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trappolia · 1 month

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KISS ME ONCE AGAIN ── silver x gn!reader, 1.6k

silver has always taken his time with you.

he has never been able to tell you why. lilia says that it is just the way he is, ever since he was a boy. he plays by the rules. he goes by a routine that is, as much as possible, not too affected by his strange sleeping habits.

it is why he goes through the meticulous steps of courting you, offering you flowers and gifting you with thoughtful trinkets and even writing letters for your family while your worlds remain separate. it is why it had to be you to take the first step and kiss him one night during a star-gazing date because gods damn it all, you’re sick of waiting.

( silver laughed and laughed that night as you apologised for your callous actions; because you were so cute, because he was so in love, because it all felt like a dream come true when he allowed himself to ignore tradition to cup your cheeks and pull you into another kiss. )

silver discovers very early on that even when he takes his time, it's all still overwhelming. like a dream come true, he used to tell lilia in bouts of deliriousness when he's still caught between dream and reality and his mind is too muddled with sleep to care about embarrassing himself in front of the fae who had raised him.

like a dream come true.

but what is his dream, exactly?

a cottage deep in the forest of briar valley, with ivy growing up the walls and over the red-tiled roof. soft, packed dirt with growing flowers of all kinds, spring blossoms of pink, yellow, blue, red, protected by a low wall. there are no horrors with dripping ink and dragging claws, no glowing emerald eyes or scaled wings. just grass and flowers and sky and nothing.

no. not nothing. because there's you.

"i just cleaned, so remember to take off your boots by the door!" silver hears you call out from inside the cottage. his chest quakes as he lets out a ragged breath, his bag dropping as he rids himself of the extra weight.

the floor below his dirty boots is clean slate compared to the cluttered kitchen to his left and the living area to his right. silver sees the same threadbare couch by the stone fireplace, cluttered with throw pillows and blankets and an unfinished knitting project. the couch is old. used. loved. there are some closed doors beyond the stairs, but silver doesn't have to check to know what lies behind them. his old childhood bedroom where lilia used to tuck him in. a bathroom that has been flooded one or more than a few times when he got too carried away with playtime. the small study where he used to have his lessons on reading and writing.

there's something about the sight of his childhood home that sets silver off, as if he’s caught in crosswinds, but he fumbles his way inside anyway, toeing his shoes off out of ingrained politeness. his footfalls feel heavy and light all at once against the wooden floors as he walks — almost as if by habit — to the kitchen where he had heard your voice come from.

"there you are," you beam at him, putting a kettle of water on top of the same stove that silver had watched his father cook his meals so many times. your brows furrow when you notice the strange expression on his face; the emotions whirling in his aurora irises like a hurricane and the trembling of his bottom lip.

you frown, wiping your hands on a cloth rag. "silver? what's wrong?"

silver lets out a ragged breath, his hand shaking as it comes up to cradle your own as you cup his face in your palm. what is wrong? this is all he's ever wanted, isn't it? a life with you in the woods he had grown up in, free of worries and dangers and hurt and anger. he's built a home with no fear, no yelling, no uncertainties. just like the life lilia always wanted to give him.

it's a dream come true.

"you're a dream," silver whispers when he realises, his hands coming up to cradle your face in turn. he's shaking, he knows that even with his mind whirling, but he just can't help it— he has to touch you, make sure this isn't— this isn't a nightmare—

no. no, no, no. malleus wouldn't do that. this is his dream. this is what his heart has always yearned for.

"my dream."

"well, aren't you sappy today?" you muse, lips quirking up in that soft smile that silver oh so adores to kiss. "what's the occasion?"

"i—" silver opens his mouth, but no words come out. what can he say? what can he do, knowing that this is all he's ever wanted, but this is a dream. this is a dream and you're not real but gods, does silver want you to be.

a beat passes, and your smile turns sad.

"you know, don't you?"

silver feels his heart ache. he wants to tell you no. no, please keep this veil over my eyes. pretend i don’t know this isn’t real. please. please.

you reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear with such tenderness that silver feels like crying. “you’ve always been so smart, silver.”

“i’m sorry,” he allows himself to say, because this is the least he owes you— this perfect imitation of you that his mind, malleus’s magic, has managed to conjure, because in the short time you’ve known him, you’ve managed to ingrain yourself into every fibre of his being so that even under this spell, all silver can dream about is you, you, you.

silver doesn't want to wake up. he doesn't, he really doesn't. there's something in him that pulls at his heartstrings, tugging at every vein and nerve as if begging him to stay, please stay. there must be a reason why you're always falling asleep, why this had to happen. just stay. this is a dream come true, why would you want to wake up?

“you’re still there,” silver says in a voice so small, it feels like he’s a little boy again, crying and clinging onto lilia like the fever that sticks to his skin and reminds him of his mortality.

“you’re still there, and i’m here.”

his childhood home is small, but within the cottage and with your hands cradling his face, the thick walls feels unnaturally closer, like something is breathing on the back of his neck. he’s reminded of you, somewhere in night raven college, trapped within your own dream. do you think of him, he wonders? has he become your new dream, just as you have become his?

will he ever see you again?

silver can't bear the thought of you somehow waking up from your dream — a matter of when rather than if, because silver knows that you've always had a knack for getting out of impossible situations like this — and realising that he had left you alone to stay in this eternal sleep, with this dream– this illusion of what could have been.

“i have to go,” silver whispers, and his heart breaks because this might be a dream, but it’s still you. how can he tell you he’s going to leave? he can’t do that. he can’t break your heart like that, he can’t—

"i'm sorry. i'm sorry— i'm so, so sorry.”

he expects you to stop him. what do the stories say about dreams where you’re supposed to be kept unaware, blissfully oblivious to the fact that this utopia is not your reality? silver expects this dream version of you to pull some sort of trick to lure him back into your trap—

but instead you just smile softly, reaching out to stroke his face, "how lucky i am to have someone like you love me."

silver hears something crack, resonating in his soul. is it the chains of malleus’s magic breaking its hold on him, or the last pieces of his heart shattering at last? he doesn’t know.

maybe it’s both.

but whatever it is, silver knows he doesn’t have much time. his hands cup your cheeks, pulling you close to him with the desperation of a dying man.

he feels you gasp against his mouth, lips parting and allowing his tongue to slip inside. he maps the cavern of your mouth as if immortalising it in his mind, like he’ll never see you again after this— because that is very well a possibility, no matter how he tries to ignore it.

silver kisses you like it’s his last day in this godforsaken world, because it might as well be, and great seven, he should have done this every time he kissed you. he should have kissed you first. he should have kissed you every moment he could instead of taking his time because now he can hear the sand running in the hourglass, and he’s blind to how much time he has left, and he just wants to see you in the flesh again, please, please, please—

the two of you part an eternity later, but it still feels much too soon. there’s so much love in him, and too little time, and silver feels like drowning.

"wait for me," silver pleads. he'll make this dream come true, he swears. he’ll give you all the love he has in this wretched body of his, and then some. he’ll never sleep again even, if only to make this dream come true.

"i will," you whisper breathlessly—

—and with a bittersweet smile and a final, fleeting kiss to his lips, you let him go.

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mokulule · 3 months

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The Number You Have Called Cannot Be Reached - part 11

First | Masterlist

Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason) Fandom: DP x DC Summary:

Danny is just trying to build a portal home, becoming a thief was just an unfortunate side effect of that goal. Now if only this vigilante family would just leave him alone. Especially Red Hood - the semi retired crime lord whose ghost-like presence keeps drawing Danny to him.

Part 11:

Danny took a running leap and landed lightly on the next shoddily tiled rooftop. He’d lost the midget in the Southside factory district and now he was in some sketchy neighborhood with smaller buildings. It was on ground level, but it seemed almost like it was sunken into a hole as the rest of the city had grown up around it and swallowed it - one of the main highways even went plain over it.

Danny stopped for a moment catching his breath. The roll of heavy duty cable slung over his shoulder was… well heavy. He looked out over the mishmash of old neon lights and newer LED signs for bars, nightclubs and little kiosks. In the alley next to Danny’s building money was exchanged for services Danny was not sticking around to watch. Blushing, he skipped to the next roof, taking care to land silently.

He should just disappear, he was far enough away from his own hidey hole and he was tired. He was always so freaking tired.

But…

Well, first off he wasn’t phasing through a night club to go underground.

And secondly…

Red Helmet hadn’t showed up.

That was a good thing, Danny told himself frowning, as he walked along the spine of the newest roof, dodging around chimneys. The past weeks had been torture.

Every time the Red Helmet had shown up it had been so hard not to go to him. He’d wanted so bad to give in, to just for moment heed the call of his core, the promise of companionship, comfort. Refusing that instinct was agony. And Ancients, Danny remembered how he’d looked in civilian dress, in that well worn henley, broad chested and with those big arms, he probably gave great hugs - if only he wasn’t one of the vigilantes trying to capture him… And if he wasn’t absolutely terrifying.

Danny shuddered, remembering how angry he’d been last time, yelling for him to stop. Yeah… Red Helmet was… He was an anglerfish, a lure, a treacherous light in the dark, that he had to resist, and last time he’d shown his teeth.

Red Helmet not showing up was a good thing.

Danny stopped and looked up to the cloudy night sky, jaw tight. It was a good thing. Why did he still feel so bereft?

He pulled the goggles down around his neck and rubbed his wet eyes angrily. Fuck it all, he just wanted to go home already!

His only warning was an electrical bzzt and he threw himself to the side instinctively. His eyes widened in fear as he only barely dodged two sticks sparking with arcing lines of electricity. Every hair on his body stood on end. The entire world narrowed in on those two weapons. He jumped backwards, uncaring where it took him he just needed to get away.

Something hit his back and stopped him. His hands touched brick: wall. One of the sparking weapons was swung in lazy swirls as the dark shape attached to it bent down to pick up the roll of cable that had caught on a small chimney. Danny touched his shoulder, finding it bare of its earlier cargo. His hand tightened into a fist angrily and he cursed himself for not paying better attention.

The shape got up and while half Danny’s attention was on the electrified weapon, he could now see it was Blue Bird. Danny had encountered him before, though only a couple of times. He’d been the bantering, good natured sort next to the angry midget, and he hadn’t known those sticks he used for weapons could do that.

Realization ran cold down Danny’s back; Blue Bird hadn’t thought he needed the electricity before, but he did now.

Blue Bird moved and Danny ripped himself free of his petrification. Casting around he realized the wall was not a wall, but a pillar and most importantly neither was a thing that could stop him. It was only at the last second he went intangible and stepped backwards. The metal sticks clanged against the bricks where he’d stood.

The sound of Blue Bird cursing, was a dull far away sound, as Danny started shaking. He kept a tight desperate hold on his intangibility but still felt himself losing focus. He quickly had to go somewhere.

He dropped down until he found one of the many flood pipes that handled overflow if the sewers couldn’t handle the pressure. Something that seemingly didn’t happen too often judging by the dry debris left here. You could say what you wanted about this city, but the web of underground channels and tunnels was impressive, and the city was if nothing else prepared.

He set down carefully and then let go of his intangibility. He was still shaking. His heart was pounding too fast. He wrapped arms around himself and took careful deep breaths even as his body told him he wasn’t getting enough air. But he was, he knew that was the panic speaking.

He fucking hated electricity.

Hated it. Hated it.

You would think he’d be used to it by now. When he died, all the times Vlad shocked him, Vortex, that time Valerie tortured him in a basement, the- He forcefully shut down the thought.

He should be fucking used to it by now!

But he was not. Especially not when it came out of nowhere like this. He’d frozen. They could have caught him. Danny could not be caught. Could not. Could not. Could not.

Shakily he breathed in slowly through his nose and let it out.

They were going to use electricity again. There was no way they wouldn’t take advantage of a weakness like that.

He’d lost the cable.

Red Helmet hadn’t shown.

And why did he keep coming back to that! Of all things that should be the least of his worries. It was a good thing. It was.

It just didn’t feel like it.

Oo o oO

Tim didn’t blame Bruce for letting him take point on this.

After Jason had pointed a gun at him, he was rightfully shaken. Oh, he pretended not to be, but anyone who knew him could tell. There was a furrow edged on his brow even when he played Brucie whenever someone wasn’t directly interacting with him. He was worried and afraid.

And Tim got it. He had been there for everything. He understood how terrified Bruce was of losing Jason again, just as things had been slowly looking up. Bruce was drawing back, which was for the better. The alternative, that Bruce might come to a point where he thought something needed to be done about Jason, was too terrible to imagine. He would do it too, set aside his emotions, and do something, if he thought it was for the best. None of them needed the fallout of a Bruce who’d convinced himself Jason was too dangerous.

He was dangerous. But, thinking of the broken mirror, bleeding feet and tired eyes, Tim thought he was more dangerous to himself.

It had been a painful realization to make. Tim had gone to Jason, with the mission in mind, only to find that maybe Jason had needed someone to check up on him for him. But even worse, Tim couldn’t be that person, because they didn’t have that kind of relationship.

It wasn’t fair.

In an ideal world Tim got to be Jason’s annoying little brother. In an ideal world Tim wouldn’t be afraid of Jason.

What Tim could do was solve this issue. He took a deep breath and put all his emotions aside, they could wait. He was a plans guy and they needed a plan.

Tim surveyed the mess of papers he’d made of the table, as he’d pulled everything off the evidence board. It was time to start from the beginning.

He sorted through and found the “meta?” sign, crossed out the question mark, and hung it in the center of the board.

In the beginning they’d thought primarily that the Ghost used cloaking tech, but the phasing had made that very unlikely, and Duke had all but confirmed the meta theory when he told them he sorta glowed to his senses. He sorted through the papers and trashed those old theories.

He put the known powers back up, then paused when he found the little scrap with a silly cartoon ghost Dick had drawn and put up in the corner of the original board. It had eventually gotten covered with something else and Tim hadn’t seen it when he took things down.

Now he considered it with a sigh, and pinned it next to the powers. Ghost was as good a codename as any and Tim suspected it was only Barbara who still refused to use it because Dick was obnoxious about it. And, Tim moved on to the picture of the phone to pin it back up, there was the fact that the recovered messages said nothing but “ghost”. So there was some connection. He marked that connection with a piece of string to the cartoon ghost.

The short contact list went up with the phone picture.

At some point when this was all over Tim needed to take a closer look at that phone. He had no idea how that brick managed to get any signal, much less how all the contacts were out of service when called from that phone, despite some of them actually being in service. Yet, it could somehow call other existing numbers fine, both local, out of state and international.

It made no logical sense!

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and let it go.

Danny Fenton? went up above meta, they were reasonably sure that was his name. Next Tim took the list of known thefts and dates and hung it up on the left side of the board. Then added Star Lab break in a bit higher up. There was about three weeks in between the Star Lab break in and their first recorded sighting. It could mean anything. He could have stolen numerous things in the mean time without being discovered, or only just gotten to Gotham.

Tim had scoured crime reports of Metropolis and other nearby cities for thefts that fitted Ghost’s MO, but had found none, so for better or worse he seemed to be sticking to Gotham for now.

He put up buyer? And building? Underneath. Tim still had the terrible hunch he was building a portal that would end up destabilizing reality, but since he had nothing but his gut feeling to build that on he couldn’t put it on the board - not the board in the cave anyways.

He trashed a few dead end theories, found a scrap of paper that simply said “electromagnetic interference”. He held it in his hand for a moment, something niggling in his brain, but it was only half formed, he turned around and pinned it under powers and let it go.

Next he pinned up the “weaknesses”. Finally, thanks to Dick’s temper, they had something. He’d not been pleased to come home from his mission to the state of things being even worse so he’d gotten serious and treated the Ghost as an actual threat.

Tim wrote electricity on a new scrap of paper and then put it under weaknesses. He tapped his chin with the capped marker. The Ghost’s behavior was odd. With the abilities he had, why even play chase with them?

He didn’t use the phasing to escape them early on. It was only when Jason entered the picture that began. Was it because the ability had a limit? Did it cost him to use it? Also what prompted the odd reaction to Jason that first night? And what about it made the Ghost so desperate he’d disappeared on them as soon as Jason was in sight?

Tim grabbed a new scrap of paper and pulled off the cap on the marker. He had to resist the urge to write “Jason” on the scrap, he’d keep that thought to himself, and instead wrote “limit?” And hung it under weaknesses with electricity.

There were more papers on the table. An analysis of the electromagnetic signal he gave off, that Tim had used to reduce noice in their visuals and audio. Pictures of the protein bars and the backpack. A map with every place the thief had disappeared on them marked: aka basically spread all over Gotham. A blood sample readout that was too degenerated for a useable DNA sample. These things didn’t go in the trash, but they weren’t important for capturing the Ghost, instead they went into a folder and put to the side.

Table now clear, Tim noticed his favorite mug full of steaming coffee and a plate of cookies set near the edge. He smiled and rubbed a hand through his hair self consciously. He hadn’t even noticed Alfred had been by, but he was a lifesaver. He would have to thank him later.

He took the mug and a cookie and sat himself on the table, surveying the evidence board. He sipped the mug savoring the good coffee. It went perfect with the chocolate chip cookie.

His eyes rested on “electromagnetic signals” again. It had been one of Dick’s early “proofs” that their thief was a ghost - if you subscribed to Ghostbusters lore at least. Tim rolled his eyes. The real reason the ghost couldn’t be a real ghost was that he was visible at all. Only magic users could see ghosts without a spell to make them visible (Something Tim was pretty sure Dick knew). He didn’t actually know whether the electromagnetic disturbance was a real ghost thing, the JLD didn’t need such tools after all when they could see them just fine. And besides if it was it probably wasn’t to the degree the Ghost gave it off.

Would an EMP do anything? Probably not, since they were convinced the Ghost wasn’t using technology at this point, but a small localized pulse couldn’t hurt to try.

He took another sip of his coffee, contemplating, he needed something better. They could run the Ghost around all they wanted, but unless they stopped that phasing, he would get away every time.

Jason couldn’t continue staying out of it like this. They’d chased the Ghost once without him and he was worse than a tiger in a cage, and twice as vicious. Tim scoffed, if only they could put the Ghost in a cage-

Tim’s thoughts crashed to a halt.

No, they couldn’t- it’d never work- but if they-

He jumped off the table, took three steps, then turned back to put down his mug and cookie. Then hurried over to the where they had the maps. With nimble fingers he sorted through the rolls only barely skimming the tags before discarding and moving to the next. They had to have- Got it! A utility map of the industrial area in Southside Gotham. He grabbed it and hurried back to the table. Unrolling it he placed the mug and the plate to hold down the corners even as he was already scanning the map looking for-

There!

It may be a while until the Ghost hit the area again. And they would need all hands on deck for this and preparations had to be made. But…

Tim smiled. They had a plan.

So we've gotten to this point :D Hope you enjoyed it! Comments will keep me warm on my night shift tonight <3

You can subscribe to the story by subscribing to the masterlist

#dp x dc #dead on main #Jason is catnip to Danny #missed connections #The trap is set #watch out Danny

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five-rivers · 2 months

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Season of the Skies

I started playing a game called Sky: Children of the Light recently, and although this isn't a crossover, it's definitely inspired by the vibes of that. It's a cute game!

Also, based on the feedback I got on AO3, there seems to be a significant overlap between the Phandom and Sky: Cotl players? Is that the case?

Reality had broken a month ago, and Danny was having the time of his life.

He leaped lightly from rooftop to treetop and back again, gravity a dreamy afterthought. The tiles and bark were rough beneath his bare feet, but not so rough he regretted not wearing shoes. His impacts shook loose pollen, glitter, and a few stray petals, but did the trees no harm. On the roofs he was silent, and no one came out to yell at him, but the window glass chimed with flashes of light.

The colors around him were bright and soft. Easy to look at, easy to fall into. The sky above was marbled with dawn-colored clouds and stars caught among distant nebulae. Light and color were some of the first things to break, and Danny wasn't sorry to see light pollution go. Most Everything glowed, now, and stargazing would have been terrible if eyes still worked the same way.

At his next jump, this one taking him up a good ten feet, the feather-soft edge of the shawl he was wearing flared out behind him, brushing his arms. The shawl was huge on him. An old project of his great-grandmother's, it had been made with the typical Fenton girth in mind. Honestly, it fit him more like a cape than a shawl, but he liked it that way.

He landed safely and straightened the cape. His dad’s needlepoint hobby had been inherited from her, so the dark blue fabric was covered in fine embroidery, lace, and tiny glass beads in shades of clear, pale blue, and white. Great Grandma Fenton hadn't been into ghosts the same way the current Fentons were, but she'd been into something, so the patterns were strange. Icicles, snowflakes, stars, clouds, and trees competed with lightning, runes and sigils, and strange, spirit-like creatures.

“Hey!” shouted someone from the street below. “Hey, Fentwerp! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Ah. Dash. Charming. Danny leaned over the edge of the roof. “What does it look like I'm doing?” he asked agreeably.

“Getting your dumb nerd self killed is what it looks like,” said Dash, glowering up at Danny, his face turning red.

There. See. That's what Danny didn't understand. No one else seemed willing to experiment with how the world was now. They were all operating under the old rules, or, worse, looking for ways to fix things, as if the new world wasn't better than the old.

Sure, it had been scary the first few days. The suddenness. The uncertainty. The way systems they had relied on for so long had stuttered or failed outright. Danny knew people had been hurt, that, in some places, they were still getting hurt. He had been one of those people, having been in the hospital when the change rippled through the world, a result of an equipment malfunction in his parents’ lab.

Maybe his opinion would be different if he was still getting hurt. But as it was… why would he ever want to go back to how things were? Why would he want to leave this world, where the colors were soft and bright, and the light sang? Why would he want to leave this world where the air itself seemed to bear him up? Where the possibilities seemed limitless?

There was so much more potential for good, with the world as it was than as it had been. So much less potential for harm. This was a more finished version of the world. All the rough edges were gone, and filled with wonder. He could feel it.

“Get down here!” demanded Dash, when Danny didn't respond.

“No,” said Danny.

“Get down here or else.”

“Or else what?” asked Danny, genuinely curious. Dash couldn't get up here. No one else could, as far as Danny knew. They hadn't taken the time to work out the new rules for gravity.

Dash clenched his hands into fists, then stooped to grab a fairly large rock. Danny, seeing no reason to just let Dash throw it at him, left.

“Hey!” shouted Dash. “Hey! Freakton! Get back here!”

Names like that were a lot less distressing when the people using them had no power to hurt you.

Danny continued on his path upwards, touching on higher and higher buildings. It was tough to get the proper amount of momentum to make some of his jumps, especially since he'd stopped to talk to Dash, but he managed to make all of them, and soon he was standing on top of the tallest building in Amity Park.

In the center of the roof was a small tree, a sapling. It hadn't been there the first time Danny had made it up here, and it had grown rapidly since then. Next time he came, it'd probably be taller than he was.

For now, though, Danny knelt to check the roots where they grew through a widening crack in the building's roof. He'd warned the people in the building (he had warned everyone in buildings that had suddenly found themselves with roof trees), but he hadn't heard that anyone had done anything about it, and the roof trees felt friendly to him, so he hadn't pushed the issue. From the descriptions and pictures Sam had given him, this one seemed healthy enough.

He pulled a bottle from his backpack and gave the tree a generous sprinkle. Then he stood up, gave the crown of leaves an affectionate ruffle, and made his way to the edge of the roof.

The city spread out in all directions below him, vibrant and changing. Towards the edges of town, some buildings had lifted off their foundations, becoming floating islands. Across the viridian, iridescent forest to the north, he could see blue-bright-gray flashes of Lake Eerie. Fentonworks was easily visible off to the west, silver dishes and spires chased with green halos. The parks bloomed with flowers both alien and familiar, vines trailing up into the air, trees growing explosively fast. A breeze from behind turned his attention south, and he saw high clouds letting down shimmering curtains of rain.

It wasn’t like Amity Park had been drab and horrible before, but why would anyone want to go back?

He looked away, back down at the street far below him. Steeling himself, he grasped the edges of the shawl, he spread his arms wide.

“Time to lift off,” he said, quietly. “T-minus ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two–” Where he would have said one, he instead inhaled deeply. Where he would have said zero, he jumped.

For a heart-stopping moment, he wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake, if he’d made an error in his calculations, if reality had chosen that moment to reassert itself and he was about to drop like a rock.

The moment passed quickly. He was flying. Or, at least, gliding.

He laughed, and flapped his ‘wings.’ The shawl snapped behind him and gave him a small amount of lift.

He was doing it. He was doing it.

And now that he was doing it, it felt as natural as breathing. All that planning, all those calculations, all that running, climbing, and jumping–

He could fly.

Oh, maybe it wasn’t as impressive as it would have been in the old world, where gravity was a cruel mistress. But it was still flight, unpowered, human flight, and no one he knew of had done this before.

He laughed, and banked to the side, flying in spirals. He wasn’t brave enough to try a loop, yet, but he would, eventually, when he learned more about this.

His spirals took him over the park, the school, the mall, even the Nasty Burger. But he was losing altitude, his arms were getting tired, and he knew that if he got too close to the ground, gravity would get him again. Not to the point of hurting him at all, but he didn’t want to land just anywhere after all this work.

He tipped his wings westward, and started gliding home, pumping his ‘wings’ as infrequently as he could get away with. He didn’t quite make it all the way back to his front door, but he got close, just a few houses down the street. He rubbed his shoulders. That was going to leave him sore. He’d have to work out and practice more if he wanted to fly any real distance. He'd also need a way to take off that didn’t involve climbing the tallest building in town.

The front door of Fentonworks slammed open, revealing a pale Jack and a furiously pink Maddie.

“Daniel James Fenton! What do you think you're doing?”

Danny looked down at his bare feet, then back up at his parents. “Walking?”

Maddie sucked a breath in between her teeth. “Inside,” she said

Danny hurried to obey, taking the steps up to the door two at a time and squeezing past her and Jack to get into the house. Maddie closed the door behind him.

“So, um,” said Danny, shuffling from foot to foot. “What, um. I thought you guys were going to be working all day today?”

“On the Ops Center,” said Jack. “Not in the la– Not downstairs.”

Danny made note of the near-slip but didn’t comment on it. He was already in trouble. He didn’t need to remind them that the lab didn’t exactly exist anymore and make their mood worse.

“Oh,” he said. “What were you–?”

“Never mind what we were doing. What were you doing? What were you thinking, jumping off a building like that? You could have died?”

“Or been seriously hurt!”

“But I wasn’t! I’m fine. I planned it all out, and it worked.”

“And it shouldn’t have!” shouted Jack and Maddie at the same time.

Danny blinked up at them. “What?”

Jack explained. “We’ve been tracking the changes to gravity, too, Danny. We’ve been measuring it, measuring all the changes, to see what those darn ghosts did.”

Danny held back a sigh. There still wasn’t any sign that ghosts had done this, or even that ghosts existed.

“Gravity might have changed a bit,” continued Jack, “but not enough to keep a human being airborne like that.”

“There are whole buildings floating,” said Danny. “I’m a lot smaller than a building.”

“The rules seem to be different for different masses, as well as different altitudes,” said Maddie, making a face.

“Yeah! It’s really exciting. We’re trying to measure the ectoplasm levels– It has to be related, but we haven’t been able to detect any yet– Those ghosts are tricky, son–”

“Well, yeah. But the rules are also different for things that are alive.”

“Really?” asked Jack, leaning close.

“Uh, yes? Otherwise I wouldn’t have done, um. That. I tested it.”

“You tested it? Did you write it down?”

Danny nodded, cautiously. Jack swept him off his feet. “Our boy has been doing science, Mads!”

“He’s been jumping off of buildings!”

“Putting his research to practical use!”

“He’s been jumping off buildings without being peer reviewed!”

“Oh, yeah, son, you should have had someone check your work.”

“You never get peer reviewed,” said Danny, scowling.

“That’s different,” said Maddie, quickly.

“If anyone else believed in ghosts, you’d be sure we would be!”

Hanging limp in Jack’s arms, Danny grumbled.

“Danny,” said Maddie.

“Yes?” he mumbled.

“No more testing theories without checking in with us first. Safety first. You should know this by now.”

Danny hunched his shoulders and tried not to think too hard about his scars. They weren’t very visible, and the doctors had said that they’d fade away, probably entirely, eventually, but they were still there now, if you knew where to look.

A month ago, reality had broken.

A few days before that, Danny had almost died. Lab accident. It turned out that his parents thought portals to other dimensions which may or may not exist needed a lot of electricity and chemicals to function. Danny had been curious. He’d wanted to explore, to investigate. He’d stepped on a loose wire that had led to a capacitor. He’d been horribly electrocuted, and then exposed to a chemical cocktail. Sam and Tucker, who had been in the lab with him, had called for an ambulance, and he’d been brought to the hospital.

At least, that’s what he was told, later. He hadn’t woken up until he’d been in the hospital for a few days. Of course, when he had woken up, he did so because a bunch of the medicines going into him had started to do weird things while reality restructured itself, and that had been… incredibly unpleasant. Everyone had been grateful that only a very few things - like whatever Danny had been on to take care of the chemicals he’d picked up in the lab - had acted like that.

Later, Jazz had told Danny that for a brief period of time between the accident and reality breaking, Jack and Maddie had sworn off ghost hunting. Presumably forever. But once the laws of physics, chemistry, and biology started to rebel and twist, they’d taken it back. Well, to be fair, apparently they didn’t take it back until the lab disappeared. And the Fenton Stockades.

Although, to be fair in the other direction, it was more a case of everyone’s basements disappearing and being replaced by weird misty caverns than ghosts specifically targeting his parents. It was a whole thing.

(Personally, Danny was glad to see them go, although it had sounded like Sam was mourning hers.)

“Danny,” said Maddie, “tell us that you understand.”

“I understand. I don’t test theories without you,” said Danny, grudgingly. “Not even about cool things like flying.”

Maddie scowled. Jack beamed.

“Great!” shouted Jack. He whirled Danny around again. “Let’s go see your data! Where is it?”

“Upstairs,” mumbled Danny. “I’ve got a notebook.”

“A notebook, Mads!”

Maddie sighed. “Alright, let’s see the notebook.”

#danny phantom #fic

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skeletinmoss · 2 months

Text

The curse of the dark Phoenix

Want to say thank you to @lovelivingmydreams not only for being my beta, but actually transforming my simple draft into this beautiful story

Chapter 1: The arch mage's tower

Summary: When investigating the dissapearance of the arch mage, a trio of mages stumble upon a long kept secret that will throw their lives into complete dissaray.

The tower of the arch mage was old, abandoned and yet still breathtakingly majestic.

Moss and vines were creeping up the stone weeds had overrun the once pristinely kept front yard. But stainglass whindows, while covered in dust, still held gorgeous art pieces depicting mind boggling feats. The collored tiles on the damaged roof had faded but still held their eye catching pattern.

The reason it was in such a sorry state is because it’s owner had disappeared nearly 30 years ago. None had dared to enter it for fear of the dangers it might hold.

But finally the consulate had produced three mages powerful and brave enough to face the dangers and discover what had happened.

Arch Mage Noctora had been the most powerful mage to ever grace the magical community. He was an icon, a true legend.

Someone who sacrificed his own health to research the most dangerous brands of magic and teach the magical world about the horrid consequences of dark magic and did whatever he could to protect the public from it’s evils.

Potentially his kindness had finally cost him his life.

Today three of his adherents stood in front of his tower, barely containing their excitement.

They felt truly blessed to be given the honor to enter the great Mage’s home, it was a boyhood dream come true.

“Here we are. About to set eyes on the sanctum of the wisest man to ever wield magic,” the mage dressed in blue robes dotted with silver stars mused.

“The bravest man in recent history,” the man in red robes adorned with golden flowers agreed.

“The kindest soul to grace this planet,” the last of them, wearing lighter blue robes embroidered with bronze animal footprints, sighed.

The trio had been friends ever since they could remember and had been excited to find they all passed the test to find magical potential getting them all a place at the school for magic. And ever since first hearing about the Arch Mage and his great deeds they all agreed they’d be just as great one day.

When they learned off the mystery of his disappearance they wanted nothing more than to be the ones to find him. And now, it seemed that that dream would truly come true.

“Well, no mystery has ever been solved by just standing around. Let’s go!” the red mage insisted, leading the way across the overgrown path, frowning a little bit at the types of plants growing there. They carefully made their way up the stairwell, passing living quarters without a second glance. Agreeing that those should be left for last, and only if the study yielded absolutely no answers.

When they came to the study, they found a right mess. The walls were covered in cabinets and shelves and all were overly full, crates were strewn across the floor also overflowing with trinkets and herbs and scrolls and all sorts of things.

The cleanest place was the desk surprisingly. It stood there covered in dust near the one window in the room. A burnt out candle on the right hand side, along with a dried up inkwell, a mostly finished map an open box with herbs and a verry deliberately closed box right in the middle that pretty much sang “I am important look at me”.

It looked verry old, the wood had a crack running across the length of the lid which was once intricately decorated, but the chipped paint and the rusted chains made it hard to really see what the decoration was meant to represent.

Clearly this was the last thing that had held the arch mage’s attention in this tower, which meant it could be a vital clue to their quest.

The trio looked at each other and gave a determined nod. They had to know what was inside.

Of course the box looked very suspicious and chains rarely meant anything good so they opted to try a hands off method first.

Which meant Logan, in his stary blue robe, stepped forward and used his divination magic to tell him what they would find.

The box glowed blue and then elegant blue letters appeared in the air above it.

“Essence of the mage of a thousand lives,” Logan read out loud.

“Why are these things always so vague?” The red mage sighed impatiently.

Logan ignored his friend and frowned. “Mage of a thousand lives… That has to be the arch mage. It probably refers to the thousands of lives he saved. And essence… The essence of what he was doing…? One thing is for sure. This has to hold a clue. We have to open it no matter the danger. There is far to much to be gained here!” Logan stated determinedly.

“Wow, that was quick,” Patton, their martial caster in light blue, giggled. “Can I?” he offered. His friends both made room for him. He took a breath, focused and with a swift symbol in the air and a focused push towards the box the chains snapped and fell to the side.

Roman, their redclad herbalist stepped forward and opened the box to find a white powder. A lot of it actually. He held it in the light, a bit annoyed at the stained glass window right now.

As an herbalist he could recognize most herbs, minerals and even most finished medicine and potions with just a quick look. But not if the only light he was offered was filtered through reds and greens and blues. Nevermind, he could probably rule out most things by the texture, though he kept a cleansing spell ready just in case it turned out toxic to touch…

The second he ran his fingers through it though he wanted to throw the box away.

The box held no herbs, no minerals, no. Roman knew what these were.

Ashes.

Them being kept in such a box told him that these couldn’t possibly be remnants of burning herbs either. Which meant animal or even more disturbing human remains were in here.

The very act of making such a thing was considered practicing dark magic.

The Arch Mage had banned certain brands of magic or ingredients for the safety of their casters.

Such as changing your body to enhance it or to resemble someone else, both on ethical grounds and the fact that such changes could do irreparable damage to you in the long run.

Animal shifting was allowed so long as these were non magical creatures, again trying to encapsulate the primal magic of such creatures was incredibly dangerous.

The practice of chronomancy was ended mostly because it always required some form of ashes to be used.

Ashes, among other pieces of an animal or human were forbidden.

Anything that lives contains mana, that’s where the magic comes from. And that mana does not perish with the body. When it comes to animals and even certain plants, unleashing that mana by using it in a spell was dangerous. Weak minded mages had lost limbs trying to use a fishbone. The corruption it caused could be lethal!

That was what the Arch Mage’s research had unveiled. That was how he compiled a list of ingredients that were too harmful to the body to be considered to be used.

That was what had weakened his health. What possibly caused his demise.

Roman shook his hand desperately trying to get the ashes off, setting off his cleansing spell.

He felt a tingling sensation, almost warm and pleasant, spread across his fingers. Oh no. Oh no the ashes were reacting to his magic, he was activating the mana…

“We need to get rid of it!” he yelled closing the box and sprinting towards the stairs, whatever he’d just done, he couldn’t let it go off in an enclosed space near his friends.

“What is it!?” his friends called after him sounding confused.

“Ashes!” Roman called heading down the stairs, praying he wouldn’t fall down.

“Sweet stars above, let me survive this,” he whispered under his breath as he almost tripped on the last step and headed outside. The flowers, the ashes could go and fertilize the flowers.

He kicked open the door and shook out the box, watching with a breath of relief as the wind caught them and kindly spread them amongst the flowers.

He was catching his breath as he heard his friends join him.

He tossed the box to the side and let out a laugh. Well he had never gone through so many emotions in such a short amount of time.

“Roman, your hands,” he heard Patton say, his voice soft and trembling with worry.

Roman caught his friend’s eyes and then followed their horrified gaze.

There was still ash on his hand and it was glowing purple.

“Nope, no. I don’t want to hold onto you, go!” he pleaded, shaking his hand again.

He felt a strange pull on his hand toward the field, he let it guide him and watched with horrified fascination as the field where the ashes had landed was alit with a same glow.

What was going on?

A new gust of wind, this one definitely not natural whipped around them and made the ashes rise up in the air in a cloud it spun around and around and Roman felt his hand being pulled forward, in his shock he was powerless to stop himself from following until he was in the middle of it. Roman didn’t like this. The cloud felt alive, he could feel it connecting to him, little specks of his own signature red magic appearing in the purple shine. No. No this was definitely too much magic for him to play with. He was cocky, not crazy.

Roman finally got his bearings and made to step away from the mass, losing his balance in the process and falling backwards. As he looked up he was just in time to see the process come to a close. With a mighty cry that shook Roman and his friends to his core a majestic bird they’d only ever seen pictures off spread it’s wings where the ashes had been. It had gorgeous purple feathers and it looked absolutely heartbreakingly beautiful backlit by the afternoon sun.

“Is that…” Logan whispered.

“It has to be,” Patton agreed.

Roman was at a loss for words. The creature looked down upon him as the last bits of magic faded away, little sparks of red and purple disappearing at last and then it glided towards him and landed on his chest. Amethyst eyes judging him severely.

What the heck?

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #ts virgil #roman sanders #ts roman #prinxiety #logan sanders #ts logan #patton sanders #ts patton #the dark phoenix au

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sailoryooons · 2 years

Note

for the yoongi request!!!

basically him and reader get locked out from just anywhere of your choosing. somehow they fall into a deep talk where yoongi then proceeds to reveal he's never gotten head before... and well... whatever you want to happen make it happen ;) [leaving a lot up to you cause i know u can with your genius ass brain]

❀ Pairing: Yoongi x female reader

❀ Summary: You've been friends with Yoongi for as long as you remember. When he tells you he's never - and he means never - received oral in his life, you take it upon yourself to lend a mouth hand

❀ Word Count: 2,704

❀ Genre: pwp, friends to lovers (implied)

❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

❀ Warnings: Explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (male receiving), spit and cum play, deep throating, Yoongi is a shy mess, implications to previous hookups, recreational drinking if you squint

❀ Published: August 10, 2022

❀ A/N: Lati baby, I am so glad you requested this. Your mind is elite and I expect nothing less from my wife. I’m so sorry I’m posting this after your mini-hiatus / going back to school – please take this as my apology. I completely forgot the part about being locked out somewhere when I wrote this pls forgive my idiotic brain. I love you very much and you mean the world to me – enjoy sloppy toppy for Yoons.

❀ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Masterlist | Ask | Hali’s Happy Agust Request Fill |

“What?” you demanded, almost dropping the beer in your hand. Your knees were pulled to your chest, tile roof rough under your ass as you stared at Yoongi. He hid his face in hands, neck flushed. Ears red. Cute. “I need you to say that again.”

“Please don’t make me.”

There is no way Min Yoong – beautiful, soft, with eyes like a stormy night and a smile a soft autumn morning – has never received a blow job. The thought makes your head spin and you lay backward on the roof of your childhood home, where you’re both catching up on summer break.

“We’re about to be seniors in college,” you accuse him, pressing a clammy hand to your heated forehead. “Yoongi - you fuck.”

He groans. “I know, but I don’t like asking for them to return the favorite.”

“So, you’re just out here going down on people with no reward?”

“I mean, I have sex.”

“I’m just. Wow. Never?”

Bo, your neighbor’s dog, starts barking, the only sound besides the crickets. Yoongi tongues the inside of his cheek you recognize the look as mounting irritation.

“Shut up, Bo!” you holler, trying to diffuse the tension.

It doesn’t work.

Yoongi is not often irritated. He’s been your friend since high school – your what if for even longer – and you know everything about him. You know that he isolates himself when stressed, chewing his nails until they're red and you threaten him with princess band-aids. You know that sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking, he watches cat videos on his phone while you cook dinner. You know that Yoongi is selective about the people he sleeps with, preferring steady and consistent hookups to one-night stands.

So it absolutely baffles you that Min Yoongi – with his silky black hair tucked gently behind his ears, with his feline-sharp eyes, and his blush pout – has never gotten head. He is – god – he is stunning. You've always thought so. You know others do too. So how has his giving gotten in the way of receiving?

You admire him. He’s in an old flannel, a t-shirt and ripped jeans tonight. Something inside of you heats up. You lick your lips. Your throat feels dry.

Shoving thoughts of what his dick must feel like away, you focus on him. The way he won’t look at you, and the way he picks at his cuticles, his bottle of beer forgotten. His jaw jumps and he tongues the inside of his cheek again before wiping his palms on his knees.

“It was a stupid thing to admit,” he mumbles. “It’s late, I’m gonna head out.”

“Yoongi.”

He ignores the cashmere-soft way you say his name. He pushes himself off the piece of roof tucked under your bedroom window, dusting his jeans and flannel off. You call after him again, but he grabs his beer. Ducks inside of the window.

Flees.

He's embarrassed. You only hesitate for a moment before your foot is catching on the windowsill, sending you spilling onto the floor of your bedroom. Your beer is still out on the porch, humidity making it drip onto the dark tile.

“Are you okay?” he drifts back from your bedroom door. “Jesus, slow down.”

You’re a tangle of limbs and fussy apologies. You right yourself, managing to get to your knees. You blink up at him and your words pause. His brow is creased as he looks down at you. His face is still rosy from the beer and the embarrassment.

For a moment, Yoongi looks small. Not in size or stature, but shy. Tucked into himself. His fingers play with the end of his old flannel, and he’s chewing on the corner of his lip. He’s beautiful. It isn’t the first time you’ve thought it. It isn’t the last. But with you on your knees, looking up at him, everything else seems to drift away on the August breeze.

“Let me.” Your words barely carrying to him. His gaze darkens but he cocks his head to the side, unsure what you’re asking. You sink your weight onto the back of your calves, hands splayed on your thighs. “Let me show you.”

He scoffs. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“I don’t need my dick sucked out of pity.”

“I don’t pity you.”

He’s frowning, but you see a flicker on his eyes. It’s so quick that you’re not sure if you’re right. You squirm and lick your lips, looking up at him through rounded eyes and fluttering lashes. His foot slides back, a step toward the door.

“I want to,” you whisper. You don’t move an inch, terrified of chasing him away.

The words are true. Even before you became best friends in Mrs. Myers 10th grade literature class, you’d admired him from afar. He was always quiet. Not in a weird way, but in that way that Yoongi didn’t speak unless he felt like he had something to say.

When placed next to you in Mrs. Myers class, you paired together for a project on Dante’s Inferno. You’d discovered that he was a little warmer after time spent together, and he discovered you enjoyed dry humor. There were a few other things you had in common, but often, you found yourself sitting in the lunchroom with him.

Yoongi was easy. He didn’t make you question where you stood with him. You had always harbored a soft crush, but that took a backseat to friendship. It had worn away with time. He saw other people and so did you. You enjoyed things together, but never like that.

You didn’t resent the partners who stole bits of Yoongi’s time. But you did resent the fact that they never once thought about him. Never once considered that they should return the favor.

“You don’t want to,” he scoffed. But it was half-hearted and unsure, upturned at the end like a question. “Why?”

“You’re beautiful.” He flushes red and tucks his chin against his chest, letting his hair hide is face. “I’ve always wondered.”

“Wondered what?”

“What it would be like to touch you. To taste you.”

His head tilts toward the ceiling. “Fuck. You’re serious?”

“Please. Unless you don’t want me to.”

Yoongi relents. “I do...”

“Let me. Please.”

He moves toward the bed slowly, as though any sudden movement will chase you away. You crawl toward him, eyes only for him. Your stomach flips as you settle on your knees in front of him. They're a little sore from baring your weight, but you ignore it, quick breaths fanning between your lips.

Your eyes drop to his jeans. They're light wash and well-fitted. Dragging your eyes back up, you look at him. He props himself up, leaning backward with his palms spread on your bed. He looks down at you, somewhere between frightened and something... darker.

“Can I touch you?” you whisper, squirming back and forth on your knees. He nods, catching his bottom lip with his teeth.

Gently, you put your palms on his knees. He jumps a little but settles. His eyes don’t leave you as you brush your hands up and down his thighs, applying a little pressure in the tips of your fingers to massage the muscle through the thick material.

He sighs, almost inaudible. His fingers tighten in your sheets a little, spurring you further. You lift yourself between his legs, extending as high as you can on your knees as you squeeze his thighs. “Kiss me.”

“What?”

You huff. “I want to kiss you.”

Yoongi must hear how deadly serious you are. He surges forward with a new-found confidence, nearly knocking you over as he steals your mouth with his. His hands catch you, cradling your face as his fingers press bruise-hard into your jaw, desperate to keep your lips against his.

Everything is white noise. You no longer hear the chirping crickets outside of your window. You don’t hear the neighbor's dog barking anymore. It's just Yoongi and the warm taste of his honey-wheat beer. His lips are petal soft, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth.

You dig your nails into his thighs, drawing a deep whine from the back of his throat. It sends you into a frenzy, licking into his mouth. His tongue eagerly meets yours, hands moving to the sides of your neck, holding you in place and oh that feels good when he squeezes a little, reasserting some level of dominance.

Sucking on his tongue, you break away for a moment, a single glossy line of spit connecting your lips. Your eyes open just a bit to find him heaving, flushed, and lips red. He opens his eyes and it's like he has no irises, pupils blown out and starving.

Has this hunger inside you always been so severe?

Yes, you think as you connect your mouths eagerly once more. Always.

Brave hands drift to Yoongi’s semi-hard cock. You grip him firmly through his jeans, drawing succulent sounds from his mouth. You moan too, spurred on by the noises he makes for you. Your heart is pounding as you stroke him through the fabric, gasping between kisses turned messy with tongues and spit.

“Please,” he begs between a kiss.

You don’t hesitate. You pull the zipper of his pants. He lifts his hips for you, leaning back again on two hands. He's hard now, straining against stark briefs. Your mouth water, zeroing in on the size of him just through his boxers.

“Fuck, maybe that’s why no one returned the favor.”

“Huh?”

You realize you’ve spoken your fear aloud. You look up at him. Your face is burning and you’re so giddy with excitement laced with anxiety that you might pass out. “Um, your cock is sort of huge.”

He arches a brow. “You asked for it.” Your nails dig into his exposed thigh and he squirms. “Fuck, okay. Thanks for the compliment, I guess. Yeah, I’ve had someone tell me a time or two they didn’t want to try.”

“Fuck them,” you growl. “I’ll take care of you.”

You lean up again, hands playing with the elastic band of his briefs. Your tongue darts out to kitten-lick the dark spot forming on his briefs. He gasps, hips twitching at the contact. Your mouth continues to explore newly exposed skin. You bite his inner thighs, thicker than you remember them being. You suck marks on his hips, pulling his t-shirt up a bit to give you access to smooth skin.

“Off,” you mumble, pulling the elastic after a single kiss to his tip. “Wanna see you.”

Once again, he lifts his hips. You pull on the briefs, swiftly discarding them. Your eyes drink him in. Long and thick – your fingers definitely won’t touch when you grip him – pretty, flushed tip leaking pearly beads of precum.

Larger than you’ve had in your mouth. But you’re willing to take on the challenge for Yoongi. Anything for Yoongi.

“Fuck,” you whisper, kissing his knee absently. “You’re so fucking pretty, Yoongs.”

“Shut up.”

You smile and bat your lashes at him. You grip him at the base, skin velvety under your touch. You give a slow experimental stroke and his head falls backward, eyes shut. “I mean it,” you whisper. You gather spit in your mouth, leaning up and tilting the head of his cock toward your lips. You let the spit dribble out, dripping down his head onto the shaft. He curses. “So fucking pretty.”

Using the mixture of spit and cum, you pump your hand slowly up and down his shaft, watching with rapt attention as he reacts. He shudders under your hands, Adam’s apple bobbing, throat pink. His eyes are closed, head tilted back, fingers white knuckling the sheets.

Tentatively, you lean down and flick your tongue under the crown of his cock. He moans loudly then, lips parting in a rush of air. He is a work of art. Soft planes, swaths of pink, silken at the edges. You take the tip in your mouth, suckling and running your tongue slowly around the head, drawing more noises out of him.

“Fuck, I am not going to last.”

You remove your mouth with a pop. You kiss the tip and grip him at the base, tracing the underside of his shaft with your tongue, greedily licking at the in there. His hips buck again. You don’t care as you lap him tip to base, taking a moment to stroke him with your hand while you lick at his balls.

“Baby,” he growls. A warning.

The new nickname softens you. You don’t want to ruin the experience by making him cum from teasing. It's about him, as much as you want to see him pant.

“Sorry,” you murmur, kissing a thigh. “I like the sounds you make.”

“Don’t be sorry. Feels good.”

You hum, pleased.

Settling, you take him into your mouth properly. You moan in the back of your throat, the salty sweet taste intoxicating. Yoongi is difficult to fit in your mouth. You hollow your cheeks and flatten your tongue, slowly bobbing your head, taking more in the warmth of your mouth each time you descend.

What you can’t fit in your mouth, you make up for in a steady grip with your hand, pumping and twisting. Yoongi is immediately affected, whining and cursing softly. He can’t stop squirming, a hand shooting to the back of your head, fingers pressing desperately to your skull. He doesn’t force you, just grips, hanging onto you for year life.

“Fuck,” he curses again, voice rumbling in his chest. “So fucking good, please don’t stop.”

You wouldn’t dream of stopping.

You're messy, sucking him with vigor. Drool leaks out the side of your mouth, dripping down his hard shaft. You alternate from bobbing your head up and down, sucking generously. You come up to release him with a pop, licking hungrily around the tip and down his cock to catch a breath.

Yoongi gets more and more worked up. His fingers press against your scalp and he’s rambling. You want to see him fall apart. He deserves it. Sweet Yoongi who has always done his part with his partners. Caring Yoongi who held your hand when you suffered breakups.

Taking a breath through your nose and digging your nails into his thigh, you take him all the way into your throat, swallowing around him. Your eyes smart as you choke for a second. He makes a panicked noise, but you pin him down, claws to thigh, breathing through your nose as you let up a little, coming up to pop.

Drool dribbles down your chin with a mix of cum. You stroke him quicker, looking up at him as you blink tears out of your eyes. He's so fucked out you can’t help but rub your thighs together. Yoongi is beautiful and blushing and messy.

Your Yoongi.

“I can handle it,” you promise, tongue experimentally flicking his slit. “Don’t worry. Let me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhmm.”

Yoongi watches you, hypnotized as you do it again, deep throating him in one motion. The choked noises are delicious, accompanied with the soft bass of Yoongi’s deep moans and the staccato of his breathing.

His cock twitches in your mouth. Your hand ventures from his base to his balls, fondling gently, reverently.

“I’m gonna-”

Yoongi chokes himself as he falls backward on the bed. You feel him go taught like a bowstring, coming up just slightly as he cums down your throat. His noises are light and gasping, stroking your ego as you suck him through his orgasm.

His thighs are twitching and the hand in your hair goes slack. Yoongi turns boneless as you swallow the saltiness of him, lifting your mouth. Spit and cum gloss over your chin and lips, a sinful sheen. He is panting, his hand shooting to your hair again, grabbing onto you and pulling you up from sore knees.

“Come here,” he growls.

You're pulled on top of him, knocking limbs and numb knees. He crashes your mouth to his, licking at you, devouring your lips, tongue, and the slick between. His hands squeeze your hips, his nose brushes yours.

“That felt so fucking good,” he growls. “Now let me.”

#bts fanfic #bts smut #bangtan boys #haliiimede writes #yoongi smut #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi smut #min yoongi fanfic #suga bts #yoongi x you #suga smut #yoongi x reader #halishappyagust #halis requests

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historia-vitae-magistras · 8 months

Text

Arthur and anglo saxon poetry fucks me up. We call it the Dark Ages because of a dearth of sources, but we have a melancholy poem describing the ruins of Aqua Sulis, or Bath, in the centuries after the Roman Collapse. I might make this into a fic someday, but Arthur is only a boy half-grown and roaming through the anglo-saxon heptarchy, a world he still can't quite wrap his head around, Cumbrian, a Celtic language, still first to cross his lips as he stares up at a ruined city. But more and more of what will one day be English rolling around in his mind, two languages with so few loan words there is nothing in English we can use to construct his mother tongue. Walking through a city, what was once a real and robust city and now lays dead and decaying, he wonders.

Who's bones are these broken beams? His own? Were he and Alasdair and Rhys something once called Britannia, now faded? Are they Rome's, who died thousands of miles away in a place Arthur hasn't seen for centuries? His mother's? She ruled and represented nebulous things, these borders shifting and flexing. Rome made a desert and called it peace, but she ruled it anyway, lady of the waters and the north. Maybe. He's unsure. He touches fallen tile and broken stone and knows what he knew when she drew her last. The end of a world that began failing long before. He'll never be able to sort the losses out; the words he may have once used to describe them are dead and gone by the time there are experts enough to study it. All that once made sense has been forgotten under the weight of a thousand years.

This masonry is wondrous; fates broke it courtyard pavements were smashed; the work of giants is decaying. Roofs are fallen, ruinous towers, the frosty gate with frost on cement is ravaged, chipped roofs are torn, fallen, undermined by old age. The grasp of the earth possesses the mighty builders, perished and fallen, the hard grasp of earth, until a hundred generations of people have departed. Often this wall, lichen-grey and stained with red, experienced one reign after another, remained standing under storms; the high wide gate has collapsed.

and

Far and wide the slain perished, days of pestilence came, death took all the brave men away their places of war became deserted places, the city decayed. The rebuilders perished, the armies to earth. And so these buildings grow desolate, and this red-curved roof parts from its tiles of the ceiling-vault. The ruin has fallen to the ground broken into mounds, where at one time many a warrior, joyous and ornamented with gold-bright splendour, proud and flushed with wine shone in war-trappings; looked at treasure, at silver, at precious stones, at wealth, at prosperity, at jewellery, at this bright castle of a broad kingdom.

#Britannia and her children || they made a desert and called it peace #hws england #Arthur || stone set in the silver sea #Eirian || into the nightlands #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #I can kind of read old english and it always fucks me up how theres hardly a celtic root word anywhere that's not a place name #im not depressed im analysing texts!!

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muses-and-odd-fashion · 5 months

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It’s a cold December night, the week of Christmas and the night of one of the most high brow art exhibitions in the realm, hosted by one Alexander Herst, a savant of nearly every style of painting ever created. The man is highly respected and practically worshipped but Cotton really can’t stand him. She stood idly beside her brother, who had dressed in a purple suit the same shade as his eyes with a black turtleneck, while she wore a black suit with a much more flattering purple turtleneck. They stood outside the exhibition, watching the snow fall gently onto the stone brick roundabout, the sides of which the cars of the richest patrons parked; Ferraris, Porsches, and other fancy cars. Many reporters stood to the sides of the red carpet leading into the large museum, the architecture old and gothic, giving it an ominous appearance, yet it carried a sense of opulence with golden pillars and gargoyles with gems for eyes, long flowing banners hung from the black tiled roof, one of which was ivory white with purple trimmings. Every artist who had their work selected to be shown had a banner styled after them. The white and purple banner was styled after Cotton, who was beginning to have eyes turn to her, she had already had to ‘kindly’ ask a reporter to, and I quote, “fuck off.” As of now, that is the second time Wool has ever heard Cotton swear. Many celebrities came to the event, many big names in the art world, Leonardo DiCaprio was said to have been spotted but Wool doesn’t believe that. For now, the siblings wait for the gals.

@brownhairedbookworm

@plumpnpurple

@devouring-hive

@agooberscanons

#muse: wool #muse: cotton #brownhairedbookworm #devouring hive #plumpnpurple #agooberscanons #I did the thing #yippee!!!!!!

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dreadfutures · 6 months

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100 Serault Prompts

Inspired by the atmospheric and enigmatic game, Dragon Age: The Last Court, here are some prompts for art or writing. Don't forget to send the prompt along with the number to help your creator out!

Utterly indebted to the #SaveSerault preservation project, and @silvanils Plot Guide here.

The black ocean of trees seethes under a fretful night-wind.

Nightmares breed like maggots in meat.

Wolves howling in council, or prayer, or song.

Gnomic messages scratched into fragments of bark with a knife-point.

Beware of crows.

Painted Masked Goddess in the bluebelled glade.

An inquisitive wind stirs in the woods.

Questing roots crawling over a secret, locking it away against the centuries.

The forest returns to its sleep and its long, green dreams.

Streams suddenly freezing despite the sun.

A laughing wolf.

A pensive bear.

A spider the size of a carthorse.

There are stranger directions than ‘North’ and ‘South’.

Power is a difficult steed to ride. Not everyone can stay in the saddle.

Today's answer could be tomorrow's treason.

A Baker’s Breeze, early in the morning. Upon it, the scent of bread rising in the ovens.

A coy breeze carries the sounds and smells of the market.

Spice. Lies. Laughter. The play of coin.

A grey wind drones in the fireplace.

A slow rain drones on the windows.

A hard wind blows from the east, carrying fat, gloating ravens.

A song of old Serault: the Stag and the Rose.

A star-wind, high and swift, pushes silver clouds to and fro beneath the moon.

The lap of the river upon the castle’s stone feet.

The scent of leaves and nodding barley.

White feathers drift like snow.

Eels in the dark rivers.

The Applewoods are dappled with shadow and filled with succulent midnights. Come closer.

The Biting Wind that Masked Andraste keeps leashed like a dog.

The sun swarms the river.

The Chateau’s four cats stretch out on the roof-tiles.

The wind eddies in corners, making dancing columns of dust. It comes from nowhere, goes nowhere. A Fade-wind, the Dowager calls it.

The Chateau’s pennants crack like whips.

“Payment in Glass” is the Serault motto.

Dappled in gemmy light.

The Green Chapel in the Deepwoods, where wolves go to pray.

A line of grey in the dark; fighting, failing, dying.

A sound like tearing silk.

Burning blue with rage.

Sun as warm as the touch of a hand.

A garland of aster and cuckoo-flowers.

The Masked Andraste isn’t as keen on chastity as her moon-faced sister.

A mage must be a poet, a philosopher, and a butcher.

To see behind the world.

To hold fire by the throat.

Familiar territory, but never quite safe.

Serault’s pride is like her forests: root-deep, thick-skinned, hard-won from the world’s edge.

A bereskarn.

Rune-strewn bones of a fell beast.

A forest victim: flowers sprouting from their eyes.

Hands burned to the blackened bone.

The Tower of Lights, as it never was: scraping the sky, mantled in light.

Weep tears of silver.

Smashing a horned mask of glass and gemstones.

Your true face: a horned mask of glass and gemstones.

The Glassworkers' Guildmaster elections.

This is the Grand Game. Play or drown.

A glass Guildmaster's sword, the hilt spinning fractures of light across the floor.

Freedoms for the Glassworkers: to leave, and leave to marry.

If it doesn't fight back, you drink it.

Secret liaisons with the Lover: Candlelit meetings. Fingers tangling briefly in the corridors. The door to your chambers creaking softly open when the guards change their watch. Stifled giggles as a servant passes.

A change of lovers, and the fallout.

An old tome. Dense, inseparable uncials cram the book. The ink fades. Mold speckles the flimsy pages.

A pig farmer advises the Marquis.

A grin as tight as a gallows noose.

A mosaic floor.

Honor is a game that others play.

Your Chevalier Commander, and her loyalty.

Serault Town: Gold stone, red roofs.

The Horned Knight's hold: a round tower, jagged as a chipped tooth, its floors all collapsed in on one another. A great tree grows within it, spreading a canopy of burgundy leaves where the roof once was.

Grass sparkling with shards of an old, shattered mirror.

Fat partridge, simmering in a pot with sweet onions and pale beans, then a plate of round cakes, peppered with poppyseed and laced with honey.

The mother has eyes of fire; the daughter, a heart of it.

Twilit riverbanks untrod by mortal feet, and rings of tall blue stones that were not raised by human hands…

A hall where the trees walk and the stones speak.

The Horned Knight: clad in armor of forest green, with an ivy cloak that hisses along the flagstones.

Hounds in the kennels, baying for the hunt.

The effects of High Twilight.

The effects of High Peril.

The effects of Rumors of Revolution.

The Dignity of the Huntress, Glass Rose of Serault: deadly, beautiful, adored, dreaded.

The Freedom of the Scholar, who might be the one to bring change to Serault for the good of the common folk.

The apples have interesting properties: astringent... intoxicating.

The Chateau stands on an island in mid-river.

The Acerbic Dowager (Counselor)

The Cheery Baron (Counselor)

The Dashing Outlaw (Accomplice or Bodyguard)

The Elegant Abbess (Counselor or Lover)

The Kindly Knight (Counselor)

The Muttering Banker

The Purveyor of Teas (Accomplice)

The Seneschal (Counselor)

The Silent Hunter (Bodyguard)

The Smiling Guildmistress (Counselor)

The Wayward Bard (Lover)

The Well-Read Pig-Farmer (Accomplice)

His Dour Lordship (Counselor)

The Scornful Sorceress

The Anchoress.

#writing prompts #the last court #long post #serault #prompts

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rotworld · 8 months

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10: Motel Hell

(previous)

desperate to get out of nelton, you make a risky decision and find somewhere to stay along the road.

->contains gore, graphic description of corpses.

Home is west. Northwest now, so far away it feels like the edge of the world.

You’ve tried to get there a few times. Every now and then, you’ll get lucky. The Drift will have mercy and you’ll end up so close you think you can taste it, the pull urgent but not so taut and uncomfortable. Somehow, it’s always eluded you. You get turned around, your inner compass spinning haywire. The road spits you out just east, too far north, not at all where you mean to go. Lost—that’s what you are. But you never feel that way until you try to find home.

And even if you ever reached it, would it be worth the trouble? Would anyone see you as kin, or would it be a town full of strangers? You don't try anymore. Home is best left abstract and distant.

Night is falling. The shadows grow. The sign seems to lunge through the fog, sudden and vicious. “DRIFT INN. NEXT EXIT.” It’s not close enough to spot off the highway, but you do see a spatter of streetlights and neon. Not enough for a town, just a small place between things for the unlucky and desperate. Anything is good enough for you now. The exit is an uphill zigzag, a silent intersection with a light that takes too long to change.

You see two long gray slabs with red roofs. Nothing around but concrete and tufts of hardy grass growing in the cracks. The parking lot is sparsely occupied, a couple windows aglow behind drawn curtains. Still, you hesitate. Your recent misfortunes have left you somewhat wary. You consult your map. You’ll make the final push for the University tomorrow, get there by dusk. South, then east? Or start heading east now? For once, you find yourself hoping there’s no town in that vast distance, no unexpected detours.

Something flits past the window as you’re planning your morning route. It’s gone when you look up but you were sure, for just a second—

And then you see it. Another, drifting silently into your windshield. Landing on the glass and melting to nothing. The sky is the color of a coming storm. Your heart starts to race.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: SATURDAY NIGHT BY THE MISFITS]

The automatic doors wheeze open. A single fluorescent tube buzzes overhead. The floor is grimy-looking tile and the walls are off-white. Nobody’s sitting behind the check-in desk. All you can hear is the whirr of an electric fan in the corner and a crackling radio on the counter.

A tiered shelf against the wall displays travel brochures coated in a fine layer of dust, advertising the orchards and public gardens of Green Valley. These must be old. There is no Green Valley anymore—it’s been called the Stillwoods since before you were born, although the occasional antique road sign marooned along the highway might still bear the old name.

The doors open again behind you. There’s a woman standing there, hands in the pockets of a gray peacoat. She’s wearing heels and her hair is meticulously pinned into a neat bun.

She gives you a quick, appraising look. “Hey there,” she says. “Checking in?” You nod and she slips behind the check-in desk, noticeably keeping her distance and never turning her back towards you. She doesn’t give you a price or ask how you’ll pay, simply reaching for a room key off the back wall and setting it on the desk. You don’t think there was a courier sign on the door. Your visible apprehension makes her grin. “So…I don’t actually work here. But I saw you pull up and thought you might appreciate a hand. There’s four of us here tonight.”

You take the key, the plastic tag attached reading 108. “Is the place abandoned?” you ask. That wouldn’t surprise you. This motel was clearly attached to the Stillwoods once upon a time, but now it’s out here in the middle of nowhere. That happens sometimes, during a particularly violent shift or an anchorware malfunction. That’s how the University became its own city, too.

The woman makes a noncommittal sound. “Not exactly. At least, it wasn’t when I got here. It’s like this, see?”

She leans back and turns the handle of the door behind the desk. As soon as it’s cracked open, the smell of blood comes rushing out. She opens it just far enough for you to glimpse the back room and the body inside: head so badly bludgeoned that you don’t realize it’s lying face-up for a while, jaw broken and wrenched open so wide the mouth is more like a gaping wound of teeth. There’s blood pooling on the floor and arterial sprays arcing on the walls. Fresh enough to drip.

The woman yanks the door shut again. She looks unbothered, you think, unusually cheerful considering the situation. She adjusts her small, rectangular glasses on the bridge of her nose. “See what I mean? Kind of a mess. I’d have taken off by now if not for how the sky looks. Rather take my chances here than out in a Drift storm.” The snow is heavier already, a thin layer blanketing the pavement outside. “Anyway, wanna get settled in? 108’s right with the rest of us. Gotta keep an eye on each other, after all. Hard to say who’s a mimic and who’s not.”

You frown. A mimic wouldn’t waste that much food.

The woman is friendly, at least, and endlessly talkative. She’s a University graduate. She’s been living in Splitrock Junction for the past few years, testing the water and soil for “intrusional particles,” but she’s looking for a career change. “Anchorware! That’s where the money’s at,” she tells you. “That’s the future of the Drift, you know. It’s caught on in all the major industries but it’ll get more affordable later. The lab where they build that stuff makes the University look Stone Age. God, if I could get my hands on some of that equipment…”

You barely say a word as she leads you outside and across the parking lot to the adjacent building. Four rooms are occupied in a row, lights on, muffled voices coming through the doors. You walk up in time to catch part of a conversation—an argument, more accurately. They’re talking about mimics.

“So you’re telling me the one that’s see-through and foggy like frosted glass isn’t called a glass mimic?”

“Glass mimics are literally made of glass, man. Or something kind of like it. It shatters if you hit it hard enough.”

“Kind of like it? So they’re not actually made of glass. They don’t even resemble glass.”

“I didn’t name them, okay?”

The woman pauses to knock on 106. “We’ve got another,” she says.

106 opens just slightly, the door halting on a chain lock. The face that peers out at you is obscured by a surgical mask and a pair of sunglasses. “Shit, Chatterbox made it back in one piece,” he mutters. “So either it left you alone or you’re the mimic.” The doors on either side of him creak open. A man pokes his head outside of 105, looking nonplussed. Nobody comes out of 107 but you hear a quiet huff, a quick exhale of laughter.

“Well, this is all of us,” the woman says. “We’re a little short on trust right now so you’ll have to settle for nicknames. That’s Newbie in 105. He’s from outside. Like, outside, you know?”

“Outside the Drift?” you ask, startled.

Newbie frowns. He’s blond and clean-shaven, wearing an open suit jacket and loosened tie. “Couldn’t we have picked our own nicknames? God, it’s freezing all of the sudden.”

“This totally normal, not at all suspicious guy lurking in 106 is Glasses.”

“Bite me,” Glasses snarls. “Half the mimics out here copy faces. You’re not getting mine.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “Shrug is in 107. He’s kinda quiet. Second most likely to be a mimic, if we’re making accusations.”

107’s door opens slightly wider. The man standing there doesn’t show his face, keeping his head down and his hood up, hands stuffed in the pockets of an oversized sweater. He’s on the shorter side. “Hm,” he says, and shrugs.

“And I guess I’m Chatterbox.” The woman laughs. “I’m in 104. The walls are really, really thin, we mostly just yell at each other. Nobody else around so it’s not like we’re bothering anyone.”

You unlock 108 and find a small, musty-smelling room. There’s stiff, crusty carpet, a single bed with sheets that feel like packing paper, and a closet-sized bathroom. You put your backpack on the bedside table and add the Drift Inn to your map.

“So what are we calling you, stranger?” Chatterbox yells. She’s right, the walls are really thin. Four rooms down and you can still hear her fairly clearly.

“Courier,” you say back.

The wind picks up outside, growing from a whisper to a vicious howl. You peek through your curtains and find your footsteps in the snow have nearly been filled in already as more blows across the motel parking lot. You scan the row of cars parked out front apprehensively. The one you saw in the blizzard was an SUV, you think. Silver. Hard to make out in the haze and all the white. You don’t see it out there now. You’d like to tell yourself that those two things can’t possibly be related, but there’s a corpse behind the check-in desk, beaten so badly the face barely looked human.

You don’t want to think about it. You let the curtains fall back into place and sit on the edge of the bed. “Newbie, you’re from outside the Drift?” you ask. “What made you decide to come here?”

You hear him clear his throat nervously. “I’m doing market research, you could say. There’s a lot of interest in developing the Drift, getting it connected to the rest of the world. You guys are missing out on a lot of things. Phones are only local, right, so you can’t call Prismville from the University. And mail takes forever since you don’t really have a reliable delivery service. Uh. No offense, I mean.”

“Didn’t some outsider company already try getting a foothold here a while back?” That sounds like Glasses. “Like a decade ago or something. Putting all those cables in the ground, then acting surprised when they got fucked up after a couple shifts.”

“Ohhh, that’s right! They started growing skin and then they all slithered off,” Chatterbox says.

“Is that what those are?” you ask. “I’ve seen those before. They’re farm pests, mostly. They really like eggs.”

“Mhm,” Shrug adds.

“Can I ask about that? What’s up with the eggs?” Newbie says. “Why are they everywhere? I keep seeing people eat them raw, shell and all.”

Chatterbox laughs. “So those aren’t actually eggs.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“No, I mean, they look just like eggs, right? So we call them eggs.”

“Oh, so these get called by what they look like, huh?”

“Okay, look, there are different kinds of shifts, right? Depending on how things are intersecting, or if they’re intersecting at all, and sometimes—”

The wind shrieks and the windows shake in their frames. Snow drifts under your door, melting on the carpet. Through the space beneath the curtains, all you see is white. “It’s getting bad out there,” Glasses says quietly.

“I, ah, thought the Drift didn’t get snow?” Newbie asks.

“It doesn’t,” Chatterbox says. “Unless the Road Ripper’s around.”

There’s a pause. You’re holding your breath. Glasses is the first one to speak up again, scoffing, “That shit’s an urban legend. Nobody could live out on the road that long.”

“Hm,” Shrug agrees. Or maybe disagrees. You’re not sure.

“What if he doesn’t, though? What if he does come into town sometimes, drifts in and out before anyone realizes who he is?” Chatterbox insists. “It’d be easy. He could slip out with some couriers and nobody’d know. Maybe he is a courier.”

There’s another, longer pause. “Wh—really?” you say, incredulous. “I’m not a serial killer.”

Chatterbox makes a thoughtful sound. “Well, a serial killer would probably say that.”

“I was the last one here! How could I have killed somebody?”

“Not saying you did it, just saying maybe you should leave first in the morning,” Glasses mutters.

The idea of falling asleep here unnerves you, but your car won’t be warm enough. You consider shoving a chair under the door. It’s flimsy, certainly nothing that’ll deter somebody hellbent on killing on you—somebody with the kind of strength you saw—but you’ll hear it fall over at least. You take a quick shower and crawl into bed, too tired to care how stiff the mattress is. The others are loud but the wind drowns them out after a while and the conversation dies down.

Maybe you won’t sleep, you think. You’ll just lay here on your side, facing the door and the windows. Listening for footsteps in the snow, or a car pulling up. Just a few hours, you think, checking the clock. A few hours until dawn, at least. Maybe the blizzard will have moved on by then. You try to keep yourself moving, shaking your foot or tapping your fingers. The room is frigid, the heat barely able to keep up with the cold air seeping under the door, but exhaustion is slowly gaining on you. It becomes a struggle to keep your eyes open.

“…I heard that’s a thing he does,” Chatterbox is saying, sounding muffled and far away. “He picks somebody and follows them around for a while, but he lets them go a few times before he actually kills them. And it’s not like he just leaves other people alone, but that’s kind of different. It’s like he’s whetting his appetite or something. Picks off other people so can hold himself back from whoever his main target is. Maybe it’s a mimic thing? Do you think he shapeshifts? I had a friend back at University who specialized in mimics, I think some of them do similar stuff…”

Your eyelids flutter. Just a few hours, you remind yourself. A few hours and then…

You can’t breathe.

It’s dark, a deeper black than night in every direction, and you can’t breathe. There’s something—something around your neck. Squeezing too tight. Wanting to split you open, wanting to tear into the soft flesh of your throat. It wants to, yet it never does. But even when it lets you go, uncoiling slowly, slinking out of sight, your lungs are on fire. You heave and you choke and you try to scream but you can’t get any air, can’t breathe. You can’t remember how.

There’s something in this darkness with you. You can’t see it but you can hear it breathing in deep, echoing sighs. You can sense its vastness, the crushing weight of its attention. You’re trying to run but your legs are weak and sluggish, flailing, going nowhere. The air ripples and it’s here, above and all around you. Silent. Observing. Your neck throbs where it touched you, skin tender and throbbing with your heartbeat, and still you can’t breathe.

There is a dark moon above you. It’s a misshapen pearl, a silvery stone with a hole punched through its center. It’s growing as it sinks from the sky. It’s bigger than you, bigger than your car, so close you think you could reach out and touch it.

It blinks.

You gasp and jolt awake. It must be morning. Weak light trickles under the curtains. You’re cold, but not as cold as you were last night. The stench of blood is thick and cloying. Your door is open, the chair you wedged under it knocked aside.

You sit up slowly. The room is red. Every breath draws in the smell of rust and rot. There’s hardly a surface in the room that hasn’t been spattered in gore. The walls are glistening with it. There are dark red puddles hardening into the carpet. The bedspread is soaked through beside you because there is a body there, posed atop the sheets as though it climbed into bed with you. It doesn’t have a face, just a head so badly bludgeoned that it could be a split pomegranate, soft and gooey and oozing chunks of meat through cracks in its skull.

It’s wearing a peacoat, gray wool spattered with blotchy red stains.

You scramble out of bed, lunging for your shoes. The carpet is so saturated it squishes wetly under your steps. There’s another body curled up at the foot of the bed in the same unsightly condition, intact except for the gristly paste where a head should be. Blood and brain matter spill across the floor in a pinkish smear, bits of vertebrae poking through the taut, torn flesh of the neck. Newbie’s tie is half-submerged in the slurry, tightened into an uncomfortably small knot.

The third corpse is propped up against the door, seated with its back against it. You shove it aside. You try not to look. But you see red, you see a scalp split apart and a broken shell of skull fragments underneath, little white slivers floating in a soupy clot. A gush of thick, partially coagulated fluid spurts out when it thunks against the ground in your haste to leave, dislodging the sunglasses folded neatly in its lap.

The morning air is crisp. It’s just cold enough that some of the snow has stayed, the shallow layer left revealing the spotted prints of snowboots, a trail of blood, and smooth drag marks. Every door is wide open, a mess of red slush inside. The gruesome trail wanders out of your room and then rounds the corner, vanishing into a section of the parking lot you never thought to check. Nothing is parked there now but you still feel nauseous with fear.

Strangely, 107’s snow is clean. You notice as you’re leaving, starting your car, headlights flashing into the open rooms. Everything else is slick and splattered, dark red puddles frozen to the bed, except 107—the room right next to yours. The footprints, you notice, come out of that room clean. They go only in one direction; only leaving.

You try desperately to remember Shrug’s face but you never saw it. He was careful, keeping his head angled down and his gaze lowered. Maybe it’s just hindsight, fear coloring your memories, but thinking back, you thought he might’ve had a small smile on his face when you looked at him.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift

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padfootagain · 1 year

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The King and You (XVI)

Part XVI : The wardrobe

Hi everyone! Here I come with a new chapter for my Caspian fic!

I hope you like this chapter, it’s a little emotional but still sweet. We are also coming closer to the end, so… lots of things happening here! Tell me what you think of it!

****

Pairing: Caspian x reader

Warning: … a little sad?

Sum up: Somehow, Caspian stumbles out of Narnia and into your world. He’s utterly lost and has no idea how to get out of this world filled with scary toasters, strange carriages and a woman who literally knocks him off of his feet. But does he really want to find a way back?

Word count: 4784

It took you a few days to track down the position of the cottage that had once been owned by Digory Kirke.

It was Caspian’s first time on a train, and he liked it. So far, it was the most reassuring mean of transportation he had discovered in your world. It was fast, and yet, he felt safe.

Roger and Agatha were sharing whispers and giggles, like two teenagers in love. You didn’t fail to notice the way they were holding hands, sitting next to each other in the compartment.

You ate sandwiches and laughter for lunch, and for a while, the adventure that was your trip to the country side was enough for all of you to forget why you were heading there.

The new owners of the cottage had turned it into an Airbnb, which made everything simple. You would all stay at the cottage, which would give you time to explore the place, and especially the attic. Despite the fact that the cottage had changed owners several times, you were hoping that you could find some clues about Narnia there. Besides, you found no relatives to Digory Kirke left alive; this place where he had once lived seemed to be your only chance.

The cottage was on the outskirts of a small village, with a garden filled with heather, a bench and a tall apple tree. A stonewall encircled the property, and you smiled at the sight of the ancient house, made a little crooked by the years. The walls were of stone, the roof of grey tiles with moss covering the left part of it, the door was painted in a bright red shade. It felt welcoming, warm.

“It’s lovely, don’t you think?” Agatha asked Roger, while you struggled to open the little wooden gate to get into the garden.

“It is indeed. Charming, I would say,” the old gangster answered, tightening his hold on Agatha’s hand.

The inside of the cottage was pretty charming as well. It felt old despite the new kitchen counter and the large tv screen. There was a hearth and a warm carpet under a large sofa and an old armchair. A wooden table. A large library filled with old books with leathery covers. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms, one for Agatha and Roger, and one for Caspian and you.

You decided to get some rest that evening, and to explore the attic the next morning. There was no real rush, or at least, you didn’t want to be in a rush. Delaying meant spending one more evening with Caspian.

You had started doubting it all again, perhaps because you had never been fully convinced in the first place, perhaps because the closer Caspian got to leaving, the less you wanted it all to be real. You hated yourself for it. For wanting him to stay. It was selfish, yet, you kept on hoping…

You had offered to prepare some tea, but you didn’t notice when the kettle started to sing. You didn’t notice the sharp whistling sound, or Agatha calling for you, or the rain that had started to fall outside. Instead, you were lost in thought.

What if you left?

Ever since that afternoon at the National Gallery, the question tortured you. Caspian couldn’t stay, but what if you left with him? It sounded crazy, to leave it all behind. He had been clear about the fact that you wouldn’t be able to come back, ever again, to your world. How could you do that? It was crazy. To even think about abandoning your entire life, your friends, your family, just to follow a guy you had met only a month ago? That was outrageously crazy of you. Irresponsible. Stupid even. Completely and utterly reckless.

And yet, you hesitated still.

Because despite how crazy this whole story was, Caspian was real. What you felt for him was real. And you didn’t want it to end just yet…

But if you knew that he deeply cared about you, if you knew that Caspian had feelings for you, you were still unsure of their depth. He had never said I love you. He had implied it several times, but the words had never passed his lips. What did it mean? Did it mean that his feelings, though earnest, were not strong enough to be called love for now?

You were only brought back to earth when Roger walked into the kitchen, got the kettle and started pouring the boiling water into the cups. You were almost startled when he spoke.

“You seem very much worried, young lady.”

“Oh… I’m just tired, that’s all,” you lied.

Roger chuckled, shaking his head.

“Ha, this good old lie. I’m too old to fall for it. Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you?”

He gave you some time to speak, but you remained silent. Upstairs, Caspian had set your suitcase next to the bed, and Agatha was unpacking her things.

“Is it about the boy leaving?”

You nodded.

“What did Agatha tell you about that?” you asked, unwilling to reveal too much about Narnia.

“Not that much, to be honest. Only that we needed to help this boy go home. And that he would have to go on his own.”

“Yeah… he’s going to leave soon. If all goes to plan, at least.”

“And there is no way for him to stay?”

You shook your head.

“There are people there… who depend on him. He can’t stay.”

“Then… why can’t you go?”

You shrugged, looking down at the floor.

“How could I leave my life, everything I’ve built… for a man I’ve met a mere month ago?”

“Do you not love him?”

“I do.”

“Then… it is merely a game of balance. You need to weigh your two options: do you love more the life you have here, or the life you could have with him?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure… leaving… it sounds crazy!”

But Roger gave you a sad smile.

“You know… I was about your age when I met Agatha. Prettiest girl I had ever seen,” he went on with a dreamy smile, but his expression was tainted with melancholia. “I was in love with her by the end of that day we spent together in Central Park. Madly in love with her. Had met her only three days before but… there was something about her I… I just knew. I knew she was it.”

He put away the kettle, watched in his mug as the tea leaves were tainted the water with a brownish, almost-red shade.

“But then… I was young, and mostly stupid. I was involved in some heavy stuff, the kind you can’t get out of. I was offered to go to Chicago for some time. Let’s call it ‘business’, although I’m sure you know that wasn’t all that there was there. I had to choose. And Agatha and I… we had been together for only a couple of months. It was dangerous to take her with me, and I knew it. When I told her about it, she said she would wait for me to come back. I told her not to. I went away. We didn’t stay in touch. When I came back ten years later, she was married with two kids.”

He looked at you again, withheld tears shining in his eyes.

“I have never regretted a decision in my life more than I regret this one. More than I regret letting her go so easily. I could have made it work. I could have dropped it, I could have found a way out. It wasn’t too late yet, I was involved, but I had many friends, and they would have allowed me to lead a normal life, under some conditions. I could have had it all. But the truth is, I wanted to go to Chicago. I wanted to get that money, I wanted to be someone important. If I had stopped for a minute, and truly thought about it… if I had truly weighed my options, I’m not sure I would have made the same choice.”

He rested a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“It’s your decision to take. But if you take the wrong one, you’ll have to own it. You’ll have to live with its weigh for the rest of your life. So… be careful. We only have one life, we can’t afford to waste it away.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have the strength to do so. Roger grabbed his mug of tea and Agatha’s and disappeared as quietly as he had come into the kitchen.

He didn’t notice Caspian hiding in the corridor.

********************************

It was barely midnight when you all went to bed. A long day would await with a new sunrise, and you reckoned that you were already going to bed way too late.

You took a shower, took your time to get ready for bed. You lied down there, under the safety of the heavy blankets, waiting for Caspian to be ready to bid you goodnight. He had slept by your side twice, after visiting the cemetery, but after that he had kept on leaving you alone at night. You guessed the intimacy of it was a little too much for him, and you got that. You had no doubts that he would still come to your bedroom to bid you goodnight, though. Drop a sweet kiss on your lips. Check that the covers kept you warm. Turn off the lights. And leave you to get lost in dreams that were always about him.

But this time, he didn’t. This time, when he walked in your room, already in a pair of red pyjamas, he stood by the bed, on the opposite side. You looked at him with a frown, and noticed that he was blushing.

“Can I… Can I stay with you tonight? I… I do not want to be alone.”

You gave him a warm smile, nodding in silence and pulling the covers to welcome him inside the bed. He smiled back, before lying by your side, the mattress caving under his weight. It was reassuring, to feel him there, by your side.

He reached for your hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I… I did not want to be alone.”

“Are you okay? Is everything alright?”

He nodded, but he was a terrible liar. You insisted, and he turned to lie on his side so he would be facing you instead of the ceiling. You did the same. There was no light in the room but the faint silvery glow of the moon slipping in through the curtains, and the small lamp alit on your nightstand that painted the room in a yellowish glow. You gave him an encouraging smile, running your thumb across his knuckles in a soothing touch.

It made his heart swell, the sight of you like this. In your pyjamas, lying in bed, your hair already messy and a tender smile on your lips. Your fingers intertwined with his. The sound of your breathing filling up the room.

He reached up to brush his fingertips across your cheek.

“I know it will sound strange but… I feel… like I’m running out of time.”

He could hear it, your breathing stopping. A sharp intake of breath, and then nothing for a few seconds. You tried to smile, but the gesture remained quite sad.

“I do not mean to make you… feel bad or… I just… I feel like something is pulling me away,” he went on. “The same kind of feeling I felt that day in the forest when I left Narnia. Like I should get going. Like I should… Like I must go somewhere else. I do not know how to explain this. It is a strange feeling. Still… I do not want to be alone tonight. I want… I want to be with you, as much as I can.”

You nodded, failing at hiding the tears that glimmered at the corner of your eyes. Slowly, you moved to hold him tightly against you, and he wrapped his arms around your frame as well.

He breathed the sweet scent of your shampoo. Vanilla and apples and sunrises…

“Caspian… can you promise me something? Actually… actually two things…”

“Anything you want.”

“When you’re gone… I know it’s very selfish but… please, don’t forget about me. I… I don’t want you to forget about me. Ever. And I know it’s selfish, because… you’ll need to marry someone else, and I hope you find love and happiness but… but I know that I won’t forget about you. Ever. So don’t. Actually… I have something for you. Thought about giving it to you right before you would go but as you’re having this weird feeling…”

You pulled away to reach inside the drawer of your bedside table. There was a small packet there, closed with a purple ribbon. You offered it to Caspian in a slightly trembling hand, a shy expression on your features.

“I… I have no money. I do not have any gift for you,” Caspian mumbled, but you merely laughed at him.

“Take the goddamn gift, or I’ll give it to Roger.”

It was enough to make him laugh again.

“Do I have some competition?”

“You have no idea. Have you tasted his apple pie the other day at Agatha’s? That man owns my heart.”

Caspian chuckled, accepting your gift. You were shier again as he unfastened the ribbon, unfolded the fabric. He grinned at the sight of the necklace you had bought for him; the medallion hanging at the silver chain had the form of a ship.

“You said… you said you loved the sea. I thought it could make a token of good fortune. And then, maybe… it would help you remember me. I mean…”

But you were shushed by a warm pair of lips pressed against yours. You melted into Caspian’s arms again, holding tightly on his pyjama shirt. When he pulled away, both of you breathless, he brushed tenderly his nose against yours, making you giggle.

He took another close look at the jewel before putting it on.

“I love it. Thank you, so much… I will take it as a token of luck, indeed. But, Y/N… you did not need to buy me a present for me to remember you.”

He slowly shook his head, a tender glint in his eyes, even though he couldn’t hide that he found you rather silly at that moment.

“How can you imagine for even a second that I could ever forget you, Y/N?”

He ran his hand through your hair, pushing the strands back to look at you, to memorize your features, to make sure he would remember every detail, from the exact colour of your eyes, to the form of your lips…

“I will never forget you, my love. How could I ever forget anything about you at all?”

It was your time to kiss him tenderly, until he pulled away to ask you what was this other promise he had to make for you. He saw you biting on your lower lip, hesitate, but you shook your head. Now wasn’t the time. Now, the night was warm and felt safe. You were happy. You didn’t want to ask him about Narnia, about him leaving. You took his face in your hands to pull him back to you, to feel his lips against yours once more.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. That’s enough promises for one day.”

He nodded, not willing to argue with you. Not tonight. Not now. Not when he held you so close to him he could feel your heart beating against his. Matching rhythms…

You saw him clenching his jaw. You heard his breathing quicken. You saw his fingers shaking slightly when he raised his hand to caress your upper arm. His eyes had darkened.

You narrowed your eyes at him, but he didn’t notice. He was staring at your lips instead of your eyes.

When he kissed you again, there was something more there. Something more passionate. Something that made you moan into his mouth, that made you press yourself against him harder, that made your hands fly up to his hair...

You were both breathless when you pulled away. You stared at him for a moment. He started to blush, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t let go of you.

“Would you be offended if I said that I…”

He interrupted himself, looking for the right words. But he couldn’t think straight anymore.

He wanted you too much for that…

“Would you be offended if I told you that I don’t want to sleep right now?”

You couldn’t refrain the chuckle that escaped your throat.

“Offended? No. No, I’m not offended. Especially when you say it in such an elegant way.”

“Do I?”

“But I thought it was not your way. I mean… in your world. The whole… having sex before getting married and all that?”

He blushed fiercely, but he didn’t back down.

“It is not our way, no.”

“But?”

“But we are not in Narnia. And I want you. Terribly so. Unbearably so.”

You struggled to swallow, feeling electricity running across your body, through every one of your nerves and muscles and bones…

“I don’t want you to regret that,” you managed to warn him despite your shaking voice.

He offered you a reassuring smile.

“Trust me… I will not regret this. I want to do it. I want to do it with you before I…”

He didn’t have the strength to finish his sentence. You didn’t need him to.

“Would you… What do you want?” he asked in a shaky voice.

But when you slowly approached your lips of his, he couldn’t help but close his eyes and tighten his hold on you.

“I… have been wanting to do this for a while now. I want you, Caspian. Terribly so. Unbearably so.”

He let a smile form on his lips before closing the gap between your mouths.

You would have needed a lot of sleep, considering the busy day ahead.

But you barely slept at all…

********************************************

The attic was full of dust and spiders.

The little lightbulb that hung there barely shed any light, you needed to bring your phones to see what was in there. Lots of boxes, a couple of wooden chests. You reckoned that you would have more chances to find something in one of these.

By your side, Caspian pushed away from his face a couple of cobwebs.

“Charming place,” he commented.

Behind him, Agatha sneezed because of the dust.

“It’ll take a while to go through all these,” Roger said, looking around to evaluate the amount of work to be done.

“We don’t really have any other option. We should get to work.”

Caspian nodded, picked up a random box and opened it, rummaging through whatever was inside. Soon, all of you were hard at work.

But all you could find were old papers, ragdolls, toys, pictures… all that belonged to owners of the cottage that lived there long after Digory Kirke had died.

By the end of the afternoon, you heaved a defeated sigh.

“I’ll take a break,” you announced, longing for some fresh air.

You were not surprised when Caspian followed you down the ladder, down the stairs, and into the garden.

None of you spoke until you were sitting on the wooden bench. The air was chilly, you had taken your coats to walk outside. You rested your head on his shoulder the second Caspian was seated by your side, and it made him chuckle fondly.

“I’m not sure we’re going to find anything here,” you said after a few minutes.

But Caspian didn’t answer. Instead, he wrapped his arm around you, bringing you closer to him. He dropped sweet kisses on your temple and in your hair. You closed your eyes, enjoying this peaceful moment. There was no sound emanating from human lives. No car, no shouts, no voices. Only the wind blowing in the naked branches of the apple tree under which you were seated. Only the few birds chirping now and then. And above all that, Caspian’s hand on your waist, the rhythm of his chest falling and rising as he breathed, his scent warm and comforting, familiar, mingled with the perfume of wet grass and heather beginning to bloom.

You could have lived like this, in this moment, forever…

“I heard you talking with Roger yesterday evening.”

You looked up at him, knowing perfectly well what he was talking about, what conversation he was referring to.

“You are still hesitating, are you not?” he added.

You nodded.

“I’m… weighing my options, like Roger said I should.”

He nodded, a look of deep hurt on his features.

“I… have promised you never to take a decision in your stead ever again, and I will not do so. But… I can tell you what I think you should do. And I think you should stay.”

He shook his head, staring at you. Staring at your eyes that he adored and seemed to capture his soul every time. Even more so since the previous night, he reckoned…

He could feel your lips on his again, your hands holding on his shoulders, your breath mingling with his so you would inhale the same air, your voice whispering his name…

He had to look away to focus once more on the present.

“You would not want me to come?” you asked him, voice fragile and shaking.

“Of course, I want you to come. I want to be with you, more than anything. But I can’t ask you to throw away your entire life, everything you’ve built here…”

“I don’t have that much though. Here, I mean. A few friends, no family… My apartment, painting… I could have all that with you as well.”

“It is your decision to take. But I think that… you would regret it if you came with me.”

You remained silent for a moment, lost in thought. You remembered this promise you wanted to ask from him the previous night, and reckoned it was time to talk about it with him.

“Can I ask you to promise me something?” you asked after a long silence.

“The same vow you wanted me to take last night? Of course, you can.”

You looked for the right way to say this, worried you would offend him. But the stakes were too high, you had to take the risk…

“Caspian… promise me that this story about Narnia is true.”

You saw him clenching his jaw for a second, because of the glint of pain that passed through his dark eyes, but also because of the flash of anger that appeared there. It shone only for a moment though, igniting his gaze for a mere second, before he would relax and look at you tenderly again.

It wasn’t your fault. You had no proof that he was telling the truth, it was a lot to take in. He couldn’t be mad about you doubting it all.

“I promise. It is the truth. You know everything.”

“You really are a King there?”

“Yes, I really am King.”

You nodded slowly, looking down at your feet.

“So… if I left with you… would you marry that woman you said would allow you to make a good alliance?”

“Of course not. I would marry you.”

“Even if it’s not the best for your people?”

“I would marry you.”

“So… I would be Queen?”

“Yes, you would be.”

“That’s… a lot of responsibilities, right? You… you’re not free to do what you want to, right?”

“It is a lot of responsibilities, yes. You would…lead Narnia with me. By my side. You would have many duties. Narnia would have to come first, always.”

You nodded slowly, taking it all in.

“Would I be able to paint still?”

Caspian gave you a tender smile.

“Of course. During your free time, you could keep on painting. You could do anything you want.”

“Do you have a lot of free time as a king?”

“Not that much, I’m afraid. Still… you could paint. Less so than you do now, though.”

Again, you nodded slowly.

And the truth was, you weren’t sure if you could do this. Be a Queen… you didn’t know how to be that. You were a painter. You were a mess, most of the time. How could you lead an entire people, a people you knew nothing about, when you were a mess yourself?

Caspian seemed to guess your thoughts, and his smile turned sad.

“I would help you at the beginning. I would guide you through it. I would be here for you. But I am not going to pretend that leading a people is easy. I will not pretend that my world is not entirely different from yours. That we do not live in castles and fight with swords and travel on horseback when you… you walked on the moon.”

He shook his head, tears glistening in his eyes while he looked up at the grey sky in an attempt to withhold them.

“Your life would be turned upside-down. Everything would change. Would you really do that just to be with me?”

“I love you,” you argued.

You realized then… it was the first time you spoke so plainly these words. Caspian gave you a tender smile, but he didn’t say it back, even if you wondered whether or not the gleam in his eyes revealed his true feelings for you. Still... it hurt that he didn't say it back.

“But love is not always enough, is it?”

You thought about his words while you rested your head against his shoulder again. He took your hand in yours, gave it a tender squeeze before intertwining your fingers together.

You wondered… could love be enough?

********************************

You found nothing that day in the attic. Caspian was surprisingly calm about it. When you asked him why, he answered with a shrug.

“I know we are at the right place. We merely need to find what is hidden here.”

You didn’t answer, didn’t contradict him, didn’t ask him how he could know. You knew that you would not fully understand, and you trusted him. Even though, deep inside, you hoped he was wrong.

You enjoyed a merry meal in the cottage. Roger had been cooking, and it was delicious. After a long time spent talking together, the two couples went their separate ways for the rest of the evening. You decided to go to bed early, to relax with a book (or rather some cuddles with Caspian but you pretended that you wanted to read in front of your friends) while Roger and Agatha lingered downstairs to watch TV. You thus got ready for bed, and then waited for Caspian while he was taking a shower, reading your book although you were unable to focus on the words written on the page while you impatiently thought about Caspian’s arms around you.

You didn’t notice the sound of the bathroom door opening once he had finished showering. You didn’t notice the sound of his naked feet walking across the floorboard. You didn’t notice when his footsteps stopped, when he froze in the middle of the small corridor. You didn’t notice when he looked inside Roger’s and Agatha’s bedroom with a strange fascination. You didn’t hear the thud of his dirty clothes falling onto the floor. You didn’t hear him walk inside the room, transfixed, staring…

He was staring at a wardrobe.

An old, wooden wardrobe with intricate carvings all over the surface. Strange creatures represented in the tender material. Caspian could barely breathe.

There was something about this wardrobe… something… something magnetic. Something that pulled him in.

When he rested his fingers on the doorknob, he was shaking.

He opened the door. A gush of wind blew out of the wardrobe, pushing in the room a few skeleton leaves that bumped into Caspian’s feet.

He took a deep breath. It smelled of… a distant fire. Trees. The strong smell of pine trees. Damp earth. And something sweet. Something… indescribable and yet familiar. A scent he would have recognized anywhere, even though he had never paid true attention to it. But then, he had spent a month breathing another air...

There was a dim light at the back of the empty wardrobe. He could see branches of pine trees and oaks a few steps away. The branches were painted with a dim golden light. There too, it was twilight.

Caspian was shaking when he breathed out a simple word, the word that described what was beyond the doors of this wardrobe.

“Narnia…”

#caspian #caspian x you #caspian x y/n #caspian x reader #caspian fanfic #caspian fanfiction #caspian x #caspian imagine #caspian series #narnia #narnia fanfic #narnia fanfiction #narnia series

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komehyappyou · 2 years

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Did you know this about the Senju's names?

仏間butsuma: alcove/room where 仏壇butsudan, buddhist altar is placed. 柱間hashirama/space between pillars,bay-> 柱/pillars 扉間tobirama (no meaning) -> 扉/doors(hinges) 瓦間kawarama (no meaning)-> 瓦/roof tiles 板間itama/wooden floor room-> 板/woodenPlanks(flooring)

They end with 間ma/space, room. 板ita/瓦kawara are odd/boring compared to 柱Hashira(symbolic, used for counting kami, pillars/support), 扉Tobira(symbolic, gate to new places/changes)

Ah... but there seems to be a theme...parts of a traditional japanese house/architecture? or temple?

Similar Senju Names: Butsuma's name Mystery

Background: if you remember, Naruto manga was released weekly, Butsuma appeared in ch622 and had a week where he was unnamed. people tried guessing his name, based on pillars/doors/roof tiles/planks theme. Some guessed his name correctly. But naturally you get some silly answers.

Let's learn a few parts of a traditional Japanese house!(mostly end in ma)

梁間harima,etc -> 梁/beams

襖fusuma are opaque/solid sliding doors(ex has black outline, white, but sometimes they have paintings), but 障子shouji are translucent sliding doors with wooden grids. 畳tatami is flooring in traditional house. 欄間ranma(my guess w) are carved/grid "transom window" above sliding doors.

床の間tokonoma(床間) aclove for decorations, sometimes next to 仏間butsuma and often has a 掛軸kakejiku/hangingscroll as decor. 押入れoshiire is built in closet. 地袋jibukuro(red), is ground cupboard. Not the 経机kyouzukue/sutraTable, incense holder in front. Above is a frame of 無量寿/eternal life a reference for AmidaNyorai, important figure in esp. pure land sects.

茶の間chanoma(茶間) originally "tea room" for ceremony, but used like living room. similar to 居間ima, western style.

寝間nema is an old word for bedroom. 寝室shinshitsu or "bedroom" is common modern days.

Joke guess but interesting history

陰間kagema... 陰kage\shadow... "shadow space"...

painting by 鈴木春信SuzukiHarunobu of Kagema(boy prostitute) and customer.

Originally, kagema was a term for Kabuki-in-training boys, who didn't appear in stage,(in shadow space). Young boys(13-20) replaced women roles, and often did prostitution to make ends meet. Later term became synonymous with male prostitute and served men and women customers.

During later Edo period, "pinnacle of sexual passion" was experiencing men and women, so kagema "teahouses" prospered, but eventually faded until meji era's draft/changes which ended prostitution. wikilink

Random: Tsunade and Nawaki

of course Tsunade is a character from the famous goukan, "The Tale of Gallant Jiraya"

綱手tsunade is short for 綱手縄tsunadenawa in the olden days was rope to pull boat back to shore.

Tsunade's brother name in kanji 縄樹nawaki, is "rope tree", 縄nawa is thinner rope than 綱tsuna

Of course Nawaki and Tsunade names, makes me think of shintou practices of 注連縄shimenawa with 四手/紙垂shide wrapped around 神木shinboku/sacred tree, which are used to section off kami's world vs man's world.

Interesting to think about.

#naruto #meta #naruto meta #butsuma senju #tobirama senju #hashirama senju #kawarama senju #itama senju #tsunade #senju #nawaki #naruto fandom #naruto meme #hashirama #tobirama #kawarama #itama #naruto series #butsuma

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bad-fucking-omens · 6 months

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The Witch Twin (Alec V. x OC) - Chapter 20 - Home

Summary: When I thought about my future, I was sure that I had the rest of my life vaguely planned out.

Then, my older sister moved up from Arizona to stay with us — and turned my entire life upside down.

I had no idea just how bad it had gotten until I was standing in a castle in Italy, convinced that I was about to die.

Length: 3.1K words (Complete fic 71.8K words)

Fic warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, explicit smut (M/F), referenced/implied past child abuse, emotional manipulation by sibling

Chapter warnings: Explicit smut [M/F, oral (fem receiving), P in V sex]

Read on AO3 or read below

20. HOME

Alec held my hand in his as we drove through the gates of Volterra, towards the rolling Italian countryside that surrounded the small city.

We were going to look at a couple nearby villas that Heidi had scouted for us. We had explained to her what we wanted in a home and she had compiled a list of ten villas for us to look at. Both of the villas we were looking at today were close to Volterra and fairly secluded, as they each came with a big estate that would not allow any humans to see or hear us from the boundaries of the property. Heidi had arranged for us to tour each property without a realtor and she had given us the keys yesterday.

We pulled up to the large, wrought iron gate that belonged to the first property we were touring. Alec quickly got out of the white Lamborghini he was driving to unlock the gate and push it open. He returned to the car and drove us up the long, smooth driveway.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” I breathed when the villa finally came into view.

The two-story, Renaissance era villa was made of a light beige colored stone and roofed with red terracotta tiles. There was a separate, smaller, one-story building that seemed to be a garage a bit further down the driveway. The grounds that surrounded the house consisted of a neatly trimmed lawn and, beyond that, lots of trees that would provide us even more privacy.

Alec parked the car in front of the villa and we got out. We walked towards the large, double doors of the front entrance. Alec unlocked them and pushed the door open, gesturing for me to enter the villa first.

The interior of the villa was mostly modern, though it was clear that whomever had updated the villa had tried their best to keep the original walls and architecture — old wooden beams crossed along the ceilings, the walls were a cream-colored stucco, and the floors were made of a dark grey, polished stone.

The foyer that we had stepped into allowed us to see up to the second story, which was lined with a wrought-iron railing that also lined the staircases on either side of the mezzanine.

“It really is beautiful,” Alec murmured softly as we moved to the living room, which was to the left of the foyer.

Bright sunlight poured into the room from the tall arched windows that stretched almost the entire height of the walls. The room was decorated with modern, light-grey, plush couches, a matching armchair, and a large oak coffee table. A stone fireplace was on one of the interior walls, with beautiful, Renaissance paintings hanging on either side of it. An ornate, iron chandelier hung from the ceiling.

“There’s so much light.”

I stepped into one of the sun spots. Thousands of tiny rainbows scattered across the walls and floor of the room from my crystalline skin.

Alec wrapped his arms around my waist. “I wish we never had to hide. . . . I wish I could show you the world without having to hide under clouds or in the middle of the night.”

I leaned back into him and replied softly, “I don’t care how I see the world — in sunlight or darkness. As long as you’re by my side, I’ll be perfectly happy.”

He huffed out a soft laugh, then pressed a kiss to my cheek. “You’re adorable and incredibly sweet.”

We stood there for a few more moments, simply soaking up the sun and each other’s love. Finally, we broke apart and began to tour the other rooms.

The room that led off from the other side of the foyer was a library the size of the living room. Every wall was lined with expensive, dark oak bookshelves that were currently empty. The plush carpet that covered the floor was a light grey that matched the curtains that hung over the tall, arched windows. Two very comfortable-looking, brown, leather armchairs sat in front of the windows with a small side table placed between them.

There were two more rooms on the first floor. One was an office that had a single wall lined with bookshelves, and a beautiful view to the grounds behind the house.

The other room was a large bedroom that had an ensuite bathroom and a walk-in closet that was nearly double the size of the one we had at the castle. The floor of the bedroom was made of the same dark stone as most of the villa. A king-sized bed was pushed up against one of the walls, beneath a large, horizontal window. A single glass door led out to the back of the patio.

We stepped through the door onto the patio. A large pergola covered the patio, its wooden beams wrapped in fragrant honeysuckle that kept the area well shaded. Two cream-colored couches that were meant to be out in the mild Italian weather were arranged in an L-shape around a white marble table. The tiled patio extended beyond the pergola and surrounded a large, rectangular pool.

“Mm, that pool would definitely get a lot of use,” I commented, throwing a smirk over my shoulder at Alec.

“Oh, is that so?” he replied, a smirk curling on his own lips as he approached me. Alec set his hands on my hips and pulled me back against his chest.

“Mhm,” I hummed and leaned into his touch. I enjoyed teasing him. “I mean, I doubt either of us will be able to keep our hands off each other when all we’re wearing is a swimsuit . . . or nothing at all.”

“Fuck.” Alec’s grip on my hips tightened. I could feel him start to harden as he pressed closer to me.

I giggled as I stepped out of his grasp, leaving him groaning. I turned and walked backwards towards the house.

“Come on, love. We’ve still got the second floor to see.”

Alec rolled his eyes, though he followed me back into the house. I reached out and snagged his hand in mine. He linked our fingers together and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

There were three rooms on the second floor. Two of them were bedrooms that looked nearly identical to each other, with tall, arched windows and glass doors that led out to the balcony they shared. There was a shared bathroom between the bedrooms.

The third room was a home theater. A large projection screen covered one of the walls, and two rows of couches were lined in front of it, the second row about half a foot higher than the front row.

Alec leaned close to whisper in my ear, “We could put a bed in here. . . . Could cuddle together while we watch a movie or something. . . .”

“I’m sure cuddling would be all we would be doing,” I replied sarcastically. Alec nipped my shoulder teasingly and I laughed.

“We could turn the two extra bedrooms into something other than bedrooms,” he suggested.

“Like what?”

“Whatever we want. A game room, another library, an art studio.”

I leaned into his side and said softly, “I think I’d like an art studio.”

He hummed and pressed another kiss to my cheek. “Then that’s what you’ll get.”

“You’re so sweet to me,” I said, turning to face him. Alec grinned and held me closer to his chest when I wrapped my arms around his neck. “I don’t want to look at the other house. I want this one.”

“Whatever you want, princess.”

“Are you sure? It’s your house, too.”

Alec chuckled. “You forget how long I’ve been alive, love. They’ll all look mostly the same to me. As long as you’re happy with the house, that’s all I care about.”

I stood on my toes to kiss him fiercely. Alec laughed when we broke apart. He gently brushed my hair behind my ear and stared down at me with a soft smile. There was so much love in his gaze that it sent butterflies fluttering through my stomach.

“I’ll tell Heidi to tell the realtor that we want this one,” he said. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to close within the next couple weeks and then it will be all ours.”

“We’ll finally have somewhere to escape to whenever we want to be all alone.”

“Our escape from the real world,” he said with a smile.

I kissed him one more time before we finally headed back down the stairs and out of the house.

I sat lightly on the hood of the Lamborghini as I watched Alec lock the house back up. I leaned back, pressing my hands against the warm metal when Alec turned around. I smirked when I saw him pause in his step for a moment when he saw me. I watched his crimson eyes drag along my body before he looked up again.

He walked slowly towards me and, when he reached me, gently pushed my legs apart so he could stand between them. Alec leaned down over me, his lips barely brushing mine as he breathed, “If I remember correctly, I promised to make up for our interruption yesterday.”

“You did,” I said.

My eyes flicked up to meet his. I could still see the unconditional love in his ruby irises, but it was quickly becoming clouded with lust.

Alec pressed his lips to mine and my eyes fluttered shut. I wrapped my arms around his neck, one hand drifting up to card through his curly hair. Alec leaned down over me, forcing me to lay back on the hood of the car.

One of his hands trailed down my side until he reached the hem of my white sundress, which he hurriedly pulled up so it was bunched around my waist. He groaned when his hand slipped between my thighs.

“No panties, princess?” he breathed against my mouth. He circled his fingers lightly around my clit and my breath hitched in my throat. “You had this all planned out, didn’t you?”

“It’s been too long,” I replied, tugging at his hair. “I’ve missed you, Alec.”

He hummed and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “I know, princess, I know. I’ve missed you, too.”

My mate trailed kisses along my cheeks and down my neck. When he reached the neckline of my dress, he gently slid the straps down my arms and pulled the dress down below my breasts. His mouth traveled across my chest and I moaned when he wrapped his lips around one of my nipples. My fingers tightened in his hair as he teased the sensitive bud with his teeth. His hand had wandered back between my thighs and he gently rubbed my clit again.

“Alec,” I whimpered. “Please.”

He laughed against my chest. “Easy, sweetheart. I just wanna take my time with you. . . . You deserve to be savored, Eve.”

Alec ran his tongue slowly up through the valley between my breasts. I shuddered at the feeling, arching my back. Alec’s fingers slipped away from my clit to gently press into me as he sucked a hickey onto my neck.

“Oh,” I gasped.

My hand slipped down to grasp the hair at the back of his neck. Alec groaned against my throat as I tugged at his hair. He moved his mouth up to my jaw and kissed my lips again. Eventually, my lips parted and his tongue pushed into my mouth. Our tongues slid together slowly, our makeout languid and lazy. I had to admit that Alec had a point — it was so much better to savor the moment than rushing through it.

Smoldering fire trailed everywhere that his skin touched mine. I could feel the reverence and affection he had for me in every touch, in every kiss. I hoped that he felt just as loved as I did at this moment.

“My sweet girl. . . .” Alec bit my lip gently. “Stay just like this for me. Don’t move.”

I nodded and he kissed me one more time before he made his way back down my neck. I groaned, tilting my head back against the hood of the car. I felt Alec smile against my skin as he continued to kiss a path down my chest and stomach.

He pushed my dress up again as he knelt on the ground, between my legs. He brushed his lips lightly across my inner thighs, still slowly thrusting his fingers in and out of me. Alec scraped his teeth gently against the sensitive skin of my thigh. My breath caught in my throat as my stomach fluttered with pleasure.

Finally, Alec ran his tongue through my soaked folds. A breathless gasp left my mouth and I arched my back as he locked his lips around my clit, gently sucking on the small bundle of nerves.

‘You taste heavenly, princess. Absolutely divine.’

A shiver ran through my body as Alec’s words echoed through my mind. I sucked in a breath and let it out shakily as he ate me out, using his skilled mouth and fingers to bring me closer and closer to the edge. I moaned out his name and reached down to tangle my hand in his hair once again. He groaned against my pussy.

‘Close, princess?’ he asked in my mind when my moans picked up and I began moving my hips into his movements.

“Yes,” I breathed.

‘Cum for me, then, sweet girl.’

Alec curled his fingers inside of me and I finally fell off the edge. I gasped as my back arched again and my pussy fluttered around his fingers. He groaned, nuzzling against the inside of my thigh. My entire body tingled warmly as my orgasm ran through me.

When I finally started to come down from my high, I noticed that Alec was pressing soft, feathery kisses to my thigh. He slowly pulled his fingers out of me and I whined softly at the loss. He rested his head against my thigh and smiled at me.

“Ready for me, love?”

“Mhm,” I hummed. “C’mere and kiss me.”

Alec laughed softly and pulled off his shirt as he stood again. Then, he leaned down over my body to press his lips to mine. I lazily wrapped my arms around him and pressed my tongue into his mouth. I moaned when I tasted myself on his tongue.

He reached between our bodies and shoved down his jeans and boxers. He grasped himself in his hand and moved so that the tip of his cock was just resting between my slick folds. I shivered as anticipation built in my stomach.

Alec finally thrusted slowly into me. We both moaned, our kiss breaking as he dropped his head into the crook of my neck as he bottomed out inside me. I curled my arms around him tightly. I loved feeling his body on top of mine and his cock inside of me.

‘You feel so good wrapped around me, princess.’

I groaned. I dragged my nails across his back as he began to slowly thrust into me. Alec brushed his lips against my neck, right over the silvery, scarred bite mark that remained from my transformation. A soft moan fell from my lips. He knew that spot was particularly sensitive for me.

“My perfect, sweet girl,” he murmured against my skin. Alec rubbed his hand along my thigh, gently gripping it and moving my leg so that my knee hooked on his hip, which allowed him to thrust even deeper.

I groaned and tipped my head back against the car. “Fuck.”

Alec huffed out a strained laugh against my shoulder and nipped at my skin. “Tell me how good you feel, love.”

“Feels so good, Alec,” I whispered. “Perfect. . . . You’re perfect. . . . I love you.”

Alec groaned and kissed me fiercely. His gentle grip on my thigh tightened as he fucked me harder and shoved his tongue in my mouth. I gasped into the passionate kiss and scratched my nails across his back.

A few moments later, I came for the second time. My back arched up, my head tipped back, and I clung tight to Alec as wave after wave of intense pleasure flooded my body.

Alec followed me quickly off the edge, moaning as he thrust as deep as he could. His hips stuttered slightly and his cock twitched as he filled me with his seed.

I watched him with half-open eyes, slowly and lightly dragging my nails along his bare sides. He shivered at my touch before he looked at me. He kissed me again, this time all soft and sweet, before he rested his body on top of mine. I giggled quietly and reached up to brush my fingers through his messy curls.

“Well, I think I made up for our interruption the other day,” he teased.

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. “You certainly did.”

I lifted my head up slightly to press a kiss to his forehead. Alec hummed quietly. His eyes fluttered shut as he rested his head on my chest. I laid my head back on the hood and closed my eyes, continuing to card my fingers through his hair.

“I love you so much, Eve,” he whispered. “So beautiful and smart and sweet and perfect.”

My heart swelled with love and I said softly, “I love you more than anything, Alec.”

Alec rested his hand on my side, his thumb just below the curve of my breast. He slowly swiped his thumb along the soft skin on the underside of my breast and I moaned lightly.

This was one of the few private moments that I wished time slowed down so we could remain in our own little world for just a while longer. We were entirely alone and basking in the afterglow of amazing, passionate sex and soaking up all the affection and love we had for each other.

A few more minutes passed before Alec sighed and reluctantly said, “We should head back to the castle.”

I frowned, but nodded in agreement. He carefully lifted himself off of me, but before he fully stood up, he bent his head down to kiss me. I smiled when he finally pulled away and Alec laughed.

He pulled his clothes back on, then offered me his hand to help me sit up. I let him pull me up and he kissed my forehead, his hand caressing my cheek lovingly.

My smile grew even bigger when he began to fix my sundress for me. He gently pulled the dress back over my breasts and slid the straps up onto my shoulders again. He pulled down the fabric that had been bunched up around my waist, smoothing his hands over it to ensure that it all fell back into place. He even knelt down and strapped my heels back onto my feet. Alec pressed a gentle kiss to my knee before he stood up again.

“Ready, my love?”

“One more kiss and I will be,” I replied with a teasing grin. Alec smirked and rolled his eyes, then kissed me again. When we broke apart, I said, “Let’s go.”

#alec volturi x reader #alec volturi imagine #alec volturi fanfiction #alec volturi #twilight imagine #twilight fanfiction #twilight #volturi fanfiction #volturi #fanfic

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mrvelocipede · 5 days

Text

I spent some time this afternoon in a slightly cold-ish haze, applying stain samples to pieces of wood. Some of the resulting colors may end up on the floorboards, eventually. The weird blue-greens are in there because I want to mix small amounts of them in with some of the browns, to make better shades of brown.

It's absolutely mind-boggling how many different individual components go into building a house. There are obvious materials, like framing lumber and drywall and bricks. (There are so many different kinds of bricks. We got to go to a neat warehouse and look at hundreds of samples of bricks, in many shades of red and orange and brown and yellow and off-white, with and without speckles, spots, textures, kiln-firing marks, and so on and so forth.) But then basically every single visible surface and fixture has to be chosen, and they all have to work together and look reasonably harmonious.

Floorboards. Tile. Faucets. Cabinet doors. Room doors. Doorknobs. Cabinet handles. Sconces and various light fixtures. Window trim moldings. Stair railings. Roof material. Countertop material.

I've learned that kitchen countertops can be made of laminate, like old-school Formica, or else slabs of stone or stone-like materials, and there's very little middle ground in terms of aesthetics or cost. It's either way low-end or way high-end. I mean, there are cheaper and more expensive kinds of stone slabs, but it's all stone, with significant fabrication costs on top of the base material price.

For most of these things, you have to go to showrooms and deal with sales people. And at that point, I begin to run into difficulties.

See, on the internet I get to be the fascinating and mysterious Mr. Velocipede, and talk about whatever projects I've been working on, and post pictures of things I've made. People are willing to think of me as competent, or in some categories an actual expert to some degree, and it's a fairly comfortable persona to inhabit. It's very easy to forget that in the offline world, I'm a very ordinary-looking middle-aged housewife kind of thing. It's not how I think of myself, but it's definitely what I look like to any outside observer.

During the house-building project, I've been constantly, incessantly reminded of why I became Mr. Velocipede in the first place: being a girl in this culture sucks.

I don't actually mind being female (although I often feel like I'm kind of crap at it), but the kinds of assumptions made about you are so fucking insultingly stupid that I've never really figured out how to respond to them. You're supposed to use Pinterest boards and read magazines full of fairy-tale cottages and have a "dream kitchen" that you've been fantasizing about since you got married and stopped fantasizing about your dream wedding.

You're supposed to want to hide all your appliances neatly in tasteful cupboards, so as not to offend guests with your unsightly refrigerator or microwave or washing machine. I've lost count of the number of times I've had to explain to people that I don't want a special board that attaches to my cabinets, to hide the side of the refrigerator. "But you'll see the side of the refrigerator!" they admonish me. "It's not finished the same as the front! It doesn't match the cabinets!"

Yeah, okay, but what if I like having a magnetic surface to stick things on? What if I don't want to spend money on a random unnecessary board that basically dangles from the upper cabinet?

And there is always, always the assumption that you cannot possibly know anything at all about materials and how they work. I got to listen to quite a long speech about how window screens actually block a certain percentage of the light. Did I know that? Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. That was why I was asking about getting half-screens, instead of ones that cover the entire window.

It turns out that color is a very stressful subject for a lot of people, which I guess I sort of knew, but am now having to cope with more directly. Our architect is all stressed out because I haven't chosen a stain color yet, and I scared him by buying a bunch of sample bottles of weird bright colors of stain. I've been trying to reassure him that I'm very happy to figure out how to mix a custom stain color myself, out of whatever stock colors exist, but this is apparently unheard of.

But I am flat-out refusing to just pick one of the existing stock colors, because they are all too jarringly harsh and simple, and not at all the effect I want. And I can't figure out how to convey the idea that I know how to work with color, I understand that it's going to look different on different kinds of wood, I know what I'm doing, and I'm not going to burst into tears if it doesn't look like some reference photo in a brochure. Those brochures all look awful, and I know I can do better, if only people will stop calling me "little lady" and let me fucking get on with it.

#the house-building project #gender #complaints department #it is all very frustrating #I am probably less shouty and sweary when I don't have a cold #long post #I used to have a thing on my website that said 'Mr. Velocipede is a rude lady'

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void-of-unparalled-chaos · 11 months

Text

Colors (chapter 1/3)

In the wake of the DDOS attack on AO3 I decided to upload what I have posted from “Of Blades and Parchment” to here since the site is unavailable. The writing is a couple years old at this point and the series is unfinished (not abandoned!) but I figured that it might bring some joy to some random person waiting for the site to be back.

Summary: Who was he to affect him in this way, to somehow get such a reaction out of him that drawn swords didn't? To make him long for contact he hadn't needed nor wanted in years?

The last two stories but it's Altaïr's perspective and he has no clue how to deal with new things or emotions.

1103 words, Part 3 of “Of Blades and Parchment” series

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31118099/chapters/76887980

Beginning of series ---- Previous ---- Next

The first time Altaïr sees him, it's at the marketplace.

He is crouched on one of his favorite perches in the city, a tall tower with intricate tiles. It’s located in a rare blindspot, where the roof patrols don’t pass. The tower is taller than most of his other perches, but not so tall that his stomach fills with dread at the effort it would take to climb it.

He is able to see a good distance from here, and in the afternoon sun, Altaïr switches his Eagle Vision on. The world fades to monochrome, and the sounds become muted to his ears. The assassin takes a moment to breathe in the untouched air, and then turns his attention to the streets below him.

The people beneath his feet look like ants. He can see the red of the guards walking the streets. There is an informant a couple buildings over, and it looks as if there is a meeting of some kind between two merchants in the opposite direction, both glowing white with the promise of intel.

He is about to switch back to his regular vision when he sees it. A few streets over, is an ever so faint blue shape. Altaïr stares at it in confusion as it moves. This was not the first time he had seen blue of course. After all, his brothers were blue. Except for Abbas. Altaïr had never liked him, not just because of his insufferable personality or his grating voice, but because he was red. Red meant danger. It meant that Abbas was not to be trusted.

Nevermind all of that now, why was there a blue shape in the middle of Jerusaelm?

Altaïr would know if a brother was in the city as well, and to his knowledge, he was the only man sent for this target. He also knew he should ignore it. He had orders to follow, a man’s death to see to, but he was curious damn it!

He glared at the shape as if that would solve the mystery, and that's when he finally realized something was...off. That glow wasn’t nearly as bright as it should be, not nearly as vibrant. He blinked, returning his sight to normal. His brows furrowed in confusion.

While the edges of his Eagle Vision’s reach did in fact tend to become blurred and duller, the figure was close enough that it shouldn’t happen.

He switched back to make sure he had seen it right. It was definitely duller than it should be. He needed to figure out who this was.

He jumped from his perch, his vision flickering back to color as he carved his way through the air and landed in the hay cart. When he was younger and unpracticed, the thought of doing such a thing would have made him nauseous, but he wasn’t a novice anymore.

Altaïr emerged from the cart, brushed the hay off of his shoulders, and as if he hadn’t done something death defying, walked away at a leisurely pace. He wasn’t worried about losing his new objective. The faint blue color had not been moving quickly, and it was only a few streets away. Even if this unknown person moved locations, he would still be able to track them in no time.

As it turned out, it was not needed. He could see the man haggling for some bread. Altaïr sat on a nearby bench and turned his vision back on. The man was blue, but it was faint, just as it had been from the tower. The color was faint enough that it was more grey in nature, and he could still clearly make out the man’s features through it.

His hair was short and darkly colored. It looked as if it was black, but it was hard to tell with the world bleached into grey around him. His jaw was sharp and lined with stubble that looked as if it needed to be shaved soon. Most notably he was missing his left arm. The fabric of his sleeve was pinned up to his shoulder, probably so it wouldn’t be caught on anything.

He didn’t wear an assassin’s robes, yet he still glistened that pale blue. Perhaps he was undercover? But it wouldn’t make much sense to be arguing over the price of bread while doing so. Besides, the missing limb would have made him recognizable, and Altaïr didn’t recognize this stranger.

The man, seemingly fed up with his debate, left in a huff. He walked right by Altaïr’s bench, so close that he could touch him. Altaïr, surprised at himself, caught his hand and lowered it before he could reach the color.

The assassin sat in befuddlement as the man rounded the corner. Never before had he been so drawn to one’s colors. Never before had he tried to physically touch them.

It was the last one that shocked him the most. Altaïr didn’t particularly like contact. Yet here he was, reaching towards someone he didn’t even know the name of without a conscious thought.

This was a bad idea. He had things to attend to.

Altaïr stood from the bench and followed the man around the corner like a fish hooked on a line.

He tailed the stranger for at least thirty minutes, staying out of sight, scaling buildings and blending within the crowds. He didn't know exactly why he followed the man, nor did he know what caused him to sneak around in such a way.

What he did know was that the man carried himself with his head held high. He disliked the crowds, and began to grow more agitated as time went by. He seemed to have some kind of preference in paper if the ten minutes he spent judging it was anything to go by.

Altaïr also knew that at one point he could have sworn that the man saw him, and his heart started to beat fast in his chest. Fast in the way that it beat during a fight. His breath caught in the back of his throat, and he only released it after the man looked away from his direction.

Who was he to affect him in this way, to somehow get such a reaction out of him that drawn swords didn't? To make him long for contact he hadn't needed nor wanted in years?

He didn't like the way this was going. Didn't like that this man made him so nervous while simultaneously urging him closer. Didn't like that he couldn't figure out his colors.

Altaïr buried his curiosity under his aggravation and left.

#of blades and parchment #altmal #altmal fanfic #altmal au #altair ibn la'ahad x malik al sayf #Assassin's Creed #assassins creed fanfic #my writing

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