’ll be safer here. With us.”

He looks back over his shoulder, and Estinien nods.

“As you wish.”

“See to it that she is bathed and that her wounds are tended to,” Aymeric continues, fingers traveling farther, trailing down the length of your neck, across the shape of your collar bone. “I trust I need not tell you to be discreet?”

“I’ll see it done.”

Aymeric rises. Smiles. “Good.”

When next you wake, you are wrapped in silks so soft, in furs so warm, that for a moment, you don’t notice the manacles wrapped around your wrists; don’t notice the chains that lurk in the darkness and leash you to the bed you rest in.

Waking is slow. Like wading through water that is waist deep; water that caresses your skin, that laps at your stomach, your ribs. Water that whispers and calms and yearns to drag you back under.

Waking is painful. Is days old aches flaring with each shallow breath, each tentative twitch of muscle, rising to the surface of your consciousness once more.

Waking is remembering. And remembering is dread. Is hurt and regret and guilt.

We’ll catch up.

You force your eyes open. Force yourself upright—only for the clatter of chains to ring out like alarm bells within the swirling fog of your mind. Numbly, you take in your surroundings. Stone walls and floors. No windows. A bed, a carpet, a fire burning low in a hearth.

And a man.

Waking is panicking. Is realizing you don’t know where you are. Is realizing your weapons, your armor—everything—is gone. Has been taken from you.

Waking is fingers, blackened, bony fingers, curling tight around your heart, your throat.

A split-second later, recognition. You know that armor, that helmet decorated with thick, curling horns. Know that lance, gleaming in the dim firelight, propped up in the corner of the room.

“Estinien?” you breathe, voice rough and weak.

Don’t understand, don’t understand, don’t understand—

The dragoon rises, a towering, brute of a man, silhouetted by the flames that glitter and gleam off midnight armor. You think, for a moment, he’ll come closer. You think, for a moment, that he’ll keel next to you, that he’ll explain what in the seven hells is going on—

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he turns to the door. Retreating, disappearing into the darkness, into the hall, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.

“Estinien!” you cry, reaching out for him, chains pulling taut, forcing your wrists back, even as your body lurches forward. “Wait!”

But he doesn’t.

You thrash against your binds. Wrenching, scratching, kicking at the bolt in the wall until you ache. Until your wrists bruise, until your fingernails bleed. You scream and tear and fight until the rage in your chest goes cold, until it shrivels and shrinks down into nothing.

You slouch back, shoulders sagging, breaths sharp and jagged and burning. In your nose. In your eyes. Trembling, you scoot backwards, into the corner of the headboard and the wall, pulling your knees up to your chest.

Finally, you take note of the flimsy sleeping dress that does little to hide the shape of your body, to hide the… bandages beneath. You finger at them idly, swallowing hard.

The fire has burned down into little more than embers; embers that hardly touch the shadows that close in around you. You bury your face in your knees, clamping your teeth down on your bottom lip to keep back the sobs that threaten to claw their way up your throat.

You bite down so hard it bleeds.

The seconds pass slowly, rotting, festering into minutes. Into hours. Hours that weigh heavy on your chest, that trap you in a living darkness that seems to roil and seethe. You start to fear that no one’s coming back. That you’ll never get out of here. That you’ll diein this horrible gods forsaken room and—

The door opens once again, and your head snaps up. You squint against the light, eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness—the torchlight that spills into the room, threatening to blind you.

Two figures enter. Tall, imposing figures. Estinien, then…

Aymeric.

‘Ser Aymeric will be able to help you,’ Haurchefant had promised, clasping your hands in his, a lifetime ago. ‘Of that, I am certain.’

For a moment, you feel it—a gentle spark of hope, a weak flicker of light—

And then the door slams shut behind them.

You lurch forward, as far as the chains will allow, moving up onto your knees. You open your mouth, to shout at them, at him, to scream, to demand answers, but the words turn to ash in your throat.

The look in his eyes, the cold smile plastered to his face, it fills your stomach with dread—

Aymeric will be able to help you.

All at once you know.

He won’t.

He moves towards you, closing the distance between you with easy, unburdened steps. As if he hasn’t a care in the world. As if he has nothing better to do. As if he doesn’t have you chained here like a fucking animal.

He stops, at the foot of the bed, and just watches you. Icy blue eyes so intense, it feels like a physical caress. A ghost of a touch. Phantom fingertips, trailing down your neck, tracing the hollow of your throat; dipping lower, sliding between your breasts, brushing down your arms, settling on the iron that encircles your wrists, the bruises that peek out from underneath.

Your heart sinks. He looks so pleased.

He sits, then, on the edge of the bed.

“Let me go,” you bite out, jerking again on your restraints—as if that’ll make a difference.

“You’ve hurt yourself,” he says gently, taking one of your hands, inspecting the blood, the bruises. Stroking your palm, your pulse, languidly, lovingly—

You wrench your hand away from him. “Don’t touch me—”

The crack of his hand against your cheek registers before the pain. Before the ringing in your ear. Before you realize your head’s snapped to one side, that the whole room blurs, that you taste blood.

You look back, slowly, eyes wide.

“I offer you protection,” he murmurs, closer now than he was before. Calloused fingers smoothing along your burning cheek, thumb caressing the split in your lip while you stare on in shock. “Offer you sanctuary while all of Ul’Dah searches for you, and this is how you repay my generosity?”

He tilts your chin up, and you tremble before his gaze.

“Do you understand the risk I’ve taken on by concealing you here?” he whispers, mouth mere inches from yours. “A fugitive? A murderer?”

You shake your head, blinking back tears.

“No,” he muses. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

He releases you, and you can’t breathe—can suck in enough air as the walls close in around you, as the manacles wrap tighter and tighter around your wrists, around your chest, your throat.

“P-Please,” you beg, voice trembling, warbling and watery and weak. “Let me go. The others—I… I have to find them, have to help them.”

You’re their last hope.

His eyes burn when he speaks. With desire, with violence, with promise.

“No.”

Thanks for reading!! You can check out my other writing here.

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