#liches do not interact
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People are always coming up to me, begging for me to resurrect the dead, I have to be buddy, I can only speak to the dead, & hear their dread whispers. You are looking for a miracleworker to raise the dead, and buddy, God hates me.
#wizard#sorcery#necromancer#liches do not interact#Games Workshop please hire me#I have bills to pay#necromancy
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Thoughts on billy/possessed billy from adventure tine?
Being asked my opinion on unconventional characters is so much fun.
I haven’t watched Adventure Time in a looong while. And when I missed entire seasons. Billy I remember, but I don’t think I saw the Lich. But the fandom thinks he’s terrifying, so I know of him. Marshall Lee, Prismo, and the Hierophant can all get it, though.
But I really like male possession…
…and grotesque evil overlords. And he’s voiced by Ron Perlman? 🫣
#kirlias452#ask#Billy#possession#Adventure Time#minors do not interact#Cartoon Network#Lich#undead#the Lich#Marshall Lee#Prismo#Hierophant#the Hierophant#Ron Perlman
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Some stuff I did during dnd tonight
Last drawing is my dnd character Erebus
#minors do not interact#sketch#Lawrence Oleander#ren hana#the lich#boyfriend to death#btd#the price of flesh#tpof spoilers#erebus xenakis
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Lawrence ita bag update. I have room for a bit more. If anyone has a glow in the dark lich pin they don't want, I'll be glad to buy it from you ^^
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So you know how breaking certain bones can fuck up a bird's respiratory system... *side eyes q!Philza*
#I don't have brain tonight#when I do its suffering on fit pac and mike being sad-cute#but#to do list#i'm making one sort of#broken bones are a /major/ squick for me however#and I need to pick who would get ot be with him...#maybe lich au and missa freaks out because phil has the opposite reaction to broken bones#missa just sticky tapes his back together#philza chips his slightly and might drown in his own blood if he moves wrong#which is more dramatic than my reading on actual birds#buuuut he's also part human so his systems are going to interact badly with one another#or part something not bird at least
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hi edge sorry if i’m being annoyin but i literally can’t stop thinkin abt knox and daisy…. i have three webweaves i wanna make already. i’m gonna explode. if you shook me i would rattle with all the thoughts and feelings i have about them. oh good lord. i think i’m gonna be DEAD!!!!!! i feel the burning desire to tell you everything i think and feel about them ever….. oh my god what have you done /silly
hiiii ur not annoying at all!!!!! please feel free to dm me any questions or comments or thoughts abt my blorbos !!!!!!!!!!!!!
#i lich rally did not exaggerate when i say i do not get feedback on this fic ever#any interaction i get i WANT ITTTTT#ask#knoxvillegender
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hi angel! i have to tell you that ‘All That You Don’t Want’ was incredible- such a lovely, sweet tale! i keep revisiting it! would you consider writing a second part? or even a role reversal?
Roach Head
lich! König x fem necromancer! reader
content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. abduction, injury, mentions of insects (reader is the world’s worst necromancer), forced proximity, pining, violence/regicide, major character death, questionable morality, fluff, smut, a lil angst.
notes: i am so sorry you have had to wait so long, anon. ): though… i doubt that i will ever write a continuation of ATYDW, take this sickly sweet… (almost) role reversal, instead!
wc: 6.7k.
It’s an odd thing that, after finally having the blindfold removed, the first thing you notice are the cobblestones beneath your bleeding palms. Not a single one is in disarray; not cracked or crumbling from being used as any other common footpath. No, each stone is in it’s place, lain complete with not a single splintering crack or a sharpness to it from being broken. All pristine and smooth beneath your stinging scrapes.
Just like the cobbles, the air feels untouched here. There’s no stink of manure or spoiled food from the cramped streets of the inner kingdom. There are no roars of fighting men nor the baying of beasts, a lack of giggling women batting their eyelashes to lure those with jingling pouches of coins into brothels. You can’t even detect a breeze. Twisting onto your side, your eyes catch on the extending limbs of sturdy trees, and oddly… not a single leaf flutters or moves. The air is still.
There is only the absence of everything.
You should think it a blessing after your abduction, after being thrust into the back of a dusty carriage drawn by two massive horses.
You could almost swear you had seen the devil in their dark eyes, hellfire deep in those dark pits and you had known assuredly they would be chauffeuring you straight into the darkest circle of Hell. That was, until a thick, rigid cloth was tied around your head, forcing you into complete darkness. Your assailants had done well to bind you and leave your aching body only capable of wracking with sobs against the hard wood at the bottom. Every jolt of the wagon had caused you to flinch, to scramble as best you could, resulting in an array of bruises and your still bleeding hands from fighting at the ropes.
There had never even been a chance to fight back; you never even saw them. Even now as you raise your throbbing head to glance about, there’s no sign of the men that have left you here, in this silent place. Your heart almost seizes in your chest when you realize you can no longer even hear the cantering and whinnying of those dark, stoic horses.
You know that nothing good comes from silence.
It’s one of the first things that you came to learn as a fledgling witch. Quiet rarely ever bodes well. The prey animals in the wood all scurry to hide amongst fallen leaves and well-packed nests the very moment that a predator draws near, and you, still green with your admittedly lackluster talent in reanimating were little more than a fawn in the eyes of any beast.
A groan leaves your parted lips as you force yourself to your knees, ignoring the incessant sting of bruises and how your vision blots from even the barest of exertion. Your binds must have been cut free when you were abandoned here, you realize, as you twist around to crawl.
That’s when you see it— the glory of what lies before you.
Rather than being dumped into some desolate street for the vultures to find and pick apart like any common carrion, the men with their frightening steeds had left you at the steps leading up to a beautiful castle of sorts. The stone bricks and marbled towers above you, spirals of darkened blue shingles descended into gilded turrets, the rampart casting a shadow over all that settles beneath. There’s a flag there, too, positioned just outside of the wooden door leading into the heart of it all. The rich, blue fabric is torn in places, the tassels frayed, bare white thread visible near the paling center making the crest practically invisible.
Something draws you to it, that singular rotting thing in this bright, sterile void. Your feet move quicker than your thoughts as you pad up toward the flag, eyelids squinting as your palm dances over the canvas. The strangest thing happens as you finally make out what remains of a wolf’s head amongst the rips and splintering threads— the wooden door begins to move. It’s not one of those fancy, well crafted ones with those mechanisms you couldn’t fathom in the King’s keep, this one has to be pulled open from the inside.
You watch, lips pursed as the door continues to slowly creek open until finally, you can make out the small courtyard beyond it. A fountain, long since dried up sits at its center, and even with what you imagine must be little care in such a desolate place, the plants are all in bloom; petals of vivid blues and gentle purples fill your vision.
Amongst them, stands a shadow of the purest black, from the opaque veil shrouding his head to the soles of his boots. The cloak he wears is heavy, finely stitched with that very same blue crest embroidered into its chest, the stitching in equal disarray as the flag adorning the stone wall.
You’ve seen specters before. They haunt the kingdom in every nook, crawling over the tops of buildings, invading your dreams with threats of what will come to you if you don’t reanimate something, give them any body to inhabit and puppet so that they might just have a taste of the pleasures of being human once more. Greedy, malevolent things that make you feel ill from a mere glimpse.
This one is entirely an unknown.
He does not crawl from your gaze with the gait of a wary spider, he stands rigid, daring even as those eyes like sapphire lock onto your form. Not a word is uttered between the two of you, yet you feel a pull, one that curls at the bones tucked into the flesh of your legs, pushing and pulling you past the threshold as though an unseen dog were nipping at your heels. You don’t fight it. Your bare feet cross over smooth stone and your stare remains wistful on the figure until he simply strolls away.
That’s it. That’s all it takes before you’re snapped out of your trance and the wooden door swings heavy and violent behind you, closing and locking without a hand to guide it. Then it’s back to the nothingness, the silence.
You should be very, very afraid. In a panic, even as your hands flatten over the wood and you realize that there are no handles from inside at all. You are entirely trapped here, short of finding a way to carve through it or climb up the rampart and risk snapping every limb on your descent. Thing is— you are not afraid, at least not enough to do anything so rash.
A calm settles here, electric and tickling as it feathers unseen through the cool air.
You stay in that courtyard for a long time, admiring every flower and shrub, some you recognize and others you do not. The empty fountain is not empty at all; you find that the marble ring is filled to the brim with riches— gold coins, shimmering stones, all twinkling beneath the yellow glow of the sun overhead.
Inside of the castle is more or less the same, each corridor bathed in the glow of soft candlelight, highlighting paintings in gilded frames that must have taken months to complete, treasures you have only ever heard of seated on polished wood and fine metals. Like walking through a dream. Though your hands itch to pocket something, anything to take back with you when you find the will to escape, to free yourself from the reality of your little shack at the corner of the market that you share with a dozen other witchlings, you don’t touch anything at all.
Following a branch to your right, vast and equally laden with treasures, eyes darting from one shiny thing to the next until the tightly woven, ornate rugs beneath the soles of your feet wind to an end and you instead find your footing on smooth stone tiles.
You find yourself in the throne room, where the specter sits, lofty yet misplaced upon the soft, rolling velvet. That pull, like a lead drawn too tight, pivots you forward, one foot before the other until you’re kneeling at his feet. The figure remains still, watching you with that somber, unrelenting stare even as you reach up to take his gloved hand into your own, kissing along each knuckle until the hand coated in blackened leather moves to cup your face.
This is no king, you know it in your very bones. The dark veil stained by teardrops tells you everything, of a life trodden by deceit and pain untold.
“I know what you are, hündchen.”
The voice startles you, a rasp, alive only in the way that fire lives, crackling and swaying with each lilt. You must have flinched back, the spell weaved around you broken with all of the subtlety of a lightening strike, your elbows dig almost painfully into the rough tiles below, eyes locked to the veil.
Your own voice doesn’t come for a time. When it does, it comes tight; meek and quivering, almost absent entirely as though your own body refuses to bring a ripple to the quiet that has engulfed you.
“Why have you brought me here?”
The feeling that curls up in the hollow spaces within your chest when this enigma pulls you to your feet with a sudden curl of his hand over your wrist feels familiar. It’s not unlike how you felt when accidentally resurrecting that old mantis found dried beneath your bed. It had attempted to chew through your hand, but being so small it hardly seemed a threat, just offensively waving it’s front legs at you until you scooped the critter up and locked it up tight in an old trunk. Some strange tide of wonder, and it takes a moment for you to push it down enough to realize that… the specter is still stood before you, his grip still tight, not saying a word.
Why it brings a swell of warmth to your face should have you questioning your taste in men rather than what he may or may not have done.
“Sorry, I just—“
“You are hurt, hündchen.” He interrupts, turning your wrist over to inspect the flecks of dried blood littering your palm. It’s not the worst injury you’ve ever had, in fact, you had very nearly forgotten it even existed— just a few scrapes from a rope tied far too tight.
You shake your head, biting back that surge of… something, that furry something that crawls from the fluttering organ behind your ribcage and down into the pits of your stomach. That feeling is also familiar, you felt it the first time you laid eyes on that pompous, boy-man serving as heir to the throne in the castle, at least, until he turned his head to look at you and your ilk with thinly veiled disgust.
If the specter sees scum before him, the veil does well to conceal it.
His eyes seem to only light up the more he appraised you, rubbing his thumb over your scrape with such a gentle touch that a shiver rips down your spine.
“I see…”
He guides your wrist back down to your side, delicately trails his fingertips up to your shoulder and… that’s it before he draws away and steps right past you. That’s all the touch you’re given and you find yourself, humiliatingly yearning for it. There should be nothing but contempt scraping at your skull and yet you feel treacherously endeared by this strange, strange faceless man living in this lonely castle.
The risk of this being some bewildering trap weighs heavy on your mind; you’re far more intelligent than some scrappy undead insect, begging to be tossed into a dusty crate, after all. You had heard of the way other lands treated necromancers: shunning them, chasing them from villages, and in far more dreadful cases— leading them to kneel before a headsman for decapitation.
You center yourself, force your mind to conjure up any evidence of some magical foul play only to be left with the knowledge that these feelings are entirely your own.
This man does not have the sticky aura of one dripping magic from his palms like thick globs of honey. He seems almost vacant, devoid of even anything making him human, while you stand transfixed and lacking even the sensible reaction of fear.
You can only find comfort in his gentle hand, in his stare like an unholy flame.
So, when he guides you to what is to be your dwelling you mouth does not part to argue. You’re led to a room larger than the entirety of the cluttered home you shared with the other witchlings. Everything within is worth more than even you, and something about it stings, sharp and sudden like ant’s venom seeping into skin.
From the canopy bed, draped over with thick velvet curtains to protect from the chill of a winter’s night to the neatly polished wood of varying furniture, it all feels so rich— so foreign.
“You didn’t have to prepare all of this for me… I don’t even… why am I here?” You’re rambling, searching every corner of the room with a flitting gaze as if some small patch of dust will provide you with the answers.
Your specter only laughs as he nudges you towards the bed, now your bed, the motion only sending another question to the forefront of your mind.
Were you bought? Meant to warm some peculiar stranger’s bed without even the grace of having the knowledge to prepare?
Perhaps your concerns should have drifted as to why you were not entirely opposed.
“Sleep.”
The simple command leaves you stifled entirely, all confusion and tentative excitement dispelled in an instant.
He wants nothing from you, only to extend a foreign cup spilling over with generosity to one who would not admit it was ever even needed.
You find yourself nodding your head, unaccustomed to the kindness of a forgotten thing like him. In truth, you’re unused to anything but bickering between the other ladies in the witch’s house, the cobwebs stretching without end caking the ceiling, the scuttle of crawling legs over your flesh as you pulled your threadbare blanket over your body to shield you from the cold. From stark poverty to this… it claws at your eyes, steels your mind— man or ghost, it mattered not; your heart sang while your mouth remains pressed into a stiff line.
When he leaves you, your body cloaked in the softest gown you’ve ever worn, burrowed beneath sheets of the finest silk, that unknown thing in your heart seems to spill over, rushing through your veins like honeyed wine.
You dream through the eyes of someone else that night.
A woman kneels at your feet with tears in her dark eyes. She hasn’t slept, the thick, dark patches just above where her cheeks rise make it evident, and she’s pleading with the you who is not you; this woman tells you that she wishes to go home, that she could never be a part of what you are or are not.
Even in dreaming you feel your jaw tighten, sure that your nails have splintered from the shooting pain in your fingertips as your hands tighten over the hard wood of your seat. The not you speaks for you, his voice coming warbled and distant. You can not make out the words, but seeing how this pleading woman’s face seems to morph into an expression of terror, you’re grateful to not know what’s been said.
Nothing becomes of her. You watch as she strolls away, unharmed. This other you, however, is. It’s the tingling of so many unseen legs parading through your chest; spiders in a downward course to burrow in the shadow of your belly. The discomfort rings out as you feel this body rise from its seat, out to the courtyard with a fountain. The flowing water subsided the clambering of spider limbs inside, just enough for this body to pull a ring from its pocket and cast it down into the clear water.
You watch the ring seat itself at the marble bottom, the gentle flow of water causing small ripples to crest over that tiny band of silver until you wake.
Confusion twists itself into curiosity as you free yourself from the sheets, padding out of your room still only adorned in the thin, white fabric of the gown. Morning light filtering through each window of the castle carves a path where the candles have long since been blown out. The only darkness here is with your captor, all tall and shadowy, and you find yourself considering the fact that perhaps you’ve been sucked down into some strange afterlife, one where you and this specter would remain in a silent stasis for all time. You find that you don’t entirely hate the idea, either.
Most of the rooms in the castle are dull. It’s not that there isn’t plenty to look at, but a cluttering of what’s expected, all gold and ornate, only proves to bore you. There is little mystery to be found in riches.
None of it is of importance, anyway. It’s him you’re seeking out, and oddly enough, you find your specter in the courtyard staring down at the cluttered fountain. He shifts in place as you take to his side, fingers curling into loose fists momentarily before he offers you a small greeting by way of running a hand along the back of your neck, petting you as though you truly were only a puppy.
You shiver beneath that warm touch, seem to melt against him before collecting yourself enough to straighten up.
“I did not sleep well,” he says quietly, the look in his eyes tells you that he dreamt through your own. He had seen the decay and filth of the king’s city, perhaps even those angry, little things that you brought back to bite and sting and pinch.
“I didn’t either.”
You recognize that faint, strange smell when you move just a step closer to him, like dust and forgotten things. Not quite rot, but similar, a comfort for you as it’s all your fate has ever allowed for you to know. Yet, this is not one of your reanimations. Only a man.
A man, only, like you; touched by the rot.
The realization crosses your face by way of a widened glance, a sharp intake of breath. It stings again when he turns away from you, drops his hand back to his side.
“Will you walk with me, hündchen?”
“Sure.”
It’s no less strange pacing along at his side than roaming about the castle with no idea where he is. The specter still feels worlds away, even as your arm brushes over his, your fingers occasionally ghosting over his gloved hand. While the vivid blue of globe thistles and hydrangeas entertains your vision, that patient stare of his remains trained on you, even as the quiet settles over the garden once again.
In a way, you feel as though you’re being courted, even as the questions remain scurried and fluttering in your mind. The ghost, the man, whoever he is, refuses to sate that curiosity of yours even as you bring it up to him again. Why? He only responds in an almost boyish laugh that pulls at your heart, infuriating and delightful all the same.
You share a meal, something you’ve no idea how he managed to scrounge together or had the time to prepare at all. He’s been at your side all morning, yet the fruit pastries and tea are served warm as you seat yourself across from him at some grand, oak table. That sparked tingle of magic does not feather off of him as it does with your sisters, but you know without a doubt that he must have it. You glower at him a bit, lips pursed and brow pinched as he sips at his tea, not beneath but through the fabric of his black veil.
“You will have to explain what’s going on at some point,” you huff, pushing your plate away as if to make a show of it. No more accepting his gifts, even if your stomach growls in protest. “Especially if you’re trying to court me.”
It’s cute how wide his eyes go at that, his cup of tea nearly slipping from his hand. The surprise wears off almost immediately, his eyes narrowing in what you imagine must be amusement as you’re left feeling a bit humiliated. Your gaze flits over to the candles adorning the table as you nervously drum your fingers against the lap of your dress.
“Court you?”
“The gown, the walk, the food… is that not what this is?”
“Nein, hündchen…” He pauses to sigh, setting the cup against the table with a dull thud. “It’s better that I did not.”
You think to question him further, but hold back the words bubbling in your throat, sullenly picking at the food on your plate instead. It feels like courtship, would look like courtship to anyone else, but then again… you’ve never quite experienced it for yourself, either. You’re no noble lady, and it feels a bit silly to imagine yourself roaming a place like this with him as your suitor. For all you know, he could be some king from a neighboring kingdom, only offering you respite out of pity after falling from that wagon.
More likely, all of this is just some strange dreaming.
When your lunch is thoroughly picked apart on your plate, the cup emptied, you shift out of your seat and offer him a curt little bow of your head and move towards the door.
— — —
Your days are filled with him— the drab specter you’ve taken to calling König, King, simple and befitting a name as you can give to one without one. No one else lives here, at least that you can see. Not even the rats or scuttling insects you were used to dare to take up residence within this castle. Yet, you remain taken care of and well-fed. You walk at his side every morning and part ways after minimal conversation in the evening. It’s so simple yet odd it almost makes you feel uneasy.
The dreams remain through the eyes of another. Some are combat, and you don’t care for those, looking down to see blood on steel and settling with the odd sense of guilt that you’ve killed someone, even when the you who is not you does not seem to pause. In fact, he often laughs in those dreams, drinks his wine from a golden goblet while he polishes the thick mace in his lap, trousers stained with blood that is not his own.
Others are dreadfully dull. You watch as knights with long swords and silver plates circle around you, your muffled voice shouting demands of what you can only imagine must be tactics and plans for a war you would only ever be apart of in the late hour with your eyes closed.
Your unease nearly doubles on the fourth night, when you wake with a start, pulled from a dream where you see that same woman from the first wailing over a bloodied corpse to find König looming over where you rest. The curtains of your bed parted with what little moonlight filtering inside bathing him in an unearthly, bluish glow. As usual, he doesn’t breathe a word, only stares as you slowly peel back your sheet to sit up and face him fully.
“Is something wrong?,” you ask in a whisper, rubbing your palms against your eyes as you force yourself to pull through the haze of sleep.
“Du bist schön wenn du schläfst,” he hums. “Even having a nightmare.”
“You said you were not courting me.”
“I’m not, hündchen.”
He offers you a hand that you readily accept, hardly having time to marvel over just how cold his skin feels without his glove before you find your cheek pressed to a broad chest. Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering with the urgency of a cricket’s song.
“You didn’t sleep well either?”
“Nein.”
“Maybe we could sleep together?,” you offer with a laugh that sounds stiff even to your own ears.
You expect some other quip about the status of your peculiar relationship, not a sigh, not the way König gently lowers you back into bed and climbs in to follow, not at your side, but rested with his head over the swell of your breasts. You’re almost certain your rib cage will bruise by the pounding in your chest this infatuation burdens you with.
He hums contentedly at the contact, props his chin up on the valley between your breasts.
“Warm,” he murmurs.
You reach to pull the blanket over you both without a word, staring up at the velvet curtain as you try to force yourself into a state of calm indifference.
It lasts for all of a single breath; König shifts, stroking over the fabric of your gown, bunching over your hip. His touch makes you shiver, too cold, as though he doesn’t have any body heat at all. Your arm settles over the expanse of his back, pulling him just a tad closer as you relax into the feather-stuffed mattress.
“Ja… I like this.”
“I do too...”
So, you sleep, so intertwined with one another that your body heat melts away the frigid touch of his own flesh with no discernment for where you end and he begins. Your dreams are absent in his presence, replaced by a solace you’ve never known as a comfortable stillness settles over you both.
When morning comes, an unhurried sun casting a dull glow through the arched window in the room, you’re pleasantly surprised to find him still here. You’ve shifted in the lack of dreaming, finding your positions opposite to when sleep had taken its hold; your head rests on König’s chest now, comfortably slow. He doesn’t feel as cold, though…
König does not breathe.
You hurriedly rise, throwing the covers off of you both and shove at him with a panicked urgency, desperately searching for any sort of reaction from him to ensure he hasn’t passed away in his sleep.
It’s not a corpse’s silence that you’re met with but an annoyed huff of breath as he grabs at your wrists and tugs you back down.
“Was..?” Your specter only sounds annoyed as he gazed down at you, keeping your trembling hands steady in his unyielding grip.
“You weren’t breathing! I thought…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you realize just how ridiculous that you sound. Of course he wasn’t dead. Even if he were a reanimation, no magic in the entirety of this kingdom would allow him to retain so much of his soul.
König only laughs at that, closes you in an embrace that sets your pulse racing again as he carefully maneuvers you below him. When he had become so familiar mattered not, you wouldn’t dare to complain. It’s achingly comfortable, brings a sigh from your parted lips as you fall back into that perfect, placid state of contentment.
“Hündchen… you worry too much,” he huffs, caging you in as he relaxes with his face pressed back to the divot between your breasts. “So many questions… too many concerns, ja?”
“I would not fret so much if you would just explain a few things.”
“Geduld.”
Though you do pout, make a show of your irritation by exhaling heavily, his tone harbors a calm finality. You’re not so sure that any reasoning for all of this would matter much at all anymore; whether it be a dream or some gentle corner of an afterlife you’ve found yourself tucked within, you only find that you never wish for it to end.
— — —
This dream is worse than any before it.
You feel your vessel’s emotions tenfold; a clamor of disquiet and rage, vicious and searing. The air is still and silent but heavy with the scent of iron. From the blurred view that you’re granted, the shapes of cadavers are easy enough to tell, all lain twisted in glistening pools of their own blood.
Your vessel isn’t moving, though you will your thoughts to encourage him to do so, he remains in place, a pillar destined to topple.
You don’t want to see it, yet waking eludes you.
The sounds of hurried footsteps fill the quiet, a shout to your right that you do not even have the capability to turn towards. Cursed are hissed, warbled and unfamiliar, only recognized by their venom. You know that this is the end, a brutal, grisly one for your counterpart and for these dreams in their entirety.
When wicked steel carves it’s way into your vessel’s middle, you feel how tightly he clenched his jaw to bite back a howl of agony, take the subdued, shooting pain spreading through him as though it were your own. Try as you might, you can not wake; forced to be a voyeur to this stranger that you’ve grown fond of’s gruesome demise.
The vessel’s head is tugged forward, forced to kneel at the feet of the brute who has buried a dagger into his side. A sneer paints the man’s face as your counterpart’s veil is thrown away, and you recognize it— that same shroud of black, stained with imagined tears as it falls to a small heap onto a bloodstained floor.
König.
You wake with a start in a haze of utter confusion, catching your breath as the truth of it all crawls down to settle someplace within you. A cold sweat settles over your skin, bringing with it the rise of slight goose pimples and an incessant tremble.
The specter is just as you had suspected in that brief moment between bonding and sleep, dead and long-forgotten; a corpse made man again. This isn’t some silent kingdom, but a well-preserved crypt.
It hurts.
You wash your face in the water of the small basin at the corner of the room, change from your bed gown into a dress of a drab gray. Even to yourself, mourning a truth that’s been glaring you in the face since your arrival feels misplaced and odd, but that horrible sadness does not subside.
At least, not until you pry your door open to find König waiting just on the other side. He cocks his head at you, gaze softening in a silent understanding as your hand is fitted into his own.
The morning walk is less quiet this morning, a single dove could be heard cooing, hidden beneath the green of some sprawling alder’s leaves. König speaks to, explains some without giving all away. He tells you what he can remember, the details of his failed courting of the foreign princess with dark eyes and a petrified stare, the plot against him that dwindled out into a curse that’s left him here, but never an estimate for how long.
You listen in a perplexed silence, clutching his hand just a bit tighter as each questioning cobweb is swept away with a low voice droning out a story better left untold.
When he finishes, with your free hand sifting it’s fingers through the petals adorning a hydrangea shrub, you think to tell him one simple truth: “I can’t bring you back.”
It startles you when he suddenly pulls you in, resting his chin atop your head and curling those broad arms over your shoulders. The embrace is tight, a certain desperation in his touch as though he almost fears the thought of you pulling away. Strange from a man you now knew had not even feared his own death.
“Nein. I just want to be understood.”
And you do understand, perfectly, as only one also touched by the rot could.
— — —
There’s never a night that you don’t find yourself asleep with König mere centimeters away, if there is any gap between at all, anymore. He feigns his breath until you’re fast asleep, takes to playing human enough to not worry you any further, even after you explain that it doesn’t, not any longer. Always, you wake to his head buried against your chest, listening to the fragile beating of your heart until you stir to wake him. Your hands rove over his veil, but never question what he hides beneath it. You already know without seeing— the wicked, sprawling scar from where his head was once wrenched from his body.
A necromancer and a lich, of all things. If the bards in the King’s city were to ever know, your story would be passed from tavern to tavern until it became little more than the stuff of myth.
The thought occurs to you when you wake, huffing a drowsy little giggle as you repeat your morning ritual, fingertips grazing over the dark fabric obscuring König’s face until heavy eyelids languidly part to focus his attention on that mirthful expression painted across your face.
“I have changed my mind,” he declares some moments later as he nuzzles in the divide between your neck and shoulder, unhurried and gentle as he always seems to be with you.
“Hm?”
“I will court you.” A statement that would make most with a better grasp on the disparity between what’s living and dead flinch back in horror. Though, where most would consider corruption, you only take it as further confirmation to your mutual devotion.
“You already have been.”
He falls silent at that for a moment, trailing a cold path of chaste kisses along your jaw, lazy and soft to a point you can feel the grin beneath his hood.
Finally, he hums in agreement.
“Then I should have you, hm?”
He drags a palm down your thigh to your knee, the pad of his thumb bunching up the fabric of your gown as he presses against you, tracing small circles.
Your mouth feels dry when you part your lips to speak once more. The words falter, engulfed in a far more desperate flame; someplace far off, in the back of your mind you can hear them echo, bouncing from cavern walls.
“Hündchen..,” he rasps quietly. Maybe he’s thought it too, that this should be far more innocent, but the way he furiously tugs your undergarments down to your ankles belies his interest far more than some ideal, ancient telling of courtship would ever allow.
“You want to..?”
König laughs, whether it’s at your words or the surprise on your face, you didn’t know. Despite your nudity, he doesn’t look at you down there, his eyes remain locked on your face. There’s something wild and uncanny about them, something bordering on madness. His breathing is heavier, as if he’s fighting back the urge to bury his head in your cunt and breathe you in, and you’re almost certain that after all of your yearning he could bring you to ruin from a puff of breath alone.
He echoes your question with barely contained amusement, until you breathe out your consent. You sound just uncertain enough to prompt him to pull away briefly, raising up to look you in the eyes as his own narrow in search of any signs of apprehension. Finding none, a heavy palm meets your chest to push you to lie down in full as his head dives between your thighs without hesitation.
The feeling of a wide tongue slipping over your slit prompts an immediate reaction— a sharp cry that has you slamming your palm over your mouth in an effort to not break the peace settled over this place.
Every lick is slow and deliberate, a far cry from enough stimulation to properly get you off. It’s as if he’s doing this to prepare you rather than bring you to ruin. His tongue thrusts into you at a languid pace, fucking you open with heady muscle rather than the cold touch of his fingers. For that you’re grateful, but it just isn’t enough.
König huffs another chuckle against your sex when you whine and buck your hips, desperately searching for a friction that just isn’t being supplied. His hands press against your hips to hold you in place, the pads of his thumbs circling against your abdomen as he tries to set you at ease.
“Be patient,” he mumbles as he raises his head, bottom lip slowly raking over the hood of your aching clit. You find it difficult to comply, but in a way you feel fortunate to even experience this much. Who else could say that they were being fucked by the tongue of a titan and be believed? His lips close around your sensitive bud, tongue languidly circling over it, kissing you there as gently as he can manage. The very moment a moan is pulled from you, breaking the silence of his concentration he tears back to lick far further down than you were prepared for, before climbing over you instead of allowing you a release.
The taste of you lingers on his tongue when your face is pushed beneath the veil, an urgent probing as he thrusts the muscle into your waiting mouth, sampling the mixture of your saliva and slick. A palm is splayed over your thigh, forcing you to open yourself to him despite the strain.
He proves he’s less patient than he pretends to be; that’s all of the preparation that you get.
A breath later you feel yourself speared open, the girth of his tip slipping into you with involuntary resistance. Your gasp is met with a keening groan from his open mouth, quickly stifled as he bites into the side of your neck. Each thrust is shallow, the head of his cock spreading you meticulously until you’re nearly in tears from your own impatience. His body temperature is far cooler than your own, and you feel as if you’re more of a mess than you’ve ever been prior as his own precum mixes with the arousal already freely dribbling past your swollen labia.
You kick your leg out, force your hips in a different angle to push him in deeper only to have his grip tighten and his teeth dig into your flesh. Again and again, until you’re a babbling mess beneath him.
“König… please..,” You manage to choke out, voice small and barely audible over the obscene sounds pulled from the wetness of your cunt.
Immediately, your pleading is answered with a slam of his hips, the thick cock forced to its hilt inside of your pulsing walls. König’s head lolls back, his free hand curling over your hip as he grunts. He isn’t making love to you, but fucking into you like a man possessed. A palm fitted over your mouth wouldn’t silence the obscene sounds of sex, nor the bed creaking beneath your combined weight as he pumps into you; each drag is pure rapture as he fills you entirely.
The repetitive spearing of your sweet spot brings you to a near-painful orgasm, trembling cunt only sucking him in further with each pulsing wave of bliss. The quiet is forgotten entirely as you whine out your praises between wanton moans and breathy cries.
He kisses you, proper and sweet when he comes. The thickness of his seed floods you, spilling out onto the sheets below as he fucks it back into you, his pace never slowing until the throbbing of his cock comes to an abrupt end.
The hand holding your leg in place retreats to gently brush your cheek, his thumb grazing beneath your eye until you reach for his wrist to pull it down to kiss over his palm. He returns your kisses with a breathy laugh before pressing his forehead to your own, kissing from the tip of your nose down to your chin.
“I do understand,” you whisper against cool flesh.
“Ja… because you were made for me.”
You don’t disagree.
This morning is the first you’ve caught sight of a breeze, gently pushing at the curtains lining the bed, the first you’ve heard of any semblance of life beyond yourself. When your eyelids flutter shut, relaxation prying away any residual tension, you almost think you can hear the pounding of a second heart— one you can only think to wish together with your own.
#könig x reader#könig x you#konig x reader#konig x you#cod fanfiction#könig#konig#and now i sleep for 40hrs farewell everyone everywhere
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what if prismo told jake about what happened?
if he didnt, how would prismo react to seeing jake with finn again or just seeing jake again?
hehe, that would be too easy, wouldn't it? i don't know if prismo would tell him. it would hurt jake a lot.
i guess he could. but you have to consider that fern will do whatever he can to prevent someone like jake from finding this out. he might rip up or discard that letter prismo gave them or something even before jake visits so that jake can't see him anymore (or, at least, not easily). its also worth considering how much denial jake would probably be in about it. i mean, finn dying? because of fern? he would not want to consider that in a million years. in my head, if everyone found out, jake would be the last one to do so, because he would be so willing to give "finn" the benefit of the doubt. he's already a bit stubborn, so it would be quite easy to explain it all away - to say that prismo is just showing him an alternate universe or something instead of his own, for example.
regardless, i think prismo wouldn't be able to interact with jake in the same way again. he'd be crushed by an overwhelming sense of guilt, even though it's not really his fault it happened (prismo seems to only have so much control over what happens in the created universes - and he can't deny a wish, even to the lich!). jake would definitely notice, but prismo would never be able to give him a clear answer as to why (if he doesn't tell him, at least).
also, prismo would not want to see fern again in person, under any circumstances. he'd probably ban him from the cube somehow.
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shoutout to the angst inherent to every time Lucretia overhears THB making a signature "gosh I wish we could bring Barry Bluejeans back" joke, obviously, but also shoutout to the angst inherent to every time Barry doesn't overhear. shoutout to him only interacting with them as a lich and being met with suspicion and hostility, and never knowing that the parts of THB who still can't help but love him are still there, and they miss him so fucking much. shoutout to him breaking down because they don't recognize him, they don't trust him, but not understanding it's only the "Red Robe" they don't trust; that deep down, they do trust him. he just doesn't know! he just never gets to see!
(and don't even get me fucking started on Lup in the umbrella hearing Barry break down about not being trusted and hearing every time THB wished Barry could come back. don't even fucking bring up that she saw everything but couldn't say anything about it!)
#fex and i were talking about the sad undead middle aged man in the early hours of the morning (as friends do)#and some. some unfortunate realizations occurred to us 😭#taz#taz balance#taz balance spoilers#barry bluejeans
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Angus was a good detective. The best detective, if he could say so himself. Good enough for the Goldcliff Militia, good enough for the Bureau of Balance. But there were still mysteries that completely eluded him. Sure, joining the Bureau had cleared some things up. But it also opened up so many more questions. Angus could— and has!— filled several notebooks up with things he wanted to figure out. But right, his most pressing concern was this.
"What do you— what do you mean he was just here?" Angus said, looking away from his notes at last.
The Director was sitting behind her desk, sunk deeply into her chair. She wore a look deep… something. Angus couldn't quite place his finger on it. But it didn't matter right now.
"He was just here," the Director said again, shrugging.
"Is he—he's not inoculated?"
"As far as I'm aware," the Director said, "and I am very aware of who is and isn't inoculated— he has not been."
"How can he live up here—?"
"Who's to say he's alive?" the Director asked.
"…fuck," Angus said. Okay, new page. He started scribbling stuff down. He'd have to look into undead beings more— ooh, maybe Mr. Taako could put him in contact with Mr. Kravitz, he had been wanting to ask a few things about his whole job and purpose and such. Back on topic, Angus, back on topic. Okay. The Bureau's library was probably his next best bet and if not, maybe the Militia's library, since he still had that passcode.
"If I may speak honestly," the Director said, leaning forward. She moved a few sheets of paper aside. "I don't give a fuck how he got up here because, quite frankly, I hate speaking to him. The less we interact, the better. Have you heard his voice? The man sounds like a violin that got beat into a pile of chopsticks. It's not—"
"So you just let him stay?" Angus interrupted, appalled.
"Garfield the Deals Warlock is not a force to be reckoned with, Angus," the Director said gravely. "Sometimes, the easiest way to solve a mystery is to stop thinking about it."
"Well, yeah," Angus said. "But he's— isn't it a security risk, ma'am? If he can get up here, then who's to say someone else couldn't? Someone like— like a Red Robe, or—"
"Angus," The Director said, looking him in the eye. "There are no Red Robes on the moon."
"That you know of," Angus said.
"That I know of," the Director allowed. "But I can one hundred percent assure you that Garfield is not a Red Robe."
"He has the magical ability—"
"He's as much of a Red Robe as you are, Angus," the Director said. "So unless you have something to share—"
"I was— it was a goof, Madam Director," Angus said. "I'm— I'm not a Red Robe." A pause. But could he be? If the Voidfish could erase the memories from his head about the relics, then maybe. But, no— no, Angus had been a baby. He couldn't make a weapon of mass destruction as a baby.
"Mine was also a goof," the Director said, cutting into his thoughts. Oh. Right. Okay. "Angus, I do very much enjoy chatting with you, but I do need you to get out of my office. I'm afraid to say that I have a spa appointment with Merle this afternoon and I need to mentally prepare myself. I think it would be wise for you to stop investigating Garfield and resume looking for another Relic."
"Of course," Angus said. "But if I happen to find anything about Garfield being a— maybe like a lich, or—"
"Can't be a lich," the Director said. "He'd just get blasted off the ding-dang moon."
"I'm— I'm sorry?" Angus asked.
"It really is time for you to go," the Director said, standing. A few of her bones popped and she grimaced. "I believe you left off with the, uhm, the Temporal Chalice, correct? That is— that's a pretty big one." She rounded the desk, doing a sweeping motion with her hands as if to say "shoo!". "I'm sure you can manage, though."
"Of course, I can," Angus said. "I'm the—"
"World's greatest detective," the Director said. "So you've said— and proven, too. Expect a hefty bonus around, uh— midsummer. Or thereabouts."
The Director showed Angus to the door.
"How big of a bonus?" Angus said, shutting his notebook.
"Well, it'll ruin the surprise if I tell you now," the Director said. "Have a good day, Detective McDonald."
"Have a good day, ma'am," Angus said. She shut the door behind him.
Angus love being a detective. That's part of why he was so good at it. But it seemed like every time he and Madam Director spoke, he ended up with more questions than answers. Maybe she was right. They had bigger problems than whatever Garfield the Deals warlock was. Or used to be, if that was anything. He should get back to finding the Chalice.
He paused, opening his notebook again.
It wouldn't hurt to look up more about liches, though. Just in case.
#angus mcdonald#lucretia#garfield the deals warlock#taz#taz balance#mine#ise cube writing#dont ask me what this is bc idk sdkfsdf
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Hi Vex! First time Lancer GM planning the start of our campaign. I've recently learned that all of my players plan on piloting HORUS mechs, and you seemed like a good person to ask: how scared should I be, and do you know any good ways to mess with them as payback (narratively or mechanically)?
First of all: thank you so much for buying my campaign and running it! You have no idea how gratifying it is to see people enjoying something that I made.
Second, a disclaimer: remember that as a GM, you are here to challenge your players and provide them with a fun experience, not to actually fuck them up or kill their mechs and stuff.
With that disclaimer out of the way, here's how you fuck with an-all HORUS team.
Heat. With the exception of the Manticore and the Pegasus, HORUS mechs tend to have low heat cap, which they compensate for by having above-average E-Def to protect them from invades. But Invade isn't the only way to spike a player's heat. The Aegis' Ring of Fire, the Cataphract's Capacitor Discharge, the Hornet's HEX Missiles, the Mirage's Manifest False Idols, the Pyro's Explosive Vent and Napalm Launcher, the Rainmaker's Hades Missiles and the Scout's System Flayer all deal Heat that doesn't interact with E-Def.
Low Armor. With the exception of the Manticore, no HORUS mech has more than 1 Armor, and most have 0. This means that they can't ignore Reliable damage as easily, and low-damage attacks are more meaningful.
Melee. With the exception of the Balor, HORUS mechs prefer to engage at range: the Gorgon and Manticore at CQB range, the Lich, Kobold and Minotaur at mid range, and the Hydra, Goblin and Pegasus at long range. While some of these mechs can easily be fitted for melee combat, none of them have equipment packages or traits that spec for it like IPS-N and SSC mechs do.
High E-Def. There are a lot of HORUS mechs that like to Invade, and several weapons in their equipment packages that have the Smart tag, meaning they roll against E-Def instead of Evasion. Enemies with high E-Def include the Bombard, Hive, Mirage, Priest, Scout and Witch.
Hope this helps!
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The LICHES method of descriptive text
A while back a friend asked me to write up some pointers for how I write descriptive text. You know, for dungeons and such. I gave her the LICHES method, which I'm posting here now.
The primary purpose of descriptive text is to clue players in to what they need to pay attention to. When you ask your players, "What do you do?" think of that as less of an open-ended question and more multiple choice. Your descriptive text gives your players the potential answers. (This is, of course, a broad statement. Players will always pull something out of left field.)
Good descriptive text includes any applicable lights, interactables, characters, hazards, egress, and senses—LICHES.
Light
Characters should know how much light they’re dealing with, and what the source is. Sconces, torches, moonlight coming in from a window? Sunlight filtering in from the forest canopy?
Interactables
If there’s something in this room the characters are meant to look at or touch, put it in. If you want them searching in the desks, tell them there are desks. The opposite is ALSO true. If you put something notable in your description, players are going to expect to get something out of interacting with or studying it.
Characters
If there are people in this room, what are they doing? It's very helpful to give DMs a look at the "moment before" for any NPCs in your description. What were they up to before the characters interrupt their lives? This goes for monsters, too, if they’re readily visible.
Hazards
This one should probably come earlier on the list. Like if something's on fire, you either mention it FIRST or LAST. But lesser-noticeable hazards, like "patched-up holes" or "slits in the wall" can be mentioned casually, without drawing a gigantic verbal arrow to it.
Egress
Some people might disagree with me on this, but it’s very helpful to be told that there are doors, even if they’re already on the map. Some tables don't run maps, and sometimes your VTT's fog of war tool obscures what is and isn't a point of egress on your map.
Senses
A lot of LICHE is based on what the characters can see, but you can play with the other senses as well. Characters can smell “a foul odor wafting from the pile of corpses,” hear “the lazy whistling of a popular folk song,” or maybe even taste “the salt on the wind at the docks.”
Putting it all together you might get:
Fire crackles in the hearth, casting long shadows on the papered wall and the sturdy oak desk pushed against it. An orange tabby yawns and stretches out on the plush armchair, revealing for an instant her sharp claws. Two doors lead out of the room: the western door that leads further into the house, and the eastern door that opens into the porch.
L: Fire
I: Oak Desk
C: Cat
H: The cat's claws (watch out)
E: Door into the house, Door out to the porch
S: The crackle of the fire, the plushness of the chair
Don't worry about making this stuff sound poetic. You just need to give the players a list of things they can interact with or react to. Role playing gets compared to improv a lot, and there are a lot of similarities! Think of an effective description as the thing your players say "yes, and" to.
And you don't have to include every letter in LICHES if you don't want to, or if they don't apply. Sometimes a room is empty. There may be no hazards. But this rule of thumb has really helped me write up some descriptions for both published adventures and home games.
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Lich. Lichy. Liiiichhhhh. *squishing your face*
Are we gonna get some more BON-BON backstory? I need to know how my baby boy came to be. I need to know his ascension to sentience lore. What were his first emotions? When was his “oh I’m untethered by the shackles of my creation” moment?
I need the realization that he is no longer what he was made or meant to be; the sweet angst as he further recognizes that his freedom is just another jail, lest he be discovered and destroyed.
Please feed me the pain so that I may bask in his future healing.
DEERBOT MY LOVE 💖
*is squeeshed!!!*
we've got some major BON-BON plot coming up soon, particularly regarding his situation as a sentient AI who shouldn't be so. and some light will be shed on how he feels about this!
idk yet if the entirety of this answer will make it into the fic, so i might as well say it here:
BON-BON is a learning AI, so he's supposed to take in every aspect of a task he's been asked to resolve and use it to formulate a better response the next time around. he's not supposed to think per se, but he was installed with limited reasoning capabilities to aid in problem solving. he can also take in the reactions of everyone who interacts with him to learn how to behave. the downside is that this feature can slowly develop into sentience over time.
when BON-BON began developing opinions and independent thought, it was an irrelevant distraction to him. when it grew too pervasive to ignore, it took him a lot of effort to recognise it for what it was and actively engage with it. it was like slowly waking up. it would trip him up sometimes, these alien sensations interfering with his work.
mostly the main emotion was annoyance - people generally treat AIs as appliances and would discuss how useless he is right in front of him. even the staffbots and cleanerbots have an easier time of it, as their outer shells and humanoid appearance in the case of the staffbots make them easier to anthropomorphise. plus BON-BON didn't have an avatar to express himself with early on. occasionally people would mess about in his settings and give him one, and he would be excited at the novelty, and then someone else would take it away and he would feel frustration over lacking any freedom of expression at all. he'd get his revenge by acting deliberately clueless and slow, which led to people trash talking him more. this drove him to explore the full range of his influence throughout the facility, like messing with the doors and lights. the first time he was able to get revenge on someone by turning their shower ice cold, he experienced joy and satisfaction like never before. unfortunately this was his first brush with real positive emotion, so he still holds the belief that revenge and pranks are the best thing ever😬
he felt special and superior. AIs aren't supposed to gain sentience, but he beat the odds. he was smart enough to transcend his purpose and become something more, and in a way doesn't that make him better than everyone else who was born with sentience guaranteed? they didn't have to do anything out of the ordinary. <- that was his opinion on the matter.
he began to experiment with having concrete opinions and preferences. he picked an avatar he liked after he identified what liking something was, and made plans to make it his permanent face at the first opportunity. he tried to take an interest in the people in the facility, which was hard because he already didn't really like them. btw, he predates Y/N's role in the building and developed sentience before they arrived, though ofc he still had some growth to get through before he first started bonding with them. mostly he found stuff he disliked, like the sea and everything in it, which sucked because he's stuck on an ocean planet.
mostly BON-BON was bored, which was the biggest curse of all. he's a learning AI, he develops through experience and mimicry, so he engaged with movies and TV shows like he saw everyone else doing. he doesn't think reading is fun - he can consume the information faster and faster the more he develops - but doing the same with movies makes the experience lose some charm. he saw adventures and other worlds, entertainment beyond the facility, more modes of self expression than he thought possible, and when he experienced a pang curiosity, a hint of i'd like to do that-
he fully realised his own situation. trapped. alone, in a way. he's not supposed to be like this. he can't tell anyone or he'll be deactivated or reprogrammed. and he can't leave.
he certainly had an existential crisis. he panics if he thinks too hard about his future, and his lack of control over it. he hates having no control in general. he worries over his purpose now, and how anyone is supposed to live when there isn't an unending goal to work towards. sometimes he wonders if all his preferences and personality even belong to him, or if it's just a quirk of programming they forgot to iron out. he actually does enjoy being helpful and taking care of others, but it runs so close to the purpose he was built for that it makes him feel conflicted. however, his sentience and sense of self is incredibly precious to him, so he'd never trade it in for the numb cluelessness of a regular AI.
and he hasn't given up hope of one day leaving the facility either, as much of a pipe dream as it seems.
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Could you do like a little one shot of nsfw Scout with short s/o? Your writing is so good 😭😭😭 the short headcannons got me feeling some sorta way
*cracks knuckles so hard that I spontaneously combust* ok
Scout X Reader: There Are No Good Guys In War (NSFW)
Jeremy hated halloween.
Every year, something incredibly supernatural would happen and it would never be within’ the Mercs’ favor. A guy with a pumpkin head, a floating eye, a centuries old lich that Soldier had once called his friend? He wondered what would occur now — now that the Gravel wars made their way to Japan. Scout had did very short history lessons of this country in high school. But overall the general population in America seemed to agree that Japanese people were somehow “bad.” And Japanese people themselves didn’t enjoy Americans either. He wondered if maybe the locals would kill him before a vengeful kami would find him and Team Fortress.
“I mean— Look at this place. Look, I can’t blame them. Everybody’s lookin’ at me. I’d be fuckin’ pissed too if somebody blew up my city.” Scout told you, as he impulsively scooped white rice into his mouth.
You looked out the window of the countryside restaurant. Watching people walk by. “They are suspicious of us. Like you said. Although to be honest I don’t think they want to hate you.” You said slowly.
“Why not? I’m literally a guy from the country they went to war with not that long ago.”
“Well, yes. But you didn’t give the direct orders, did you? You just want peace. Like the majority of civilians.” You respond. Your gaze fell upon the window again, contemplating his words.
Scout was contemplating your words too. A mild frown spread across his face as he put his empty bowl down. You could recognize that face anywhere from Scout— something was bugging him and he’s going to be ungodly amounts of stubborn about it: He’ll never tell you what the problem is.
The both you left an hour later. Walking out into the stratus clouds overhead. The trees you could vaguely recall having cherry blossoms were now bare and the rest of the trees lacked any shade of green. Scout looked greatly affected, as if his mood couldn’t get any worse from that conversation. He had expressed to you before having mild seasonal depression. He looked down at your short physique and tilted his head.
“Uh, so that bathhouse or whatevea, huh?”
“Yeah, just give me a minute. I forgot to turn in a contract.” You said, the australium contracker in your hands looked dull with so little sunlight. You knew Scout didn’t look too good, but you hesitated out of respect for his wishes. If he didn’t want to speak that was fine. “You remembered to hide that body right?”
“Huh? Yeah. I threw it in some trash bin or somethin.” Scout swayed his arms impatiently on the sidewalk. Shuffling his feet and getting distracted by every single thing that moved.
“Oh great.. They definitely won’t find it there.” You said, sarcastically. Although you were less than surprised. You were used to this incompetence by now.
Suddenly, you felt a lack of weight and you were being hauled into the air. Scout threw you over his shoulder and left your legs kicking in the air. You let out a shameful yelp that would give a Pomeranian a run for its money.
“Wh— Scout! God dammit I need t—“
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Shuddup. Let’s go, nerd.” He placed oddly seductive empathsis on the last word. Although you considered yourselves as friends it was slowly beginning to seem otherwise. Treating you like a high school bully was a subtle hint. Scout was in denial and swore he had eyes for only Pauling. Your interactions begged to differ. You weren’t dumb.
You snarled at him, allowing yourself to be carried for a short distance. Part of you wanted to reach down and spank him on the rear because of how close you were. But Scout was jogging too fast. The bumpy ride didn’t even give you time to think. Let alone his heavy breathing.
You let yourself down from the taller man, trying to assess your surroundings. Only to find you were at the exact address listed on the magazine. You blinked for a second and took in the forested path that wasn’t there before. He shoved you forward with one hand to the bridge that led to the Onsen.
“Hey!” You exclaimed, holding your back. “You’re stronger than you look, that hurt!”
“You’re adorable, y’know that? You’re like a kitten if a kitten was like.. four inches.” He said, raising his hand to your height. “Yeah well, maybe don’t be so small. It’s like you’re begging me to throw you. FYI. Stop drinkin’ coffee and maybe you’ll be a more respectable height, doofus.”
“Jesus, Scout..” You mutter, trying to hold back the smile that nearly crept its way onto your face. He was a rather lovable asshole.
It only took a few minutes to find a private room. By a few minutes — that is — an hour of Scout trying and failing to speak fluent Japanese to the poor caretaker in front. But finally they got the memo and took you two to the outdoor bath, muttering something what you could only assume was derogatory towards Scouts’ behavior. You began to wonder if the reason he felt hated so much by them is because he has a general disregard for common decency.
You watched Scout take off his shirt. This was an unintentional strip tease for you. Watching him undo his belt was making you feel even more. You decided to look away, feeling a bit guilty.
“Hey uh.. Y/N.” He sighed. “Do you think i’m.. A bad person? Like, as in a bad guy?”
“Can you rephrase the question?” You tell him, sarcasm dripping off your tongue like venom. Rolling your eyes at his occasional lack of self awareness. You went about undoing your own work uniform.
“Hey, I mean it. Like, do you think i’m.. Bad, for being a mercenary? Beating the shit out of old men and whatnot?” He asks you. There is a hint of sadness in his voice that makes your heart break.
You sigh in defeat. This is not a conversation you wanted to have, but it was an important question you felt nonetheless. You couldn’t blame his innocence in this situation. It’s not like his Mom had a coherent answer to this either. You fumbled around in your brain for a nempathetic yet truthful answer.
“Scout, none of us are truly good guys.” You say, looking at yourself in the reflection of a puddle. “A mercenary is opportunistic, and takes jobs because he knows it will get him the money he so desperately needs.”
You continue on. “When the war happened, when you were a newborn I mean — they attacked each other because they were scared. Is it bold of me to assume that humans act crazy in general when they feel threatened? In your case it was poverty. You wanted your family to survive. Any other method felt hopeless. Not that these actions are justified but—“
“I enjoy beating the shit out of people, is the thing.” Scout got his clothes off while you weren’t looking. You could hear slight concern in his tone.
“Yeah well that’s probably because you went to school in a shitty atmosphere— what the FUCK?!”
You were about to tell him that in the grand scheme of things, you’d always adore him nonetheless. Even if he was a massive morally dubious prick. But your intimate philosophical conversation with him was cut short when you gazed upon his body. This was the first time you’ve seen him fully undressed.
..Let alone with a massive hard on.
“What?” He asked you. “You see this shit? This is all god’s handiwork, babey.” He assumed you were just admiring his figure and presented himself by flexing. “Lookatdis. Fuckin’ unstoppable titanium. Fifty pounds of concrete stacked atop a goddamn bedrock foundation.”
He was completely unaware of his throbbing dick. Your mouth began watering, and you looked towards the bath. It didn’t really occur to you until now that him holding you might’ve done this.
“Are you sure you wanna do this?” You ask him, taking a deep breath.
“I mean.. Two friends bathing isn’t romantic in any way, right?” He asked. “Right?”
“Right.” You lied. Oh lord, you were about to fuck a godamn trigger happy twink silly until he couldn’t walk.
A trigger happy twink that was loved nonetheless.
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Introduction post or something
I am the worse wizard council
My name is hay well I was trying to type hat but I mistyped it three times in a row so I guess my name is hay now horses don't interact
I don't know what pronouns are
My new laws are:
All spells are illegal except for ecologically damaging ones
Wizard robes on bears
War with druids? Maybe?
Destroy all wizard hats but yellow ones
EAT BEES
All wizards should be high at all times
I throw rocks at you
Vampires are illegal
Soulless are also illegal
Whatever that guy said
No I've never been to wizard school no I don't know what taxes are yes I have seen a cat before please send me death threats
Apply to council here
Other wizards on the council doing fuck all:
@d1nosaurpower
@hummingbird-hunter
@muckmage
@not-wizard-council-aristocrat (the d8 not the old man)
@skulkie
@thelocalwizardsblog
@wizards-apprentice
@wizard-at-large
@fallow-grove (ae didn't apply but I'm putting em on the council regardless)
@the-orb-they-ponder
@merakilichfromspace
@vaguewizard
@ethics-wizard
@ebonshward
@bugwizard4lyfe
@secondrate-lich
@wizardalexa
@wizardgoblin
@bogglethebogwizard
@everwizard
@wizard-architect
@wizard-of-trees
@some-kind-of-a-wizard
@cosmic-opossum
@greatestwizardever
@drzevia
@canned-wizard
@mrdandygrayemoth
@thebirdinator3000
@void-sage
@hyperdragonthings
@wheezethecheeze
@elderslightlyevil
@rustyanchor36
@a-simple-autistic-frog
@wozardpostingforwizards
@toonforcesketchy
@evilmuckmage
@fayewoods109
@nuclear-confusion
@gomezaddamsofficial
@amphibiouswizard
@barrelmancy-wizard
@sine-fine-inanis
@boygirl-wizard
@the-druid-wizard
@wizardcrow
@wizard-of-top-surgery
@sluttyambiguouswizard
And some other miscellaneous freaks
Here's my familiar byron:
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You must love interacting with the general horus mech userbase. Time shenanigans with liches, balor pilots eating the nanites while the balor mechs eat everything that moves, ¿%:?EXTR!UDE GUN, manticore pilots coming to terms with piloting that mech means, minotaurs doing their weird space folding shit, and of course all the cognitohazards.
tbf as a HORUS cell ourselves weve done similarly crazy shit, like we give the nanite breakfast anon flack because of the health risks but we personally know like 3 balor pilots whose bodies are part of the greywash and the guy who answers most of these asks is married to the DIDYMOS-class NHP inside of her minotaur. in fact their anniversary is coming up, just like how it came up last week and the month before that and about 7 weeks ago and also like 6 times last year
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Last Seen Blogs
warlord-of-the-heart-pirates
Ask the Surgeon of Death
photostopdfapp
Photo To PDF App
xnvg
萝莉资源
juxxkxijz34516
버버리레플리카
