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definitelynotshouting · 5 months

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MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE FINALE OF SECRET LIFE!!!!!

so i sped-wrote this as soon as i learned who the winner was this morning, tried to post it twice, tumblr mobile deleted it BOTH TIMES... but i will not be silenced ive finally gone to desktop /silly

this will go up on my rough draft pseud soon, but until then please enjoy the results of me being EXTREMELY unwell about the secret life finale. WOOOOOO WE ARE POPPING THE BIGGEST OF BOTTLES TODAY FR!!!!!!!!!!!

Grian barricades himself at the top of the highest tower of Tango's citadel the moment he wakes up. It's a calculated move, admittedly. There are a precious few places one might still find him if he truly wants to hide, but the Deep Frost Citadel isn't one of them— and with the second Decked Out coming to a ceremonious close, foot traffic here is perilously low. Dawn is a swift-approaching knife on the horizon, and Grian soars above it all, face numb with chill wind, wings brazen and feathers strewn across an empty sky.

He doesn't want to be near when Scar wakes. And he doesn't want to be found just yet, either. Oh, Scar will track him down. Of that, he has no doubt— but for now, Grian takes solace in the snow crunching underfoot as he locks himself inside this barren tower.

It's dark here, which suits Grian just fine. He doesn't bother lighting a lantern; instead, he huddles right on the floor, letting the ice seep through him. From here, he can just make out the sky as it lightens, bringing with it the dawn of a new victor. Nausea boils in his throat. With that victory comes a price, and Scar— And Grian— Well. Grian hasn't treated him very well throughout the games, now, has he?

He curls in on himself even further, feathers brushing along the length of his chilled arms. Each hair stands at attention, in some vain effort to pull warmth from the surrounding freeze— when he scrubs a hand along his arm, his fingers shake, and the gooseflesh remains stark and raised against his skin.

There was a sand-drenched point when the concept of warmth was all he could register— scorching wind scraping the cut on his cheek, the scarlet splatter of blood across split knuckles. And like the steady drain of life from a corpse, that warmth has drawn away, poison from a putrid wound— it leaves him compacting this cold, this loneliness, to mold it into four high walls around his heart; a fitting tribute to every grain of trust he's rightfully lost. Grian huffs the barest traces of a bitter laugh as his breath mists in the air. A better man would meet Scar at his base, extend his support, no matter how icily it might be met.

But Grian is selfish, and a coward, and will always be a coward— and so instead he sits, marrow freezing, with only the thin garrotte of paltry sunlight wrapping itself around his tender throat to keep him company.

And there he stays, motionless, for long enough that the chill makes a home in him— the glistening, pale yolk of the sun warns him of the passing time, a watery heat that counts down the seconds to minutes to hours until Scar finds him. Grian curls his wings around himself, a pitiful embrace, and waits.

Two hours later, the whistle of rocket-propelled elytra warn him of incoming company. Grian doesn't bother fleeing; he knows Scar, and Scar knows him, and with this last, missing puzzle piece finally slotting into place between them, he's under no illusions that staying hidden for long is feasible. Grian's eyes skitter to a crack on the far wall as clumsy footsteps scatter the snow outside, scrabbling for balance before the muted click of a cane joins them. Footsteps; another, louder click— the door's latch gives way, and a brief, blinding wave of light crashes over Grian's face, obscuring everything but the outline of a painfully familiar silhouette.

Grian has to look away. The door shuts, and for a small moment, neither of them so much as breathe.

Then Scar's sighs— one great, resigned gust. "Grian...."

He says nothing else. He doesn't have to. Grian draws his legs up to his chest in response anyway, heart a frozen pump bleeding ice into his very veins. What can he say? An apology? They're past apologies, now— if Scar wanted to disavow him forever, take the crumpled remains of their friendship and throw it at his feet, he'd be right to do so.

But Scar doesn't shout; neither does he leave. Instead, his cane taps forward, boots sliding into Grian's line of vision— and, with a grunt of effort, Scar eases himself down, until he's sitting at a safe diagonal from Grian's hunched form.

Neither of them say anything for a while.

Eventually, Grian licks his lips. They're chapped from cold, thin and ready to split. "Hi, Scar," he says softly. It comes out weak, thready— a barely-there declaration. Whatever Scar wants here... he can take it. It's the very least Grian can do at this point.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Scar settle, shifting his weight before he lands on something approximating comfort. He takes his time with it, blind— or uncaring— to the erratic snarl of Grian's pulse. His voice is just as quiet when he responds. "So... that's it, then, huh."

Grian glances over properly before he can stop himself, stomach churning; Scar's gaze has slipped to the cutout acting as a window, middle-distant and lost. Locked on something only he can see. Then Scar shakes himself, an abrupt jerk of his head and shoulders, and that glassy look turns to pin Grian directly to the wall behind him instead. "Just like that?"

Grian's fingers tighten around his knees. "Just like that," he agrees, hollow.

Scar mulls that over for a moment. His sigh is a wisp of white in front of them, crystallizing in the glacial atmosphere. "Jeez," he says finally, scrubbing one hand through the tangled bird's nest of his hair. He must have flown across half the server as soon as he... remembered, Grian realizes with a visceral pang. "I didn't... that's a lot of memories to just, um, gain back on a dime, huh?"

Grian darts a sidelong glance at him. Shifts his wings until their primaries lower, sweeping the ground around his feet like a feathered cat's cradle. "I wouldn't know," he says, a quirk of black humor dancing around the edges of his mouth. He swallows. "Since. Well...."

He trails off. Imagines, briefly, that he is a black hole— a quasar. A neutron star. Something so tight and compact it can string him out, erase him; a ball of grief and misery dense enough that it contains its own event horizon.

Scar hums a little shakily into the blooming silence. "Yeah. I guess that would complicate things, wouldn't it." A pause. "Does it always feel—?"

Grian shrugs. "Don’t know that either, Scar."

"Oh." Scar's still looking at him, the searchlight of his gaze burning pockmarks into Grian's skin. "Cool, okay... so...." He hesitates, teeth worrying his lower lip, before finally forging on: "So what now?"

Grian sucks in his own shuddery breath. "Whatever you want, Scar," he says, blank and dull. Every inch of him frozen stiff, awaiting the tipped scales of Scar’s judgement. "There's no going back, after this." The quicksilver flash of a grimace tugs his lips back to reveal sharp, white teeth. "Welcome to the club, I guess."

"It sure is a warm welcome," Scar says weakly. "Got— uh, got your complimentary balloons, and— and um, a whole gift basket of... of...."

He trails off too, the fragile ley lines of his humor peeling off, cracking at the seams. Impossibly, Grian curls around himself tighter.

An apology is nothing but wasted air now, but it dredges from his throat anyway. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Scar. I—" He breaks off, jaw tight. "I'm... I'm not sure what else to say, honestly. I never thought...."

I never thought you'd win. It's a cruel phrase that haunts the air between them, hanging like a smoky pall across their shoulders.

Scar says nothing against it; he only watches.

An uneasy prickle crawls up Grian's spine. "You don't—" He stops himself before he can finish that thought. "Are you— Scar, why are you here?"

"'Cause Pearl's not talking to me yet," Scar says quietly, prompt. "And— and because I remembered. Us."

Grian's throat closes around the word. "Us," he echoes, a rough rasp that ricochets against the deepslate walls surrounding them. The word tears through his ears, distorting with each pass. "Look, alright— I-I don't know if you got the memo, exactly, but— I'm not—"

He breaks off again, lungs jarring, hitching in his chest. Hot prickles sear behind his eyes, but nothing drops— he’s too tired for crying. "I've hurt you a lot, Scar," Grian says at last, lips numb around the words. "I'm not sure if there's much of an 'us' left, at this point."

"I know," Scar says. His eyes reflect the snow-glitter outside.

"And— I wouldn't blame you, if you left right now."

"I know," Scar says again, softer.

"I—” Grian stares at him, helpless. "Okay, then why are you here, Scar?" He gestures between them, an aimless motion that somehow encompasses the breadth of everything that's rotted at their foundations. "If you know all that, then what—?"

Scar regards him with enviable poise. His throat bobs as he speaks. "Maybe, I just— now that I remember— maybe I just want your company, Grian. Is that really so bad?"

Grian stares at him, at a loss. "I don't understand," he says finally, and it comes out plaintive even to his own ears. "I thought you'd be— angry. After everything I've done, after all that's happened.... What's your play here, Scar? If you want to yell at me, be my guest. I think by now I've more than earned it."

But Scar doesn't take the bait. Instead, he shuffles closer— just by an inch. A careful, cautious inch. "Y'know," he says, apropos of nothing, "and correct me if I'm wrong, here— but I seem to remember something about you wanting an alliance before all of... that crazy stuff happened. Is that right?"

Something in Grian's chest spasms. Whatever expression it spreads across his face must spur Scar on, because he scoots closer again, just enough to bring their calves together. The brief shock of warmth explodes through Grian's skin, worming its way underneath the subcutaneous tissue to flood his veins and gnaw at the lingering ice.

After a moment, Scar's lips tilt up— a subtle, fragile smile. "Is it too late to cash in on that?" he asks.

Grian's mind goes blank, white and buzzing, the thin hiss of a creeper drifting through it like smoke. Unfiltered shock threads through his voice. "You want t— what?"

Scar's smile tempers further around its edges, stretching into something softer, knowing. Rounded out. With solemn motions, he reaches into the pocket of his utterly ridiculous safety vest, and delicately pulls something out.

It's a sunflower.

In the frigid gloom of Tango's citadel, Grian gapes, the brilliant yellow petals incongruous with this grim, grit, darkened room. When he looks up, Scar's eyes are overbright, painfully earnest— brimming with a desperate urgency that tucks itself away in the depths of his pupils.

"Can we try again?" Scar says, soft as the new-fallen snow beyond this isolated cell of misery. "Start over? I— I kind of hurt you too, you know. And— for the record, being without you sucks. I don't—" He falters. "I know it's gonna be all weird, y’know, between us… but I don't want to do that anymore. I just... want you here, Grian. That's all. I just want you to stick around."

Grian sucks in a sharp, daggered breath. "You're joking," he breathes, but his heart leaps, tumbling from his throat and onto the floor for Scar to stomp at his leisure. "You're actually— this isn't funny."

"Hey, do you see me laughing?” Scar presses forward once more, a calculated attack, but still slow enough for Grian to track each move, to stop him if he cared enough to. Gently, Scar unwinds one of Grian's hands from his knees, cupping it between his own and brushing the lightest of kisses against his knuckles before turning over Grian’s palm and pressing the flower into it. Grian's fingers curl around it of their own accord, silky petals burning against his fingers.

"So." Scar smiles, tremulous, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. "Can we still be friends?"

And Grian has always been a raw creature, a tangled wreck of his own selfish greed— he’s craved the honeyed umber of Scar's love since he first cradled it, tentatively, in his palms all that time ago. In the depths of his heart, there will always be that sandstone cliff, the crack of his bones against hard-packed sand, and wings too clipped to fly freely. There will always be that calloused fist around his heart, and beyond his own scrabbling fear, there will always, always be that fervent need to bring Scar close even as he pushes him away.

And where before, Scar had been playing blind, a game with no true rules… now, his eyes trap Grian against the wall, clear as glass— diamond sharp and just as steady. From a winning game, there is no turning back. There’s nothing left to lose here, except this porcelain trust, this shred of hope Scar offers him once more in the form of a flower.

Even after everything, all the memories flooding back— Scar is still here, holding Grian’s heart, and offering up his own in return.

Grian slowly presses it to his chest with trembling, vulnerable motions. "You're sure you want this."

"I'm sure I want you," Scar says, unwavering.

Grian breathes in. Breathes out. Inhale and exhale, both a heavy drag in his lungs. Already, the sun is beginning to strengthen, casting thick rays through the window and splaying them across Grian’s lap. The advent of gilded noon weaves around them, perfuming the air with light and heat.

"Okay," Grian says at last, and it drops from his lips with the weight of a confession; a relinquishment; a solemn vow. "Okay."

This time, when Scar reaches for his hand again, Grian meets him halfway, and the tangle of their fingers nets the sunflower in a promise neatly between them.

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whatwewrotepodcast · 2 months

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WIP Introduction - The Second Coming

Okay! Probably about time to actually introduce some of our writing projects, right?

The Second Coming Trilogy (Revelation, Anarchy, and The Second Coming)

What?

The Second Coming Trilogy is a modern fantasy set in Brooklyn, New York. Loosely based on the poem of the same name by W.B Yeats, it tells the story of a human girl and her two Fallen Angel allies as they attempt to prevent the second coming - the rising of the son of the devil to take his place on earth. Originally this was a YA story, but subsequent re-writes have landed on a more adult tone. We've been working on this story for well over 10 years, with many iterations. Once it was one book! But it got way too long and had to be split into three. We're currently doing edits and re-writes on book 2, Anarchy, and are querying publishers with book 1, Revelation.

Who?

The Main Cast

Merry: Merry is a human girl who was born with the Sight. This ability allows her to see through glamours and lies, but also often gets her into trouble. She's spent most of her life trying to ignore it and the things she sees, but one night she sees something she shouldn't have, and becomes embroiled in the hidden world of angels and demons. Merry is caucasian, dark brown hair and dark eyes, and has a slight, athletic build (she was a gymnast in her younger years). She's head strong, stubborn, and doesn't take kindly to being told what to do.

Ith: Ithuriel is a recently fallen arc angel. Once the Angel of Truth, Ithuriel fell prey to the sin of wrath and was thrown down from Heaven, his wings torn from his back and his divinity stripped away. Having been on earth for a mere few months, Ithuriel is still filled with his righteous desire to root out and punish evil wherever he finds it. He has been hunting the faction of Demons that Merry falls afoul of, and takes her under his wing to protect her. Ithuriel is 6'3, with a broad, strong build. He has fair skin and wavy golden hair, his features sculpted and harsh, and he has bright golden eyes, though he routinely glamours himself to look more human and less otherworldly.

Belial: Belial is also a Fallen, but he fell during the first great battle between the followers of Lucifer and those who remained true to Heaven. As such, Belial is a Prince of Hell, though he long since abandoned the regions of Hell to live on earth, where he has been for thousands of years. Belial walks a careful line between self preservation and his fondness for humanity, but his outlook on the world is grim and pessimistic. He's got tanned skin covered in a thousand years of scars, with deep maroon hair and eyes, and sculpted features just like Ithuriel's, though he is a little broader and stronger. Belial's glamours are particularly strong and there are few on earth who knows what he really looks like.

The Antagonists

Moloch: Moloch is a Duke of Hell and a Demon. Long corrupted by the evil in his heart, his physical being has become corrupted in the same way. One of the first lieutenants of the coming apocalypse, Moloch also runs a series of clubs throughout Brooklyn that cater to hardcore human clubbers amongst the demons who patronise them. To humans, Moloch is a thin, slight, suave middle aged white man with slicked back black hair and a pinstriped suit. To those who can See, he appears as a rotting skeleton, scraps of putrid flesh clinging to pitted bones.

Astoreth: Princess of Hell, Keeper of the Gate. Astoreth is the daughter of Lucifer, a creature of pure evil. She is the Princess of Hell, come to earth to pave the way for her brother. Astoreth is petty, proud, vain and cruel. Half snake, half woman, with long dark hair and skin that has an iridescent sheen, Astoreth is hunting Merry with all of her considerable resources, aware she could be the key to her plans.

Mammon: Son of Lucifer. Spoilers ;)

#WIP intro #writeblr #writing #writers of tumblr #am writing #writer #write #writers #writing community #writeblr community #writeblr intro #writing on tumblr

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mimilind · 6 months

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Stranger of the Falls - Part 2

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: T

Chapter Word Count: 1600

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

※※※

2. Lord Främling

In the afternoon you became busy with a new patient; little Kalle, Vidar’s stablehand. He was a boy of ten, his hair a flaxen mane around a freckled face, and his arm had swelled into twice its normal size.

“Was it Svarten again?” you guessed.

The boy nodded and swallowed a sob. Trying to be brave, young as he was.

“Vána give me patience; someone ought to do something about that black devil,” you grumbled as you helped him sit on your kitchen table and drink a cup of weak mead with willow bark for the pain. While it took effect you continued talking, again using your voice to calm a frightened patient. “I wonder why Vidar keeps that infernal, troublesome horse. This is already the third accident in that many months. If I were him I would have gotten rid of it a long time ago.”

“Svarten sires good foals,” Kalle objected.

“Still not worth the trouble keeping him, I would say, but I guess it is not my stallion.”

“Who is he?” asked the boy a bit unsteadily, trying to focus his gaze on the stranger.

“A man I found below the Falls of Rauros; I do not know his name. I will examine you now.” You began to carefully prod his arm. “Let me know if it gets too painful.”

He winced. “It’s alright.”

“It does not appear to be broken. You were lucky,” you concluded. “In a few weeks you will be as good as new.”

When you helped the boy down from your table a while later, arm bandaged and supported by a sling, he went over to the bed. Kalle and you had been speaking Rohanese, but now he said in the common language: “Goodbye, Lord Främling, and I hope you get well soon.”

You smiled; Främling was a fitting name for a stranger.

He did not react.

Kalle left and you went on with your day. In between chores, you checked on Lord Främling, emptied his bedpan and tried in vain to make him swallow anything. He made no movements, no sounds, and did not open his mouth.

As if he had decided to die.

Something about the set of his jaw made you certain Främling could be a very stubborn man, but you were a very stubborn healer. You would win this, you determined.

Drawing your comfortable chair closer to the bed, you studied his profile. Again you wondered who he was and what he had been through to make him capitulate so completely.

Part of it might be because he feared becoming a cripple, you figured. He was tall and handsome, and strong. A mighty swordsman. Perhaps he had been a famous hero in his country – and now he was lying here, partly paralyzed and unable even to control his own bladder. It was probably enough to break the spirit of the bravest man.

Yet, you did not think it was only that. There was something else. The darkness in his eyes went far beyond hurt pride.

You wished he would talk and explain.

You wished you could help him – and not only with his physical injuries.

He intrigued you.

※

You fell asleep in your chair again. When you woke, Främling was moving fitfully in his sleep. You immediately recognized the symptoms of fever.

As you checked him, you saw one of the arrow wounds had festered. Around the edges the skin was swollen and an angry red, and a putrid liquid seeped from the uneven hole.

It was the one where the arrow shaft had been broken. Had a splinter become stuck in there? If so, its poison might spread into the bloodstream and kill the man.

You were uncertain what to do. You could cut away the infected flesh and try to find the splinter, but that would be unbearably painful for him without a strong pain killing potion.

You decided to wait a while longer and smeared on more yarrow ointment. Maybe it would be enough to counter whatever was poisoning the wound.

Lord Främling groaned and his eyes flickered open. He tried to push your hand away but had no strength in his arm.

“You still do not want anything for the pain?” you asked.

He did not reply. Did he really not understand the common language?

There was no way to tell.

You had finished putting on new bandages when there was a knock and Maja, one of the shepherdesses, came in with a puppy on her arm.

“Can you heal my Ludde?” she asked in a small voice. She described the symptoms, how the poor dog could not keep any food down and had diarrhea the whole day. It had started yesterday after she brought him with her to practice herding sheep. Could he have been poisoned somehow?

You examined the puppy but saw no signs of poisoning. No drooling, no trembling. This time of year there were not many poisonous plants or mushrooms around so you doubted that could be the cause anyway.

Maybe the water, though? The many puddles and pools near the river were none too clean, and several of them were natural tar pits where a thick, oily sludge occasionally bubbled up. Tar was a great resource for waterproofing baskets and roofs but less great for thirsty animals.

”Did he drink anything when you were out?”

”Just pond water. He had so much fun chasing water birds and I did not have the heart to stop him. Was that bad?”

“He must have caught something in it, but worry not, it will probably pass. I shall feed him boiled water with honey and broth, it will calm his stomach. He can stay with me today, and I will notify you as soon as he improves – and in the future, do not let him drink anything but river water or water from the well.”

A bit calmer, the girl left and you began preparing the treatment.

There seemed to be no problem with the puppy’s appetite. He swiftly emptied the bowl you put down, licking it clean.

“There is a good boy. Try to keep that down now,” you instructed him.

Thankfully he did not vomit, and after an hour or so you ventured some mashed potato with more honey water. When you took him out for a walk a while later his bowels were less runny.

Relieved you went back inside. At least this patient would be cured.

But as for your other one… Främling’s face had grown pale and sickly, with droplets of moisture forming on his bandaged forehead. When you touched it he felt burning hot.

You tried to slip a spoonful of potion between his lips, hoping he was becoming too confused by the fever to remember to refuse, but he snapped them shut and frowned at you.

“Damn your stubbornness,” you muttered between clenched teeth.

He looked like he was thinking exactly the same thing about you.

You went to the kitchen, cooking yourself a warm meal. With luck, the irresistible aroma of lamb stew would make him so hungry he could not stop himself.

But in all honesty, you were seriously beginning to doubt that. The man’s willpower was unbelievable. You feared he would win – that he would die on you.

While you ate, Ludde was becoming increasingly lively. The food had revived him and now he bounced around the room, frolicking like a colt, attacking the furniture and chewing on your boots.

You decided to ask Torsten to fetch the shepherdess; her dog was good to go.

When you returned, you were surprised to see that Ludde had jumped onto Främling’s bed. But even more surprising, the man was clumsily petting the puppy with both hands, though the left one was still the most agile. He must have regained more mobility during the day.

“You can move your right hand,” you exclaimed, pleased.

He quickly put it down with an almost sheepish look, like a boy caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

You sat in the chair beside him, leaning forward. “And – just now you heard what I said and understood it. Do not deny it. You put the right hand down. You have understood me this whole time, you stubborn man!”

He neither replied, nor looked at you, but it was too late. He could not fool you anymore.

You turned his face towards you, forcing him to meet your eyes. “It is a relief that you understand, because I need to tell you something important. I suspect there is a splinter left of one of the arrows and it is poisoning you. Corrupting the wound. That is why you have a fever.”

He did not reply but you knew he was listening. His gaze did not waver.

“I have to cut away flesh to find it and get it out. It will hurt. Much. I have a potion that can take away the pain and I need you to take it. I do not want to torment you needlessly.”

For the first time a hint of insecurity flickered across his eyes. Then he firmly shook his head.

“Nno… lleave me alone,” he slurred, trying to push you away but he was weak as a kitten.

“I will not let you die,” you said with emphasis. “You are my patient and I am a servant of Vána; I have sworn to use her herbs and flowers to heal, and to do everything in my power to save lives. I will try and it will hurt. Please, accept the potion. It is stupid not to.”

His gaze hardened.

You made yours equally hard. Stern.

He frowned angrily, turning the left corner of his mouth down. “Uck you.”

“I will pretend I did not understand that.” You put the spoon against his mouth. ”Open up.”

With a last, furious glare at you he obeyed.

※※※

A/N:

Hurt/comfort incoming in 1… 2… 3… (Did I mention it’s among my favorite tropes?)

Trivia: Vána is one of the Valar, married to Oromë the Huntsman, whom the Rohirrim call Béma.

※※※

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

#boromir #boromir x reader #boromir x oc #boromir x you #lotr #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings #hurt/comfort #healing #boromir lives au #reader insert #heroism #Stranger of the Falls

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tinycoded360 · 23 days

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Chapter 14: In the Hands of a Monster

CW: abuse of child character, the threat of vore, and dehumanization.

Mathis studied the tiny girl in his hand, turning her this way and that as if inspecting a new toy.

"What to do with you?" he mused. “I think I'll keep you," Mathis decided. "A little pet to play with whenever I want."

Sage's heart dropped into her stomach. A life as this human's captive? It was a fate worse than death. He would torture her relentlessly, like a cat tormenting a mouse. “Mackenzie’s gonna come back for me!” Sage stammered out; her outburst surprised even herself. She didn’t know where she found the courage to yell up to the giant man holding her.

Mathis let out a deep chuckle. “Oh, you’re not returning to that pilot; once he does what I want, he’ll be wolf chow.”

Tears spilled from Sage's eyes as the horrors played out in her mind - being trapped in a cage, starved, neglected, abused, and mangled just for his amusement.

Mathis's cold, cruel eyes gleamed with sadistic delight as he held Sage tightly in his fist. His grip was like a vice, constricting the tiny girl and causing her delicate body to tremble. He reveled in her fear, feeling an intoxicating power over her fragile form.

As she felt the pressure increasing around her, Sage desperately fought against the panic threatening to consume her. In the pit of her stomach, she knew that begging wouldn't save her.

As he continued to handle her roughly, Sage closed her eyes tight against the pain and humiliation. She couldn't bear to look at his twisted, cruel face any longer. Instead, she tried to focus on what little hope she had left – the memory of Mackenzie's warm hand around her, the reassuring rumble of his voice as he'd promised to protect her. She clung to these memories like a lifeline, trying to block out the reality of her current situation.

Mathis's wicked smile stretched wider; his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. Sage's heart skipped a beat as he loosened his grip on her, only to bring her closer to his mouth. Before she could react, he popped her into his mouth like candy.

"Please!" she managed to scream just before her world went dark and damp, saliva coating her tiny form. Inside the cavernous space of Mathis's mouth, her fear intensified tenfold as his hot breath filled her lungs. His tongue licked at her, savoring her struggles as though she were a delectable treat. Panic surged through her veins as she fought against the slick surface of his tongue, desperately trying to avoid being swallowed alive.

Sage gagged on the putrid taste of Mathis's saliva, tears streaming down her face as she prayed for an escape. She clawed at his tongue, hoping in vain to cause him enough pain to release her. But her efforts were futile.

Then, without warning, Mathis spat her out. Sage flew through the air, gasping for breath as she landed back in his hand, trembling and soaked in saliva. Mathis laughed cruelly, his cold gaze piercing her soul.

"Lesson number one," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "If you ever try to escape me, I'll catch you and eat you alive."

Sage's body shook uncontrollably, her sobs wracking her tiny frame. The terror she felt was all-consuming, threatening to swallow her whole just as Mathis had nearly done. She could barely form a coherent thought as her mind tried to process what happened.

With a cruel grin, Mathis forcefully shoved the miniature girl into his pant pocket, barely giving her time to catch her breath. Sage felt the fabric of his pocket press against her face and body, smothering her like a heavy curtain. As she tried to move, whimpering from the suffocating darkness, Mathis's leg stiffened beneath her.

"Be still," he growled, delivering a rough smack to his pocket. Though it wasn't enough force to injure Sage, she instantly ceased her struggles, fearing that any further movement would prompt him to crush her little body. His threat to break her limbs echoed in her ears, a sinister reminder of his power over her.

"Please... please let me go," Sage whispered into the darkness, fully aware that her captor would not care.

Mathis chuckled darkly outside the pocket. "You're mine now, and I plan on keeping you close."

#g/t writing #g/t #g/t vore #the-borrowers-au #g/t community

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decaying-words · 25 days

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Scratch

Jonathan Crane • 18+ Explicit • 1k words TW & tags: Masturbation, masochism, autoerotic asphyxiation, filth AO3 • All my stories

"Jonathan shakes in anticipation, hisses in a grotesque and distorted voice that seems to come from the pits of Hell. In truth, Jonathan barely looks human anymore; body contorting and twitching at the measure of his growing pleasure and intense frustration, he looks dislocated. A Scarecrow in a field of obscene misery and filth."

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Broken moans like death rattle in a dry throat fill the cold and dark room. The smell of the basement, acrid and humid, sticks to Jonathan’s skinny body like a putrid veil, caressing his wrinkled flesh. The place stinks of mold, humidity, sweat and a faint odor of piss from the last victim he kept here. Fear, it reeks of fear.

A fatigued and bony hand is tightly grasped around his turgid member like a claw, and pumps unceremoniously. Each thrust is followed by a hideous and almost otherworldly moan. His voice is unharmonious; strained, suddenly skipping several octaves lower or higher, spewing profanities from his wretched mouth through the bloodied threads sewn into the dry flesh of his lips. Pathetic encouragements, but they are futile; his skinny hand painfully grips his modest cock, but the sensations are not nearly enough to satisfy his obscene needs.

His free hand crawls awkwardly over his body. His fingertips caress timidly the outlines of his chest over the grotesque fabric of his scarecrow costume, before reaching the burlap sack covering his sweaty face. His fingers tug at the stitches here and there, following their sinuous pattern as if they were dark veins. Jonathan shivers.

Dirty nails scratch and tease the thin threads piercing his lips; the sensation is uncomfortable, unpleasant and slightly painful. Jonathan moans loudly, his warm breath coating his fingertips as they penetrate the small empty spaces between two threads like one would spread the delicate lips of a cunt. He caresses the wet outline of his perforated flesh before entering his oral cavity further.

His fingers spread inside his mouth, stretching his flesh around the unforgiving thread; some crimson pearls of blood run over his chin. Jonathan trembles, a warm liquid pooling inside his stomach, his member twitching viciously in agreement. He delicately caresses his dry teeth, his warm gums and his wet tongue. He explores his most intimate anatomy, tastes the dirt and copper under his fingernails, dreaming of his entrails. Low moans and obscene noises fill the room.

The scarlet appendage feels viscous with a velvety note around his fingers, it reminds him of a small animal held captive inside of him. His lips wrap around his digits, and his wretched mouth starts sucking. High pitched sobs and slow hums vibrate in his dry and delicate throat.

The hand assaulting his angry cock is slippery and warm, but the sensation alone is not enough stimulation for the depraved man. His choked moans are pathetic and needy, as his legs shake and tremble against the dirty floor, begging for more. He squirms, his back rubbing against the decrepit wall, his mind playing all sorts of bizarre and dreadful scenes in a vain attempt to heighten his pleasure.

In a frustrated grunt, Jonathan retrieves his fingers from his bloodied mouth, lips slightly swollen from the painful strings, and reaches for the noose around his neck. The frail fingers play with the raw material of the rope, caressing each bump like they are another erogenous part of him —and they might very well be, as he hisses through his teeth, his fist closing more tightly around his begging sex, leaking profusely in his palm.

His emaciated hand and impossibly long fingers wrap around the two ropes at the end of the noose. He teasingly tugs once, testing the knot around his throat, a pleasing discomfort tightening around his windpipes. Jonathan shakes in anticipation, hisses in a grotesque and distorted voice that seems to come from the pits of Hell. In truth, Jonathan barely looks human anymore; body contorting and twitching at the measure of his growing pleasure and intense frustration, he looks dislocated. A Scarecrow in a field of obscene misery and filth.

Holding the rope firmly, his hand snakes above his shoulder, and in a sudden movement lifts his arm, effectively tightening the noose viciously around his raw throat. He chokes once, a strangled, loud and low moan echoing in the filthy cell. His tongue lolls uncomfortably out of his stitched mouth, coughing reflexively while a cold wave of intense pleasure and pain crashes over his body at the sudden lack of oxygen.

Jonathan’s sensations are progressively heightened; he suddenly becomes hyper aware of his frantic heartbeat, the delicious tightness around his throat, the burning sensation in his lungs, and how hard his cock is. The hand holding the rope is trembling, pulling harder at times, while the other, disgustingly wrapped around his angry member, now drenched in precum and the sweat of his own palm, pumps aggressively. His flesh feels raw, painful even. Which makes everything even better.

There is a burning pressure on his chest, and a light sensation of panic pooling in his stomach. Coupled with the exhilarating feeling of this masochistic pleasure, Jonathan’s eyes roll inside his skull. Strangled whimpers die on his scorched lips, as he suffocates violently, his legs twitching vigorously, his balls tightening. The dread is delicious, the untold promise of a violent terror makes his cock leak profusely.

When his vision turns blurry, and his throat burns beyond what is humanly reasonable, fear welcomes him, swallows him. His arm is fatigued, but he fights valiantly, choking for hair while mercilessly jerking off in the near obscurity of the damp cell. His legs shake uncontrollably, and his hips jerk in an upwards motion, fucking himself in his fist frantically, like a deranged animal, satisfying his most primal need.

Jonathan squeals as the pleasure takes over the burning pain in his chest. His vision turns white, his senses getting cloudy, a putrid sensation of dizziness consuming him, while a quasi electric feeling ruins his lower half, his stomach, his cock. He silently screams, suffocating, as he spills his mediocre semen on his hand and his soiled clothes. Soon after, he lets go of the rope, an immediate rush of oxygen filling his neglected lungs. He coughs and grunts like a beast regaining consciousness, before collapsing against the floor, weakly shaking and trembling from his orgasm.

Aside from his labored breath slowly calming down, the cell is otherwise quiet. The atmosphere is thick, caked in a disgusting miasma of humidity, cum, sweat and other various body odors. The stench sticks to Jonathan’s tired body, and as he closes his eyes, he mumbles incoherent thoughts.

Fear. He needs more. He needs to feel it. Needs to witness it.

Somewhere, the Scarecrow is hunting.

#jonathan crane #scarecrow #fanfic #my writing

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devoraqs · 1 year

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Tide Comes In

Summary: an accident in the Hanged Man’s Realm leads to a major revelation for Alexander and Julian

Characters: Ilyacha (Julian Devorak x Alexander MacRionnag)

Word Count: 1673 (+ illustration)

Content Warnings: Semi-graphic descriptions of drowning/suffocation

___

Twists and turns. Roots that seemed to rise from the boggy soil to wrap at his ankles as he fought his way through. Branches clawing at him, the gnarled wood catching on his clothes. Mud streaked up his boots and sash. His hair was damp and was sticking to his forehead with cold sweat. His heart thundered, slamming against his ribcage. Alexander had heard of a hostile environment before, but nothing quite as literal as what the Hanged Man's realm was throwing at him. Literally throwing, it seemed. He didn’t know where Julian was, he didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know where, or when, or why anything was. The hazy red fog cloyed his lungs, and it was becoming harder and harder to see where he was going, where to put his feet lest he trip. And trip he did.

Whether it was stray root, or a stump, or merely a simple loss of balance in the oppressively dim light and rolling terrain, he felt himself lurch and topple. The dull thud of hitting the sodden forest floor never came. Instead, a cold splash as he found himself submerged in the icy water, roots and vines grasping for him and threatening to drag him deeper. The smell was foul, the putrid-sweet fetor of stale mud and decay, and strangely metallic.

How? He thought wildly to himself, I’ve waded in this water, it barely comes to my waist!

But he sank, and sank, and sank. The tangled tree trunks on the surface disappeared from view, enveloped by the murky water. He thrashed his limbs wildly, trying to do something, but all in vain. It was as if his arms neither held weight nor carried any force, they passed through the water as through thin air. Silent bubbles of breath blossomed where the water drowned his cry. He sank further. There was blackness above him, around him, pressing in.

Distantly above he could hear a voice, my father's? shouting,

"Someone go after him! He can’t swim!"

He can’t swim. He can’t swim.

I can’t swim.

He tried to magic his way up, or at least stop his need to breathe briefly. The spell sputtered and fizzled out under the weight of water. His lungs screamed for air, he felt so heavy, he couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open anymore, it was so black. So black… so cold…

Then, something grabbed his wrist tightly. Something warm, and that warmth shot through his body from head to toe.

In a flash, the inky black became blue. Warm blue, dappled with sunlight. He tasted salt. His left hand was clamped around something metal, a small brass nautical sextant. And his right…

There was a boy holding on to him, a boy with dark red hair and wide grey eyes, kicking his legs hard as he looped an arm around his shoulder. As the boy’s arms enclosed around him, Alexander realised that he was himself a child. Small in stature, smaller even than the boy. The boy said nothing, how could they when they were underwater, but somehow Alexander knew he was telling him,

Don’t worry, I’ve got you.

Something about the boy made him calm, made him trust him. The arms around him were sure and held fast. He knew the face, somehow, like it was one he’d known all his life though he couldn’t yet put a name to it. The boy’s strong legs pushed them back up and they broke the surface. The blood rushing in Alexander’s ears didn’t quite drown out the cries of gulls and the crash of waves as they rolled against the prow of the ship. He heard voices, on the deck of the ship, crying out in… was that Nevivic? No, that was Nalbe. Or was it both? And then he heard a man’s voice, the same as before, calling his name, “Alexander!”

My father’s voice.

Impossible, Alexander didn’t know his father. He couldn’t know what his voice was, couldn’t know that that voice was his. Yet, he did.

And another voice, a woman’s, shouting, “Ilya!”

Ilya. Julian. Julian!?

The boy shouted something back to his mother that Alexander couldn’t make out. He craned his head up as far as he could, but the figures were becoming more and more blurry the harder he tried to make them out. They began to fade, the cries distorting as though they were being pulled away. Even the seawater felt as though it were melting away from under him, though he could still feel the boy’s arms around him, solid even as the boy’s visage faded into obscurity,

“Don’t worry, Sanya,” the boy said, clearly, “I’ve got you… I’ve got you…”

Alexander opened his eyes, and Julian’s face swam into vision, “I’ve got you, Sacha, I’ve got you,”

His voice was quiet, yet frantic. He had his arms around Alexander’s waist and hoisted them both heavily onto the bank. Alexander gasped for air and choked as water made its way up his throat with hacking coughs, before slumping over onto the cold, wet earth. “Sacha? Sacha can you hear me? Are you ok, what happened?”

Alexander blinked, then looked up into the same colour grey eye that the boy had had, the same dark auburn hair rendered darker still with water.

There was a moment of blank stillness as realisation and understanding dawned on Alexander. He felt heavy, like there was a weight pressing on his temples and chest that had nothing to do with any water he might have swallowed. “Sextant,” he rasped, his voice hoarse,

Julian breathed a heavy sigh of relief and gathered Alexander to him in a tight hug, then paused, “What was that?”

“I had… a sextant in my hand. In the sea… I can’t swim…”

Alexander’s head span, and he found himself clinging to Julian’s shoulders like he had done the boy’s.

“You were the boy,” Alexander said, not quite knowing if he was even making any sense, “you were the boy in my…”

Dream? No. Not a dream. Memory.

Julian’s eye widened, his mouth falling into a perfect ‘o’,

“My father’s sextant,” he replied, so quietly that it was almost to himself, “and it was dropped over the side of the boat and…”

His eye slid to meet Alexander’s,

“You dove in after it. And I dove in after you. Because…”

“I can’t swim,” Alexander finished.

The weight suddenly overwhelmed him and he sagged against Julian, suddenly freezing and shivering. His head hurt, his teeth chattered. What the hell was going on?

A memory. A memory from his childhood. The first one he had. And Julian was in it. Were they children together? Were they friends? What had happened? Why didn’t he know him? Why didn’t he remember? Did Julian know any more? The questions swirled and circled in his head. Julian seemed similarly pallid and grave as though he was thinking the exact same things as Alexander was.

If he focused he could still smell the seawater, feel the shape of the sextant in his hand, see the dappling of golden-white sunlight over the blue water. Where before there had been a gaping void of over thirty years of nothing, suddenly this burned bright and vivid in his mind’s eye. It almost hurt, a twinge just on the periphery of his senses, but it… didn’t. None of the blistering headaches from before, none of the physical pain and nausea. Instead, a queer feeling that churned in his stomach, and the inexplicable sense of self. Shivering, wet, and covered in dirt as he was, he somehow felt more himself now, whatever that could mean.

He didn’t know how he should feel about any of this. Didn’t know what he should do about it either. But it could wait. First, they had a job to do. Julian draped his coat over the two of them, the heavy wool and leather slowly but surely sapping the worst of the chill from their bodies. Then, still clinging onto each other, they got to their feet.

They walked slowly in silence for what felt like hours, the greatcoat’s large swath of material seemingly shielding them from the worst of the realm’s flora. Alexander felt both exhausted and on edge, his hands shoved into his pockets. Then, he felt Julian gently tug his left wrist, coaxing the hand out of the pocket and threading their fingers together. A little spark of the warmth from before pooled in their joined hands, almost imperceptible but certainly there. They both let out a soft sigh before Julian chuckled mirthlessly and said, “It seems that we are three for three on me fishing you out of water, my dear,”

“Huh? Oh, aye. Just now, the aqueduct, and… gods, that was real, wasn’t it.”

Julian nodded, “It’s strange. I’ve always remembered doing that, yet til now it’s as if I’ve remembered remembering it. Does that make sense?”

“Yes and no. None of this makes sense.”

Julian hummed in agreement, his eyes trained on the expanse of dark twisted wood stretching into a red horizon, “There’s a lot that I can’t remember. It’s there, I know it is, but it’s hidden. Hidden, and waiting to be found.”

“If it can even be found,” Alexander muttered. Who was to say that this was not merely a one-off, a chance accident that led to a snippet of a lost past being recovered with nothing else to be found, like the metallic remnants of a comet fallen to earth. All that remains is a fragment, the rest burnt away. But oh, how he wanted there to be more.

“Even if it can’t,” Julian said, “I’m glad we have that, Sanya.”

The diminutive he’d used before, and with as much affection in it now as there had been then. Despite himself, Alexander felt himself smile and something light fizzed in his chest, dispelling the gloom that cloaked him for a moment. He leant into Julian’s side, resting his head in the crook of his shoulder,

“I am too.”

#the arcana #julian devorak #apprentice alexander #ilyacha #my writing #technically part of a route rewrite but who the heck even knows atp

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fanficwriter284 · 1 year

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A Brothers Love

It was a Friday afternoon for the Reinhardt twins, Chucky had walked Tiffany to house like usual and met up with his younger twin waking the rest of the way there.

“Caro! She asked me if I wanted to go see a movie with her tonight!”

“What’d you say?”

“Well….I said yes…but now I feel like an ass…I can’t go…you know what would happen if…he found out…”

Chucky gulped imagining the possibilities his father could do to torture his young son…especially now that their mother was gone. He was unhinged anything could set him off.

“I think you should go”

“But if I get caught Caro he’ll….”

“You won’t get caught, tell ya what…how about I cover for you! Father never come sun my room anyways…”

Chucky sighed shaking his head.

“He’ll know it’s you Caro”

“It’ll be dark, he’ll jus think I’m you! It’s perfect trust me! Plus you should go and have some fun. You’re always so happy when you’re with Tiffany”

“….I—I don’t know…”

“Come on….you need to go! How about if I do this for you, you can cover for me next week. Lily asked me if I wanted to go see some stars…that way we’ll be even”

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Somewhat”

Chucky grinned hugging his brother tightly.

“Thank you Caro…”

“Yeah no problem”

…

It was around 9 pm, and Carolus had quietly crept into his twins room. Chucky was still hesitant, about going through with their plan.

“Ready?”

“….I…I don’t know…”

“It’ll be ok just go”

“B—But Caro—”

Chucky was immediately cut off but his twin setting his hands on his shoulders.

“It’s ok Charles. I promise…tell me about how ir went when you get back ok?”

“….ok”

Chucky made his way over to the window climbing out of hit exchanging a glance.

“Thank you Caro”

“You’re welcome…now go!”

Chucky gave a cheerful smile and sprinted off to Tiffany’s, Carolus watched happily seeing his brother joyful run to his crushes house. He covered him self in loads of blankets, making it look as believable as possible.

…

Chucky and Tiffany had met up, excitedly heading to the movies sneaking in to watch the new horror flic. Tiffany bought a bucket of popcorn which they both shared as they watched the film. Chucky was blushing madly, and he shoved a fistful of buttery popcorn into his mouth grinning wide.

Carolus had just been waiting he was so curious as to how his brothers movie date was going and he too was excited for when he and Lily go to see the stars. He could barley contain his vast excitement. However he fell silent hearing footsteps, his father was approaching. The sound of his eerie steps sent shivers up his spine, he hoped his father would leave soon. However the man pressed forward, the air smelled of putrid ale, he was indeed wasted, hearing how heavy each step was. Carolus felt his throat begin to tighten sensing his fathers eyes on him.

“Get up Chalres”

Carolus remained stain horrified, he heard a glass bottle shatter down at his side.

“Get the fuck up Charles”

Carolus didn’t move a muscle frozen in fear.

“Did you not hear me? I SAID GET THE FUCK UP”

Before he even had the can to reach he felt two hand restrain his clavicle. Preventing him from breathing, and his gasps faint. His legs were kicking and his arms flailing trying to wiggle free, however all his attempts in vain.

“WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T TOU LISTEN CHARLES! YOU PIECE OF WORTHLESS SHIT”

Carolus couldn’t speak, all he could do was listen to the various insults directed at his brother, for his last moments. He did everything he could, he even tried digging his finger nails into the man’s skin…nothing.

“YOU’RE FUCKING WORTHLESS! WHY DON’T YOU FIGHT BACK CHARLES!”

…

Chucky and Tiffany had been enjoying themselves and had finished the bucket of popcorn, and even touched hands on multiple occasions.

“I wonder how Carolus’ is doing? I hope he’s ok…”

“Me too”

…

Carolus felt his body begin to grow weak…he was done…he’d given up, there was no point in fighting now. He laid his head back defeated no longer outing up a fight. He tried his best…and he couldn’t get free.

Lukas Ray, had snapped his sons neck, and staggered backward pushing back the hair in his face. He switched in the lights and froze….he didn’t see Charles…..there lay the body of Carolus…his youngest son. He felt numb…he didn’t mean for it to be him….it was an accident….it was never supposed to be him….he could barley proves what he had done. The grown man bolted out of the room running to a local bar….he needed to drink it off.

…

“Caro?”

“…”

“Caro! My night went great we had lots of fun, we ate popcorn, it was great….thank you for letting me go…it was really fun……..Caro?”

Chucky turned his head seeing what he thought t was a sleeping Carolus.

“Caro wake up…hey….Carolus? Hey….C—Carolus?”

Chucky saw the lifeless expression, and prayed for it no be a sick joke.

“…no…no…this isn’t funny Caro….c-come on….wake up….p-please….”

Chucky tried shaking his twin awake……nothing. Tears had bugs strolling down his cheeks, his twin wasn’t respond to him. He wasn’t ready to accept that his brother was….dead.

“CAROLUS!!! CSRO CARO PLEASE DONT GO!!!! CAROLUS!!!”

No response was given….now it had set in…he was gone….now Chucky was broken…..his twin was dead

#Chucky #Carolus #Chucky and Carolus

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xiakha · 8 months

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FFXIVWrite2023 Prompt #1 - Envoy

Her very existence made Asahi's skin crawl.

Every glance at her guileless face, every whiff of her putrid sea-salt-and-scallions stench, every scrape of her rasping voice on his ears... if he were forced to get close enough, Emperor forbid, to touch her, the bile that increasingly built up in his throat may just come spewing out. It took all of his learned grace, humility, and manners to entreat with such a miserable wretch, to humor her attempts at being civilized.

Because of course, what Asashi saw most in the Warrior of Light was everything he hated about himself.

Here was a leatherneck salt encrusted sea-bumpkin playing at hero and diplomat, barely able to speak the common tongue of Eorzea or comprehend the complexities of the realpolitik unfolding before her, and he was supposed to speak to her, eye to eye, like she could have anything worthwhile to listen to. The fact that the Domans and Sharlayans even gave her the time of day, and, Emperor save them, stopped to listen to her opinion, was more than enough proof that this farcical little journey into the fetid backwaters that Asahi extricated himself from was little more than a cruel joke on everyone involved.

He had heard she was some kind of brute and monster, but Asahi wasn't prepared for how utterly pathetic she was as well. Sitting there, in a jaunty red hat and matching red formal military garb, looking all the world like a pig dressed in finery, eyes-wide slack-jawed clueless to the world around her, glancing about fearfully like a newborn deer, she didn't belong anywhere near this meeting with the so-called Lord of Doma, Hien, save as a low-bowing servant to be dismissed as soon as the speaking began. But here she was, sitting to Hien's immediate right side, a seat of great honor. Surely the real Warrior of Light was out there laughing it off at this bait and switch. Surely the true savior of savages and killer of men was somehow watching from afar.

Surely Lord Zenos was felled by a greater foe that this!

But at no point did the opposing party relent on this bit. Not a single person broke character. Not once did he observe a wayward snigger or inopportune face fault. He waited in vain to be let in on the joke. And thus had to conclude he was not being made a fool of, that all that he dealt with here were fools.

She represented everything he walked away from that he had burned away from his body, willingly of course, as he was forged anew into the sas Brutus he became. Provincial and artless, she would never survive a moment in a Garlean school courtyard, they'd slaughter her through a thousand cuts by the tongue with the relentless teasing and bullying she'd suffer. Thick of tongue, the lilt of her voice made Asahi almost wish to mock her every time she opened her mouth. He didn't, lest his own tongue betray him and return to its rustic roots. In a way, he pitied her, coddled for so long by people who should have known better. She'd been hidden away from the cruelties of reality, clearly, and now she was dying to have someone put her into her place.

...And yet, when Asahi finally had a moment to speak with her, holding his breath of course to avoid breathing in the miasma that surrounded her, she did not quiver or draw back. At first he thought maybe she hadn't understood his words, but the confidence she exuded overpowered anything else she may have exuded and overpowered Asahi's preconceived notions as well. He taunted her to little avail, her hand did not leave the grip of the curious rapier she lashed to her belt, but nor did she draw the weapon. To his provocations she had only one thing to say:

"What a cheeky little brat you turned out to be."

A brat!

Him!

She thought him a little brat?? Someone so utterly beneath him, so utterly unsophisticated even the worst finishing school within Garlemald's borders wouldn't dare set a brush anywhere close to her gnat-infested purple mane, would dare call him, a man who rose up to and surpassed all Garlean standards to the point that they ran out of titles to grant, a cheeky little brat???

As if he needed more reason to hate every single last mote of Emperor-forsaken aether in her barbarous filthy hide.

Oh but a personal insult was good fuel for the fire raging within him. The inferno that he stoked in preparation to engulf Doma for its insolence against Garlemald. He'd accept this slight, for he was prepared to repay it a thousand fold.

Xiao pushed up her hat to scratch at her head (without a single bug on it or near it, mind). What a piece of work that so called ambassador was.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #FFxivWrite2023 #wordvomit #a short scene #asahi sas brutus #xiao longbao #here we go again #another month of daily fics i guess!

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bludoods · 11 months

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Lobster, caviar, Black Forest cake, all these things Victoria had thought fondly of the last two nights. Right now, however, she craved nothing more then a double quarter pounder from the local macca’s and maybe - if she was lucky enough - a hot fudge sundae if the ice cream machine wasn’t ‘down for cleaning’.

Her sire sighs quietly beside her as she heaves yet another goblet of blood up and into the bucket she cradles. Casimir corks the bottle before the liquid inside can start oxidising and places it into the ever growing “no” pile. It is a frustrating process, if not an altogether dangerous one.

Finding a young Ventrue’s particular poison was believed to be one of the clans first right of passage. A testament to their willpower and fortitude. A way to weed out the weak. After 2 weeks of feasting in vain and the desperate imbibing of her sire’s vitae, Victoria understood why.

Pulling her head from that cursed bucket Victoria eyes the man sitting beside her with a tired scowl. Her teeth and lips stained a brackish red. Each new glass he placed before her a more torturous experience then the last. Some she could tell were not for her by stench alone, others would have to hit her tongue with their putrid taste before her body would reject them. It was akin to the worlds worst wine tasting tour. Her husband and sommelier would describe the kine she would be tasting - age, history, region - and then she was encouraged with gentle words and gentle hands to swallow sludge.

Surprisingly, she found they all tasted of distinctly different horrors. The blond-brown eyed beauties her sire could stomach tasted of rancid meat and filled her nose with the stench of burning flesh - like she had been dining on herself. Whereas another local Ventrue’s- one who oversaw the local universities after hours library shift - taste for soon to be barred lawyers had reminded her of those pictures of penguins covered in oil after a spill. Clinging and slimy and foul smelling all at once.

She was grateful, to some extent, for Casimir’s connections. Supplying the local blue blood population with bespoke tainted ‘wine’ from his vineyards gave him the distinct advantage of having a wide swath of options for her to try without the need for hunting. But really…it was getting to a point that the fledgeling was lamenting the loss of fast food.

“That’s it. No more tonight. The body was not meant to endure five stomach pumps in a row.” She groaned, clearly displeased and exhausted after another night without progress.

Casimir smiled in the deeply sympathetic way a parent does to their sickly child when they wont drink their cough medicine. In other words, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. A gloved hand rubbing soothing circles across her back.

“I take no pleasure in this, my dear. But it is imperative that we find your vintage post haste.” Casimir’s eyes flick between his shuddering partner, the rejected collection of vitae and the small crate of bottles he intended to get through tonight. It would appear that the family man with the perfect wife, job and home had really done a number on poor Victoria. Perhaps then…something on the opposite spectrum. “Just one more tonight and then we will cut our loses.”

Victoria’s grunt in response is not as agreeable.

This time her sire reaches for a bottle with a different label. Older branding, thicker bottle, a little dusty round the top. Casimir explains he’d mentioned their little “issue” to the bartender at his preferred Elysium. She’d fished out an old bottle who’s owner had no use for it any longer and handed it off as a last ditch effort. He pops the cork with practised ease and pours just a sip of spiked vitae into a fresh glass. It’s almost black with age and, to Victoria’s nose, smells vaguely of…dark chocolate strawberries?

Having something so pleasant smelling after so many failures worries the fledgling in its own special way. Sleeper agent. This one would sting the most she thinks as she eyes the liquid warily.

“43, stay at home mother from Virginia.”

Victoria knocks back the drink.

“Brunette, high school graduate, owned a blue SUV.”

The vitae sits on her tongue and doesn’t taste like fire and brimstone.

“No notable people in her lineage, no history of disease.”

There is no burn as it washes down her throat, only a pleasant warmth and a growing hunger.

Victoria seizes the bottle from Casimir’s grip and brings it to her lips before he has the change to stop her. The ever present gnawing hunger eases just a bit. She feels fuller then she has in years as the bottle is tipped so far back it points at the ceiling. Satisfied and yet craving more. Casimir, though far out of Victoria’s view, blinks owlishly once before breathing a sigh of relief.

The empty bottle is placed gingerly back upon their coffee table away from the others. The fledgling sheepishly sucking her teeth after such an embarrassing sight.

“S-so…nothing on that list seemed…that unique.”

Casimir blew a single laugh from his nose and offered her his handkerchief.

“She was sleeping with her neighbour.”

#vampire the masquerade #victoria errant #vtm ocs #v5 #casimir breza #welcome to los angeles #All the Saints are Sleeping #I really liked this prompt #even if it wasn’t asked #thinking about V’s first couple of nights weaning herself off her sires blood was interesting #writing

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sonicanary · 1 year

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continued from x. @ecopoison

Oh crap ! Damn it ! Her presence only known for a few seconds, when the Black Canary stepped in the weak light of the man’s desk. Her blue eyes drifted from the dead body to Ivy back and forth a few times. There’s a brief silence between the Siren and the Bird. Eyes drowned into one another’s, trying the best to read each other. In vain. There’s a miscommunication completely delayed by the lack of trust.

Confessions and explanations were quickly given, even when Canary hadn’t asked for them. She let the plant whisperer talk nonetheless. “You didn’t kill him.” Dinah said afterwards, walking past Pamela slowly while making her way to the man having his face planted in the wooden desk. Two fingers on the jugular, enough to check life had run away from the body.

The blonde waited for a reaction from the ginger siren, then added, “He knew you would come, or that we would show up.” We, as in Oracle and Dinah and the Birds. “He took the easy way out, not wanting to face his own mistakes.” Her gloved hands curled around a tiny flask, a putrid smell emanated from it, and some drops of that same purple liquid dripping from the CEO’s lips. “Not sure it’s going to make you feel better, and I don’t know what you planned to do tonight, but it’s not on you this time.”

#ecopoison #♪ verse ↭ birds of prey ; no one does it better #// i thought it could be a good way to start something

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stellarhistoria · 1 year

Text

some deliciouso info about orlain because i love-a the he

His mother was, and still is a very kind woman who loves him with all her heart, searching for him in the wake and aftermath of the announcement of everyone suddenly turning on this group of six people that includes her baby boy's name.

People say that he's a man. He would not say you're incorrect. He has the nether regions for the commentary. He responds to male pronouns. He even calls himself 'dude' and 'man' all the time. Even his mother says 'her baby boy'. However, he is 'him' in the same way temples are referred to as 'he'. ( an empty thing until someone's there to light a candle or a spell. a hollow, hallowed place, until desecrated. beautiful, rotten, vain and virtuous. pious and putrid. not quite a person, yet, full belief that something understandably humane must live in those halls. )

He is very hypersexual and overly flirtatious as a form of recovering from trauma. People giving into this only exacerbates his wounds, making him believe he's only good for making others feel better about themselves.

As per the above: He doesn't mind being something that someone uses to make themselves feel wanted for a night or two. He's good at that. He just happens to also know that aside from Jackie? No one would do that for him.

Side note, pleasant end note: Jacqueline and Orlain would get married for three reasons; tax benefits, bachelor/bachelorette party, and afterparty.

good day ♥

#❥ orlain | about ﹕ im just a man; what am i supposed to do?

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kurikurimatsu · 2 years

Text

was having trouble sleeping so i wrote this last night. ive been writing a lot lately, still learning but im hoping this is alright. pls take this and enjoy it with your meal

An inebriated man, clad in a red hoodie and jeans, stumbles through the streets late at night. His mind is spinning, his breath is putrid, and his clothes are stained with soy broth. He couldn’t care less about how sloppy he looks though, as the only thing on his mind is how hurt and angry he is with his brothers.

His five identical brothers, all of whom share his face and remind him of his debilitating personhood. Whenever he sees them he wonders if they’re who they say, or if they simply wish to differentiate themselves from him in any manner possible. He wonders the same about himself, whether he’s the person he thinks he is or if he’s trying to create an identity for himself in vain.

Whatever the case may be however, that doesn’t change the fact that no matter what, they’re brothers. Brothers that were originally one split into six, brothers that were closer than any other sibling could ever be. The only people that would ever understand that relationship between them was each other, as they all shared the same birth, face, and fate.

And with a brotherhood like that comes an unhealthy attachment to each other, one where they constantly cling to the skin, surgically attaching themselves at the hip, as one can’t be imagined without the others from the ‘set’. Individuality is an illusion and a dream that will never be achieved, as from day one it was set in stone that they were the same person.

So of course this man, Osomatsu, clung to how he was the eldest, it was the most identifiable feature he had for himself, what made him stand out from the rest, but all that means nothing without his younger kin. In order for his identity to stick, he must remain with his brothers at all cost, lest he be reduced to a husk of dust and broken ceramic, nothing more than an exoskeleton of filth and sorrow.

This isn’t lost on him, he realizes that without his brothers he’s nothing, no one, that his identity relies on the identity of others. Once they leave him there will be nothing left, and he’ll have to fend for himself as the only aspect of his identity, that which made him unique, no longer matters. He fears that day more than anything, his own personal armageddon of the self, one that will leave him lost, alone, broken.

He’ll never admit it though, despite the fact he knows how he clings to his brothers for personhood, he’ll never admit he needs them more than they’ll ever need him. ‘Leave it to the eldest!’ he always says, after all, that’s all he’s good for.

He cries to his friend Chibita, the short man who runs the oden stand he and his brothers frequent, about how he wishes for his brothers to stick to him like when they were younger, but Chibita has no sympathy for him. He tells Osomatsu to care about his brothers like a proper older sibling, to learn they’re their own people and that he needs to find his own individuality. Osomatsu spits obscenities at his face, telling him he’ll never understand what it’s like to have had who you are decided for you since birth, to not be allowed to have that individuality or identity when everyone else has decided you’re not your own person, and then storms off.

And that’s what lead to his wobbling down the road, not sure where he’s going or where to go. It’s dark, it’s quiet, and there’s no one around to help him. He has no phone that he can use to call anyone, or to tell him where he is, his only allies are the empty bottle in his hand and the swirl of nonsense behind his eyes.

As he keeps wandering forward in the hopes that he’ll magically end up home, he begins to lose his energy. He can’t pick up his feet and his steps are becoming even more uncoordinated, his body is tilting more and more to the left despite his efforts to stand straight. His eyes are starting to grow dark around the edges and his already murky vision proceeds to get worse.

He walks towards a street lamp and leans on the concrete fence next to it, hoping he’ll be able to regain his balance as well as wake himself up. This seems to achieve the opposite however as his body begins to slide down the fence and onto the sidewalk, until he’s laying completely on his back and staring into the light of the lamp. The light is blinding, and would probably wake him up had his mind not already drowned in his woes and ale. Instead his eyes start to close despite his efforts to keep them open.

“Fuck…” He mumbles to himself, exhausted and frustrated.

“Man, I guess ‘m gonna fuckin’ die.” He slurs melodramatically.

“What the fuck ever. I bet when they find my corpse my brothers will feel all guilty and shit, and then they’ll wish they were nicer to me.”

He laughs to himself as he stares towards the light, imagining his brothers tears and fluffed up words of sorrow and love. As he laughs at this image though his own eyes start to tear up, wishing for familial love and companionship, wishing to be cared for unconditionally.

The light is ethereal and has him sighing as his subconscious begins to take over, making him dream with his eyes still open and showing him absurd visuals and images in his vision. He starts to let his eyes close and awaits whatever his alcohol indrenched mind has in store for him, whether it be oblivion or dreams of the universe. But a realization hits him as he’s ready to shut down, one that fills the sewers of his veins with panic and takes away his calm and acceptance of death.

“Fuck, ’m still a virgin though.” He rambles to himself, already losing consciousness.

“I can’t die a virgin… God, that would be sad.” As he says this his eyelids close, shutting out the light from the lamp, and he goes limp as he finally passes out, quietly snoring.

#my writing #osomatsu san #kinda anxious posting this my writing always feels more personal to me and plus im still not very good at it #this was a really quick practice short that i did very casual #im trying my best to expand my language but its hard #also if you see any grammar or punctuation mistakes apologies im not very good with that stuff #*busts out the ''english isnt my first language'' card*#despite the fact that i speak it better than spanish...#uh anyway this was actually supposed to be the opening to another story i had in mind #one that involves a character of mine #but i figured it could also work as a study of this bastard so i just surgically removed my character and focused on oso #im not sure if anyone will read this if you do thank you and if you feel i have room for improvement pls do not hold back and tell me #if you want to of course i wont make you

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sydorax-squid · 1 year

Text

WHAT YOU SOW

Mark trudged down the eery, empty streets of town, the rain pounding against the cement threatened to drown out his troubled thoughts, his raincoat clung tightly to his body in a vain attempt to ward off the invading moisture. It was very late at night; or very early in morning, depending on your perspective. A strange, magical time of day, before 3 but after 2, when no one in their right minds would dare to be awake and about. The many ever-present lights burned in the dark like massive stars of all array of colors, the neon poured and soaked into the rain covering the street, bringing alive the world in a technicolor dream of swirling haze and rainbow puddles. But Mark took no notice of this wonderment, he kept his head down, his eyes fixed on his sopping-wet boots.

“Hey,” a voice shot through the air in an electric whisper. Mark stopped, straightened, his head moving around in search of that voice. “Hey, pal,” the voice rang in his ears like a death-bell chime. Mark turned to see the origin of the voice; a tall, slender man of pale complexion standing under the overhang of a desolate shop to escape the downpour. He held in his spindly fingers an unlit cigarette. “Got a light?” the man inquired.

Mark, suddenly feeling the chill of the night, hurried over to join his new companion under the inviting overhang. He shuddered before producing a silver lighter.

Click! The lighter erupted in a merry flame, flickering tentatively in the moist air.

“Thanks, man,” the slender fellow said, leaning in to puff on his cigarette. Mark looked closer at the man; he had a youthful face and jet-black hair with only a few steel-gray strands to belie his true age; silver razors of truth hidden amongst the slicked-back falsehoods.

The strange man stared at Mark as he put away his lighter and stared out dully at the candy-colored streets.

“You look a bit stressed,” the man commented, a thin, knowing smile tugging at his thick lips. “I can help you out, if you want.”

“I’m good,” Mark replied flatly, hunching his shoulders against the cold judgement of his companion.

“Mmm, I’m afraid you’re not,” the stranger replied, taking a little puff off the cigarette. He held it up in front of him, gazing at the little red termites making quick work of the paper and tobacco.

Mark said nothing.

“Look at this window, here,” the stranger said sweetly, gesturing. Mark found himself unable to deny the request, his head turning as if pulled by magnets to gaze upon the empty storefront. The building was bereft of any merchandise or adornments, not even the skeletal remains of shelves or counters could be seen. Hollow, desolate, dead.

The man took a long draw on the cigarette as his starlit eyes poured over Mark. He turned his head and blew the smoke against the glass pane closest to the watcher. The smoke poured and billowed, cascading over the surface of the glass, compounding and dissipating all in one smooth motion. The smoke vanished, but it left behind a peculiar residue; a quiet gray speckling in the form of a familiar but distant pattern. As Mark stared at the glass, the outline strengthened, grew emboldened by his attention and solidified. The bright colors of the reflected street joined the smoke-sketch to create a picture, a life-like capture of a face.

“Janet.” Mark stared in confused fear at the picture of his wife’s face, She was her, yet not her. It was as though he was looking at her through a telescope underwater. But he was certain of something; she was crying: No, sobbing.

The strange man sneered at Mark, rolling the cigarette around between his spindly spider-legged fingers. He dragged on the paper tube once again, bellowing out the fine, putrid, toxic air onto the pane. The picture of Janet vanished as if only a reflection in a puddle, replaced now by a coalescing visage of… Janet again, on her knees, clutching a piece of paper in her hands. She was still sobbing. Mark could almost feel the sounds of her anguished wailing in his ears as he looked at the picture. He leaned forward, peering at what could have upset his lovely wife so thoroughly.

“Is that a sonogram?” Mark murmured, his brow knitted together in concentration.

“Yep,” the stranger nodded, smiling wide. “Looks like a healthy baby to me. In the third trimester, I’d say.”

Mark felt as if he had been bitten by a vampire. He was cold and bloodless suddenly.

“But, that can’t be right,” Mark argued. “Janet didn’t make it that far. She—” The words stopped in his throat, thickening and clogging his airways.

The strange man giggled as he drew in again on the cigarette, blowing away the terrible insinuation of the last view. This new one was worse, however. Janet, still wailing, still in the trenches of despair, had moved to the staircase, scaling the man-made hill to their bedroom and almost-nursery. Mark gasped as he saw what she held in her hand, the object winking cruelly, seductively through the picture.

“No…” Mark’s voice was shallow and hoarse as if he had been screaming for hours.

The strange man, now grinning like a Cheshire Cat, took one last drag on the cigarette, one excruciatingly long, inhuman pull, clear to the brown cotton filter. He exhaled, the cloud growing huge, billowing up in a thousand mocking layers as it encompassed the whole storefront, exposing the horror in as large a view as was possible given the room present. Mark staggered back into the rain, staring in horror as his heart began to pound faster and faster, the weight of the image and his actions filling his limbs with osmium, his mind with deadly mercury.

There, awash the glass, big as a billboard, was Janet. She was laying on their bed, curled up as if asleep. She was staring at the photo on the bedside table; her favorite one, captured when the two of them went to Singapore. But her eyes could no longer see. Her face was still wet from the tears of betrayal revealed, but those eyes could shed no more sorrow. That treacherous object dangled precariously from her limp hand, twinkling crimson and silver. Blood, sweet and precious, had soaked into the once cheerful yellow comforter and was now dribbling the overflow onto the bright blue carpet, turning the fibers there a dark reflection of red.

Janet, once so beautiful and pink with life, was now porcelain, white as a lovely China doll.

“We reap what we sow, Mark,” the stranger said, laughing, the sound of death-bells ringing and bouncing against the brick and wood and glass, echoing and trembling all around the stunned Mark. It was as if the world had lost all color, all meaning, all consistency. Janet couldn’t be gone.

“But I didn’t— It didn’t mean anything!” Mark cried, the image and truth of the stranger’s message closing in around him in a swirl of gray chaos. The smell of blood filled his nose, the sound of water filled his ears, the sight of his beloved wife, now and forever lost, drenched his eyes. “It was a mistake!”

“We reap what we sow.”

“I’m sorry!”

“We reap what we sow.”

“Janet, please!”

“We reap what we sow.”

“Come back! Janet!”

“We reap what we sow.”

END

#Horror #short story

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human-antithesis · 1 year

Audio

Prism

Lyrics: Bless this teeth, bless these nails! Raping and tearing the hopes of man. Bless this mouth, bless this tongue, poisoning the world with seed you've sown.

A putrid worm in every crust, an empty word, an aimless path, the broken bonds, the traces lost, rotten seeds of corruptor, the Lord our God!

Rejoice, ye faithful! For all is in vain, a new sun is shining, the prism hath failed! Warped are the patterns and converged is the light that shall burn my eyes with miracles to be seen.

And shall this light turn thine children to ash! Make my flesh a crystal, shining with its rays. Infection shall grow with each and every word, until life continues, to replace it with void...

The quote at the start of this song is taken from the movie Stigmata, it goes like this:

Who are you? Il messaggero non è importante.

#Kriegsmaschine #Black Metal #Poland

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iamghostwriter · 1 year

Photo

“…After all the years of steadfast prayer, the unwavering sacrifices, not a drop of blood spilt in vain, for the stranger has finally come”…Screaming at the passersby, “It came unto ME! Out of that black abyss, slowly, the shadows’ shadow did come, crawling from the darkest depths of that black night, It did Come!” Swaying atop his makeshift box, “It did not speak, but I sensed it’s smiling face”, a deep choking ragged breath shakes the wild man’s long lanky frame, cutting through his monologue like a butter knife, “It simply laid one of its great hands upon my forehead, and with a deafening thunderclap, I stand before you now, Reborn! I was baptized in it’s darkest flame, remade in it’s image…what stands before you now, this putrid bag of meat, wrapped tightly in its sickly pasty white skin, this is but a filthy mask that I will cast aside when it’s purpose is served!” Screaming louder, “I am reborn! It will whisper and I will act, for I am reborn as the Hand of the true God, a disciple wrought of his pain, an emissary of the stolen truth; oh how Bittersweet it is, but fret not, for I will seek you out, and unto you, the message will be delivered! The true God has tasked me with delivering this message unto the world. Partake of this flesh and you too shall be transformed! Rejoice, for now I will open the eyes of you nonbelievers, peeling back your eye lids so that all will see evermore…” #excerpt #bittersweet #spiritualnapalm #ashcan #igcomicfam #igcomics #igcomicfamily #igcomiccartel #igcomicscommunity #igcomiccollector #creepshow #igcomicbookfamily #panelalchemist #readmorecomics #readmore #supportindiecomics #supportindiecreators #supportlocalartists #supportindieauthors #createimproverepeat https://www.instagram.com/p/Ck5JjHRu3gF/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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primofate · 3 years

Text

Request Continuation: Reader gets hurt/injured

Characters: fem!reader x Xiao

Warning: hurt, injury, not proofread, very little angst

Part 1: (Diluc, Childe, Albedo, Kaeya)

Part 2: (Zhongli)

It was not unusual for a traveller like you to go adventuring just for the sole purpose of collecting materials. That was your normal every day grind. Some days were better than others, getting hurt was not something abnormal either but so far, any injury you sustained had been manageable.

If there was one thing that you tried to avoid while you were out gathering materials. One thing you hated to encounter, it was the Ruin Hunter. And yet you were face to face with it. Those cannons. It was your worst nightmare.

“Mother of Archons just stop shooting!” You yelp as you duck behind a tree again, you were getting really tired. You took a deep breath, and decided to put all your remaining energy into defeating it. You didn’t think there was a way to outrun it at this moment.

Couple of hack and slashes, rolling away, leaping out of danger, singed parts of your clothing and numerous scratches and cuts, the thing finally gave in and lay defeated on the ground. You sighed real deep, shoulders slumping down, relaxing for a quick minute, eyes closed...and it happened.

Someone grabbed you from behind, hand over your mouth, arm around your waist pinning your own arms to your sides while two other men came around from behind you to take a look at the treasure the Ruin Hunter left behind.

Thieves. Lowlives. Easy to handle, but not when you were dead tired and caught off guard. The one holding you back has a very tight grip on you and for a moment you struggled in vain to get loose. “Quit squirming,” there’s a growl to the thieves’ warning but that isn’t what gets you to stop, it’s one of the other men holding a knife to your neck.

What did they want? If it was just the treasure then you’d gladly give it and let them go. Clearly it wasn’t just that. “Listen missy, we’ve been following you for days,” The one holding the knife to your neck says, face dangerously close to yours. His grin was wide and his breath putrid, even with the hand covering your mouth, you wanted to look away so badly.

“You’ve got remarkable skills and you’ve got an eye for treasure spots, what do you say we make a deal?” You glare at him instantly. Are they insane? Why would you agree to anything they asked? “Actually, you don’t really have a choice,” the knife inches closer to your neck, the blade of it cutting just enough for blood to trickle down to your collarbone.

A startling shiver runs down your spine at the realization of what kind of situation you were in, You try to struggle but your muscles were already far too tired from the battle you had just won. At the back of your mind there’s a calm voice that tells you to call out for him.

Him. Xiao.

You could already imagine the fury he would unleash and you think about whether it was really worth it to bother him or not. He was...always saving people and always...killing. Lessening his burden was something that you’d always wanted to do. So, even in the dire situation you were in now, it was an internal battle of whether to seek out help from him or not.

“Hey, Hey! Are you even listening?”

If he knew that you hesitated, he’d be just as angry at you as he was of the thieves. You could picture the snarl on his face, the ever growing anger forming at the frown of his lips and furrowing the brows atop his eyes.

“HEY!” The force of the backhanded slap makes you stumble to the ground as the man behind you releases his hold. For a second you wonder where the droplets of blood on the soil came from, until your mouth tastes iron. A busted lip.

You wipe it with your arm and swerve your head around to glare at the bastard who just hit you square on the cheek. It was most likely red already. “No, I’m not listening,” you spat back, “because no matter what you say I’m not going to team up with a bunch of cowardly bastar--” the sudden sound of crunching and your face embedded on the ground stilted your speech.

One of them had stepped on your shoulder and pushed your face on the soil. You whimper at the pain shooting from your shoulder and to the rest of your body. It must have been broken, or shattered, either way, they weren’t playing around.

You mumble something under your breath, and the man who had backhanded you moved his face closer to the ground. “What’s that? Change your mind?” Again you mumbled something and in the man’s annoyance he pulled you by the same injured shoulder and flipped you on your back, your face is dirtied and scratched. “Say that again?”

You open your mouth, although your body is exhausted your mind is running purely on adrenaline. “I said…” a slight wince shoots up your face at the way he was clutching your shoulder. “Xiao isn’t gunna be happy,”

There was no sense of urgency in your voice at all, as if you were just having a casual conversation with someone. There wasn’t any indication that it was a cry for help.

Xiao was at the Wangshu Inn, as he always was. Watching from the top floor how people flitted in and out, kids running and playing hide and seek down at the entrance below. People having lunch at the restaurant downstairs. A mundane day, as he would call it, and yet one of his favourite ones.

Though, even in his mundane days the thought of you will and always will cross his mind. He wondered where you were at the moment. The last time he saw you was...three days ago. Yes, he always counted, only because it was important for him to see you at least twice a week. If he were to be really honest, if your schedules aligned, having to see you every day was not a very bad idea.

The relationship the two of you had, had blossomed out of a friendship that didn’t ask for much. Just each other’s presence. He liked that. He liked that you were your own person, liked that you were passionate about certain things. Liked that you didn’t ask for much except to sit with him at Wangshu Inn, sometimes indulging in Almond Tofu with him. An image of your contented smile flashes in his mind and he looks away from the view down below, uttering a slight “Tch,” at the heat he feels on his cheeks.

That was how it was. The thought of you sometimes left him feeling a paralysis that he enjoyed. A stop to his routines because of how enamoring your invisible presence was. Pretty soon that friendship had grown into a mutual understanding that the two of you were going past just being there for each other. The physicality of it grew, from subtle touches of the hand to quick kisses on the nose when you parted ways. It was… a gradual change, but one that Xiao had completely fallen into.

“Xiao…”

He freezes for a second. He thought the wind had called out to him. It was far too soft to hear but his eyebrows knit in confusion. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, it was like a premonition of something bad happening. His mind didn’t immediately travel to you, until the second time he hears it.

“Xiao,”

It was a little louder this time, but still curt and short, and the third time he hears it, was loud and clear, but not alarming in any way. So, when the wind howls around him and takes him to where his name is called, he doesn’t expect much of an alarming scene.

A gasp gets caught in his throat though, when the swirl of wind arrives right behind you. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at, a group of men was suddenly looking at him, wide-eyed. Xiao’s eyes travel to a familiar form on the ground, he’d recognize that tuft of hair anywhere. That’s when the wind picks up speed, as if a sudden hurricane had manifested right under his feet. “Y/N,” your eyes snap open at the sound of his voice, not realizing that it had been him who had arrived. “Xiao,” you breathe out a sigh of relief and slump towards him as he knelt beside you, holding on to his arm.

He only takes a second to give you a once over. Bloodied lip, scratches all over, and the way you clutched at your shoulder told him more than enough. He gathers you into his arms, he doesn’t look at the men surrounding you at all, until he places you down neatly under a tree. When he picks up his head to look at the crowd around him, there’s an endless pit of hate in his eyes.

“Which one of you touched them?”

An unrecognizable trace of spite in his voice comes out, eyes tearing holes through each and every one of the men. They all step back, his sheer presence is terrifying, even more so when the polearm appears in his hand and he raises it to point in their general direction. “I’ll get rid of all of you if no one speaks up,” One of them starts running away, but a strong gust of wind pushes the man forward, causing him to trip and roll on the ground.

“I’ll ask again--” One of them starts pointing at the others, “Him! It was him!” to which their companion retaliates. “What are you talking about! It was YOUR idea!” Xiao gets even angrier at the bickering. He moves swiftly, if you had your eyes open you’d see only the swirls of black and feel the gusts of wind as he went through each and every one of them, making sure no one escaped.

When you opened your eyes to peek at him, the men were on the ground and Xiao was standing in the middle with a dark aura sticking to him. “Xiao,” You can’t count how many times you’ve said his name now, but that seemed to have snapped him out of his stupor, the black aura dissipates slowly, and is completely gone when he presents himself in front of you.

“Y/N… Why didn’t you call earlier?” There’s annoyance on his features.

“I...thought I could handle it...and they didn’t exactly let me talk,”

“Tsk,” he lets out with an angry sigh and leans in closer to see your face. There’s a red mark on your cheek that he didn’t see before. “I told you not to hesitate, if I was a bit later than I was…” worse images pile up in his mind and this time his face softens, a shaky sigh leaving his lips.

“...Listen Y/N…” he starts, taking you back in his arms in preparation to go back to the inn, feeling displeased at the way your face scrunches up in pain at the slightest motion. “Don’t be stupid. You might be able to handle it but I--” you look at his eyes, curious at the way he was stumbling over his words. “But I can’t, do you understand? I can’t handle seeing you like--” his words abruptly stops.

He doesn’t finish his sentence. But you know what he means. You know what he means by the way he tenderly presses his lips on your forehead, the way he is careful with how he held you, the way he tries not to jostle you and the way his eyes scan your face every second for any hint of pain that you felt. “Call me earlier next time, got it?” he mumbles as the two of you start nearing the inn.

“If not for yourself, then for me, Y/N...” It’s the first time you hear what you could only describe as desperation in his voice, and at that moment you understand what it really meant to be loved by him. So you smile despite the pain and promise him, “Okay, I will. And you’ll come every time?”

“Always. Even beyond worlds, I’ll find a way,”

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