#I thought of making this bloodier but I don't have the time for it

[stuckyfingers]

"Bucky is still alive"

2012 Steve uses the knowledge transferred to him through Loki's sceptre to infiltrate HYDRA and demolish Project Insight. He victoriously kisses Bucky in the Triskelion- over the dead body of Alexander Pierce. Skyfall by Adele is playing in the background.

#stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #winter soldier #art #my art #shieldra #captain hydra #but not really #I thought of making this bloodier but I don't have the time for it

[isagrimorie]

Sometimes there really are interesting things on Reddit, found this one particular passage on r/DaystromInstitute talking about Starfleet and the Cardassian war, in particular, Miles O'Brien and Kathryn Janeway's experiences in a ground war:

Ground combat was much different. O'Brian's reactions to the Cardassians in 'The Wounded' are clear that ground combat wasn't as clean for the Federation as it was in space. Same with Captain Maxwell. Even Captain Janeway was in ground combat in the Federation/Cardassian war (I think it was the episode 'Prey' where Janeway told Seven of a time during the war when she was only Lt. Janeway). O'Brian carrying anger against the Cardassians for making him into a killer. Maxwell so used to destroying Cardassian ships that a year after the treaty is signed he's still in the habit of blowing up Cardassian ships. Janeway, it's entirely possible that until the war ended she spent her entire Starfleet career in combat, earning battlefield promotions, flying up the chain of command to Commander and with the impossible situation that Voyager was in after her promotion to Captain and first command being Voyager, she found herself trying to balance Starfleet ideologies with her own history of being willing to use violence, or in her case, too willing in a few episodes.

This is an interesting thought, I remember being surprised knowing Janeway actually was in actual ground combat. As we learned from DS9, and Strange New Worlds, ground combat is a lot different from ship-to-ship battle.

Ships can also be dangerous but Starfleet shines with ship battles. Ground combats are harder, and bloodier, and leave long-lasting marks on the soldiers who find themselves in them.

I wonder if Janeway distinguishing herself in the Cardassian war is the reason why Voyager got the assignment to go after the Maquis. But also, Janeway might have wanted to distance herself from the war more and focus on science.

But the Delta Quadrant kept pushing her into that place again.

Like, now I wish Janeway interacted with O'Brien at least, two Cardassian war vets.

ETA:

Another good r/DaystromInstitute post on Janeway:

Janeway is intentionally written as a character who intellectually believes in the ideals of the Federation, but whose actions are not always in line with her stated beliefs. I think this is very human and understandable. Very few real humans are as moral as Picard. This is why Quark's quote:

"Let me tell you something about Hew-mons, Nephew. They're a wonderful, friendly people, as long as their bellies are full and their holosuites are working. But take away their creature comforts, deprive them of food, sleep, sonic showers, put their lives in jeopardy over an extended period of time and those same friendly, intelligent, wonderful people... will become as nasty and as violent as the most bloodthirsty Klingon. You don't believe me? Look at those faces. Look in their eyes."

rings so true. Janeway is trying hard to not be the type of human Quark describes, but she is failing. She still tries, though, which I think is important.

All this just makes me love Janeway more, also Starfleet is terrible with mental health.

#thinky thoughts #federation cardassian war #kathryn janeway #miles o'brien #star trek #star trek voyager

[in1-nutshell]

Uh hi, this my first ever resquest, and i'm sorry if things don't make sense, english is not my first language.

Could i get tfp bot buddy who has shadow powers(like can turn into one and use them as portals), has the appearance of nightmares and is close to Ultra Magnus(dunno if is platonic, familial or romantic)?

They kinda been living as Ultra Magnus shadow since forever and help him on missions,tasks or just anything, but in one of their missions, the decepticons maneged to reallyyy hurt buddy and buddy, not wanting to die, retreated to Ultra Magnus shadow and went into stasis to heal but Ultra Magnus didn't knew that and thought that buddy had perished.

Only now on earth did buddy finally wakes up.

Could i get reactions from the team or something like that if not, that's okay :) also love your writing

Magnus was so close to having a spark attack when he saw Buddy pop out of his shadow the first time they used their powers, that's for sure.

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy with shadow manipulation and being Ultra Magnus's Amica Endura

SFW, Platonic, Cybertronain reader

TFP

Buddy met Magnus through Optimus.

He introduced them to Magnus during the earlier years of the war as his Second in Command.

Magnus just thought he was getting to know another coworker.

A couple missions later, several late-night conversations and some free time later they become Amica Endura.

“You know you never did tell HOW you became Amica with Commander shoulder pads over there. Was it a bet you loss?”--Wheeljack

“No bets were lost Wheeljack. We became Amica out of our own choice and free will. Nothing else to do with it.”--Buddy

“Sure…”--Wheeljack

Buddy loves to prank Magnus with their shadow powers.

Magnus does not find this funny… but he does find it a bit endearing after a while.

Being an Outlier was rare to find in this world.

Even rarer to find after the war broke out.

So many had been the first ones targeted at the beginning of the war there were barely anymore left.

It was a risk putting Buddy in the Wrecker’s, but so far it brought greater success to the unit than any point in their formation.

“Freeze Autobot scum!”—Random Decepticon

Buddy putting their servo in the air almost mockingly.

“There’s three of you and one of me… what ever shall I do?”--Buddy

Buddy’s servos start glowing a bit.

“Have you met my Amica?”--Buddy

“Why would we—”—Random Con

SLAM!

Magnus takes out the three mechs after appearing from behind thanks to Buddy’s shadow powers.

“That was brutal!”--Buddy

Magnus fixes his blaster a bit.

“I hate when you put yourself in these situations.”--Magnus

“Its in the job description Mags.”--Buddy

“Buddy we’ve been over this.”--Magnus

“And we’ve been over this too.”--Buddy

“…”--Magnus

“…”--Buddy

“First one that takes out five Cons has to buy the other a drink.”--Buddy

“If you insist.”--Magnus

Buddy has defiantly used their powers to get Magnus to sneak up on unsuspecting troops.

Magnus is always there for Buddy when they overexert themselves and need someone to watch over their back.

One trip left Buddy badly injured.

They saw Magnus’s backside as he was trying to find them in the rubble of the exploding base.

They tried to call for him, but they could barely keep their optics open.

His shadow was the closest thing they could reach so they snuck into his shadow.

With a quick nap, their wounds would get healed in no time.

Magnus thought that Buddy had died in the explosion after coming back to the base for regrouping.

He checked all other places they set rendezvous points and in none of the places did he even find a trace of Buddy.

Magnus could see it in the optics of his Wrecker’s that the war was about to turn bloodier than it was now that Buddy was gone.

Hopefully things would get better…

Hope was the last thing they had.

Timeskip to Magnus being on Earth…

Buddy finally feels ready to get out of the shadow.

Yeah, it took a while to finally get healed, but they are sure they are ready now.

By their calculations they missed about a couple weeks in the war. Things couldn’t have changed that much.

Magnus is arguing with Wheeljack when Bulkhead sees something wrong with Magnus’s shadow.

“Hey guys, shadows aren’t supposed to do that right?”--Bulkhead

Miko looks from the perch.

“Wow! Wheeljack made Magnus so mad his shadow gained sentience!”--Miko

In a blink there is a bot laying on the floor rubbing their helm.

“Urgh! Never doing that again… hey Mags when did we get better lighting—Mags?”--Buddy

Ultra Magnus stares at Buddy with wide optics.

“By the Allspark! Buddy is that you?!”—Wheeljack

“Who’s that?”--Miko

Buddy moves their helm a bit and spots Wheeljack.

“Wheeljack? I thought you left cycles ago—Hey!”--Buddy

Bulkhead scoops Buddy from behind giving them a crushing hug.

“Bulkhead!? I thought you left to team Prime? Magnus? Magnus what’s going on?”—Buddy

“Seriously who’s that?”--Miko

Magnus remains still just staring at Buddy like a ghost.

Buddy gets out of Bulkhead’s grip stumbling a bit until they reach their Amica with a worried look on their face.

“Mags? Are you okay?”--Buddy

“I…I thought you had perished in the explosion. I looked everywhere…”--Magnus

Buddy scratches their helm a bit.

“Yeah, I got injured pretty badly back there. Your shadow was the closest thing I could reach and… well…”--Buddy

“So, this entire time you’ve been in Ultra Magnus’s shadow?”--Wheeljack

Buddy furies their optics a bit.

“You’re making this sound like I was gone for millennia. I was just gone for a couple of weeks most.”—Buddy

Magnus gives them a sad smile.

“…You never were good at your calculations Buddy.”--Magnus

Magnus puts a servo on his Amica’s shoulder.

“Mags?”--Buddy

“Mags?”--Miko

Buddy finally looks over at Miko.

“Who’s this?”--Buddy

“I’m Miko! Welcome to Earth!”--Miko

Buddy’s optics widen.

“How long was I in there!?”—Buddy

Optimus walks into the room with some of the reports.

“Ultra Magnus where—Buddy?”--Optimus

“WHY IS PRIME SO BIG!?”--Buddy

#transformers x reader #maccadam #bot buddy #tfp #tfp x reader #tfp x platonic reader #tfp ultra magnus #tfp ultra magnus x platonic reader

[ottosuricatoblog]

"Fucked."

Author: it's been a long while since I've written anything, but my latest obsession with Sandor turned out into this. I hope you enjoy it! If you do so, let me know, I might continue their story!

Part 2 to this here

Link my masterlist

Y/N Stark was not an ordinary girl. Well, at least she was not what people in Westeros considered a 'proper' girl. She didn't like sewing, prefering to be outside practicing sword fighting or archery. She didn't enjoy dances or wearing fancy dresses, finding herself much more comfortable in other (sometimes much bloodier) scenarios. Being the oldest Stark, she is aware she was supposed to be married by now. She had turned down about 5 proposals of marriage, much to her mother's disgrace. Y/N didn't want to marry some butterfingered knight with the only purpose of getting knocked up. She had yet to meet a man who made her feel hot and bothered in the right places. Until that day.

The first time Sandor saw her, he knew she was going to be trouble. It happened when he visited Winterfell along with the King and the rest of the fuckers. When he took off the helmet and looked up, meeting her eyes, he felt something he had never felt before. It couldn't be love. Sandor 'the Hound' Clegane only knew hate. He didn't believe in love, let alone love at fucking first sight. But, when she smiled at him, all he could think was "I'm fucked."

After looking for him for a while, he found Sandor by the stables, leaning on a wall with a drink in his hand. She felt the same butterflies in her stomach she had when she saw him for the first time that morning.

"Don't enjoy a party?" Y/N asked with a smirk.

He turned his head in her direction, hoping it was not who he thought it was. When he saw her, he had the same feeling as this morning, and he didn't like it one bit.

"Prefer to be alone." He grunted, looking away.

His hoarse voice made her feel things she shouldn't be feeling.

"I'm Y/N Stark." She said, bowing. "And I won't bother you, Ser. Drinking alone next to horse shite seems like a fantastic plan."

Sandor looked at her again, finding a smug smirk in her face. Gods, that smile. "I'm no Ser. And you shouldn't be outside this late."

He stood up straight, which made her able to realize his actual height. He was huge compared to her. Well, compared to pretty much everyone.

"Oh, don't worry about me." She said. "I can take care of myself."

"Can you, now?" He let a little smirk show. He shouldn't be talking to her, let alone fucking flirting. What's wrong with him?

"Perfectly, eh..." She made a pause, suggesting him to introduce himself. She had to know the name of the man who's making her feel this way.

"Sandor." He said. "Sandor Clegane."

"I'll leave you to it then, Sandor Clegane." She turned to leave, looking at his lips for a few seconds beforehand. "Good night."

Watching her leave, all he could think about was the sound of his name, his real name, on her lips, and he wanted to hear it over and over again.

"Good night, little wolf." He whispered.

He avoided her as much as he could the following days, thinking that if he didn't see her, the feeling would go away. Yet, all he could think about was the movement of her legs as she walked away from him that night, her gaze on his lips, her own lips... It was driving him mad.

Y/N knew he was not going to initiate anything, so she decided to take the matter into her own hands. If he didn't want her, he would have to tell her himself.

Sandor was on the way to his chambers when he felt a hand on his forearm, dragging him into a room nearby. He tightened, motioning for his sword, but soon relaxed as he realized who it was.

"The fuck you doing?" He grunted, scanning the room. It looked like a storehouse of some kind.

"Well, hello to you too." She said, sarcasm evident in her voice and a smirk on her face.

He stood there, taking a look at her. The light in the room was dim, but he could appreciate her figure. She wasn't scared of him or disgusted by his face. Instead, she was standing there, teasing him, with that fucking smile on her face.

"I've been meaning to talk to you." She started. "But it seems we don't seem to happen to meet."

"Here I am." He says, his voice low and husky. "Talk."

She feels her nipples become hard at his tone, and she bits her lip.

His gaze moves to her breasts, his cock becoming hard at the sight. She's standing there, biting her lip, and looking at him with a look that makes him weak in the knees.

"If you keep looking at me like that, dove..." He sighs, taking a step towards her. He shouldn't, and he knows.

She instinctively takes a step back, meeting a wall. Looking up at him, she finds the courage to talk. "What are you going to do, big boy?"

He places a hand above her head on the wall, leaning into her. "Tell me to stop, Y/N." He whispers, their mouths approaching. "Tell me to stop because if you don't, I don't think I'm..."

She interrupts him by pressing her lips to his in a passionate kiss. He groans, kissing her back.

She throws her arms around his neck and, in response, he picks her up, her legs around his waist. She feels his tongue on her bottom lip, asking for permission, which she gladly gives him.

"Sandor." She moans against his lips.

"Fuck." He grunts, pressing her harder against the wall and moving his lips to her neck.

They make out for a few minutes. He doubts he's ever been harder and judging the sounds Y/N is making, she's pretty affected as well. This makes it really hard for him to stop, but he has to.

"Little wolf, I really don't want to stop, but we need to." He says against her lips. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"Sandor, I want you." She moans, kissing him again. "I don't care about my father, about my brothers or the fucking King."

This makes him laugh and he leans his head on her shoulder. "I'm not fucking you in a storehouse."

She groans desperately. "Why not?"

He laughs again, setting her on the ground. "Because I'm pretty sure you're a virgin." He starts, and she blushes. "Because you're Y/N Stark." He caresses her face. "And because I don't deserve you."

She frowns. "It's not for you to decide who I fuck, Sandor. I am a virgin, and I am Y/N Stark."

Sandor sighs.

She holds his face. "I hadn't felt this way about anybody in my life. I hadn't felt an urge to kiss someone, to be near someone."

He knows exactly what she's talking about, because he's feeling the exact same, so he leans in and kisses her. The kiss is different from the ones before, it's sweet.

"I'll come find you tonight." He whispers against her lips.

He turns, opening the door and holding it for her. She smiles at him, kissing him one more time before leaving. He stays in the room, smiling to himself. He is indeed fucked.

Part 2 here

#sandor clegane #sandor clegane x reader #rory mccann #sandor the hound clegane #game of thrones

[dearshelby]

Blood hands | T.S

Summary: After killing someone for the first time, Tommy's wife has to deal with the emotional consequences of it. Luckily (or not), he's there to look after her.

A/N: This takes place in the same universe from my other work The noose, you don't have to read it to understand, I just thought it'd be nice to go deeper into the events mentioned there. It's inspired by the song Blood hands by Royal blood and part of my OC's story, hope you enjoy it!

She was terrible in biology, never got more than a B, it didn't matter how hard she studied. Every exam period she went to the tiny, dusty Birmingham's library and took notes from the anatomy books. Nothing ever changed.

Analyzing the drawings, she tried to make sense out of them, the muscles, joints and bones, wrapped together in the masterwork of the human body. It just didn't make sense to her, the subject simply wouldn't get into her brain and honestly, it disgusted her too. She had no wish to see beneath someone's skin, aware the reality was much more bloodier and morbid than the books.

Less than ten years later, she did, but unlike she imagined, the bile didn't rise to her throat expressing the deep disgust. Her eyes opened widely, unable to move from the mess of what once must've been a beautiful body.

The curly golden locks hid the infiltrated agent's frightened looks, gladly, because the murderer in the train station wouldn't bear to face the lack of life in her blue eyes.

Blood ran down her nose, her hands shook and her left eye stung. The woman who a few ago held her in disadvantage, sticking a sharp nail into her orb, was reduced to nothing by the train's velocity. A push was all it took.

Then, her trance was interrupted by the sound of steps, she ran away like a child avoiding punishment, not many people dared to fuck with a gangster's fiancée, but the ones who did certainly would make her look much worse in the train tracks.

As she headed home, carrying her high heels in hand so she could walk faster, another haunting thought crept into her mind, Tommy, the reason why she had blood in her hands. She was sure he'd be dead when she got home, with a bullet Billy Kimber would've put in his brain.

For a moment she considered not going anywhere, simply sitting down with her back against someone's house's wall so she wouldn't have to deal with anything.

If she only could, she'd ask God to allow her man to be alive when she got home, she couldn't, because besides being an unbeliever, asking Him to save a man like Tommy felt like blasphemy or a joke of poor taste. There was no salvation for the Small Heath's devil, at least not from divine sources.

Swallowing the bitter taste of uncertainty, she walked home with a heavy heart. However, much for her surprise, Tommy stood at the front door, his eyes slightly widened at her awful state. Her throat burnt with the urge to cry as she dropped her heels and wrapped her arms around him, he winced in pain from the bullet hole in his chest, but allowed her to hold him nevertheless.

His name poured from her lips in quiet, relieved whispers. His attentive eyes were quick to capture every irregularity in her figure, bruised knuckles, teary eyes and bare foot. Never in seven years he had seen her so broken.

"I was coming to pick you up," he explained, "what happened? Where were you?"

Lifting her head from his shoulder, her still shaky hands hesitated in cupping his cheeks, resting on his shoulders instead. She negatively nodded and peeked at the wound under his coat.

"You're alive, that's all that matters,"

"What happened to you?" Tommy insisted, since she had begged him to run away like they did when Campbell came for them, but wasn't around when the duel with Kimber ended.

"Tommy, please," she breathed out, caressing the length of his arms, "not now, not fucking now,"

His jaw tightened as he fought the urge of arguing, he hated to have things hidden from him, but knowing he'd eventually find out anyway, he obliged to her wish.

Gently, his thumb met the eyelid of her wounded eye, "That's fucking bad,"

"I'll go to the pharmacy tomorrow, they'll give me something to get it better," she drawled, "what happened over here?"

"...Danny whizz-bang is dead," was all Tommy deemed as relevant, guilt weighted heavily on the sergeant's voice, he was responsible for his soldiers' safety and he had failed Danny badly.

"Oh, darling," she muttered, "I'm so sorry,"

Looking away from her merciful eyes, he slightly nodded. Reaching for a cigarette from his silvery pack before saying, "We're at the Garrison now,"

"I'm not really up for it, you can go back if you want." with a brush on his cheek she entered home and in a quick decision, Tommy followed after, "I'll take a bath, then take a look at your bandages, who took the bullet out?"

"Jeremiah," he drawled.

She nodded, glad someone gentle as the preacher looked after her husband when she wasn't able to. Heading to the bathroom, she only hoped the hot water would wash away the weight on her shoulders.

-

Rubbing her hands together, she watched the quiet street through the window, every now and then a lonely citizen walked past and this was all keeping her from dissociating.

The bath wasn't of great help, the relaxation it brought also lowered the adrenaline, making her muscles and wounds ache. A knot tightened on her throat as she tried to convince herself everything was fine. Everything was fine, Tommy was alive, no one was after them anymore, nothing else mattered, nothing.

The door suddenly opened, making her jump. Tommy entered the bedroom with a towel on his shoulder, his bare torso was still wet from his bath and he moved slowly, careful to not get his injury bleeding.

Attentively, she noticed his mind was far away from there, a pout decorated his lips and his brow was tense. Eager to sooth his worries, she swallowed her own and whistled the stereotypical catcalling sound.

"Hello, handsome," she weakly smiled.

Lifting his eyes, a nearly nonexistent smile crept into his face, "Quit that,"

She walked to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, "Do you always come here?"

"In my bedroom?" he chuckled, "Yeah, quite often,"

She took advantage of his momentarily good humor to take a look at his wound. Before she could avoid it her eyes got filled with tears, she nearly lost him today, not all the killing she was able to commit would've brought him back if she'd done so, he'd be gone, simple as that.

"D'you want to tell me what happened now?" Tommy cupped her face.

"...no," was all she was able to mutter, "where are we heading to from now on?"

"Well, I-" he sighed, frustrated, "I thought of opening a club in London,"

"I was talking about Danny," she sat at the end of the bed, "what about his family?"

"We'll help them, financially," Tommy explained.

"Get his children a job?"

"No, no more business for the Owens," he negatively nodded, "they'll be normal, his children will never know why he died,"

Hearing his words, her throat tightened, a heavy feeling settled in her chest. Did the woman she killed had children? When she first got into the Garrison Tommy found out she did, but that was before they ever suspected she was a copper, how much of everything she said was lies? How would her child react to knowing its mother was dead?

Tommy watched his fiancée's state with pity in his eyes, he hated her stubbornness at the same time he was well aware of how much they were alike. Both closed off before trouble, hating to burden the other with issues they deemed personal.

"You know, eventually you'll have to tell me what happened,"

Her watery eyes met his and she pulled him close so he was standing between her legs, then she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on the soft skin of his stomach.

Gently, he petted her hair away from her face and the feeling his rough fingers brought some relief, still, she felt like a wounded beast. She'd forever be a murderer regardless of her man's sympathy.

"Tell me, eh?" Tommy whispered.

"Tommy, I-" before she could answer, three knocks on the door interrupted.

Arthur entered the bedroom with a worried expression, "Tommy, hm, I just wanted to tell you we found the body of that barmaid in the train tracks, Johnny Dogs wants to know if we made it or not and if he should get rid of it,"

She froze, eyes widened at the news, she was so deep into her own guilt she didn't even think about the further consequences.

Tommy switched a look between her and his brother, with a slight nod, he ordered, "Get rid of it,"

Small Heath had another murderer to call resident, there was no way of hiding it now.

#tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #OC Eleanor Shelby

[utilitycaster]

Fighter Breakdown Tracker, episode 3x78

Welcome to what was originally an opportunity to talk about the myriad wizards (not Myriad wizards, a separate concept) of Campaign 2 that occasionally gets co-opted into other things when the thought arises. Anyway, obviously the main event was the Barbarian Breakdown and, relatedly, the Party Breakdown, due to their Communication Breakdown, giving Allura Vysoren specifically her 19th Nervous Breakdown, but I've already talked a lot about Ashton. How are the fighters doing?

As a reminder: characters are included on the basis of 1. are they a fighter, 2. are they remotely relevant to this campaign, and 3. do I have something funny to say about them. I cannot stress enough how important item 3 is in the decision process; do not make requests, my muse speaks to me and that is how the characters (and, to be honest, classes) are chosen.

Cassandra de Rolo: Yes! According to the Tal'Dorei Campaign Setting (not reborn) she's multiclassed into fighter! Anyway that plan to go to the ziggurat went well, huh? totally normal and great. I like to think that due to her rogue levels she saw Fearne march down the ziggurat steps and just peaced out and has been chilling in Pike's little cabin ever since. 4/10: normal "is the world ending" concerns but otherwise she's having maybe the best day anyone on the Whitestone War Council can.

Jarett Howarth: he's specifically avoiding Bells Hells because motherfuckers keep teleporting from Marquet and not bringing any fusaka. This, plus normal "putting the Pale Guard on a war footing and also there's a really mad goat lady in the garden" bumps him up to a 6/10.

Orym: my serious thoughts about the space made for Chetney, FCG, and Imogen to step up aside I honestly think the semi-joking narrative of Orym going off in a huff and working out his feelings quite literally via the power of elaborate bodyweight calisthenics of the sort that grant you 20 Dex and 10 Str would be good for him. Allow yourself a little pettiness, Orym; it's good for the soul. 5/10 because I don't fucking know; we'll see next game.

Ariks Eshteross: I hope he's at peace and buried next to his love as requested; I still haven't gotten around to making those cookies actually and frankly I've had much more of an eye on the gunpowder tea shortbread. 0/10; I like to think he has found true rest.

Bertrand Bell: These motherfuckers have not visited the grave of their namesake at ALL. Traipsing around the Raven Queen's temple - literally everyone but Laudna and FCG has wandered over to that corner of the city - and NO ONE has taken a moment to pause and reflect. He died as he lived: everyone kind of setting him aside for more important matters except for followers of the Raven Queen. 8/10 because hopefully he was entertained by the raven show that got put on but also, come on man you couldn't stop by at all?

FRIDA: I have to imagine things in Vasselheim are wild and it's going to be missing FCG hours, but at least they're in great company! 5/10; they're a pretty even-keeled robot all things considered but the situation is pretty tense.

Otohan Thull: My sole regret about how great this episode is and the fact that we're dropping into the Fey Realm for a bit to have some much-needed time to regroup is that we are likely delaying their richly deserved demise. Anyway everyone's beloathed Palpatine knockoff is unfortunately super unflappable; another reason why they are boring as shit and why I very much want Bells Hells to make the bridge a little bit bloodier on the way up. 3/10.

Percival Friedrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III: Here's the thing. All things considered, his personal position is stressful, but not terrible. The ziggurat did not blow up; Gwen appears to either have not told him about her Delilah incident or did so in such a way that he didn't realize what was going on; he doesn't seem to have noticed the break-in into his parents' bedroom yet; Allura was reassuring re: Whitestone likely being safe (although...it's on a ley nexus so watch out!); and he got to deliver the line "ever since I met you, I knew you were destined for stupidity" which is actually how he specifically blows off steam. On the other hand, every single window in the castle has been destroyed, Allura had to leave, and I just checked and confirmed that Pike does not have the mending cantrip. Maybe one of the local clerics does? Maybe one of his kids does? Maybe Vilya or Ebenold does? Maybe Grog's in town and can be convinced that the role of the Grand Poobah etc etc is fixing windows? 6/10.

#d&d class breakdown tracker #(the new generic tag no one asked for but i need) #critical role #critical role spoilers

[dangermousie]

I am living for the gender reversal trope where she's the perfect killing machine who doesn't know normalcy or feeling and considers emotions a burned out nuisance and he's the functional one who actually values relationships. And the thing is she has decided he's breedable (sorry, will never be over that! :P) because he's competent and smart and good at killing but emotionally she is being drawn, without even realizing it, because he combines competency with still keeping a soul. If he was just a weak person she'd just assume he's incompetent or deluded. But he's clearly good at what he does and can kill quite competently and defeat his enemies quite competently. And yet - he treats his companions as friends and they do the same and she is fascinated by it the way an alien would. She knows she's lacking and she is trying to figure how to remedy, how to stop being a machine.

I mean, he tells his men they can laugh at him but to treat her with respect and something in her softens (especially since it's clear he didn't say it to impress her.) She has always been treated with disdain or fear and has always been an implement of seduction or murder. But he treats her as a person.

It's like that conversation she has with the princess, where she says she and he are the same and both left any ability to feel behind and that if princess really disobeyed, he'd kill her, same as FL could. She ends that convo on this piece of advice:

But the thing is, the narrative is clearly set up to show she's wrong. Not just in terms of ML - he may be ruthless and smart but he still hasn't lost his ability to feel, because his life has been so much more normal than hers, but also to allow her to trust others at some point. The English title, "A Journey to Love" really is apt for her, isn't it? It's her going from being a perfect instrument to being able to feel. This reminds me a little of Romance of Red Dust with Shu Qi and Wallace Huo. The latter is a lot darker and grittier and bloodier because it was made a long time ago before restrictions but the tale of a tired lady assassin who is drawn to something she can actually care for is similar.

I mean, look at this convo - she does not talk as a flesh and blood human who wants a baby to love or even desires ML - it's once again an alien trying to understand how humans interact and why.

God, I love him. It's an odd thing to say about a character who calmly stabbed a man in the neck with a pin within ten minutes of us meeting him but he is so damn decent.

This cracked me up - talk about gender reversals...

But the thing that I really loved about this conversation is that he turned her down while letting her know he finds her desirable and giving her his true reasons as well - which is it's not safe for people with their personalities and jobs to be entangled. This was pretty amazing.

I love that she genuinely asks him about how he's friends with the men under his command because she realizes her lack (she said empress called her a sword and she wants to change because she always feels a distance even with her, but she doesn't know how) and that she doesn't want to be distant from her own child. It's actually a huge thing that she realizes that there is something missing and she wants to remedy it. I don't think the woman at the opening of ep 1 would have thought so.

(I am WILD for the gender reversal of him being the softer one to make the perfect murder machine understand and develop emotions!!!)

But this was my favorite part, because isn't this the crux - she should think for herself; does she even want children, does she even know why the empress wanted her to have one? If it's just another order she's carrying blindly what is the point?

It makes sense for a man with his line of work, but he actually thinks things through and I love it. There is that scene where he explains why he doesn't want to be with her and it's so logical - she's the perfect assassin but she has a bloody life and he just wants to retire so what future is there (any time a character talks about a last mission I freak out btw, but also it's telling he's thinking relationship when all she asked for is ONS. You developed feelings, spy boy!)

But also, there is this bit. Where he says he feels pity and it's very insightful but it reads much more as sympathy and understanding than pity.

I love that he knows her true self - assassin, sex spy etc and his main reaction "but she's never had free will, it must have been hell."

God, I love this drama!

#cdrama #liu shi shi #liu yuning #a journey to love

[yuesya]

geto’s reaction to shiki piloting the body is so delicious! i wonder what his later confrontation with satoru would look like? does it just emphasize his horror at satoru’s upbringing/the messed up nature of jujutsu society? or does satoru even tell the truth about shiki’s state as the vengeful spirit of his murdered twin that he’s willing cohabiting with? and if he lies the first time/hesitates, what does the truth coming out look like? (i adore this au and your writing with all my heart!!)

The first thing that Suguru does in the next morning is make a mad dash for his classmate's room.

"Oh hey, g'morning, Suguru! How are you doing this fine-"

Suguru ignores the haphazard greeting and seizes the other boy by the shoulders, carefully scrutinizing. In the light of the morning sun, Satoru's eyes are bright and crystalline. His posture, his body language, his expressions -they all seem right. There are no warning bells blaring in the back of Suguru's mind.

It's Satoru. Satoru is back.

Relief cascades into him in a veritable tide wave, and Suguru exhales slowly.

"Uh, is everything okay?"

Suguru gives his classmate the stink eye. "I should be asking you that question. What was going on last night?!"

Satoru stares at him for a long moment, unnervingly quiet. Then, the other boy sighs gustily, reaching up to run a hand messily through his hair. "Okay, yeah, I guess that's fair. I didn't think she would reel you in for a chat so soon, but that's on me. I honestly should've expected it."

Suguru folds his arms across his chest, unimpressed. "You owe me an explanation, Satoru. Cough up."

"Whatever," the white-haired teen turns back into his room, and Suguru follows. "Didn't Shiki explain it to you already? She's my little sister, and we share a body. End of the story."

That's most certainly a severe understatement, if Suguru's ever heard one. "A proper explanation, please. And you never thought to mention this to us before? Does Shoko know? ... Wait, does Yaga-sensei know about this?"

Satoru flops back onto his bed with a soft thump. "Nah, you're the only one in the school who knows. Congratulations! Please don't make a big deal out of it or try to exorcise my little sister, and we won't have any problems going forward."

Wait, exorcise? Suguru had suspected it, given the odd feeling he'd sensed while talking to Shiki last night and that distinctly unhinged personality, but... "Your sister, she's... really a cursed spirit? How did something like that even happen?"

"Through filicide, of course."

It takes a beat for the words to sink in. And with dawning horror, Suguru recalls-

Toru-nii is my brother, and we’ve coexisted with each other in this state for sixteen years.

Sixteen years. That meant-!

"Did you know that twins are considered as 'one person' in terms of jujutsu? It's considered an ill omen. Each twin is incomplete on their own, and will never realize the full extent of their abilities," Satoru's gaze rests unerringly on Suguru, carefully cataloguing his reactions. "... I was born with Six Eyes and Limitless. Shiki wasn't. So my father killed her, seven days after we were born."

Nausea churns in the pit of his stomach. There's a faint prickling on the back of his scalp, and Suguru feels lightheaded upon learning of this horrifying truth.

Satoru cracks a smile. "Wow, Shiki was right. You really are a softy, Suguru."

"How can you even smile at this?" Suguru demands. Fuck. He needs to sit down, before he falls over his own two feet. "Your family- your clan, your own father, they-?"

Satoru shrugs. "Eh, I'm mostly over it now. We took care of the perpetrators when they tried to go for round two after finding out Shiki was coexisting with me. Most of the clan just thinks I'm a murderous loose cannon now, but honestly, I'd say that's their own fault."

... At least Suguru now has a better perspective on the bloodier rumors following his classmate. Knowing Satoru, he'd always thought most of them to be unfounded, but clearly that wasn't actually the case.

Gojo Satoru. A prodigy, the miracle of the Gojo Clan. A sorcerer blessed by the gods. The one destined to carry the weight of the jujutsu world on his shoulders, and maintain the standing order.

What an honor.

(What a tragedy.)

"... Later, when Shiki wakes up," Suguru somehow finds himself saying, "Would you... let her know that I'm sorry?"

"Huh?"

Suguru sighs, "I was unnecessarily short with her last night. Because I was worried about you, mainly, but that was still rather rude of me."

Satoru tilts his head owlishly. "So you want to apologize to Shiki?"

"Why do you look so surprised by it?" Suguru shakes his head. "I trust you. If you vouch for her, then I'll take your word for it. Besides, she's your sister, and you clearly care about her. If she's always with you here, then... even without her own body, isn't she basically our fourth classmate?"

Satoru grins, "She'll be glad to hear you say that."

#QA #Writing #zenith of stars au #twins au

[asmrtist-brainrot]

Yandere Listeners

Again, it's mostly soft yans. But I wanted to explore the ideas a little more.

I'll be using they/them pronouns since the Listeners have characterization that I can reposition.

The most murdery/violent is probably Boo.

Have this as a little apology for my lack of posts. ^^;

This might just be a part one to more???

~ Dari

Warning(s): References of murder, stabbing, knives, decapitation, torture, and knives. Implied Cannibalism(mostly just a Sweeney Todd reference). Bittersweet Spoilers. Disturbing - Obsessive/Possessive Behavior.

Angel (Redacted ASMR)

honestly, it only took a moment for them want to start following David

usually though, it's not in their MO or yandere type to be stalking - but after they've seen him again and again so many times... they just accept it as is

even actively looking for him and used their charm and natural charisma to be able to make him believe that it was a coincidence

lowkey delusional; most definitely thinks of their meetings as fated

honestly... Michael might have the worst experience in this timeline because the minute he presented himself as a possible threat to their relationship with David, they're ready to cash in his life warranty

and steal their cat back

they adore the wolf pack and quietly considers killing for them, and often; it's pretty darn likely that they could get away with it too - after all...

they're only a delicate little unempowered human. how could they have killed someone so much stronger than them?

like Sweetheart's asshole coworkers, Quinn, and so on are probably... not safe?

they don't usually end up going through with killing after the mention of seers and telepaths being a thing; but there are some rather twisted ideas in their head on how they'd deal with Quinn

he is most definitely not prepared when he goes after them

they learned everything they could about vampires and used every exploitable thing to use against him

he was lucky he was caught, Angel would have somehow turned his ribs into a knife holder and turned his spine into a belt for what he's done

Caelum is probably pretty concerned with all these... thoughts that pass through their feelings -

but they haven't ever acted on any of them, so it should be okay!

... right?

Boo (YuuriVoice)

they're unsurprisingly willing to kill for their boys, that was definitely after their brief internal rage at Seth reappearing and raising hell

honestly, when when they seeked him out in the woods - his fate hinged on how he would have reacted to their confrontation...

it was likely he would've easily been poisoned and body disposed of, if not for the fact that Boo was still emotionally mature and fully self-aware

their bloodlust fell away when they see how broken up he truly was and that he just... wanted to move on

so they helped, despite their obsession screeching at them not to

when Seth was jumped, when you saw him busted up - that was it

he was under your protection, and you promised to yourself that you'd gut Derek like a fish given the first chance

you would see the son of a fuck dead if it was the last thing you did

even Charlie and Jessie weren't necessarily safe, being as you could still be reasoned with - it was good you didn't have to kill them

"that boy's got a family now and ain't nothing gonna take it from him" is the line that saved Jess from your wrath in particular

you were sure you couldn't help Seth heal his poor little heart from this loss

but if either of them made sure that harm could never come to your boys again - you would absolutely wipe them too

the only people that are aware is the storyweaver Finn

and Derek, who is most definitely terrified of you, regardless if he's been killed in another storyline (the percentage of you killing him vs. everyone else is high, so you've been the end of him many times)

there are bloodier timelines - ones with Seth disappearing after the first confrontation, ones where Jessie is presumably wiped by Derek, where Charlie was allegedly to be caught by another thug for bring a rat... Just ones with you with another body under your belt

it's really good that Alphonse and Seth never find out about this streak of cruelty - you could never bring it in yourself to hurt them after learning to love them so deeply

when Al warns other people to be more concerned about what you could do over what he would do is more true than he could ever know

everybody is real fucking lucky that you weren't Sweeney Todd's Ms. Lovett, because the body count on you could make enough meat pies to fill a house

Cheeky (Scythe Audio)

bitches should be absolutely praying that they don't drive this little lightbulb over the edge, because they are asking for all the wrong things to happen

Cheeky is a pacifist for the most part, they fight to defend, to make sure they're doing their part in saving the world and can instants when people need to die for the greater good

but people need to stop testing them

the yan trait thing wss probably triggered through their isolation as an experiment, realizing how alone they were

seeing V again and being able to live with him was enough for them to grow that attachment; Cheeky is also very lucid and try everything to stamp out their tendencies

L in particular was saved because she was just so very important to their V, despite their burning jealousy

the Atrocity was actually surpised at the fact their utter fury and bloodlust at the loss of the children, that it was all pointed at him as well

it also amused him as he taunted them for being kindred spirits

at least until they broke out of his mind control with the blood boiling wrath they felt at being compared to him in any manner

Atrocity is even taken aback by the animosity

"How can we be alike if you have no one? When no one ever loved you in the first place?"

they stabbed him right in that sore spot, having seen into his mind for just a second

their light powers are nearly bolstered by this love for V and L and their hits actually hurt... they hurt a lot

but they're still not as skilled yet, so the other two still stepped in...

maybe it's best they learn how to channel this rage of their's; with any luck, they could do more permanent damage

they aim to keep him Atrocity as a toothless head and watch him die slowly...

hopefully in time

but first, they have a bone to pick with Anima

#villain series #redacted asmr #headcanons #dari writes #redacted audio #yuurivoice #bittersweet #bittersweet spoilers #angel #yandere #yandere redacted #yandere scythe audio #yandere bittersweet #boo #cheeky #//stalking #//death mention #//dismemberment #//death #//obsessive behavior #//violence #//toxic relationship

[gumi-writes]

biting the hand that feeds (m)

source: touchstarved

wc: ~10k (yikes!) (no one talk to me about how i wrote this in five days)

summary: ais gets put in his place.

contains: aisxoc, but in a 'in love with your carnage' kind of way / implied aisxvere and (not really) verexoc at the end, separately / unnamed oc, but they are a full character / femdom, but with a femme they/them / asshole warning. ais is an asshole / here is an intersection of sex and violence with an emphasis on violence / (it's ok ais really asks for it) / (he always asks for it) / more tags beneath the cut)

author’s note: comes out of my cave covered in blood, sweat, tears. dw guys, i'm fine. i still blame @laymes-art for this. (also credit to @/cafekitsune for the divider/banner!)

The first time Ais saw them, they were covered in gore. In splatters of garish scarlet in the pure whites of their uniform, that alone had made for a fascinating view, but what had stuck—what had seared itself in immortalisation, a brand so constantly vivid it had become a craving—was the sight of them… beating the shit out of a Soulless with their fists. And beating, and beating, and beating.

It was half-dead by the time Ais stumbled upon the free show, and he stayed as it went from half to full. And beyond the sheer power in lurid, near perverse view…

Was an eerie calm.

The same on their face now.

(cont.) contains: uh. a LOT of violence. i'm serious / ais being a whore. what's new tho / also how is ais both a brat and service top pick a lane or i will call the police / in actual kink tags: d/s, (somewhat extreme) marking, degradation, faceslapping, masochism + painplay, breathplay, knifeplay, bloodplay, humiliation but like once because ais isn't capable of being humiliated, also cunnilingus, the most normal one / if any of these tags make you uncomfortable, please don't read ahead! take care of yourselves. i love you <3

‘So you’ve returned.’

The voice, while amused, slices forth with a coldness akin to a blade, pressed flat and most cruelly to the exposed warmth of human skin. A knife’s edge to a racing pulse, an ornate dagger kissing a heart’s string on the most beautifully, most disconcertingly vulnerable jugular. It feels remarkably like being on the verge of falling, and perhaps that is why Ais feels so at peace.

What a riot of a thought. What an absolute side-splitting hilarity of a thought, one to surely bring tears to the eyes of a common man. A monster finding peace in anything but a quiet battlefield of their own making, bloodied hands, and an even bloodier heart. A monster finding peace in anything other than violence. How tittering.

They never look at Ais, at first. A slight form, and while Ais surely would overwhelm it—both in wired broadness and in defined muscle, were he to step close—he never dared. Not even when he dared to bare his bark, a show of teeth and fang but little else—it had to be them to close the distance. It had to be them.

‘Well,’ Ais licks his lips, weighing his response with a care that was incongruent with his brash appearance. A body made for carnage did not seem as if it underlied higher thought beyond its next opponent, but whatever he said would surely set the tone for the rest of this meeting, and that was something he had to decide—and quickly. ‘You still have my key.’

This makes them laugh. It’s restrained, nothing considered truly carefree, but it is in itself a divulgence. Claws brandished, but only in momentary, tantalising flash, so quick that it’s all Ais can do but to crave the inhumanity it promises. ‘Ah. So, the big, tough scary monster is bound by simple lock and key. I did not expect you to have such restraint, you realise. Perhaps I am even a little disappointed about it. Tell me, did Vere have a laugh at your expense? At least he is bound by sorcery. You don’t have nearly the same excuse.’

It’s a low blow. Almost the lowest, and the serene smile they give Ais when they finally turn around tells him they know this in absolute full. It reminds Ais of the Seaspring—in particular, the instances in which it is untouched, free of ripples and revealing nothing of its true nature, depths that seemed just as likely to be endless as it was to pull you in. Maybe that was why Ais kept… coming back. A dog returning to its chains. So tethered to its tetherings.

Ais did know more about them than would have been pragmatically wise to disclose—for starters, in his mutual dealings with them, they still wore the official Senobium uniform. More specifically, the garb denoting a member of their religious sector, and here, even though the two of them were in a private room in the Amaryllis District, it was still regarded as a pretty fucking audacious move. (Ais did admire the balls behind such an act. Just a little.)

Not to mention, he knew what they looked like. Ais did not have the privilege of learning their name, but their face was one carved into him, marking him nearly as deeply as Ocudeus did. That was another odd thing about this entire… arrangement. Ocudeus was always strangely quiet during Ais’ sessions with them, and he still wasn’t quite sure whether it was a choice made on his friend’s part or an enforcement made on theirs. In fact, that had been the initial excuse as to why he sought them out as often as he did.

Now, the pretence was so thin as to be a nuisance more than anything else.  

(An irritable tail flicks, as does a furred ear. The distaste, a particular contemptuous curl of the lower lip, would cow any with a weaker heart, but Ais was not one of them, and Vere’s brand of distaste was something he’d become intimately accustomed to.

‘You reek of that twisted sister, Ais. Them and… you let them cage you? Tsk.’

‘The same way you’re collared too, right?’ Ais’ barb is punctuated with a grin. One Vere scowls at.

And when Vere does respond, it’s with a haughty sniff. ‘At least I am not getting off on it.’)

‘Are you forgetting who gave it to me in the first place?’ Something in his eyes, near aglow in the dim lighting, flashes. A fight. Ais did so enjoy testing his luck, and here, and now, that was no exception. They did like that about him. ‘Sister?’

Their response isn’t an immediate one. A breathless moment hangs in the air, and when their only initial answer is a mere head tilt, prying, questioning, something seemingly beneath Ais—rather tightrope-like in nature—pulls taut. He had never been one for the stealthy backstab when a full frontal served him just as well, but what Ais never really bothered to factor was the recklessness of it all. 

(Or maybe, or more specifically, it wasn’t quite that he didn’t. Maybe it was the main thing he factored, because the forceful hand after a risk taken most brazenly was always the part he craved the most.)

‘I see you’re in the mood to be tongue-in-cheek.’ Their lean against the edge of a table is deceptively casual, particularly since Ais knows that what’s lined in neat rows behind them on the flat surface is instruments they could use against him. Could, because sometimes they didn’t—at least not outside of leaving Ais guessing.

‘Indulge my curiosity for me.’ And they, in turn, leave Ais curious for a few tantalising seconds as they temporarily turn around once more to grab something that gleams in the light. A pretty stiletto, one they twirl most deftly between their gloved fingers, making it dance between the digits. Their fingers, always gloved. Ais wondered if they’d ever let him bear a strike from their bare bands. ‘Do you think if I cut off your tongue, another would grow back in place?’

Something inside Ais stutters. It’s a cruel question, but not in the way one would think, because the way it’s been asked—not quite in jest, and yet, so lightly, as if they were discussing the weather and not Ais’ rhetorical dismemberment—has a not insignificant part of him almost wishing for it. Would it break their air of ataraxia? Would he see another one of their faces beyond collected calm? Would they finally—

Ais wants it shattered. Their composure. Regardless of consequence, he was so certain he could take it. He’d only seen what lay beneath in small instances, and he still got the impression that the tendrils of darkness escaping through the gaps had been allowed to escape. An actual temper, one of true fire and fury, had been denied to him—and how fascinating that it was a denial at all.

And... they’re not even looking at him. They’re still toying with the weapon. ‘It would be a shame if it didn’t, though. A smart mouth without a working tongue is no fun at all.’

‘You’d miss it.’

The quietest of huffs—it’s a scoff, barely there. Ais only picks up on it because he craves the slip of the mask so badly. ‘A bold claim, little one.’

‘You’ve never gagged me before, sister.’

This makes them look at him, brow arched in amusement. ‘And you think that enough proof? Then let me dispel it. Know that I would do infinitely more to prove you wrong than to prove you right. If muzzling you will prove I have no attachment, I will.’

‘So do it.’ Ever forward, Ais doesn’t bother to keep out the challenging quality to his voice. ‘What’s been stopping you? Scared to get close to the big bad monster?’

They laugh—again. This time, Ais knows he’s hit a nerve, because it sounds less like one out of pure entertainment and more like a sharp bark, one that’s been wrenched out of them. A step in the direction towards ferality, and yet, nowhere near enough for any kind of satisfaction, the kind that stuck. The kind that was actually… gratifying.

‘Scared?’ When they grin, it shows off their surprisingly sharp canines, incongruous to the rest of their appearance. It’s a lovely grin—if only for how they make Ais think of how it must feel to have them sunk deep into his skin.

In one deft move, they raise the skirt of their uniform to slide the knife into a leather sheath strapped to their thigh. Ais watches the movement, rapt, before glittering red averts and returns to the eye contact from before. True to the way they never told him their name, they hadn’t bared anything to him either—nothing below the neck, at least.

Even the leg that had been unveiled from the skirt movement was still covered in opaque material, as void black as the entirety of their outfit—so against the objective of titillation that it worked as one anyway.

‘Of what, pray tell?’ They take a step towards him, and Ais has to hide how that coil something in his gut—the lurch of a weighted finally. ‘What it is that you have that would make me scared of you?’ Another. ‘Are you going to hurt me, Ais?’

The question, at face value, is at odds with the play, at odds with the figures within it. It is, but their amber gaze has hardened into indomitable steel, and the utter and complete lack of anything resembling fear instils a cold and absolutely spellbinding chill down Ais’ spine. This is a threat.

‘Break me? Break me, and then put me back together just to break me again? Do you truly believe yourself capable of anything like that at all?’

Ais’ heart is racing. He’s able to look at them, but it’s about the only thing he can do, words caught halfway between his throat and his mouth. The question is somehow not about him, even if it is for him.

They’re closer, now. Actually close. Close enough that Ais can smell their scent—an odd mix of rusted iron and something bordering on sickly sweet. It’s strangely intoxicating, though whether that was because it was theirs alone or because of how distinct it was—perhaps some combination of both—was something he’d yet to determine. Still yet, even though he had long since had it memorised.

If he lost his sight, temporarily or otherwise, he could absolutely tell it was them by it alone.

‘Well?’ They circle around him, behind him, and Ais feels the burden of the stare, eyes boring holes into his back. ‘What do you think has been stopping me?’

A gentle hand rests itself on his shoulder. It’s the softest of touches, but the power promised within it makes Ais tremble—almost. Almost, and the absolute moment there’s any pressure—the absolute slightest—Ais drops to his knees as if he’d been manhandled there.

It disappears, then. Their touch. The instant it’s gone, Ais finds it far easier to breathe. He wonders—not for the first time—if that had been a will forced upon him, through supernatural means or otherwise, or if their will alone was enough to get him to heel. Ais wonders, but his voice at least returns to him.

‘You have.’

Whatever height advantage he had is gone. It had disappeared when they’d made him kneel, and he has a passing memory of something they’d said to him once. The difference between man and monster was man’s ability to worship something higher than themselves.

‘Me?’

‘I never said you were scared of me, sister. Just of getting close.’

‘Mm.’ A lilting hum, but it’s a warning. One Ais does not heed. ‘I do so hate it when you delve into semantics.’

‘I know you do.’

One second passes. It’s long enough for Ais to anticipate and dread the retaliation in equal measure, but not anything beyond that, at least not in anything preparatory before—

Fingers lace and twist themselves into black locks, surprisingly silky. It’s the warmth of a pat on the head, a gentle gesture, a loving gesture…

…but then there’s an upward yank, hard enough to pull him off his haunches and drive a low hiss through his teeth. They let him go soon after, but it’s not a kind release, given that it’s one that shoves him forward.  

When Ais comes to, he finds his breathing harder, having instinctively stabilised himself on his hands and knees, scalp stinging with residual pain.

The show of strength is not lost on him. He finds himself lost in it, if anything, even as he rights himself back into his previously demanded position, mind buzzing with the hoard of implications they’d just levelled upon him.

For starters—or, more accurately, most ever presently—was how they’re strong enough to lift him. By his hair.  

And Ais wasn’t really the type to particularly favour one body type over another, but there was something about theirs…

Within a body slender enough to be considered waifishly wraithlike, hid a power so potent, so mesmerizing, so capable of the cruellest carnage—that it was an impossible task to obscure completely. And for Ais, who could sniff it out better than most, it had never been obscured at all. It hadn’t, but that still wasn’t quite where the draw was, even if it was a large factor.

No, the draw, the true, absolute magnetism of what looked to be your average spectre of a Senobium nun, a pretty little thing of a doll bound in metaphorical chain—was the sheer contrast between what their form looked capable of and what their body could do. A contrast that could only be described as… compelling.

In the specific way an iron fist is. Or the spill of blood, a well run so deep as to never be dry. Blow for blow, blood for blood. Ais’ blood—for the promise of catharsis. Not just any catharsis, either—but the only kind that could be found in the presence of something primordial. He’d found that in them. Or he found the assurance of such a thing within them. Ais did, and he only wanted more.

‘My mistake,’ they say, and though they’d forgone the faux innocence in tone, instead opting for one almost amusingly flat, it’s still present in their word choice. ‘My hand slipped. How careless of me.’

This time, it’s Ais that has to laugh. Incredulity is audible in the undeniably husky laughter, but there’s something else. Something darker, bordering on awed in the same way it was awful. Ais is pretty sure he’s in love, at least in the here and now, and in the here and now, that’s all that mattered.  

By the time he speaks, they’ve moved back to the front of him. Their expression is placid, entirely dismissive of what had just happened. ‘If that was on accident, I hate to find out what it’s like when you mean it.’  

Leather cups his chin, tenderness akin to a raw wound. ‘Then you won’t.’

Ais snorts. ‘We both know you—’ his head is driven skyward. It cuts off the rest of his sentence in a throaty grunt, and though he simply takes it, his eyes dart to seek out theirs, eagerness a visible, palpable glimmer in entranced crimson. When Ais speaks again, there’s a grin with bared teeth—far more manic than usual. ‘We both know you don’t mean that.’

Like this, with his neck arched to a degree that was at the gorgeous cusp of actually painful, he has no choice but to look up at them, especially when they draw close enough they’re a whisper away from touch. Ais could reach for it with an ease that was so trivial so as to be possible without thought, but his hands remain dutifully in his lap. A mere man had no place touching a god.

The first time Ais saw them, they were covered in gore. In splatters of garish scarlet in the pure whites of their uniform, that alone had made for a fascinating view, but what had stuck—what had seared itself in immortalisation, a brand so constantly vivid it had become a craving—was the sight of them… beating the shit out of a Soulless with their fists. And beating, and beating, and beating.

It was half-dead by the time Ais stumbled upon the free show, and he stayed as it went from half to full. And beyond the sheer power in lurid, near perverse view…

Was an eerie calm.

The same on their face now.

‘What makes you so sure?’ The question is a dangerous one. Ais has to swallow thickly before answering, because a willingness too unsightly would only make them deny him more. Something he also kind of wanted, but dreaded in the same vein.

‘Because we’re the same, sister—’

A solid strike. Ais can only cry out the way he does specifically—somewhere between a grunt and a gasp, leathered palm leaving bright pink on the skin of his cheek. They’ve slapped him hard enough to dislodge Ais from their hold, and when he recovers, he does dutifully return to it. For the next blow.

‘Try again.’

‘I’m sorry, my god.’ The apology is one interlaced with a shit-eating grin. ‘Hit me again.’

They do. Ais laughs breathlessly, letting himself remain bent over a little longer this time before returning to form.

But he waits too long to speak.

‘Answer the question, whore. You don’t think I could deny you so completely as to leave you utterly deprived and wanting? You don’t think I could stop and leave you begging for more with no chance of recourse? I could do it, you know. You would spend the rest of your days aching for my blessings.’

‘So do it, then.’ A challenge. They did not like to be challenged. ‘Leave me high and dry, my god. I dare you.’

Their gaze narrows, and Ais has his response. Ripples on the clear surface, now visible. 

When they dole out their next blow, it’s a miss on purpose. The strike does hit true, but their hand catches his nose enough that the next time Ais is on the floor, he can taste his own nosebleed. His shoulders are shaking with mirth, the darker sort that could only be found in being indulged in a way you’ve always dreamed of.

His recovery is marked in a low whistle. It’s an infuriatingly blithe noise, one that has genuine ire bleed into amber, and Ais’ heart races at the sight of it—the monster he has dearly been wanting to see. A cruel hand from an even crueler being.   

‘Looks like I touched a nerve. Are you sure you should be letting someone like me affect you like this? Isn’t it beneath you?’

Blood drips from his cheek the next time he’s downed. 

Ais spends a moment in confusion—they’d clipped him with something sharp, but when he glances at their gloves, there’s nothing there that looks like a perfect fit. A clawed mark, but from where? 

They do have to grab a hold of his chin again, given Ais’ stupor means he’s not thinking about his position, and when they do, they roughly jerk his face to one side, looking at the wake of their violence. A stillness settles as they seemingly just… watch and wait, wait and watch, and though Ais would showcase some kind of protest—likely in additional provocation, because he was an asshole—something feels off enough he uses the intermission to figure out what.

From where there should be the sensation of flesh knitting together, there simply… isn’t.

There’s a tug of an effort, an active attempt felt, but something was stopping his regeneration from working the way it usually did. Something that surely had to do with… them. 

What an exciting thought. What an absolute spine-tingling thrill of a thought, the kind that came with the vindication of an assertion asserting itself. The knowledge that what you had sought out with an ever-present lustful hunger not only existed but was more than expected. More than you could have imagined. 

‘Get a good look?’ 

The hand that had been holding his chin immediately snakes to grab his hair in a solid grip, unyielding. Ais makes a noise at the back of his throat, but it’s only the precursor, because they’re moving closer, and his only warning is the way they’re using his locks as leverage to force him to bare his neck. 

Another pause. They’re hesitating, but Ais doesn’t have the patience for it. 

‘Don’t hold out on me,’ he says, voice that same aggravating singsong. Ais doesn’t bother to hide the smirk, one side of his mouth curled upwards, a smugness that could only exist at the knowledge of knowing that getting what you want was an inevitability. 

And, with the strength and speed of a backstab sliding home—

—they bite him. 

It hurts. Ais knew it would, but it hurts more than he expected, and their teeth—the sharp canines Ais had spent so long yearning to feel the sinking in of—feel bigger than he knows they are. The hurt is dual in definition, as well—they’d never released him from his cage, and steeled chastity sits, an immovable wall where he is far more man than monster. 

Once again, they scrutinise their handiwork.

Alongside the wetness of Ais’ vitae, directly on top of the jade green inked onto, into him is a persistent, insistent sting that radiates from the vampiric puncture marks left in his skin.

There’s no tug. The perforations don’t even try to sew shut, and Ais processes this with a rapidly mounting breathing. What had they done? What had they done? A swirling, pulsating daydream overtakes Ais for the moment—the sight and sound of touch of him bleeding out in droves and droves of redredredredred a staggeringly blissful one.

But it had to be by their hand. But it had to be by their teeth.

Ais’ head is grabbed and pulled into looking at them again. He blinks a little dumbly at their own unwavering stare, still in a mild hazy daze, but when they speak, he does listen. ‘This won’t heal the way you normally do.’

Were he lucid and not swimming in his own endorphins, he would surely have recognised the… attentiveness. It wasn’t outright concern—what a joke—but a dutifulness that came with being a good dominant. But he’s not all there yet, and so he doesn’t, and so all Ais does do is nod an affirmative. One he spends staring at their teeth and the remnants of him that had been left behind, crimson stained ivory.

‘This is not said in jest. I mean it.’

Their response, as well as the way they do anticipate a response… gives Ais enough time to return. ‘I’m sorry, did I say you didn’t mean it?’

Wrong answer.

Or perhaps the right one.

He only gets an instant of a contemptuous scowl, ones he swallows with no small amount of hedonistic delight—but then they yank him to them by his necklace, fisted tight in their hold. For the second time in a minimal number of heartbeats last, they surprise him.

The kiss is not a gentle one. There is no tenderness here, nor any warmth within the blistering heat, but it is still of note, or, more illustratively, one noteworthy enough that Ais would be dangerously close to actually getting off if they hadn’t made absolutely sure that that couldn’t happen.

This is the first time they’ve kissed him. This is the first time they’ve kissed him, and it is one that tastes of rusted iron. How fitting. How fitting, and for all his smart mouth and even sharper tongue, Ais does kiss them back with unwavering reverence. He doesn’t match their violence in order to return it—that wasn’t the point, that never was the point—but he doesn’t shy away from it either.

They bite. His tongue, his lower lip, even his teeth, at least when they clash on occasion. It’s not romantic, but the intimacy and vulnerability are there, even if it’s not the gentle kind. No, this kind is far different, far more debasedly debaucheric, the same category of twisted which also housed Ais tasting his own blood. Tasting his own blood and being fixated and utterly consumed by the thought of it.

As if they’d read his mind—and at this point, Ais would believe truly anything about them, pointed fang does pierce through the soft flesh of wet muscle. When a new wave of gore springs forth, fresh as a newborn corpse, and when they immediately slide their own tongue against his, purposefully pressing into the incredibly recent wound—

—Ais moans.

A barely there second of a reprieve, and they’re suddenly much more there. Ais finds himself pushed onto his back, and while he does rearrange his legs so he’s not left in a half kneel, he doesn’t do much else to change the telegraphed action, merely accepting of the heavy way he thuds flat onto his back.

Barely, in the tiny slivers of clarity that remained, Ais notices they hadn’t used whatever had stopped his neck wound from healing, and it is too close to a disappointment when he feels the tiny hole in his tongue eventually seal itself into a completed heal. This all had lasted enough for that to happen, and when they part from him some time later, they sit right back up on his torso, straddling it with a surprising body heat.

Ever so ghostlike, Ais perhaps expected them to radiate none at all, but he feels it encircling him the same way they’re settled on his abs.

The pupils swimming in sunset are blown, and Ais finds a very real danger in drowning within it. That being said, the moment they make eye contact with him, they swipe their mouth with the back of their hand, a gesture that would have meant more if they hadn’t just spent the last while making out with him. Something he never had asked them to do, but he wasn’t going to fight back against whatever they wanted to do it to him. They could kiss him; they could kill him—he did not care at that point. Just that it was being done to him.

If anything, the sight amused him. A gesture signalling disgust, but in pretence so paper thin it may as well not exist.

‘I agree. Kissing and mounting a whore seems below you, doesn’t it—?’

Fury and wrath, terribly, terrifically beautiful wrath, burns a blaze in their eyes in an addicting inferno, and there’s a low growl, in sotto but undeniably there, rumbling in their chest like brontide before a raging storm.

Ais has to stifle some of the glee, particularly when there’s a sudden burst of movement. With magnetised, practiced fluidity, they reach for the stiletto from before, and in a rupture of lost temper, a gloved hand fisted so tight around the hilt enough to make it shake, they stab—

He doesn’t bother dodging, only instinctively blinking at the muted kthuk of pierced impact.

It’s a glancing blow. Not so glancing that it doesn’t connect at all, but there’s little gratification to show for it. Just a thin brushstroke of blood on Ais’ cheek that beads and barely trickles, all little and light before it closes up. A nothingness after all that had transpired.

Even so, the act itself does still count as something—as a show of skill, as a show of power. In one simple act, they showed both a wealth of complete control, irresistibly fettered and bound. Ais wanted to tug at it, to pull and pull and pull until something snapped.

‘Should’ve used whatever you used earlier if you wanted it to last.’

The comment is one that makes them purse their lips into a thin line. The way they’re looking at him isn’t in a way he comprehends completely, but there’s recognisable anger, so the sight still excites him. ‘What an entertainingly pathetic attempt. You just want me to mark you and use you like a common fucktoy.’

Breathless laughter, once again, the kind that still dissolves into a smirk. The sound of an auditory expletive from them does leave him a little tingly.  ‘Last I checked, you have to actually fuck me for me to be a fucktoy.’

‘No. I really don’t.’ Their voice is a deceptive calm, but Ais recognises it for what it actually is—rage frozen over but not lessened in magnitude. ‘Are you telling me if I hadn’t had the foresight to cage you, you wouldn’t end up making a filthy mess of yourself if I were to continue to use you as a punching bag?’

What a tragedy that his smirk does not disappear and instead gets even bigger. Humiliation was not a tactic that worked on him and this was known fact between the two of them. ‘Hot.’

They give him an utterly disgusted look.

‘You would do it if I pissed you off enough,’ Ais continues, words an infuriating lilt. ‘For someone who acts so high and mighty, you’ve wounded me a mighty amount tonight… my god.’ His conceitedness is the particular kind—Ais’ usual, of course, but one mixing with the knowledge that while they could deprive him of punishment, they’d also be depriving themselves of the catharsis as well.

And… the knowledge that the two of them shared the decadent self-indulgence of lusting for blood. A sin that was ill-fitting for the two of them—a monster for his own and a supposed woman of the cloth for others. Ill-fitting, but maybe that’s why it tasted as intoxicatingly sweet as it did, like the juice of a ripe fruit from the fabled heavens themselves.

‘You deserve it.’ They state, simply.

‘Oh, I’m not saying I don’t. I’m just saying it’s okay to admit that you’re enjoying yourself.’

Ais earns himself another heated glower. He gets it for a very full few seconds before they reach for the blade by his head, and to his perverse delight, they do exactly what he wants them to.

Because while the movement had been instinct, if he hadn’t had the muscle memory to move in time, Ais’ neck would have surely been sliced open, if not at least cut shallowly. Which, on the ever so delicate—easily pierced, easily carved—skin of his neck, would have counted as deep.

They’re forcing his neck in a near painful arch, once again. The edge of a honed stiletto is a harsh buffer to prevent him from budging, even if the kiss of honed sharpness is a tantalising one.

But he wasn’t going to budge, not unless they made him.

‘Consider yourself fortunate that I did not bite your tongue off earlier.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Their tongue clicks in exasperation. ‘‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’  They say, it makes Ais wonder if they really had considered it. Is whatever welling up willing him relief? Or was it a letdown?

Before Ais can decide, they continue. Strangely, ire has left them—their body is far less taut with it. ‘You look considerably less infuriating like this, you know. Maybe I should just keep you at my mercy like this at all times. It certainly makes you more bearable.’

‘I think you and I both know—’

‘I have a proposition for you.’ A curt dismissal slices through the rest of his words, and though he is silenced, he’s not unsmiling about it. ‘Consider it a gift. You want to be marked by me so badly? Fine. Sure. I’ll fuck you up, Ais. I will. But first, you need to guess something for me.’ A smile. A serene smile, once more. One of seemingly untouchable tranquil waters.

Ais wonders where they found it, given the anger of recent past. The fact that he didn’t know what changed cowed him in the same way it thrilled him.

‘What do you think I used against you? I’ll be kind and say you don’t have to give me an exact answer. But it must be a satisfactorily close one.’

His answer is immediate. Ais does pay very close attention to the things that interest him, after all. A good study, when he wanted to be. If he wanted to be at all. ‘Your glove. Whatever’s underneath.’

Amber averting to one side, they don’t answer him immediately, as if weighing something. He realises they haven’t found him wanting when they raise their free hand to his mouth, and Ais only needs a second to comprehend the unvoiced instruction before he carefully takes the tip of one finger between his teeth to dutifully provide them the leverage to pull the glove off.

In all aspects except one… they had… perfectly ordinary hands.

They were long and slender, the kind some would probably think as pretty, particularly with the ways their nails were neatly kept. It fit in with the rest of their doll-like qualities, but other than that, they weren’t notable.

Ordinary, except… their knuckles were covered in blood. Smeared in it, even. It wasn’t a lot, but it was an amount, and while they had swung at him, the way it had neatly sat atop their skin with no evidence of busted knuckles made no sense. Or, at least, not with the current pieces on hand.

It only takes a little longer, but the moment realisation is visible, he gets their fingers unceremoniously shoved into his mouth. They are spiteful enough to make him gag a bit, but he merely rolls his eyes when it’s over, crimson meeting theirs in something amused and accusatory. Sadist.

‘Bite down, Ais.’ The command is a clear one, but it does puzzle him. ‘Hard enough to break the skin. Go on.’

He can’t exactly voice anything, so muzzled as he is with their fingers in his mouth, nor even move, not with the body atop him and the knife still a firm deterrence against his neck. Ais cannot, but he can arch an eyebrow. After all, he’d avoided their digits with his teeth for a reason, and this seemed antithetical to it.  

‘Don’t make me make you,’ they continue, and while those words would usually incite his rebellious spirit, the one that just wanted the retaliation in return, the cadence is not one he’s heard before. At least not from them. Odd in the way it makes his teeth itch and his skin crawl. Almost musical, as if the notes underlying it was a siren song. A threat. A deliverance. And Ais did so like both in equal measure.

They don’t even flinch when it happens. When Ais obeys. It’s a little scary—their gaze had been unwavering, but the second his canines pierce skin, their eyes border on the luminescent. There’s a warning in the almost glow, and Ais so wondered what it meant—

‘I’ve decided I’ll mark you on the inside out.’

Ais chokes.

Blood floods his mouth, what else would have, what else could it have been—

Blood floods, but—

But there’s too much—

But it tastes wrong—

But it feels strange—

But—

—what the fuck were they?

There shouldn’t be that much blood, and though he could have spat it out, stiletto be damned, he swallows. He swallows it all. He swallows, and though the initial hit had left its relentless impact, enough a tear had escaped and left a wet trail on his right temple, it’s far easier to bear once Ais gets into the rhythm of it.

‘Oh, so you are drinking it.’

His thoughts haze out into something pleasantly fuzzy, though he does dully think about how their blood is weird. The taste is off—the usual iron was there, was a major component, but there’s also something undeniably sweet present as well. It made him wonder about their true nature, and whether, despite their lack of visible monstrous features, they were one in secret.

‘Ais,’ they start, and the use of his name in a scene catches his attention, clears the fog not completely, but enough. ‘You see me, right?’

Though confusion knits his brow at the kind of obvious question, he nods.

‘You can only see me and nothing else?’

Another.

‘Promise? Promise me you can’t see anything else.’

And another.

It’s obvious this means something to them. It’s obvious, but Ais has little time to consider what, because the fingers suddenly leave his mouth an empty hole, and though he can see where he’s left his mark, for all that had been pouring out and into his mouth, there’s no visible bleed anymore. There isn’t, and they’d barely seemed concerned about what had just transpired, instead tossing the weapon carelessly aside with muffled thud to free up a hand to pull their glove back on.

Ais would have asked them what the fuck was up with that, but then he catches sight of amber, and it is gleaming. Their irises sparkle with something almost joyful and jubilant, surely a positive except… Well. It was them. Ais had only seen two of their faces and the spectrum in between—anything from controlled calm to icy anger. Nothing like this. Nothing like…

Happiness.

Before he can work out what that means, they interrupt him.

In more newness, their hands reach behind them and unbuckle and pull off one his belts. They do, and it’s done in a single move so seamless Ais only blinks at them in an answer unsaid, surprised out of a pithy response.

Still, with their intent an obvious one, Ais is already lifting his head up from the ground so that they can lay the strip of leather flat beneath his neck. There’s a clink of the belt’s buckle as the end of it is slid through, and Ais’ attention is captured wholeheartedly as he watches them. Watches, as the loop is pulled tight in one solid wrench—not enough to actually cut off his breathing, but enough it dug into his throat just the slightest.

What a shame it was not their hands.  

‘I hope you know how to use that thing,’ is Ais’ smartass comment. He doesn’t actually care.

They only smile at him. Their eyes have not lost the brightness from before, but there’s another weight to it when they’re looking at him. A velvet headiness, and if Ais didn’t know any better—

‘I do know how to use you, but I appreciate the concern.’

Amusement curls his lip.  So they did have a sense of humour.

However, it does not last. It doesn’t, at least not for this specific reason, because as soon as the matter of his belt being weaponised was resolved, they reach beneath their skirt and though Ais has a moment with curiosity, the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing is—

Then darkness falls across his vision, fabric falling in an obscuring curtain.  

With their knees on each side of his head, it’s not exactly a subtle request, and though they are in entirely upward kneel, nowhere near sitting down…

…he can smell them.

It’s a heady shock of a realisation to come to. Ais has hardly been shy about the effect these sessions always had on him—constant catharsis, the kind of deliverance doled from divinity themselves, was always going to be a cup that was liable to spill over.

And for Ais, hedonistic sensualist to his core, it was always doomed to do so. Undoubtedly so, but while that had inevitable enough to never been of concern, he’d never quite expected… a mutuality.

Was Ais certain that he was meeting their desires in some way? Sure. Sure, in that annoying, self-assured, of-course-it’s-fucking-Ais way of his. But perhaps he should have considered this eventuality as well, given how they shared this catharsis with him, in mirror image, carnal. In entwined depravity, eternal.

‘Nice to know even you have needs—hghrk!’

A ruthless yank had been enough to the rest of that sentence out.

‘You seriously need to learn when to shut up.’

There’s little ceremony before they lower themselves on his face, mere heartbeats after they relinquish their warning in specific stranglehold. There is, but he’s never been the type to stand on it, nor is he even thinking about how abrupt this switch in tone was, at least not beyond the initial surprise, and perhaps it’s because it’s not abrupt at all.

Instead, he’s far more focused with being greedy. With his vision temporarily hindered, Ais makes use of what’s left to him.

He drinks in their scent. A deep inhale, the musk of sex and something sweet, something cloying. Ais drinks them in with a dedication of a worshipper at their deity’s holy altar, though it’s one so heavily intertwined with the hunger of a man that could never be completely satiated that his brand of worship was sacrilege in equal measure.

Ais’ first taste is just an agonisingly full preview of one. He gets a moment—a lurid, obscene split of a second—where his tongue presses against heated slick and flesh, throbbing. It lasts only before they jolt away from him, depriving him immediately.

They’re soaked.

Which would be cute, given all the facts—they’d obviously not expected him to be so willing, enough to be at that much of a ready, whorishly open mouthed, but he’s too occupied with the loss to really focus on that aspect.

When Ais pulls them back by the thighs, his only moment of being remotely forceful, there’s a bit of a stumble, and he barely hears the reprimand before it blends into a sound that stutters before it’s cut off completely. Barely, but he does feel a leathered hold cinch tight around his neck, enough to make him choke, enough to make him groan into his reclaimed mouthful of pussy.

Still, at least they don’t deny him this time, nor do they make any further attempts to rebuke him for his grab—a kindness, all things considered, but Ais is too busy on the task at hand, mouth and tongue to think about it too deeply.

A busyness that’s audible, because Ais wasn’t exactly quiet.

In the silence of the bedroom set as a stage to their encounter, the noises of Ais having his fill is a perversely indecent one. In lewd slurping, wet lip smacking, and—when he feels fingers lace through his hair into a harsh hold—a muffled moan.

Especially loud, particularly when he can tell they’re trying to be quiet. And to be fair, he doesn’t hear them. Nor does he feel them move, and in fact, the thighs on the side of his head are rigid with the effort to remain still.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because Ais makes them move.

Taking advantage of his current grip as leverage, making use of the allowance he’d been given, Ais grinds them against his face.

Of course, there’s admonishment—he suddenly finds it hard to breathe, and nail-like pinpricks dig into his scalp, but all it does it makes him eager for more.

He always is, but the feeling is more present now than ever, especially because it’s one tied to a specific pain. Because while he isn’t physically capable of getting hard—they’ve made sure of that—he knows he would be enough for it to be another hurt. Not that the steel biting into his dick isn’t already one all the same, but still.

‘Tell…’ their voice is taut and wound to bursting. It gives Ais a certain trembling gratification to know he is the reason for it. ‘Tell me how that—’ a swear, spliced into a silencing lip bite—they’re trying so hard not to cry out, ‘—made you go… harder. You’re just so… full… of… surprises. Every time I wondhh— wonder… There’s no way you can get more depraved. You—mmrgh—’

One hand had let go of their thigh, having slid beneath fabric. A single finger had sought out its mark, finding it far too easily with an obscene squelch, slipping inside with a dripping ease that spoke of no resistance.

The liquid heat wrapped around his finger in a squeezing, squirming vice seeps even past the mild obstruction of his ring, reaching the top of his palm. It’s a mess he encourages even further, making the thickness within them go from one digit to two—a thickness, because Ais did have very big hands.

‘I just can’t… can’t believe… you would seek me out…! Just to be abused by me—’ Ais nods. ‘How much— how much of a… filthy, desperate whore do you have—ghk!’     

By now, their clit had become a semi-permanent fixture in his mouth. With every insistent lash of his tongue, in intermittent sucking about as relentless as the ceaseless, unyielding thrusting into their pussy—each in, each out, punctuated with a scandalisingly salacious shlick, shlick, shlick—Ais draws them ever closer, and his devotion to seeing them through it has the fervent ardour of a fanatic zealot meeting their god.

Nothing existed beyond this moment. Nothing existed beyond making sure they were going to come. They were going to get off, and Ais would make it happen—once, but then perhaps again, and again, and again.

And again.

And… they keep talking, too.

‘—so shame… shameless of you… I bet— I bet if I were to— mm…! Mark you so that…’ they gasp, but there is some kind of attempt to hide it in a low hiss, ‘everyone would know— everyone would know you’re a useless whore, one who’s—’ More nods. Yes, yes, yes. ‘—only good for… for eating pussy and nnnh—!’

Ais adds a third finger.

‘—nothing else… you would…! You would be so… into… it—!’

So do it.

‘Now you actually… actually… want me to do it.’ There’s laughter, but it’s gravelly, and when it intermingles into what sound so close to a moan—Ais swiftly finds himself pleasantly throttled of air. ‘So… you’ll stop.’ A tighter grip. Tighter.  ‘You’ll stop so I—so I can mark you properly. You’ll struggle if you don’t—’ but he won’t. Ais never struggles.

Unsurprisingly (or perhaps surprisingly to them), he does still everything. The chokehold is an encouragement, but it’s not the major one, and when he feels the grip on his hair leaving and that same hand sliding beneath the deep V of his shirt, he can breathe again. There’s a glide of leather against his bare chest, then a point of cruelty in a spike, razor sharp, but when there’s a pause that lasts for too long—a last minute falter—

He tongues them.

Their cunt clenches, a sudden vice around his fingers. A contraction meant to milk what wasn’t there, but then there’s a shaky, exasperated huff of air—one of frustration and surrender, both at once—and they…

…they pierce skin.

This time, it’s his turn to hiss. Five times, he’s pierced. One for each letter.

 As deprived of stimulation as he is, though he did not personally care, his body took the gruelling pain of being carved, curved and curled and coiled it—everything, everything, until the pain became a twisted pleasure. One that still hurt, but it was addicting. In the way Ais didn’t want it to stop, not until the end. Not until he bled, sacred scripture etched in skin and to completion.

It’s seeping. His wounds weep, and Ais is not exactly quiet about it either, though nor is he loud. He’s neither, but never once does he want it to stop before they do. Nor does he want it in anything not made to last.

They know of course. They always do. His regeneration isn’t coming to his aid, just like it didn’t for the bite on the side of his neck, mark afresh. Ais would smile if he weren’t gritting his teeth. He would grin, even, but he wanted it that much.

And they’re efficient about it. Whatever can be scored in one stroke, is. Whatever can’t, is done in the least amount needed. It’s not gentle, but it is the gentlest it can be—it wasn’t the suffering itself that mattered, but the hand that dealt it.

By the time they’ve grabbed his hair again, Ais has already gotten back to it. Never a believer of wasted time, especially when it came to eating pussy, he gets back to it. Dutiful in worship, or depraved in it. Perhaps both, when it came to him.

The rhythm he’d slipped into with lurid ease earlier is one he finds again with the same utter lack of difficulty. Even with his injuries blurring their individual needling—a sting and a spark that pricks, stabs, all at once—into what is a cutting whole, he is dismissive of it.

Which only seemed to amuse them further. In small, sharp exhales that sounds both like a mixture dark mirth and an involuntary reaction to the fact that he’d just slid his tongue against their clit, the noises are telling ones. ‘You’re fucking unbelievable. I was… I was just joking—’ they cut themselves off with a breathless chuckle. ‘I was seriously—ghh…! J…Just joking… when I said— mmm… said you wanted to be marked and used like… a common fucktoy—’

He doesn’t believe them. Or wouldn’t, if Ais had, in fact, the lucidity to spare to actually comprehend what they said. Instead, he only hears the parts most important to him. Ais hears it and agrees.

But… they surely couldn’t fault him for paying less attention. They were close, after all, and Ais was tunnel visioning. He’d already experienced so much of them (their calm and their anger; their joy and their lust; their violence and their sex), but it was only right for Ais, being who and what he was, to crave more. Always, always more.

By now, they’d abandoned their hopeless mission to stay still, and instead recaptured some of that lost valour by holding his head in place by strands of inky black, grinding against the flat of his tongue.

Ais is being used. There’s no other way to put it. He’s being used, but it’s his open mouth, just like it’s his fingers buried in their wet heat, crooked and pressing rather incessantly against a bundle of nerves. Ais is being used, but he’s facilitating it, just like he facilitates anything they do to him.

‘Take it,’ they chant, then chant it some more. Their powerful hips make for a harsh pace, to be expected as someone with as much stamina and control as they had. It does, but Ais is an equal match in both similar and contrasting ways. He’d always been, so that was probably why he was so good getting under their skin.

It’s when the tremble in their thighs and the pitch of their voice raises; it’s when they seem to struggle between denial and continued stimulation; it’s when Ais is pretty sure they’re about to come—that he can’t help but hold them in place so that they don’t run from this.

Even when there’s a threat pulling tight around his neck. Ais is expectant, anticipatory. Hungry, even, because it tugs even closer, digs even deeper, and Ais is suddenly hit with the fear and excitement and exhilaration that if they don’t make it there fast enough, he might—

Though his world for tonight had long since centred on them and what they could do to him, it’s now that it shrinks further still. Ais knows little else but the language of sex, the musk and feel and taste and sound of it, the catharsis of pleasure and sensation and having them pushed and pulled to peaking.

He’s getting light-headed. Ais doesn’t have all that long, but even with his breath stolen from him, he works hard. What they in the business might call a good boy, except he’s fucked up enough to get off on it.

And they—

—they get there first.

Air rushes into his lungs. Ais gasps for it, but his grip on them never wavers. Neither does his touch, either, and with whatever he had on hand to use against and for them (his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, his self), he does. In a wet squeeze that coils tighter and tighter until there’s no room to fingerfuck, in a surprisingly controlled keen that he barely hears, in a dam that bursts and breaks into an oblivion—

And Ais has his fill. Of course he does. He swallows anything he’s able, their taste sliding down his throat while the rest coat his already coated face with a visibly lewd sheen. He has his fill and then some, because even after they’ve come, he doesn’t necessarily stop, and he can hear them come to that realisation in a gasp that fades into a shaky scoff.

‘Wh… What’s wrong with— with you…’ But they’re not pushing him off just yet, so he just… continues, even as they make a comment—as best they can, this close to their first, they must still be sensitive—about how at this rate, they could do anything to Ais and he’d still be ready with a willing mouth. And they aren't wrong.

They let him get a few more orgasms out of them. They do, but it’s just after the third—and Ais could have surely gone for a fourth and fifth—when they stop him with a forceful shove, his head thudding against the ground. 

‘Enough.’ They clear their throat into something resembling normalcy, and then the weight of them disappears quickly enough that Ais is forced to squint at the sudden change in light. He sits up, licks his lips, then his fingers clean from where they’d just been inside them. Ever the hedonist. Ever the whore.

Ais is caught. Not that he was trying to hide it in the first place. He meets their gaze with his own, glittering as his own fingers leave his mouth with a wet pop. They had to know. The second they brought actual sex into this, opened that door that Ais himself would not have opened on his own—well. Ais wouldn’t be forgetting this anytime soon.

‘I should have cut your tongue out when I had the chance.’ To their credit, they look near immaculate, somehow. The only visible evidence was in a split lip that wasn’t there before, because their skirt covered up pretty much everything. It was Ais that bore the brunt of the encounter—in blood and sweat and cum. Ais was used entirely, and yet still is somehow smug about it. How infuriating.

‘I wouldn’t be nearly as good at eating pussy without my tongue, but if that’s what you really want—’

‘I don’t think what I want in that regard matters. It’s never happening again.’

‘Never?’ Ais grins. ‘Then why did it happen at all?’

A warm washcloth is his answer. They’re a little indelicate in cleaning his face, but he only laughs—rough aftercare was hardly much of a comparison to anything else that had happened tonight. His face, neck and cheek still sung in protest, but he’s heedless of his own self-ruin. As Ais always is. Thinks of how much more he could get from them, even.

It’s when they pull out a first aid kit, a mild frown knitting their features, that he shakes his head. The frown only grows, and when they speak, they sound incredulous. ‘What do you mean, no? You’re truly going to walk about like that?’

‘You gave them to me,’ he says, simply. ‘My choice what I want to do with them, isn’t it?’

‘You are so weird.’

‘Seems like that’s just what you need.’ He takes another look at them. Notes the lines of their form, less taut, less tight. ‘You seem more relaxed, sister. Maybe all you really needed was good head.’ And he just so happened to be capable of giving incredible head.   

‘If I told you that’s all I needed, would you leave me alone?’

‘You would be lying if you said that. So no. I wouldn’t.’

A sigh. ‘Your arrogance will come back to bite you.’

‘As long as it’s by your teeth.’

The words make them glance at his neck, though at this angle, his hair is obscuring the bulk of it. They must’ve surely wanted to have said something, but when they open their mouth, their words are curt, professional. ‘I’ve left the key in the bathroom. Clean up in there before you head out.’

With a languid stretch, rather catlike in nature, he stands.   

By now, the bathroom at these private establishments was a familiar sight. He does do as they say, but when the tedious part is over, Ais finds himself staring at the mirror. Four lines of red on his cheek, a wicked double puncture on his neck, and most presently, most vividly:

carved onto his chest.

Ais smirks, amused. The lines of bleeding red running from each letter have dried, but the letters themselves still look viscerally fresh, and it is in the garish brand that Ais is assured, once again, that they needed this as much as he did. Escalation in this particular way only to cut things off now was a denial, and for both their sakes, he wouldn’t allow that to happen.

They needed him just like he needed them. And so long as that remained true, and so long as that remained fact and not fiction, he would seek them out. Just as he has been doing, and just as he will continue to do.

Even if they lied about the key being in the bathroom.

Still, when he makes it back to the bedroom, he’s not surprised to see them absent. Without fanfare nor farewell. They never were one for sticking around once they did their duties in checking to see if Ais was… all there. (He never needed it. Not really.)

The lie had also turned about to be a mislead. Because there, on top of the sheets of a double bed that seemed entirely unnecessary to their encounters—was a silver key.

How sweet. So they did care enough to keep their word.

And how very Aislike that he already knew what to say to them about it for the next time they met. Sooner rather than later.

He’d make sure of it.

BONUS:

‘Tell me something, Ais.’

 It seemed Vere’s disgust was doomed to be a common occurrence when it came to Ais’ particular encounters in the Amaryllis district, but Ais only smirks at the tone, already amused.

Some days had already passed since he saw them last, and while most of the superficial damage that had been caused was gone, there were a couple of graphic exceptions—ones that did not need Vere’s perceptiveness to pick up on. (Vere was unique in that he was one of the few that dared to ask Ais about them, however.) 

Honestly, it was kind of gross. Vere definitely thought as much. After all, Ais hadn’t done much to treat them outside of cleaning off the excess blood, so his wounds simply sat there and festered. But that they could at all was so very… exciting.

‘Did you happen to have a run in with a particularly degrading and monstrously vicious cat?’

The smirk only grows wider. ‘You could say that.’

Vere clicks his tongue, disapproving. ‘I always knew Sabri was twisted,’ he starts, and Ais’ ears perk at the name. He doesn’t interrupt Vere, but the information is filed away with no small amount of glee—something to be used the next time they met. They were going to be so angry. ‘Maybe I should consider myself unfortunate they only propositioned me once. If they tried the same on me…’

‘Really?’ Ais arches an amused brow. Given their interesting… history, it was hard to imagine Sabri—what a novelty knowing a name was—doing something like that, enough it was unintentional comedy in unlikeliness. ‘Them?’

‘Yes. They told me they were going to give me their virginity, then did and left straight after.’ Here, Vere sniffs rather haughtily, and Ais has to laugh a bit at the miffed look on his face. ‘No build up. No chase. I asked them what they’d do if I said no, and they just shrugged and told me they’d find someone else. What kind of response is that? Did they learn seduction tactics from a brick wall?’

‘They can’t have been a bad lay, though.’

‘No,’ Vere answers, though it is punctuated by a very endearing scowl. ‘They weren’t. But their horrible bedside manner leaves much to be desired. I think it would have been far less offensive if the sex was bad. But it was everything around it that was.’

And, as Vere details just what “everything around it” happened to be, while Ais did dutifully listen, he also thought about just how mad he’d make them if he called them by their name. A thought that fills him with an untold amount of excitement.

A new weapon to spark their ire, have it ignite into glorious, glorious fury. One he so looked forward to seeing again. And again. And again.

And… again.

for getting this far, have this fun little tidbit: the conception of this fic: here. take care, and if you give me your thoughts, you will make my day. &lt;3

#gumi writes #f:touchstarved #hahahaha i blacked out and wrote this #you know that one film that ends with a bride having just watched her inlaws die after they tried to kill her #and she's wearing a brides dress that's covered in blood and she just sits on the steps and smokes and the camera pans out #me rn #bloodspring

[wind-on-the-panes]

Anyway. Really. Have USamericans ever heard people attacked by the US, of affected negatively by it, hwo the talk about it?

It's overwhelmingly not "Biden/Trump/Obama/Bush did this."

It's overwhelmingly "The United States did this."

The neocolonial, domineering, and controlling actions of the US is not new, or partisan. It happens regardless of who's in the power, since the 19th century.

Now, let that sink in. The nation of the USA has been invading, slaughtering, and controlling several parts of the globe for over a century, and spreading the naturally of its values through soft power. No matter who's in power, there will always be an invasion, war, or slaughter in the USA's account. The values of the USA, the very embedded morals of the US, lies in those actions.

Now.

What I suggest, in every given election, is not to consider the absolute body count every time. Because the US is always, always influencing the world order, and even with a lower death count directly, it can influence and facilitate a lot bloodier situations. In that court, in that way, Republicans are by far the greatest threat. Under Republicans, overt and galloping far right politics are reinforced.

If you're in doubt, don't trust me, a citizen of a country who directly suffered from that; @jstor is an amazing resource if you add something like "US influence", channels like Wiaecrack has several videos with sources speaking of that. Being open to listen about it and consider not only as your knee-jerk perception of direct violence, but the actual influence in the ripple effect of international politics depending of the US leadership, puts another layer of realization in your thoughts.

Not to mention, and please do not forget, how so many issues the Biden adm. had to deal with came directly from Trump ripping internal policies up. A lot of people voting today were kids or young teens when Trump ruled. Please do not trust your memory of that time; research what happened at that time and talk to people from people who lived that time. You may just not have a good idea of how bad the US fared then.

Considering all those aspects

What are the most effective actions so Trump, widely and overwhelmingly considered the most destructive president in the US since Reagan, does not rise to power again?

USAmericans have a responsibility to the world: to realize how their continued existence as a nation always, always relies on stepping on top of all of us, and encouraging ideas that perpetuate that. And by realizing that, to work out which mechanisms will undo that kind of domination long-term. That's a super heavy burden, and it means making unpleasant decisions. But they are necessary decisions if you really, actually care about the world as a whole and about your own people. If you don’t wise up to the responsibility that your birth certificate gives you, you are part of the problem, not part of the solution.

#us politics #elections 2024

[fangedprinx]

The more I think about the Dracula novel the closer I get to wanting to dismantle the story and put it back together again in a way that would kill Bram Stoker if he wasn't already dead

He's not getting any less dead though so my antagonistic approach to the text can't kill him

When I say antagonistic I mean:

A story inspired by thoughts of how the Queen should get snacked on by Dracula along with the British aristocracy, actually, because for all the xenophobic imperialist mental backdrop of a book where the enemy is a spooky foreign dude, the British empire was bloodier than one single vampire in a silly little castle (even if we focus just on the imperial core, there's plenty to zoom in on with the British industrial revolution, e.g. "the machinery of capitalism being oiled with the blood of the workers", the poverty and deprivation of the working class, everyday exploitation with the added bonus of young men being asked to go off and die in wars because people in silly hats are having a pissing contest). Once Dracula is finished using them as a juicebox he should get beheaded in a worker's revolt because he would underestimate the courage and resiliency of the lower classes and expect to just rule over them. And he doesn't have an iota of awareness of how to manipulate the levers of power in a complicated post-feudal social system he ate most of the rulers of. (For context, I am Irish and a socialist and I will go toe to toe with the fear-laden mental landscape of one of the most famous Dubliners to ever write a novel where British aristocrats are some of the good guys.)

Dracula creeping on Jonathan Harker is spooky in the novel but I also don't respect Stoker's intent there. The overtones of unsavoury interest as supposed to imply some sort of homosexual proclivities was then part of the horror especially for audiences of the time, and I don't want to unquestioningly reproduce this dynamic because sincerely fuck that. The fact that Dracula is queer-coded as a villain as part of what makes him villainous is not something I care to take at face value and reproduce. Potentially writing Dracula/Jonathan Harker where Dracula isn't a manipulative creep engaging in subtle psychological abuse and torture of Jonathan is completely contrary to canon characterisation but there's been a long line of Dracula adaptations with a tenuous relationship to canon and I want to break free of the confines of the text and upend its assumptions. I want an aggressive reading/transformative work that disregards the author's intent to create something different from it, and maybe if I have time I will do it myself. Move over fear of the other we have fear of the self (as being attracted to the same gender) to tangle with and then overcome.

The least antagonistic to the text would be fun little bad ends where the failure of the heroes' mission is part of the enjoyment. I'm gonna write a bit of spooky sexy turning characters into evil vampires who are gleeful about being horrors of the night, as a treat.

I enjoy(ed) reading Dracula but I also want to explode it into its constituent atoms and reassemble them in a configuration that suits me more

#Dracula #Bram Stoker #Harkula #Sometimes fandom is a conversation between you and a long-dead author where you are insulting him #Dracula daily #1897 novels that make my brain rattle against the confines of my skull

[nicosraf]

Hello Hello! While going through your site to buy ABM (which Amazon won't let me get on ebook TT), I stumbled across "The River Boy". As a Mayan, I just wanted to say I felt really seen. It wasn't a major part of the story but it was healing to see anything about us represented like that. It's also just beautifully written, I'd love to read more of your work ^^

As for my ask, what type of research did you do for that story? Are you Maya yourself or did you decide on the setting at random or something? Thank you and have a good day!

Ahhh this just made my entire life, thank you so much for reading! I'm really happy you liked it and that you found it healing. I'm so glad :')

I'm not Maya, but I'm Mexican with roots in the center of the country (Puebla) that gave me a big interest in Mesoamerica, which was a big chunk of my Latin American Studies degree (yes, I have a Latin American studies degree sksks). One of my courses was on ancient Maya culture and writing, where I wrote a big research paper on the rituals of Maya royalty.

I actually thought the setting was a huge part of the story! I love the way the ancient, and many contemporary, Maya conceptualize time as such an integral part of the universe with its own dedicated deities who are in charge of carrying it (the four "year bearers" though I learned them to be "time bearers"). The glyphs of the deities carrying time have really stuck with me; I just love the concept of time being such a physical thing.

Divine royalty isn't something unique to the Maya, but something that really caught my interest is the rituals and responsibilities associated with divinity. A lot of people will focus on the bloodier stuff (the blood letting), but personally I was more interested in the perpetual "birthing" of the universe that was the responsibility of kings and princes. I imagined a spoiled, beautiful prince who might want to run away from all that stress and pain.

The language barrier in the story was also inspired by the different Mayan languages today and how reconstructing the ancient language is so tough. That said, during the Classical times, there was probably already significant linguistic differences between Maya territories, so I don't think it's inaccurate in the story, just a bit exaggerated perhaps. The couple Maya words in the story are a mix of ancient and modern words. For ex, k’altun is an ancient word, while dios bo’otik is modern Yucatec Maya.

Oh! And just another fun fact - the river in the story is the Usumacinta river, and the prince is from Yaxchilan! There's actually a stone monument in Yaxchilan which depicts a queen pulling thorns through her tongue, which is referenced in the story!

Sorry for rambling, but there's like an absurd amount of research in this little story! I also wanted to depict the more "common" way of life by making the protagonist a non-royal, but there's so little about common-folk (unsurprisingly) so I struggled a bit to find sources that would help me paint an accurate picture. On that note, most of my sources were the same JSTOR articles I used to write my research paper, my university museum, and my poor Maya professor.

I haven't really looked at the story in a while so I re-read it just now and I'm really happy with it :') I think Maya history is one of the coolest things ever, and I'd love to write a full book about a Maya prince one day. But historical fiction is difficult, even when you add magical realism like I did.

Anyway! Thank you again for reading! If you're having trouble downloading ABM, I'll literally send you the file for free if you want sksks Just ask! I'm very touched by your interest. Thank you!! :))

#European princes got to just be annoying but Maya princes had so much RESPONSIBILITY #i also would run away i think #also ahh this story is so near to my heart #thats why i didnt monetize it tbh #anyway anyway #again thank you for reading #im so so happy that you enjoyed it #sincerely over joyed #:') #mine #ask

[fandom-space-princess]

also, very curious about the circumstances that led to her being cursed by the gods 👀

So one of the themes I'm interested in most in BG3 is the intercession of the gods in mortal lives. Both in terms of the obvious narrative of the Dead Three and their plans, but also the indifference and/or casual cruelty of the rest of Faerun's pantheon, notably the gods typically thought of as exemplifying good - and what that means about how much power lies in the hands of common people vs. their "betters." Sura's backstory came about because of those thoughts, and is directly informed by them.

Tl;dr because this got long: Sura is cursed because her mother was an awful person, and to the gods, a debt is a debt regardless of who incurred it. Sura started paying her mother's debt the day she was born.

Long version:

Sura's mother, Aran, was a wood elf from one of the clans of the Wood of Sharp Teeth. From a young age she was a gifted sorcerer, and an obsessive collector of knowledge. Unfortunately, she was also an essentially disagreeable person from minute one, and had an entirely unwholesome knack for death magic. When she became an adult her own people politely showed her the door. From there, she took up with a roving mercenary band that eventually landed her in Baldur's Gate.

Joining the group introduced her to Sura's father, Maurit: a solid brick wall of a human sellsword whose primary talent in life was hitting people really hard. He wasn't a particularly bad man, as mercenaries go, although he wasn't a particularly good one either. What he lacked in other areas of his personality, he made up in loyalty. Aran's basic amorality didn't bother him - to him, she was the most beautiful and dangerous thing he'd ever seen, and he would have followed her into the Nine Hells for a smile and a song.

[Pictured: terrible parents]

Aran was motivated by the acquisition of personal power, and she was prone to bouts of obsession. She'd get interested in some new project and no one but Maurit would see her for weeks, sometimes months. What she did during these times varied, but it always seemed to circle back to her interest in necromancy. (My headcanon-for-a-headcanon here is that she'd have gotten on well with Mystic Carrion, if they ever met). As time passed, her work got bloodier, and she eventually got it into her head that if she could raise enough undead, she could amass sufficient power to make a run at godhood.

Which brings us to the night Sura was born.

Nobody'd seen Aran for months. While that wasn't enough in and of itself to draw attention - she was known to be with child, it wasn't that odd that she'd been absent from work as dangerous as theirs - nobody'd seen her husband in the preceding weeks either. Though Maurit wasn't the most well-liked or social man, the people he worked with did eventually get concerned enough to go looking. So one quiet night, half a dozen of them turned up at the couple's home in the outer city.

We'll spare the details here (I don't know what kind of stomach you have for horror), but they walked into a house transformed to an abattoir that would make a Bhaalist proud. Bodies piled on every surface, intact and otherwise. From what they could gather, Aran had succeeded in raising a truly monstrous number of undead. Her body lay prone in the center of the room, next to her husband, who had met a gruesome fate as her final victim. She seemed to have succumbed to whatever ritual she was attempting to complete, and had been struck down in the same blast that leveled her hoard of zombies. The only life left in that room was her newborn child, minutes old. On either shoulder the baby sported what appeared to be brands: Kelemvor's scales on her left, Lathander's rising sun on her right.

At first, none of the assembled mercenaries could bring themselves to touch her. Near as they could tell, the girl was probably the result of ritual magic that had deeply offended two of the most powerful gods in realmspace. They might have abandoned her to her fate. But Tethos stepped forward. He'd been the closest thing to a friend the girl's father had really had. Standing over his body, he couldn't bring himself to simply abandon his daughter. So he took her in.

[hi Tethos]

Sura would only discover what her curse meant to her as she grew. There's a lot of additional story involved, which for the sake of this not turning into a novel I'll exclude, but the practical upshot is: she can't die. She found this out the hard way, i.e. the painful way, and at the point where she gets abducted by the Nautiloid she's been dealing with the realities of being unwillingly immortal for just over 70 years.

She maintains an antagonistic working relationship with her patron gods. They periodically turn up and set her tasks, which she completes under extreme protest. And once she gets tangled up with the tadpole gang... well. Things get interesting fast.

I have so much written about her ongoing struggles with her desire to regain mortality, and how she relates conceptually and practically to her concepts of religion, guilt, obligation, and rebellion, but I'll save that for another day.

#thanks for asking! sorry this turned into a whole book 😅 I have so much backstory for her. many thoughts head full. #bg3 #sura tav #asks

[grumpygreenwitch]

The Witches & Wizards Jobs 17-18-19

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Remember: Tumblr has no algorithm. Reblogs give me life.

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SEVENTEEN

I slept like I hadn't in months. Living in a constant state of anxiety will do that to you, I suppose. But I was so far from home and from the enemies and dangers of Chicago that it felt as if they were too far away to matter. Even the war seemed a thing happening to someone else. It was a dangerous feeling, particularly because the house didn't have any of the protections of my Chicago apartment, but I was too tired to care.

I woke up to an unfamiliar doorbell and my dog trying to murder me by stepping on my kidneys. That much dog euphorically walking all over you will wake you up in a hurry, if nothing else. I dragged myself out of the surprisingly comfortable bed and down the stairwell to the door.

I found my current boss there.

"Dresden."

"Ford." I was all at once as awake as someone could be, every sense sharply on the alert.

"You can't use an electric stove, can you."

Ok, not the words I'd expected to hear from the man. "Uh, I can probably do it once."

"Without setting the house on fire?"

"Fifty-fifty on that one."

"Mm. Get dressed. We're gonna pick up breakfast."

He must have seen something on my face. I'd expected a lot of things; most people see Soulgazing as a theft, or worse. Very few like what they see in me. I'd expected to be fired, or interrogated, or something in a long and extensive list. Treated to even more food had not been part of it.

Ford shrugged minutely. For once he looked put together, and it was startling. He still had that deceptively harmless quality, the feel of a man that makes friends easily. He was freshly shaved, wearing a light shirt under a summer jacket and casual slacks, all in dark, neutral tones. His hair was still damp. "I refuse to let you think Boston only wants to come at you swinging."

I opened the door wide and stepped aside. "For the record, I don't mind Boston. I just don't want to make waves."

He stepped in. Mouse sniffed him, the banner of his tail wagging sedately, and Ford distractedly rubbed his head. I don't think he even noticed he was doing it. "Is it that easy? If what happened yesterday at the museum hadn't happened, would the city still know you're here?"

"Yes."

He looked thoughtful, but merely went on his way to examine the rooms full of crates while I took the fastest shower in the world, fed Mouse some dog food that looked like it cost more than my rent back in Chicago and got into my spare clothes. We headed out into an unfairly sunny and lovely morning. Trees bordered the street, the houses gracious in their old age. Boston was lovely.

It just wasn't home.

"There is, comparatively speaking, a lot of things living in Boston that aren't human. Supernaturals move, same as us," I explained as we walked. "For work, for life, for family. That's universal. And Boston's one point where that traffic bottlenecks. A lot of them don't go any further."

"So Boston's the best they could find?" He gave me a quick, incredulous glance.

"No, the most convenient. Magic likes it when you throw down roots. You can draw power from your home in a pinch, there's protections that kinda seep into a place the longer you live in it."

"Lintel magic," he murmured.

I damn near stopped walking. It was the first time in all our dealings that I'd heard Ford use the m-word.

"My mother believed," he said after a few steps. "She'd tell me stories, the old classics, and the ones from the Old World. Fairies, wicked stepmothers, charming princes - kelpies, hounds, fairy queens…" He shrugged once again. "I'm not nearly as surprised as I should be that the reality is even bloodier."

"You stopped believing, why?"

The ice flickered briefly in his eyes. "You looked into my soul, Dresden, don't you know why?"

"It doesn't work like that. You know that, or I would already be on a train to Chicago."

He did look amused at that, snorting minutely. "Dresden, you're Crime Lite from where my people and I are standing." He marshalled his thoughts while I tried to figure out if I was flattered, insulted, or something else even more complicated. "Life got in the way. Here comes Parker."

The thief was sprinting at us. She'd probably been coming to meet everyone in the loft. "Nate! Are you getting donuts?"

"Uh, we can?"

"I want donuts."

"I want something a little more substantial than donuts," he pointed out mildly.

"Oh, fine." She peeked at me. "Are you alright?"

"I'll do better with a couple of donuts in me."

She beamed. Ford groaned. We walked down the block to a little shop by the clever name of Double-O's, which did bagels and donuts both. Ford ordered enough food to feed twenty people and we sat at one of the little tables with a couple of donuts and some coffee and they brought me up to speed on what they'd done after I'd gone down.

Parker and Eliot had moved the coffee table, and everything in it, to the storage room, and taped the key to the Witchwell. That was already a huge weight off my mind. But then the Leverage people had gone further - with the crumpled envelope, of all things.

"It's not paper, it's vellum," Ford explained while Parker demolished a donut covered in chocolate and corn flakes. "Which is just fancy paper made to imitate actual vellum."

"Expensive paper," I ventured.

"Precisely."

"There was no writing."

"There doesn't need to be. Remember the embossing on it? It's a sigil, sort of a coat of arms."

"I really, really would love to know what it is you people actually do. So you looked up this sigil thing?

"Solve puzzles." Ford didn't miss a beat. "We didn't have to. Sophie knows it by heart, it's the sigil of Christie's."

"Christie's, the British Auction House?"

"Yes."

I worked on my coffee. "I'm hoping this makes sense to you, because I'm -"

The lights above us flickered. I wouldn't have thought much of it; I was there, after all. But at one of the tables, two women snatched up their purses and one toddler, and scurried off at truly phenomenal speed.

There were advantages to having that many supernaturals around, apparently. I snatched for my wand; like a moron, I'd left my staff back at the house.

"Do not." The gratingly avuncular tone was threaded with menace.

The man in black walked sedately past the counter and the last late morning customers. Only one person reacted to his passage, a young man wearing a typical cycling outfit, a messenger bag slung across his chest. He took one look over his shoulder and bolted. No one else seemed to see him, to know he was there. They shifted out of his way because suddenly they had to reach for a napkin or a sugar packet or something else, but no one directly acknowledged his presence at all.

It was a Veil with conditions. Until that moment I'd never known a Veil could be crafted like that, with exceptions built in.

Ford put a hand on my good shoulder and shook his head minutely. I tried to relax, and managed only to pull my hand out of my duster pocket. Parker was glaring with hyperbolic fury.

"Ah, you must be the sensible one," the man in black told Ford. "What pleasant luck."

"Every now and again," Ford agreed mildly.

He turned to look at Parker. She immediately looked down at her donut and scowled.

"This modern world," the man in black mused. "One comes to find the Prince of Thieves, and it is a woman. How times change. Hands on the table, please. Where I can see them."

"Parker," Ford said quietly when she didn't move. He said nothing else; he merely let his eyes take in the dozen or so people sharing space with us and the wizard.

She obeyed, sulking all the while.

"And yours, wizard Dresden."

Gosh, I'd almost forgotten what it was like, when someone used the title to insult me. I dropped both my hands on the table and worked really hard on not curling them into fists.

"Well, isn't this nice." He sat at our table. He was wearing fully modern clothing, a high-collared white shirt, a black embroidered vest, a long black coat with silver and emerald buttons, dress slacks, expensive shoes. His black hair had been cut and combed back, and his moustache and beard were so neatly trimmed I wouldn't have been surprised to find out he'd used a ruler. He was a very pale man, and his eyes were the same luminous, poisonous green of the painting and his magic. He looked and sounded so smug it took effort not to just haul up and punch him on principle. "So very nice. You have something of mine, sir," he told Ford mildly. "Several somethings, actually." He grinned.

"That would be stealing. I don't make it a habit to confess to crimes publicly, even when I haven't committed any."

The man's eyes flashed. His mouth opened - and closed, and he looked deeply amused. "No, of course not. You have committed no crime." His voice suddenly turned into a lash. "Hands. On the table."

Parker glared at him.

"I do strive to not be a fool more than once," he told her mildly. "If you do that again, I will kill someone here. Someone you do not know. Someone who does not know you. That nice man who served you your donuts, maybe. The old lady one of your companions held the door for one time. It will not hurt you. It will just be a toothache, forever there to be worried at, because I will kill them only if you take your hands off the table. Yes?"

Parker's face had gone to stone. My hands, despite my best efforts, had curled into fists after all. Ford tightened his grip on my shoulder a little more.

"I do not see a need to make this into a quarrel," the man in black said very calmly. "My attention is on greater matters. Whatever Dresden might have told you, until the small issue at the museum, I had committed no crime."

"No c- No crime? At the very least you destroyed the MFA lab. You stole from their vaults."

"Not at all. The portrait is mine. I commissioned Sokolov for it. Beautiful work, truly. I was very pleased with it, even with the nose being wrong."

"Working from memory," Ford mused.

"Mm, as portraitists do. So you see, I was recovering my property."

"You could have gone through proper channels. That shouldn't be a hardship for a man like you."

"I am pressed for time," the man in black admitted. "Which is why I come to make you an offer."

I tensed up immediately. Ford's hand turned into a vise on my shoulder and he shot me a warning look.

"You will return my property to me. And I will not kill you. You will send Dresden home. And I will not kill him. You will forget this matter. And in three days' time, I will grant you and your people your heart's desire. Whatever it might be. Fame, fortune, revenge, knowledge. I am a man of many talents. I daresay there's very little in this world that I could not give you. One wish."

"I get to punch you once," Parker growled immediately.

The man in black blinked in surprise, and then laughed. "Well, not that."

Under the table, Parker's leg bumped lightly against mine. It was so unexpected, so out of nowhere from someone who only touched even her own teammates when she absolutely had to, that it shocked me back to my senses, and I turned my attention to her. She was scowling at the man in black from the corner of her eyes, hunched down minutely, her hands flat on the table, tension on every line of her body, and her face had the same wild expression she'd had back at the Museum, when she'd figured out how to save our asses.

I lunged at the man in black across the table. I did it slow; I already knew I was much quicker than him. For a moment I thought I was going to actually get at him, the one time I didn't care if I did, but Ford belatedly caught me. "Dresden!"

Whatever slammed into me froze me, literally. I felt my veins turn to ice, my muscles lock. Cold blasted into me, left me motionless, unable to even shiver. I could barely gasp for air, but hey, if I wasn't going to get another chance to breathe, I might as well put the one breath I had to good use. "My hands're still on the table," I hissed at the man in black.

I saw surprise and fury flash through his eyes. He'd thrown himself back and scrambled to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor. No one noticed." So they are," he gritted out, and his magic faded, letting me wheeze for breath. With an effort he turned to face Ford, the mild and cheerful facade gone behind a vulturine, sharp and predatory look that was far more appropriate. "My property. Now, if you please."

"Does that include the Burning Witch's Well?"

Surprise once again went over the angular features, quickly hidden out of sight. "Yes."

"Well, you nearly killed twenty people with it, so, uh. No."

The man in black bared his teeth and flicked his hand. The lights went out. I threw my hand up and whatever he'd meant to hit Ford with crashed instead into my shield. It sent us both skidding back until we hit a half-wall behind us, random little decorations falling off it. He looked livid; yeah, still faster than you, asshole.

"Then I will take what is mine, and enjoy the killing of you all in the process," he declared, stalking off.

Breathless or not, Nate rushed immediately after him. I turned to check on Parker. "You alright?"

"Yeah, go get him!" She was wriggling in place. "I gotta put my shoes back on!"

Her sh-

Her shoes?!

There's only so many surprises I can cope with from just one person. I ran after Ford, but he was just outside the door to the shop, looking frustrated, scanning the street in every direction.

"Don't bother," I told him. "He probably closed off the Veil he was wearing to begin with."

"You saw him."

"No. I saw a couple of ladies bolt; they're the ones who saw him. I told you; you can't hide a wizard, not easily."

Parker nearly ran into us both as she charged out the door. "Is he gone?"

"Yup." Ford had that look again, the look that said he was putting together bits and pieces into a whole no one else had even noticed was there.

A man peeked out of the shop. "Mister Ford? Your order's ready."

"Oh, good." He marched back inside.

"You picked his pockets again," I told Parker before either of us followed Ford inside, not sure if I was amused or amazed. I settled for both.

"Yeah, of course I did. You almost messed me up, though!"

"I did? I thought you were signaling me for a distraction!"

She flushed minutely. "No. Your legs are just longer than Eliot's."

"… Sorry?" She grinned a little. "So what did you get?"

She grinned even more.

EIGHTEEN

Nate charged into the loft at full speed. "Hardison, are you here yet?"

The hacker had been in the kitchen; he peeked out of the fridge. "Yeah, man. Uh, fridge's broken."

"Then replace it, landlord mine." Nate glanced at the door and added, his voice quieter. "Quietly."

Hardison's expression filled with understanding, and he nodded. "Did you get breakfast?"

"They're bringing it up. I don't promise there's any donuts left. Is everyone else here?"

"We are now." Eliot held the door open for Parker and Dresden, Sophie coming up behind them. "What's this I'm hearing, that you met the man in black?"

"We did," Nate confirmed cheerfully.

"What?!" Hardison looked stunned.

"Is everyone alright?" Sophie asked.

"Oh, yeah, everyone's fine. He just wanted to talk. Threaten us, bully us, you know, the usual. Dresden, back to your couch, I need Hardison's computers." The wizard went that way obediently, but he didn't let go of the box he was carrying, raiding its contents before he surrendered it to Eliot. Sophie followed Parker to the staging area.

"Hardison." Nate sat and stared at the screens. "The Tetryakov Gallery is the main repository of Sokolov's work. That's not just his portraits and his studies, that's also his journals, his notebooks. The records of his commissions. Do they have electronic copies of those?"

In a moment the central screen was full of documents, more and more being flicked to one side as the hacker blithely charged into presumably secured databases across the world. "Some of it."

"Cross-reference against the portrait. We might not know who the people in it are, but it's absolutely one of Sokolov's largest pieces."

"It's also a full-body portrait of two people. He preferred faces, busts, or large groups. It's unique," Sophie added.

"Give me a minute, I'm having to run all this through a translator. I don't actually read Russian."

"Sophie, Parker. Are there any big art events taking place within the next three days?"

"Yes," Parker replied before Sophie could. "A private art auction in two days." She pulled from an inner jacket pocket a small piece of paper and handed it over with a grin.

Sophie took it, read it, and passed it on. "That's what the Christie's man is here for. He's not selling, he's buying."

"He just went to all this trouble to get the portrait, and he's selling it already?" Eliot protested mildly. "Why?"

"Because in two days he won't need it anymore." Ford stared at the screen. "Dresden, the brass piping. What you meant to do with it, can you do it in the storage room as well?"

"If there's enough brass, yes."

"Do it." Nate looked at his team. "He can't find them. He came to us because whatever Dresden did worked. The key, the circles, whatever it is, they are actually doing their job and he can't find all the stuff Parker took from him. I bet he had some sort of tracker in his pockets, waiting for Parker to go for it."

"Jerk," the thief muttered, but she didn't sound angry as much as resigned. "I figured the paper was safe."

"Dresden."

Eliot brought the piece of paper to their consultant. It was a match to the envelope, heavy vellum, the ink black and gold, the writing beautifully elegant. Dresden grimaced as soon as he touched it, and lifted it up. "Nope. This is your tracker."

"I can't put it back when he just keeps being invisible!" Parker protested.

Nate gestured appeasingly. "Hardison, make a copy. We'll put the original with the rest of the stuff. I imagine next he's going to try and break in, send the leshy to fetch them, or something worse." Once again he turned to Dresden. "Can you stop that from happening?"

"Yes, but I should get started soon," the wizard had sat up straight, staring in something like wonder as, once again, Nate did what he did best.

"You've got the whole day. Sophie, you and I have a meeting for dinner."

"Fedorov?" When he nodded confirmation, she pursed her mouth. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"No. That's why we're going."

Hardison had put the invitation into a scanner that was discreetly hidden in one of the desks. He handed it back to Parker, who glared at it as if it were the man in black himself. The computers chose that moment to beep and he looked sharply up. "Found it." His fingers flew over the keyboard and he grimaced. "They're direct scans from one of Sokolov's commission journals. The OCR is having a time with it, let me see if I can make the name of the commissioner any clearer." He clipped one particular set of lines from the yellowed, faded page on the screen.

Sophie drew in a sharp breath. Eliot, who'd been coming over to take the invitation from Parker, froze.

"You're fine, Hardison. It reads fine like that," Nate murmured distractedly.

"That can't be right," Eliot muttered.

"What's been right about this job from the beginning?" Sophie countered mildly.

"What's it say?" Hardison asked.

All three of them replied at once. "Koschei."

Behind them, Dresden choked on his breakfast sandwich.

Nate clapped his hands. "This is good!"

"Good?" Eliot stared at the mastermind in disbelief. "This is good? We're going up against the main bad guy in every Russian fairy-tale ever written, someone who actually makes the Russians balk, and you think this is good?!"

"All fairy tales have their basis on something real," Sophie had sat to one side, her hands wrapped around a cup she hadn't touched yet. "Khan Koshan was a barbarian warlord, back in a time when Russia was simply Rus, 'the land'."

"It's good because we have a name," Nate explained. "And a name means a trail. Wizards might not be able to use technology - he is a wizard?" He turned to Dresden, waited for a nod to carry on. "But the rest of the world does. A name means a profile, travel records, hotels, purchases. Even if he's not using his own name, and honestly I expect he'd be the sort who would out of sheer arrogance, a name isn't the sort of thing that blows up computers, like an image does." He turned to stare at the screen. "A name gives us everything. Hardison, this isn't your usual profile, but can you give me an estimate of how long it will take you?"

"You want me to guess how long it'll take to sift through two hundred years of fairy tales to get a bead on this man?" Hardison stared at Nate.

"He's older than that," Dresden sounded off. "He's much, much older than that."

"Dresden." Nate acknowledged. "Do you have a starting point?"

Harry exhaled sharply. "Yes," he replied carefully.

The mastermind pressed his mouth into a thin line and added, "One that doesn't involve men in gray and big swords?"

"I'm working on that," Dresden admitted. "Khan Koshan is…sort of a wizardly cautionary tale. He's the only wizard anyone knows of that successfully managed immortality."

"As in he can't die, or he can't be killed?" Eliot asked.

"Both," the wizard replied grimly. "That's half the trick. You can be ageless, if you don't mind every supernatural in the world out for your blood. You can be unkillable, if you don't mind selling your soul. As far as anyone knows, he got both kewpie dolls without paying the price."

"So he's a criminal." Nate didn't look convinced.

"That's the other half, he's not. Technically." Harry seemed to measure his words with incredible care. "The best known way to be ageless is by stealing the life off of someone else. That is outright necromancy. Men in gray. Big swords."

"He's not doing that." It wasn't a question.

"No. No one knows how he's doing it, only that he absolutely doesn't age, and that he's not a necromancer."

"And he can't be killed? Hurt?" That came from Eliot, who was scowling at the very thought.

"Parker clocked him twice at the museum. Solid hits. They were gone by the time I tackled him."

"That can't be an easy trick to pull off," Sophie mused.

"It's not. What… is known is what the fairy-tales are already telling you. He cut out his own heart and hid it - he hid it so well that no one can find it, not even death."

Sophie drew in a deep breath. "The brooch. The Emerald Heart of Koschei the Deathless. The jewel that no one's ever seen, but everyone knows is real."

"Yup. Now, here I'm going on hearsay: he did it to gift it to a woman he loved. But she rejected him, and it poisoned the heart. Turned him greedy and cruel. He was going to share the trick of it with the world, up until that point. Having met the man, I think it's bullcrap. He never meant to give the secret away. He's just spinning some PR to make himself look the victim, not the villain."

"That tracks," Nate agreed.

"Is that what he's after?" Eliot turned. Hardison had put up a picture of the portrait on one of the screens, deeming it safe enough since no phones had been sacrificed in the acquisition of it.

"The placement of the lock would seem to hint at it," Sophie agreed, but she saw Nathan frown minutely.

Surprisingly, it was Dresden who sounded off. "Why? It's been safe all this time, impossible to find. Why bother now, why bother at all?"

"Mm." Nate stared at the painting. "Dresden, do you mind shouting across the room?"

"I like it better than the alternative."

"Then I'd like you to work with Hardison on the profile, but the security around the things we took from Koschei takes priority. Eliot, you're with them. Sophie, Parker, we're going to find out what we can about this private auction."

"I bet Jess knows," Parker suggested.

"Start there, then. Dresden." It was Nate's turn to choose his words very carefully. "Is this something you should report to your people?"

The wizard looked surprised to even be considered on that regard. "Technically."

"We're flying on a lot of 'technically's here," the mastermind muttered.

"I mean, I can't use a cellphone. I'd have to find a landline." A little smirk ghosted over Harry's features making him look, for a fleeting moment, young. "The only ones I know of are back in Chicago."

Nate didn't smile, but it was a close thing.

NINETEEN

To be fair, I did get why Ford called it 'wanton destruction of property'. Eliot just looked way too gleeful wielding a power tool. And it absolutely wasn't because I was a little bit jealous that he got to use the fun toys, like a nail gun. Cordless drill. Power sander.

Nope, not jealous at all.

So the morning went with Eliot in my basement and me out in the yard entertaining Mouse, and the hitter occasionally stopping long enough to relay a question from Hardison back at the loft.

Then he ran out of iron nails. That wasn't anyone's fault, I'd asked for enough for a few spells, not enough to line the doors and windows, which was what it would take to keep the leshy out. No shield or barrier I could think of was going to keep a Golden Bear out, obviously. And I couldn't imagine anyone had ever come up with something to keep Koschei out, it would have been the stuff of legends. No, the point was the circle, and the ward inside, a copy of the pattern on the key.

Hey, if it worked for Koschei it was good enough for me.

Eliot took off to get more nails. Hardison didn't want me near the loft while he worked on a little joint project I'd suggested. Which gave me the perfect opportunity to head into my shiny new basement, close my shiny new circle for protection, and break out Bob.

I'd honestly thought about leaving Bob behind. My apartment might not look like much, but there were protections on it that only living for years in the same place can create. My laboratory, the sub-basement, was not only protected but hard to find. There was a better than good chance that Bob would be reasonably safe. But better than good was no perfect. And powerful and knowledgeable as Bob was, he still lived in a skull, and skulls are fragile. I wasn't worried about any of the many enemies in my life breaking in and finding him nearly as much as I was about them breaking in and not realizing how valuable he was while they wrecked the place.

In any case, I'd brought him with me. I hadn't expected we'd do much. I figured I could let him loose for a little while, if nothing else, and use that later as, heh, leverage when I needed his help. But that had been before I realized the size of the mess in Boston. I brought my rucksack down to the basement, found three boxes that had been on the Endless List, and put the skull on top of them. "Wake up, Bob."

The spirit's eyes lit up like candles, and immediately blazed and sparked like fireworks. "Whoa!"

"Yeah, welcome to Boston." I knew exactly how he felt. I put the sack on the shiny new workbench and sat on the shiny new stool.

"Ooof, headrush." Bob sorted himself out faster than I had, and his eyes rolled all around the sockets as he took in his surroundings. "Nice place. These Leverage people are taking good care of you, I see. Did you ever find out what it is they do?"

"I'm working on it."

"You know, Harry, it wouldn't have killed you to put me on a window during the train ride. It's been forever since I've really traveled."

"I was asleep for most of it."

"Liar," Bob sang back. "Are you wearing a sling?"

"I was trying to sleep for most of it. And yes." The shoulder was only occasionally throbbing, but Eliot had been very clear about wearing the sling as long as possible. "The Leverage people seem to have stepped into something a little beyond everyone's paygrade."

The spirit scoffed minutely. "Mortals."

"I'm not sure I'd have the arm to put in a sling if it weren't for them, so let's skip the pleasantries about that. I need to make a quick veil-shielding charm."

"Harry, you can't do that, you know that. A charm that can defend against a Veil needs to be attuned to, if not the Veil, then the wizard casting it, else it burns up."

"I'm fine with it burning up. I just need it to last five minutes. Two even." I couldn't even imagine the sheer amount of mayhem any of these people could do in two minutes. Or less, but I was trying to play it safe.

"What a waste of magic," Bob scoffed.

"Bob, focus. These are the same people who got you the boxes you're sitting on." The skull was sitting on top of three boxes full of paperback romances. I didn't question his unlife choices and Leverage hadn't questioned mine.

The spirit's attention turned inward briefly. "Well, I'm suddenly feeling a lot more generous toward our hosts," he declared, far too chipper. "Also, this city's making my teeth buzz. Anything that takes attention away from that is welcome."

"Oh, I have lots more questions for you, don't worry. The charm?"

"Did you bring the Vivendum with you? Page 253. By the way, Gottridge is lying, the charm works just as well in metal as it does glass, as long as it's not iron or lead."

I lifted one of the pins I'd found in the Lost & Found box. "How about pewter?"

"Ooo, tin and copper, perfect. If you get lucky, there might even be silver in there."

I found the Vivendum Grimoire, one of the books I'd brought with me from Chicago, found the spell to enchant the charms, and started rummaging about for sympathetic ingredients. Magic's all like that: sometimes you need something specific, but for the most part as long as you have something that sorta resonates with what you mean to do, you're fine. I found a heavy mortar and pestle first, and started throwing things in there: a lens and some colorful beach glass, a few plastic whistles. I tore strips out of a sheet of sandpaper, and emptied a bottle of perfume in. Then I started looking about for something to fill in the fifth slot. Gottridge recommended cheese, but everyone agreed that the man had had a dairy allergy.

"Rice," Bob said in a long-suffering tone. "Rice, Harry. If you cannot go to one extreme, go to the other."

I threw my last ingredient in, covered the mortar and started grinding. "Next question. Can you make a suppression spell into a suppression potion?"

Bob sucked in a breath. How, I didn't know, given he lacked every single element needed for it. "Yes, but it's not gonna taste good. Among other things."

"Other things?" I asked in between working the pestle.

"Think, Harry. The point of a spell is that you can dismiss it at will. If you drink the suppression, how are you going to dismiss it if you need your magic?"

"Can it be done so it's on a timer?"

"Tricky, but doable. And it's still going to taste like the bottom of a ditch. Why are you wearing a sling?"

"Because I dislocated my shoulder last night. Work out the recipe, please." The pestle began grinding more smoothly, so I gave all my focus to the spell. Bob knew better than to distract me, though I could all but feel those witch-light eyes burning into my back.

It wasn't hard, particularly because I didn't need it to be efficient, or good. Like I'd told Bob, I just needed the charms to do their thing long enough for my employers to get wise to a bad situation and bail. I worked the spell into the ingredients until I had fine, dust-colored dust on the bottom of the mortar; I scooped that into an empty salt shaker, sprinkled it all over the dozen or so pins I had ready, covered it all with a dish-cloth with sunflowers printed on it and left the magic to cook.

"You've been here barely a day and you dislocated you shoulder already?" Bob burst out as soon as the cloth settled.

"The suppression recipe, please."

"Harry!"

"It wasn't by choice!"

"That's worse!"

"Bob… These people live and work and do everything on computers. The suppression potion, please. Besides, they put it back already."

I got a recipe, and about ten minutes' worth of being lectured in between every step and ingredient, where Bob knew I couldn't get away or complain too much. "What do these people even do, did you ever figure that out?"

"Nope, and at this point I don't want to. Next question: what would it take to summon a Golden Bear out of the Nevernever?"

Bob went quiet. You wouldn't think this a bad thing unless you knew Bob. Unfortunately, I knew Bob.

"I mean, a couple of the wizards on the Council might be able to, if they can find one. If they can convince it to come through. Things that big, they don't like it on this side, Harry. It takes too much effort and they're not bright enough to put in the work themselves."

"Let me rephrase," I said as I tried to figure out if I had half the things I needed for the suppression potion. "What would it take for someone to instantly summon a Golden Bear out of the Nevernever to do their bidding?"

Bob went quiet again. His eyes were staring at me with an almost solid weight. "Harry, what aren't you telling me?"

"Too hard? Ok, here's another one: tell me every you know about Koschei."

The silence went on for so long that I would've thought him gone if it weren't for the eyes pinned on me. "Harry."

"Yeah?"

"Call the Council."

"Not an option."

"Harry, I know you. If you're asking leading questions about Koschei, it's because you've already met the man. You know for a fact he's here. You are involved, and that is the least safe thing you could be. This is beyond you, Harry. This might be beyond the Council, but at least if you call them it'll be them dying, not you." Bob was sounding very clipped and rushed; it was something I very rarely heard from him, I guess because when you're stuck in a skull there's not much to make you afraid anymore.

"I can't. Not with the War going on. Even if I did manage to get through to someone, I have no way of knowing if they'd have anyone to send. I'm here, now. This is the job."

"You can't take Koschei on! Harry, that's beyond suicide. He has a reputation for holding grudges for a reason!"

"That's a problem for future me. Present me still needs to know everything you can tell me about him -"

"I will not!"

"-because if you don't he's still coming after me, I just won't know when or where or how."

The skull somehow blew me a raspberry, and let out a highly infuriated sound. "What did you do?!"

I brought him up to speed while I worked on attuning a couple of compasses to the chalk I'd scrawled on the back of the portrait. Odds were the painting -sorry, the portrait- would be protected with the same anti-tracking magic on the key, but just in case it wasn't I wanted some way for the others to follow and find it, not just me.

"So he's here for his heart?" Bob saw me grimace as I worked. "You don't think so."

"No. It's been safe all this time, Bob, he has no reason to look it up now, particularly not so openly, so blatantly. If he just wanted the heart he could've gone into the museum at night, broken in by magic and taken it. No, he wants that portrait for another reason."

"And you're sure the woman's the Hag herself?"

"Ford thinks so. I haven't met her."

"I still don't like it."

"Oh, I'm thrilled as peaches about it, Bob," I told him, and all the sarcasm I'd learned from the damn skull came out with the words. "Really. I've met the man twice and both times he wiped the floor with me. I'm sure earning my paycheck."

"Harry, no one could ever pay you enough to face off against the Raven." Bob's voice went to a quieter note. "You're alive. Take the win."

"What'd you say?"

"I said take the win, you -"

"No, I mean, what'd you call him?"

"The Raven? The Blackbird? I wouldn't even be saying his name if we weren't in a circle that I'm sure you've closed. He's one of those people who are deeply attuned to any attention coming their way. You know the type. Opera singers. Politicians."

"So he can tell when someone says his name?"

"If he's listening. If he knows the person saying it. If there's enough intent, like with any other sort of magic. Why?"

I closed my eyes and focused on that morning. Koschei hadn't actually met Sophie; the vault hallway of the MFA had been dark, and I'd drawn his attention away just long enough that, by the time he'd caught up to us, Sophie had already bolted to go get Eliot.

Eliot, he knew. Unfortunately.

But he didn't know Ford. They hadn't even traded names at the bagel shop. More, Ford didn't believe. It didn't matter that he'd seen me actually throwing magic around, he was more like the sort of person I'm used to, the ones who wanted to explain it all away and forget it had ever happened.

So, just as we'd expected, he probably had a nebulous idea of where his stuff was - somewhere on the block, if he'd sniffed me out already. But he wouldn't know precisely where, and with the anti-tracker in place, he never would. "See, that's the sort of thing I need to know. How about sharing some fairy tales with me while I work on the suppression potion?"

Bob wasn't happy about it, but he also had a vested interest in keeping me alive, and it was going to be hard enough without suggesting one of his usual bargains. I spent the next hour setting up and preparing the suppression potion while he told me old Russian fairy tales and scared the crap out of me.

And yet.

The thing was, whenever I was on a case, things were usually happening so fast, coming at me from every direction, that most of the time I wasn't acting, I was reacting. That wasn't happening with the Leverage people; it couldn't. Whatever came at them, one of them knew how to deal with it and the rest knew to follow through.

Which included me.

I'd never realized it before, because I usually worked alone. I didn't have time to think through what I was doing, I barely had time to catch my breath, keep all my body parts attached to the body in question. But working with other people, capable people, I'd held my own. It wasn't gonna save me from Koschei, but it was kind of enlightening to know I could keep up with some of the smartest folk I'd ever met. Even if they were suspiciously criminally inclined.

I got the potion sorted out, dipped my finger and tried a taste, since I was pretty sure I was done doing magic until lunch, at the very least. It tasted about as bad as I'd expected. "Hey, Bob?"

"I don't have a tongue, I'm not tasting it for you."

"It's not that. I was just thinking, if you can see what's in those three boxes, you can probably do a general inventory -"

"Oh, here we go with the drudgery."

"- and I need to know if I've got what I need to make a mirror-mask -"

"Hey, Harry!" Eliot called out somewhere above me. "You home?"

"Inventory, Bob."

"There better be another box in it for me," he grumbled.

"Thanks." I stepped forward and focused on breaking the circle, except as soon as I stepped up to it it disappeared.

Right, suppression potion.

"Dresden!"

"Down here!" I set my foot on the stairs.

The doorbell rang. It was about as old as the house, and it seemed to be holding up well in my presence. It was certainly loud enough to nearly make me jump off the stairs. Eliot had just opened the basement door up top, and I saw him snap around like a wolf scenting prey. He put up a hand; I'd seen enough of the man to stop dead where I was.

He walked out of sight. I couldn't even hear his steps on the wooden floors. I only knew where he'd gone when the front door opened. I heard a woman's voice, I heard Eliot saying something back before he called out, "Dresden, someone here to see you."

That, I wasn't expecting. I trotted up the stairs, closed the door; Mouse was waiting for me there, ears perked and tail on the alert. He whuffled a warning.

Eliot shot me an equally wordless warning with his eyes before he stepped back, away from the door. There was a woman there with a kid, a young girl. I'm not good with children but she was old-ish, maybe twelve. Something like that.

When someone talks about someone who's not classically beautiful? The woman was the very definition of it. She was short, solid, very curvy, but even when she was just standing there there was a grace, a sort of unbreakable dignity that made you take notice. She was wearing a very prim business suit, gray skirt and jacket, white silk shirt, black shoes. She had dark hair done up in a very severe bun, dark skin the color of copper, sharp features mixed in with soft curves. Her eyes were black as midnight, with a ring of gold.

Her daughter had the ghost of her mother's beauty; she was quickly growing into it, though there was a bit of lanky to her that said her father was probably taller, definitely skinnier. She was wearing some sort of uniform, gray pleated skirt and white shirt, and she looked scared; she took one quick peek at me and immediately pinned her eyes down, but it was long enough for me to see she had her mother's eyes.

"You are wizard Dresden?" The woman had a thick, nearly impenetrable accent. She also had a printed sheet of paper with, of all things, my ad on the Chicago Yellow Pages on it. "Lost Items Found?" she recited.

"Uh -" I'm not good when I'm not under pressure. I usually get myself all hyped up and ready when I have to talk to a customer, be it on the phone or in my office back in Chicago. It didn't help when she suddenly started talking in a language that sounded a little bit like music and a lot like nothing I'd ever heard before. "Whoa. Ma'am. Ma'am, please."

"She wants to know if you're the man from the ad." Eliot's frown had changed to a look of curiosity.

"You sp -? What is sh -?"

"Wampanoag. Algonquian. It's a native - hold on." The woman had kept on talking, faster and faster, and Eliot put his hands up to stop her. "Ma'am, please, wait a minute -"

"Ma'am, he's human!" I shot at her, hating that I had to.

It worked. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth fell open. She stepped back. "Sorry! Sorry! Am sorry! Am so sorry! I say nothing!"

Eliot fell back, confused, so I stepped forward. "It's fine. It's fine, ma'am. Yes, I'm Harry Dresden. Can we please move this inside?" I thought for a moment she was just going to bolt, but obviously whatever had made her track me down sight unseen, in Boston, had more weight than her fear of humans and she stepped in, her daughter keeping close.

"Dresden, what was that?" Eliot muttered.

"There's a thousand humans for every single supernatural in the world, and most of them come out shooting if they get so much as a whiff of anything weird. Never sell yourself short in a fight, Eliot, not that I think you would. Humans are the tactical nuke of the supernatural world."

"And scary accordingly?"

"It's just safer if humans don't find out what lives around them. Safer for everyone involved."

"Hardison wants to know why you're not blowing up the earbud."

"Suppression potion. Long story. No magic for me right now. I'd take it out, it's gonna wear off any minute."

We sat down. Mother and daughter laced hands, and the woman said something. Eliot opened his mouth, but the kid beat him to it. "We don't want any trouble. We didn't know you had humans with you. We don't know what the rules are for people in other cities."

"I'm a little looser on the rules than most wizards. Now, I'd love to ask how you tracked me down, but I'm more interested in why."

"I found you on the internet," the girl replied. "I told my mom. We had a friend sniff you out. It wasn't hard." The mother said something. "He said you smell like big water, like a lake."

"You found him by his smell?" Eliot sounded stunned. She shrugged. Her mother said something and he frowned. "I'm not sure I got that right, it wasn't Algonquian."

"It was Welsh," I said. "Wasn't it?" I looked at the two ladies sitting on a couch that had been, until five minutes ago, still wrapped in plastic. "Because there's no word for 'selkie' in the local tongue."

The mother finally found her courage. "You help us. You find lost items, yes? You help."

Well, the next part was gonna suck. I've been the victim of my share of raw deals in my day. There's been a lot of times when I've had to sit down, shut up and take it when someone's doling out misery. I'll never agree to leaving someone in that kind of situation, but there's rules of magic even I can't bend. "Not this one, no. Ma'am… did he take it fair?"

She drew herself up proudly. "Never fair. Never. You know, wizard. You know this."

"Wait, selkie, as in, the selkie? Seal-woman?" I saw Eliot go through every stage between disbelief and understanding in under five seconds. Then I saw dark, cold rage blot out the sunshine. "Her skin. Someone took her skin."

"Someone took her skin, what, twelve, thirteen years ago?" I asked the kid.

"Fourteen," she replied haughtily.

"That deal's done. It's like signing a contract, you might not like it, but you're stuck with it. The penalties for breaking it are… severe. And interfering is tricky. Interfering with magic into a selkie marriage tends to rebound, ricochet. Like a bullet. "Ma'am, I can't help you, I'm just - I'm a wizard. The rules apply to me same as everyone."

"No!" She snapped at me. "I no say -" She growled in frustration, then looked at her daughter and took a deep breath. "He find my skin. Take. Is law. I know. I no need you find my skin, wizard. I need you find my daughter's skin."

Oh, Hell's Bells.

Both Eliot and I turned to stare at the girl. Thirteen, fourteen years old. In some places, to some men that I couldn't legally set on fire, she was ready to be married.

"He took your daughter's skin," Eliot sounded ready to murder someone.

"Yes. You find."

"I'm… working -"

"Can you find her skin, Dresden?"

"There's a few things I could try?"

He smiled at the two seal-women. It almost looked like his usual sunshine smile, but I could see the murder still lurking somewhere behind it. "We'll do what we can, ma'am."

She sagged with relief and reached for her purse. "I pay -"

"No payment required," he told her pleasantly.

"But we'll need as much information as you can give us about your -" Even knowing Eliot felt the same as I did, even knowing I had both backup and permission to act, I still wanted to set someone on fire. I did my best to smile instead. Smile and reassure. "- your husband."

She had it all typed up neatly in another piece of paper she pulled out of her sensible purse, as well as a few hairs in a bit of plastic wrap and her contact information, which directed us to Sannah, her daughter. We saw them to the door, waved them away, and Eliot turned to face me. "Dresd- " The little bit of suppression potion I'd tasted chose that moment to run out, and he yanked the earbud out as it screeched angrily. He drew in a deep breath. "Is that for real? Someone took her skin and she had to marry him?"

"Yeah. Crap deal, with magic and hope keeping them tethered. As long as there's even a chance to get her skin back, she'll do anything, put up with anything."

His hands curled into fists. It took him a few moments and a couple of deep breaths to get past the first crest of anger; he was better at it than I was, I'd known about selkies for so much longer, and I was still angry at the whole situation. "So, how do you normally handle something like this?"

"Uh, I go to the library, look up the guy. Tail him, on foot or by magic, see if he goes any place that isn't home or work. Find out where the skin is, report back to her with the location."

"Wh- That's it? There's no… explosions, no fighting?"

"He's human. Anyone else would know to give the skin back. A selkie's skin is bad luck on an impressive scale to anyone but the owner, it's why you can't use magic to break up the marriage."

"So he'd be using human means to keep the skins." He looked very thoughtful.

"Probably, yes."

A slow, wicked grin bloomed on the man's face that made me feel as if we were about to do some very bad things to some very bad people. It was a good feeling after having Koschei wipe the floor with us. Me, mostly. "Good. Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Out of the dark ages and into the age of the geek. Unless you're in the middle of something?"

"Nothing that can't wait." Yeah, ok, I was curious to see how Leverage dealt with a supernatural challenge, even if it was a relatively minor one.

#fanfiction #my writing #urban fantasy #leverage #the dresden files #harry dresden #nathan ford #parker #alec hardison #eliot spencer #sophie devereaux #crossover

[critter-genfic-events]

First Aid: A Critical Role Gen-fic Rec List

Well hello friends! Please enjoy these twelve amazing fics featuring First Aid and caregiving! Oh, and don't forget to show the authors some love if you liked their work!

I can think of one thousand places much worse than this by PryingBlackbird (2038,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings Caleb & Beau

After their first fight with Lucien, Caleb and Beau get separated. They're hurt and shaken, but at least they have each other

Reccer says: I love the way the empire-siblings are handled here, especially with how they seek comfort without being explicit about it

no one here to sound the alarm by Xhorhasian_Beacon (2933,General) Warnings: None Pairings Essek & Yeza

Essek is injured and has no where else to go than to the man he once hurt.

Reccer says: This has a wonderful balance between I want to help you and I'm still scared of you.

Spit, elbor grease, and a whole lot of gold by Multifandom_damnation (2006,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings Ashton & Milo

Milo is very angry at the nobodies as he desperately tries to save ashton's life

Reccer says: I fucking love Milo in this, and the descriptions of his mending Ashton back together is nothing short of stunning

Nettle Leaves and Lavender by Multifandom_damnation (2047,Teen) Warnings: Blood Pairings Ashton & Orym

Orym uses druid craft to try to ease Ashton's pain in any way he can. Set during Episode 35, while Imogen and FCG are in Ashton's brain

Reccer says: I love Orym's internal thoughts as he tries his best to help in what little way he can

sharpen and turn by starrycleric (10132,Teen) Warnings: blood and injury Pairings Caduceus & the Mighty Nein | Caduceus & Caleb

After the fight with Obann, everyone is barely holding on and there's not enough magic to patch them up. Caduceus resorts to non-magical first aid to make sure his friends are okay.

Reccer says: This is some delicious hurt/comfort. The triage is described so well, and the emotionally drained state that everyone is in is just perfect.

These graces that hold me by PryingBlackbird (1607,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings Jester & The Mighty Nein

Jester is hit with a Feeblemind spell

Reccer says: A quick bite sized whump-snack. Who doesn't love a good Feeblemind?

No one wants to hurt me, but everybody tries by PryingBlackbird (1416,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings Grog & Vox Machina

Grog is hit with a Feeblemind spell

Reccer says: The premise is the same as the Feeblemind Jester fic by the same author, but the tone is way more light hearted. Read if you like comic relief and VM schenenigans.

You were the one thing I could count on by PryingBlackbird (3082,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings Essek Thelyss & Verin Thelyss

The presumed dead traitor Essek Thelyss shows up on Taskhand Verin Thelyss' doorstep, he is bleeding and he has nowhere else to go.

Reccer says: The whump and the brotherly banter.

I Preferred My Fantasies by Professor_Rye (1023,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings Jester Lavorre & Caduceus Clay, Jester Lavorre & Artagan

Jester discovers the horrors of actually performing CPR on a real person.

Reccer says: I like how it deals with the horror of the situation, as well as Jester's panic. Very angst, we like angst.

Just let me help you by Professor_Rye (2434,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings Caleb Widogast & Nott

That time Caleb and Nott met for the first time in a prison cell, with a barbed wire twist

Reccer says: Professor_Rye just writes the best whump and I'm always soft for early Nott & Caleb

Bleed the Poison Out by Professor_Rye (7286,Mature) Warnings: It's on the darker/bloodier side Pairings Eadwuld & The Clay Family

Eadwuld is kidnapped and tortured and finally manages to escape, in very bad shape. Luckily the blooming grove is nearby.

Reccer says: The whump is exquisite, and the comfort/first aid is too. It's intense, it's bloody, it has my boy Eadwuld. It's all around a good time.

do you have enough love in your heart, to go and get your hands dirty? by SaltCore (4355,Mature) Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Pairings Astrid & Essek, Essek/Caleb

Caleb is severely injured. Essek is worried out of his mind, but Astrid doesn't trust him.

Reccer says: I really enjoy Astrid's inner monologue

If you liked this rec list, follow along for more! We'll be posting a new list with a new theme each Monday. And if you would like to make a rec yourself, feel free to reach out to @professor-rye to request access to the submission form! Next week, we'll be presenting gen fics about The Gods and their followers! Get ready for some divine devotion!

#critter genfic rec lists #critical role fan fiction #critical role fan fic rec list #cr fan fic #gen fic #the mighty nein #bells hells #hurt/comfort recs