#and suddenly there’s the play of firelight on the walls

[through-quinns-eyes]

Seeking refuge from the cold

#this character is not mine #Atlas from Alaria #I had so much fun setting up this interior design tho #and I’d forgotten how good it feels #to just kinda scribbly scribbly draaaaag the pencil #and suddenly there’s the play of firelight on the walls #and in his fur #I love pencilwork

[mariclerc]

Touches | pg10

Summary: Where a quiet night with Pierre turns into something more daring for the both of you...

Warning: spicy Pierre, some +18 content.

a/n: It's the first time I've done a story of this kind, I hope you like it! Dedicated and requested by: @martaaairwin1994-blog

Warm light spills from the living room window, casting long shadows across the plush rug. On the couch, curled up under a fuzzy blanket, you and Pierre are sprawled out like contented cats. His arm rests around your waist, your head nestled against his chest. You're both lost in the gentle murmur of a French film playing on the TV, the dialogue barely audible over the soft crackling of the fireplace.

You idly trace patterns on his arm, your fingers brushing against the faint outline of his racing muscles beneath his t-shirt. Pierre sighs contentedly, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

“I love these nights.”

You hum in agreement, snuggling closer. The silence is comfortable, punctuated only by the occasional flicker of the firelight and the distant rumble of the city. The nights at home with Pierre are the best, you usually make food together and watch a series or movie together and that is much better than going to parties.

Suddenly, Pierre's hand dips lower, finding your thigh beneath the blanket. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you turn your head to smile at him. His eyes are already on you, a playful glint dancing in their depths.

“Always up for a quiet night in, huh?” you said teasingly. “Calm down with the touches, please baby.” you giggle.

He grins, a slow, knowing smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Depends on the company... And, regarding the touches, does it make you uncomfortable, honey?”

He leans in and you shook your head, his lips brushing against your ear. His breath is warm and ticklish, sending goosebumps erupting across your skin.

“I can't control it, especially when that company is someone as beautiful and… captivating as you.” he continued talking.

His voice is low, a husky whisper that sets your pulse racing. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, a delicious mix of excitement and nervousness.

”Flatterer.”

But there's no teasing in your voice. You're putty in his hands, his words igniting a fire within you that you can barely contain.

He pulls back slightly, his gaze searching yours. His eyes are dark, full of barely suppressed desire.

“It's not flattery, mon amour. It's the truth.”

He reaches up, his fingers tracing the curve of your jawline. His touch is electric, sending a jolt of sensation through you.

“And I can't help but wonder… what else is hidden beneath this blanket princess?”

His voice is a husky rumble, and your eyes widen as you realize exactly where his gaze is fixed. You bite your lip, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

“Oh, there are all sorts of things.”

You reach up, your fingers finding the buttons on his t-shirt. One by one, you undo them, your eyes locked on his. His breath catches in his throat, and you can see the flicker of anticipation in his eyes.

“Want to see?”

He lets out a low groan, his voice thick with desire. He pulls you closer, his lips brushing against yours in a searing kiss.

“More than anything.”

The kiss is hungry, desperate, fueled by the pent-up heat between you. Your hands roam under his shirt, tracing the contours of his back, his chest, his arms. He shivers, his body responding to your touch in ways that make your breath hitch.

The fire crackles in the background, a distant lullaby to the symphony of moans and whispered endearments that fill the room. You pull away from him, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Well, then let's not waste any more time.”

With a playful wink, you lead him towards the bedroom, the blanket forgotten on the couch, a silent testament to the quiet night that just took a deliciously spicy turn.

***

The bedroom door clicks shut behind you, leaving only the warm glow of a bedside lamp casting dancing shadows on the walls. Pierre's hands are already on you, his fingers tracing the curve of your dress, the heat radiating from his body like a furnace.

You step out of your clothes, each discarded item a silent invitation. He watches you, his eyes smoldering, and you can almost feel the intensity of his gaze burning through the thin fabric of your lingerie.

Suddenly, he scoops you up in his arms, carrying you to the bed with a low growl of anticipation. You land softly on the sheets, your laughter echoing in the dimly lit room as he settles over you, his body a perfect fit against yours.

His kisses are hungry, his lips moving over your skin with a feverish intensity. You arch your back, meeting his touch with equal fervor, your fingers tangled in his hair. He trails kisses down your neck, sending shivers down your spine, before pulling back to gaze into your eyes.

“Tell me what you want, mon amour.”

His voice is a husky whisper, and you close your eyes, letting your desires wash over you.

“Everything. Show me everything you can do, Pierre.”

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, and he attacks your mouth again, his tongue exploring, his teeth nipping. He maps your body with his hands, his touch both tender and rough, igniting a fire within you that burns brighter by the second.

He moves with the practiced grace of a seasoned racer, each thrust a calculated precision, each touch a deliberate exploration. You cry out his name, your voice a breathless mix of pleasure and surrender as he pushes you to the edge, teasing you just before you tumble over.

And then, finally, the release comes in a wave that crashes over you both, leaving you breathless and trembling in his arms. You cling to him, your heart hammering against his chest, the quiet room filled only with the sounds of your ragged breaths and the soft murmur of his love words.

He kisses you again, a tender, lingering kiss that speaks volumes without a single word. You snuggle closer, feeling the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the echoes of your shared passion still tingling beneath your skin.

In the quiet aftermath, you feel closer to him than ever before, the intimacy of the night forging a bond that goes beyond the physical. You drift off to sleep, tangled in his arms, a contented smile playing on your lips. The fire in the fireplace has died down to embers, but the warmth of your love still burns bright, a promise of many more nights like this one to come.

#pierre gasly #formula one x reader #f1 x you #pierre gasly x reader #pierre gasly spicy #pierre gasly imagine #pierre x reader

[saulocept]

let’s cause a little trouble

pairing: albert wesker/survivor!reader

rating: t

summary: You shouldn’t meet like this, you know. It’s too risky; you could be seen, you could get caught, driving a wall between you and your fellow survivors. Though you suppose there’s a thrill in this, too.

notes: set in dbd universe, featuring blighted wesker outfit. caved in & actually bought it myself bc he looks too good in it (& the hair! do u ever wanna smooth it out. touch it. run your fingers through it.) this is also very short & self indulgent in nature, sorry. 

& if you haven’t played the game already, u shld try it!

“Beloved,” he greets, his voice soft and breathy. He sounds pleasantly surprised, as if he’s not expecting to run into you. Still, there’s a smile playing about his lips, faint enough that it’s barely visible in the firelight. He steps forward, closer, though he’s still so far away. He reaches out, as if he wants to touch you, then hesitates, drops his hand at the last second, as if he’s changed his mind. He shakes his head, breathes out a sigh. “We shouldn’t keep meeting like this.”

“We shouldn’t,” you agree, nodding, though you can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. Bravely, you step forward, closing the distance between you until there’s very little left. He’s close enough to touch now, close enough that you can almost smell him, taste him on the tip of your tongue: familiar, comforting.

Your fingers itch. There’s a part of you that wants to reach out, touch him, brush the loose strand away from his face, just to see him more clearly, but you stubbornly keep your arms on your side, afraid to get caught. No one else knows the two of you are involved like this, only that you know each other – colleagues from a life that seems so long ago, so different from the ones you lead now.

Still, the temptation is a difficult thing to resist. You’re moving before you can stop yourself, a desire you can’t snuff out, an instinct you can’t quite tame. It beats against your chest like a second heart, makes you more reckless, impulsive. You turn your head, look around you, briefly search your surroundings. The sound of the crackling fire is the only thing that occasionally breaks the silence. It seems the two of you are alone for now. Good.

You step forward, standing on your tiptoes, reaching out to brush the stray hair away from his face. He doesn’t stop you, nor does he pull away, merely staring at you in silence, one eyebrow raised.

His hair, however, remains stubbornly immovable, falling back into place the moment you’re no longer trying to fix it. You frown, reaching out to brush it away again, though he stops you this time, one hand reaching out to grip your wrist. He’s quick to let you go, dropping your hand back to your side, and all too suddenly, you find that you’re missing the feel of his hand, the warmth of his touch.

You don’t get to linger on the thought much longer.

“Really,” he says flatly, though there’s a twinkle in his eyes as he stares at you. He’s smiling, looking mildly entertained.

“I’ve been wanting to do that,” you explain, giving him a sheepish smile. He stares at you, blinks, waits for you to elaborate. You shift your weight from one foot to another, feeling suddenly embarrassed under the weight of his stare. “Ever since I saw you in that outfit.”

“Hm.” He hums under his breath, nodding. He doesn’t say anything after that, lets the quiet wash over the two of you. He’s still staring at you, his gaze intense, pinning you to the ground. He looks like he’s deep in thought, contemplating something. Curiously, you stare back at him, waiting, if he’d ever say something else, begin to explain.

But he doesn’t. Still, the answer comes, quick and unexpected. He reaches out, touches your cheek, rests his gloved fingers against your skin. Not quite a caress, but close enough to feel like one. There’s a stiffness to his movements, like he isn’t used to this much contact, though there’s a softness in his eyes that nothing else can replicate. Genuine, real, voicing out everything he can’t say out loud.

“I have…” he begins, then stops, trailing off like he’s suddenly not sure what to say. He hesitates, clears his throat; he looks suddenly uncomfortable, like he’s not used to being this vulnerable, affectionate. Open about his emotions. It’s cute, you think, and you’d laugh if you didn’t want to see more of it, listen to the rest of his words. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile as you wait, patient as a saint. He continues, his voice dropping into a whisper, “…Not seen you in a while.”

You give him a level look, trying not to sound amused. “You mean you missed me.”

“In a way, yes,” he replies, sounding irritated. He still looks uncomfortable, like he isn’t used to admitting it, saying whatever he feels out loud, but you’re so giddy you could die. He could probably stab you (which he might, the voice in the back of your head says, considering that you’re both still in a trial), and you’d thank him, already happy with the fact that he misses you just as much as you miss him.

“I knew it.” You’re grinning from ear to ear now, and in a sudden burst of emotion, you’re flinging yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your head against his chest. He’s paralyzed for a second, as if he isn’t quite expecting your reaction, though a moment later he’s thawing, slowly wrapping his arms around you, holding you close.

“Don’t get too cocky about it,” he warns, though there’s no real threat to his voice, no sharpness. You pull away from him, looking up to meet his eyes. Silence washes over the two of you once more, filled with a whole lot of possibilities.

You could lean up, kiss him, catch up; the idea’s tempting in and of itself, especially now that you haven’t seen each other in a while. You miss him, enough that it overpowers every rational thought, every responsibility. It doesn’t matter where you are, doesn’t matter if there’s something you need to do. No. All that matters is that you’re both here, alone, away from everyone else. There’s so much you want to do, so much you want to say to him, but as quickly as the thought crosses your mind, it disappears, fades away into nothing.

There’s a rustle that comes from the bushes somewhere behind you, and all too quickly, you spring apart, pulling away from each other as if you’ve been burned. With wide eyes, you look around you, search your surroundings for the familiar silhouette of your fellow teammates. But you can’t find anyone else. Either they’re in hiding, trying not to get seen, or it’s something else entirely. The Entity, maybe, trying to snap you back into focus, the ongoing trials?

Whatever the answer is, only one thing’s clear: it’s not safe to be here anymore. He must’ve realized the same thing, too, because a moment later, he’s walking farther away from you, more distant than ever. As if you’re back to being strangers again, resuming the roles you’re meant to play.

“Go,” he says, and his tone is serious, harsh. There’s no softness to it, no affection. The guard’s up once more and you can’t get through to him. Still, he’s not entirely without warmth. He steps close, reaches out to touch your face. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

It’s a brief gesture, and he’s pulling away not a second later, his arms resting against his sides, as distant again as the first time, but the feel of his touch lingers on your skin still, almost like a promise.

You smile at him, then turn away, running back to the safety of the dark, the cover of the bushes.

#renwrites #albert wesker x reader #wesker x reader #dead by daylight x reader #resident evil x reader

[wacky-nameless-inventor-24]

Royalty fluff 🥺

The two giggled to each other as they snuck back into the castle, taking the route through the servants’ entrance so as not to be spotted.

They had no one to hide from, after all, no one said no to them, but it added an extra element of thrill to the night. Tugging each other along, laughing quietly whenever they managed to sneak past someone. 

Mads had no idea where they were going, letting the king lead him until he was suddenly pulled into one of the ballrooms, the space huge and empty. He slipped a little on the suddenly slick marble floor, and Fenton caught him with one arm as he shut the door. 

The Mad Ducktor laughed as with the same arm Fenton practically yanked him back toward himself, holding him in his arms before pulling him into the room, swaying slightly. Mads slipped his hands into the king’s, and spun him around before continuing their little dance. 

Fenton started humming, the tune lazy and half-formed but enough for them to go off of, for them to get the steps. It was the same tune the bards had been playing earlier, and the two could only half remember it. Just that was good enough for now. 

They’d spent the evening out in the city, the Blue Phantom had told them about a bonfire they’d heard of in one of the back alleys near the river, and the kings had decided to go along. Wearing drabber clothes and with their hair styled slightly differently, it’d been enough of a disguise for them not to be recognized in the firelight. 

It’d been a night of music and of dancing, of food made by the citizens and laughter echoing up between the walls of the city. The two had had a blast, the experience was much different from the balls held at the castle. This one was much more informal, much more fun, much more free. It was a change to be surrounded by genuinely happy people who wanted to be there, and the two never wanted to leave. 

Finally, just after midnight as the fire was being put out and people were heading back home with sore smiles, full stomachs, and tired feet, they’d said good night to Blue- they were staying the night at a pub with some old friends- and gone back to the castle. 

That didn’t stop them from still dancing. Mads started humming along with Fenton as they spun each other around, their steps staggering and shaky and a big change from the usual perfection they were expected to be at the formal dances. But they were having too much fun to care, Fenton laughed when Mads nearly dropped him in a dip, and Mads collapsed against him, cackling into his scratchy shirt when the king tried to hold him up for a particularly difficult move. 

Eventually they slowed down, leaning against each other as they turned in lazy circles. Their steps were chaotically uncoordinated, nearly stepping on each other’s feet, but they didn’t mind. There wasn’t anyone there to tell them to do it properly.

“‘M too tired for this,” Mads yawned. 

Fenton chuckled. “Past bedtime.” 

“Mmm.” 

Still, neither of them pulled away from their little dance. 

“We’re going again, right?” Mads asked. 

“Definitely.”

The king leaned up, kissing the bottom of Mads’ beak, it was all he could reach. 

The Mad Ducktor laughed, leaning down to meet him halfway, their movements coming to a halt as they kissed. 

When Mads pulled away he leaned even further down to rest his forehead on Fenton’s shoulder, and the king held him close. “Want me to carry you up?” 

“Maybe,” Mads yawned. “If you’re not too tired, I don’t want to be dropped down the stairs.” 

Fenton laughed. “I’ll try not to drop you down the stairs.” 

“There’s a difference between try not and will not,” Mads pointed out, and the king laughed again.

The infectious yawn spread to him, and he leaned his head against Mads’. “Thanks for bringing me tonight.” 

“Thanks for coming.” Mads smiled. “Love you.” 

He heard the smile in the Fenton’s voice. “Love you too.” 

#Kinda inspired by that scene in the new little mermaid #Yeah it’s quackfaster who blue is staying with #it’s a small over my head spoiler but they do eventually reconnect and #Blue goes and stays with them (quackfaster and daisy- idk if I ever officially said she runs the pub too) every now and then #mad ducktor #fenton crackshell cabrera #madfen #madfen royalty au #nega fenton #nega fenton crackshell cabrera #negaverse fenton #negaverse fenton crackshell cabrera #ducktales #ducktales 2017 #dt17 #duckverse #wacky writes #gyro gearloose

[rosella-writes]

Happy Fridaaaay! For DADWC: "First one to make a noise loses" for either Alistair/Zevran or another pairing if you like it better? :D

Thank you so much Gin 🥰 this one got smutty lol.

For @dadrunkwriting Pairing: Zevistair Rating: E Warnings: consensual breath play

~~~

A game, he’d called it. 

It’ll be fun, he said. 

You like trying new things, he insisted. 

Alistair desperately tried to remember all this and more as he squinted through tears at the glow of the firelight through the tent wall. Zevran’s fingers were hooked in his hair — they pulled his head back almost to its limit, baring his throat and almost cutting off the breath that would’ve made noise. 

Noise that wasn’t allowed. 

He wanted to. Maker, he wanted to. He wanted to moan until Zevran shut him up. He wanted to breathe out ragged sighs for every one of the deep thrusts into his body. When Zevran held him — his hand slid now from his hair to cup his throat — with fingers digging into his waist like this, even fear of lightning couldn’t strike him now. The niggling voice of the Chantry sisters faded to nothing. 

Alistair figured they hadn’t anticipated him to engage in this particular type of debauchery, but that was neither here nor there. 

He tried to focus again. Why wasn’t he supposed to make a sound? It wasn’t like their camp members hadn’t heard them at this before. His mind half-floated, giddy on the lack of breath as Zevran’s grip tightened. But then Zevran’s fingers in the meat of his side twitched, and Alistair remembered. 

A challenge, amore. You, me, competition. The first to make a sound loses.

And what do I get when I win?

Why, you wake up to a mouth on your cock, of course.

And you make breakfast. 

For you, caro, I will. But only if you win. 

Alistair was no longer so sure he wanted to win, all things considered. Granted, the things considered were Zevran’s hands, Zevran’s cock, Zevran’s scent and presence and the soft little sigh he made just now when —

“Fuck,” Zevran spat, bending over Alistair’s back with a sudden jolt of his hips. Alistair leaned back against him, breathing deeply past Zevran’s loosening grip on his throat — Zevran’s breath brushed his ear, then his lips, then his teeth. “My lovely warden, how good you feel.”

Alistair finally allowed himself a pathetic, reedy little moan that ended in a whimpered, “Andraste’s tits.”

Zevran rolled his hips forward in an indulgent, slow slide — hot wetness slid down Alistair’s thigh. Finally, Zevran’s clever assassin’s fingers crept from where they dug into Alistair’s side and grasped his cock instead. 

“I had no hope of winning, caro,” Zevran murmured in his ear, his voice flatteringly rough. “Not when you were doing so well, and deserved to hear it said. And… and — cazzo, tesoro —”

Alistair had something smart, something ridiculous, on the tip of his tongue, but Zevran’s hand wrung it from him with stroke after stroke. Zevran’s free hand slid back up to Alistair’s throat, but cupped it gently this time — he just held him, slipped out of him and held him back against his body as they knelt on bedrolls over lumpy ground. Alistair couldn’t say a word, not until he came with a jerk into Zevran’s palm — even then, it was a hissed “Maker” through clenched teeth. 

Zevran kept going, indulgently palming him with the wetness of Alistair’s own spend until he almost begged him to stop. Even then, Zevran didn’t let him go. Alistair just slumped back into his lap, supported by luck and Zevran’s arms around him. 

Zevran slowly, treasuringly, gently mouthed a chaste chain of kisses from Alistair’s ear to the crook of his neck, then nuzzled his nose into the warmth there. Alistair almost held his breath — he knew how rare such moments had been for the assassin in the past, and how dangerous those few had been. He wanted this one to be safe. 

“I lost on purpose, you should know,” Zevran said suddenly, his usually silky voice still roughened up from emotion or sex or both. “Can’t have you making breakfast in the morning, dear Warden. Morrigan would kill us both.”

Alistair huffed out a tired, disbelieving laugh. “Sure it’s… not because you wanted to… you know. That?”

“Suck your cock to wake you?” Zevran said. Alistair could feel his smile against his neck. “You can say it, you know. No lightning will strike you.”

“No lightning will strike me,” Alistair repeated. “What a relief. You should rehabilitate chantry-trained rabble more often! You know exactly what to say.”

“You are unbearable.”

Alistair laughed properly this time, then turned with a grunt and unceremoniously grasped Zevran’s face. He kissed him soundly, until the assassin whimpered soundlessly into his mouth.

#zevistair #alistair theirin #zevran arainai #alistair x zevran #dadwc #dao #dragon age origins #lemons

[funnywormz]

please  “you know when i was little, i always thought my toys would come alive when i’m not around like they would in Toy Story. i still think they do.”  but with howner lol

"You know, when I was little, I always thought my toys would come alive when I wasn't around like they do in Toy Story. Sometimes I still think they do."

"What?"

She's grinning at him. Blood trickles down from the gash in her skull to stain her teeth red. It's not a friendly smile. She's mocking him, speaking of things he doesn't understand. He grunts softly. "When were you ever little? You're not a guest. And I certainly can't imagine you playing with toys."

In the past he wouldn't have dared to be this blunt with her, for fear of her wrath. She just laughs at him, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, there's plenty you don't know about me, dear. And I still play with toys!" Her hands snake around his arm, her fingers long, nails like claws. Her voice deepens to a purr. "You and the others are like my little toys, of course."

There's no argument or rebuttal to be made, so he just grumbles. His heart still beats in his chest, fluttering like a caged bird, and he can feel his face flushing with heat. Usually he resents his decay, but he resents this even more. Especially since he knows she notices it.

"I suppose we're your toys come to life, then?"

"Oh darling, I wouldn't exactly call it life." She giggles. "And anyway, you can't really be anywhere where I'm not, where I can't see you, so it's not really an apt comparison... I wonder what would happen if I left you somewhere that I couldn't see..."

It's not a question, and certainly not one posed to him. The more he thinks about it, the more he's unsure that he can even comprehend being somewhere that she isn't. He has only ever existed under her gaze, inside of her. Part of her, yet separate, a cold reflection of her own vibrant deadly starlight.

"You know, I can't always keep track of myself. Perhaps somewhere there's a version of you I can't see, and maybe he does come to life outside of my gaze." Her voice is quiet. He wets his lips with his tongue, unsure how to respond, or if a response is even required of him. Her blood is soaking his suit, now. It's warm...

"... I'm just a toy, though. This version of me." He ventures.

"Perhaps. I think so, dear." Her eyes refocus on him and she pouts in faux sympathy, patting his arm. "Don't worry yourself too much about it, OK? I can't have you fretting yourself into an existential crisis."

She giggles again. Whatever strange thoughtful moment it was that had passed over her, it's gone again now. "You don't even know what Toy Story is, do you? Perhaps I should let you three watch a film or two sometime. It could be good for you. Give you something to relate to the guests over."

"I would rather not... Relate to the guests." His lip curls in disgust at the thought. "And where are the other two? Usually the Manager would be at her desk, but she's..." He looks around. He hadn't even thought about where he was before now, or the appearance of the lobby, but suddenly he's noticing it, like the world is coming into focus around him.

The lobby is a large wooden room tonight, with stone floors and a crackling hearth in a brick fireplace. The walls are lined with shelves. He can't see a desk, or a closet door. The realisation sends a cold shiver down his spine, one he can't fully explain. All along the shelves, dolls and toys stare down at him. They're completely still, and yet there is intent behind those beady eyes which twinkle in the firelight.

Her blood on his suit has gone cold.

She isn't beside him anymore. She's perched in a decadent armchair by the fireplace, her blood running down the armrests. Below her, on the stony floor, three dolls stand in a circle. He hates himself for it but he pads quietly to her side, like a loyal dog.

The dolls are nutcrackers, with staring eyes and huge teeth and fluffy beards glued to their wooden skin. As he watches, they shift and creak and begin to walk.

Soon they're stiffly marching up and down in bodies which were not made for movement, and yet move regardless. The wood of their bodies buckles and cracks, shedding splinters on the ground. Their jaws clack and judder with the movement.

"Why do you make them walk?" He says, suddenly, in a voice so quiet and distant it almost surprises him. "Why not let them just be toys?"

She turns to face him. She's rotting now. Her blood is coming in intermittent thick black spurts, and her lower jaw is slack, her blue dress slick with fluid and loose around her caving body. Dimly he is aware of his own decay setting in. His skin is shrivelling and pulling away from his teeth, his hair falling to his feet to expose the ivory of his skull. He can hear her speaking, but her jaw doesn't move.

"I think it's fun when they move, darling. It's entertaining."

The wooden legs of one of the nutcrackers snap under its unnatural movement, and it falls. It jitters and writhes on the ground, like a beetle stuck on its back.

"Can't you see it's hurting them, though?" He bristles. His own legs are beginning to crumble under his weight and he grips the armchair to stay upright. "Why would you give life to something that wasn't made for it, something that can't cope with it?"

Slowly she reaches over to him, stroking his cheek gently. "Oh, dear..."

Her face splits into a grin. His vision tunnels, fading into blackness. "Because it's ever so fun to watch them break, of course."

#SORRY THIS GOT LONG #this is a first draft so it's probably bad. #idk how the hotel has watched toy story but she contains many mysteries #sorry anon i have no idea if this was what you wanted but i had fun writing it anyways #the hotel #the hotel podcasts #z writing #drabbles #howner #the owner #madam hotel #the hotel herself

[penddraig]

he's busy calculating the exact volume and intensity that a certain enchantment will take when he hears eivor descending the stairs.   the door at the bottom is open,   as it always is,   and the only sounds in the main room are of calcifer's crackling logs and the scratch of howl's pen on his paper.   half of the page is full of scratched-out calculations he hadn't ended up needing.   the other half is mostly words and final notes.   as much as he had grown used to studying during his time as a graduate student,   having to incorporate it into his more complicated spellwork sure doesn't let him miss it.   but this work is precisely what made him such a revered student once mrs pentstemmon had taken him under her wing,   and what sets him apart from a great majority of wizards across the country    to say nothing of high norland or strangia.   there are probably respected wizards there,   too.   but good heavens,   at times like these,   he feels like throwing everything off the table and giving up.

the footsteps grow louder,   until she's at the bottom step.   though his back is to her,   he can hear her come nearer to him.   then nearer still,   until she sounds so close as to be right behind him.   he has no choice but to look up from the spellbook underneath his forearm,   which he moves to place his fingers on the line he's currently on.   she's far too distracting to simply put his attention off her for too long.   he delights in waiting a moment too long for her,   in an attempt to invoke some itch in her that he gets to satisfy once he turns his attention on her.   and he does,   a beat later,   lifting his legs and spinning in his seat until one arm leans over the back of his chair.

she stands before him as if she has a purpose,   her chilling blue eyes casting a rather unnatural gleam,   and the indented scars on her cheek and philtrum forming shadows that make them look even deeper,   even with the sunlight streaming in front the windows.   he's never been afraid of her countenance but for the first minute he'd seen her,   but they have become as familiar to him as the veins in the back of his hand and the cracks in the skin of his palms   ( he thinks of her not as beautiful,   but striking,   and totally unforgettable,   seared into his memory forever ).   her look is familiar one by now.   the thoughtful glaze in her eye prompts him,   somewhat naturally,   not to speak at all.   so he doesn't,   wondering silently,   lips half-parted,   as though drawn to an expectation.   one that,   fortunately,   ends up being met.

@notodin.   gently,   eivor tilts howl’s head up by the pressure of her fingers beneath his chin.   her eyes are soft,   half-lidded and tender beneath blonde lashes—  she bends downward just enough so that she might kiss him upon his waiting mouth.  

before their lips even meet,   he's smiling,   and his chest,   though devoid of a beating heart,   still feels as if there is something inside of him skipping  rope.   there is a small path chalked into the inside of his ribs,   and something invisible plays hopscotch on every bone behind his breast.   the fire pops and crackles louder,   firelight pulsing across the walls like blood through a vein.   for some,   it might be painful.   for a heartless man,   it is a reminder that he is alive,   right here with eivor.   her lips aren't smooth,   but all is well :   they give him something to focus on in these few seconds,   like a needed grip on a dangerous cliffside.   he's not aware of when he stands,   or when he sets his palm over the god's jaw,   or when he hooks his arm around her lower back just to press nearer.   only when he pulls away does he suddenly realise.

so he smiles,   watching her eyes for a moment longer as his head falls from her cheek to circle around her other side.   then he lowers his cheek to rest against her shoulder,   bumping once in a gentle sort of greeting before settling in and shutting his eyes.   he could be happy here,   for a while.

#notodin #( ;; i just. *clenches my fist* *eats my entire hand* ) #( ;; THEY ARE SO. ) #( ;; he doesn't question any of it. ) #( ;; look how familiar they are with each other i'm gonna scream. ) #( ;; listen... i wrote this intending it as a one-off. ) #( ;; so NO need to reply to it since we have a novel going rn. ) #.゜–– ic . * answered . #.゜–– dyn : eivor / notodin . * and we can only fly by embracing one another .

[thelightningthatjumpsbetween]

Twenty Five

RE8 | Wintersberg | Romance, Slow Burn | Action, Sci-Fi

Sequel of Winters and the Beast, a Resident Evil: Village Story

Table Of Contents

Ethan drank deeply from the patera, cringing at the thickness of the liquid–what the HELL was it?  It was like wine, but more viscous; he passed the golden plate to Eva.  Moments later he leaned forward as if dizzy, and then simply vanished.  She drank, perhaps a bit too eagerly, enjoying the strangeness of the liquid, suddenly feeling tipsy.  Eva just had time to pass the patera to a startled Donna before she toppled backward into nothingness, disappearing from the room.

Eva fell almost instantly to the ground and paused, grunting as she rolled over onto her stomach.  It was night, and nearby, a fire crackled.  The air smelled of smoke.  She stared at the dark earth beneath her, feeling as if she had been here before.  Then she heard another grunt from nearby; Ethan was on his back several feet away, and rolled onto his side to face her.  The two exchanged a glance before the taller man glanced over the ledge toward the fire.  

The ceremony site.  They were in the middle of the large clearing where the Kings’ statues stood imposingly behind a large bonfire and seemingly, a ceremony.  The black void of sky and the random drips of void around the scene signaled that they were deep within the stratums, far away from anything current.  It was familiar; Ethan had witnessed several of these memories while trying to prepare for Eva’s return.  But this was different–they were not witnesses, watching a scene play out from afar.  They were here .  Inside a memory.  

“You think Miranda’s anywhere around here?”  Ethan looked dubiously at the large crowd of very ornately-dressed people from another time, their horses, their open tabled feast along the edge of the mountain.  

Eva listened, sensing.  After a pause, she unsteadily clambered to her feet.  “No.  She is not here.”  

“Where, uh, is, here?”

“It would appear….” Eva sniffed the air, immediately recognizing the scents that traced through it.  She closed her eyes, hearing the myriad night sounds around them–birds, animals, crackling fire, chatter in a long forgotten language.  One very obvious scent, feeling, sound, snaked its way into her mind.  “We are in Godric’s memory.  I wonder, what will he show us?” 

“Does that mean we’re…invisible?”

“We will probably not be noticed, unless by he.” 

Ethan stood, rubbing his palms on his pants, seeming eager to have something else to focus on besides his own pain.  The pair carefully picked their way down the short hill and edged along the clearing’s wall, hidden in shadows cast by tall, dancing flames.  Eva was mesmerized by the earthly, extravagant colors of the clothing.  Men and women danced, drank…it was a veritable party.  

Ethan grabbed her by the shoulder and pointed.  “Look!”

There were musicians on a strange little makeshift stage, standing and attempting to play instruments neither Eva or Ethan had ever seen, except in paintings or tapestries.  In front of the musicians were dancers.  Whether they danced for entertainment or pleasure was not clear; it was a strange sight.  But behind the stage was seated a row of several very well-dressed people, most wearing exquisite headwear such as circlets or crowns.  On one side of this row was a familiar, towering figure.  His long hair was down, his eyes glimmered with mirth, and firelight danced across his smiling face.   

He was beckoning to someone.  Eva was busy scanning the rest of the people on the row, recognizing some of the historical figures from their poorly-painted likenesses in the castle.  There was a raven-haired man clearly descended from Cesare, and the teenage girl who sat several chairs from Godric was a younger sibling of his; she would go on to carry their lineage through another few generations of monarchy.  Godric himself had disappeared from all history documents save for those the Duke got his hands on. 

Ethan spoke excitedly again as an unfamiliar figure weaved past the dancers and drinkers to sit beside Godric.  “I know him!  I’ve seen sketches.  That’s the nobleman.  The one who–”

“--wrote about being trapped, after arrival?”

“He was infected,” Ethan nodded, surveying the man as if he knew him intimately.  Then again, he essentially did.  “Back then…according to the documents, the spores were in the air, if anyone spent too much time in the village they were considered, uh….blessed…” he scoffed, “and unable to leave.  He was supposed to talk to, well, Godric I guess, about a way to escape, but if he did he never wrote anything down about it.” 

“Where was he from?”

“I can’t remember,” Ethan admitted, “He traveled a lot, I do remember that.” 

The nobleman from Ethan’s documents was only sketches, pencil and paper, until now.  In the flesh, he was so colorful, so full of life.  He was medium height and built rather thick, more like a knight than a scrawny nobleman Ethan had always envisioned.  Like most of the other men he had a beard, but his was shockingly red, and rust hair peeked out dramatically from his woolen hood.  His hair was nowhere near as long as Godric’s, but the man’s cinnamon strands fell into his brow as he took his seat.  He had a heart shaped face; a line of worry seemed permanently etched between his sparse brows.  

He was very handsome.  Ethan realized that the self-portraits were accurate, but did not convey either the handsomeness, or the very intense look of anxiety that the man actually displayed.  He looked upset, and as if he wanted to stay hidden.  Ethan knew from the writings that the group had been rather forcibly welcomed into the village, but since this outsider was a scholar, he was given very esteemed tasks and even a home–hardly a beggar. Then again, being forced into the village wasn’t something to take pride in, as Ethan knew.  

After Godric welcomed him with a very hard clap on the back, (“Those hurt,” noted Ethan to Eva,) the nobleman attempted to right himself.  With a smile, Godric yanked back on the woolen hood, exposing the man’s face.  This obviously embarrassed the other, and his brows lowered dramatically.  The pair began speaking in low tones.  The eyes of the nobleman danced around the crowd as if suspicious.  Godric simply stared at the other, unwaveringly.  

Ethan glanced at Eva expectantly, and she tiptoed closer.  Not only was she focusing on the language and trying to piece together everything said, but she had to filter through the other noises.  At first she listened silently with eyes closed, but then she began translating. 

“He says…something about the…Council not allowing the exception..? Oh, for this man to leave.  Godric tried to tell them to let him go back home.  Now he is saying,” she paused, then smiled knowingly.  “He tells him not to despair, he will keep trying.  He will…defy them if he must?  Oh!”  

Her voice became loud; she shushed herself, and Ethan raised an eyebrow.  Eva’s cheeks turned pink.  “They are lovers!  No one knows.  They are speaking in a code of some kind.”

“No way.”  Ethan’s usually very serious expression blossomed into a stupid grin.  

“Way,” Eva responded with excitement.  She put her hair behind her ear, hoping to listen for more, but the scene suddenly flickered out of view, as if the fire had died completely. 

In front of them stood the familiar door, the door of the ancient church.  

They exchanged another glance before Ethan stepped in front, pushing the double doors apart.  

Godric was lounging on his seat as usual, stroking his beard.  His cheerful face brightened upon seeing the two, and his smile was full of the newly shared secret.  Ethan realized how relieved he was to see the strangely charismatic, powerful man, and this time his legs carried him swiftly across the stone floor.  Godric stood to meet him, and this time the crushing hug could not be tight enough.  Ethan again felt like a teddy bear as he was lifted, but he took a strange kind of solace when all of the air was crushed from his lungs and his face was forced against the other’s chest.  

Godric set him down and put a heavy, large hand on Ethan’s cheek; it was so large it nearly enveloped the whole side of the blond’s face.  His eye contact was intense, and would have been terrifying if he was not so concerned and genuinely sad as he gazed into the hazel eyes.  “I am sorry.” 

“Th-thank you,” Ethan choked, unsure why he was tearing up again.  He’d just been distracted from his sorrows a moment ago, but now they threatened to implode while being shown simple warmth and kindness from this man.  He wasn’t sure if Godric actually spoke, or if he only heard his former words in his head.  

Sorrow will find you. 

Godric seemed to realize the very thin thread that held Ethan at this moment, and he pulled him into another hug.  Ethan did cry this time, and as he sobbed into the impossibly large torso he said regretfully, “I…I wasn’t supposed to come here just to cry.” 

Godric chuckled at this and rocked the blond effortlessly.  “You may cry.” 

So he did, for several minutes.  Godric’s chin was on the blond’s head and he continued the quiet, gentle rocking as he met Eva’s eyes.  She was staring at Ethan with a saddened look, but Godric winked at her, and she managed a smirk.  Finally Ethan caught his breath, enough to pull away from the tree of a man, and he allowed Godric to steer him to the familiar seat.

After Godric forced him down to sit, he did the same to Eva, steering her onto the bench–she issued a light, “Oh!” when he pushed her to a sitting position.  Then the King who seemed so eager to neglect his throne sat in between the two blonds, draping his long, heavy arms over their shoulders.  

Ethan exhaled.  “So tell me about–what the hell is that?”

The empty bench across from them was covered in dark char marks and tiny little handprints.  They were mostly scribbles, childish.  Godric chuckled, “Your girl.  Some hours ago.  She decorated for me.” 

“Rose came here? Alone?” 

Godric shrugged.  “She is strong.” 

“Oh my god.”  Ethan massaged his temple, and he felt the large hand of Godric squeezing the top of his head playfully, as if teasing him.  Ethan shot him a faux-aggravated look, and got a head pat instead.  The blond didn’t even try to argue anymore.  Godric was staring intensely at him, and Ethan felt compelled to ask his original question.  

“Tell us about–”

“My dove,” he heaved a sigh, his usually jovial expression dimming a bit.  Ethan thought back to the redheaded man and his very expressive eyebrows.  

“Dove?”

“Colm,” Godric nodded, staring past the darkness that enveloped his small space.  “My dove.”  Now he exhaled, as if he’d been waiting to get that name off his chest.  Eva and Ethan both looked expectantly at him, and Eva finally reached out and petted the long chestnut hair.  

Ethan knew the look on Godric’s face.  “What happened?” 

Godric tsked and shook his head.  “He wanted to leave.  Was not his home.” 

“And you didn’t try to…” Ethan fumbled his words, thinking of Karl.  “...make him stay?”

The black brows rose and the humored glare was focused directly on Ethan.  “No.” 

“But where did he go, if he left?” Eva questioned, “He has no records elsewhere.” 

Godric shrugged.  “I was gone, after.”  He gestured, very much like Karl, almost knocking Ethan in the face with his elbow.  Godric seemed agitated, and he consoled himself with petting the hair of both of the blonds.  They stared at him, equally mesmerized and confused.  

“Gone?”  Eva’s tone was sad, compassionate.  “You mean…”

“You were put here, weren’t you,” Ethan said, his eyes lighting up in a sort of disbelief.  “You were imprisoned, or, or something?”

Godric made a chopping motion at his own neck, miming the gesture comically.  Ethan’s jaw dropped.   “Could not die.  Could only be banished.  Destroyed my body anyway.” 

“Oh!” from Eva.  “You found the Purifying Crystal, didn’t you?”

He grinned mischievously, and she tossed an explanation to Ethan, her braids now frizzy and loose from the top of her head thanks to the petting.  Ethan’s hair was similarly standing on end.  “There were many crystals that this…er…religion, used in their rituals, but the most powerful, they kept hidden, did they not?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m guessing one of them is the one Miranda is trying to get back after using it to make Rose…how she is,” Ethan said, not liking where this was going.  

“Yes.” 

“But one crystal was called the Purifying Crystal,” Eva went on excitedly.  “It became a bit of a Holy Grail.  Firstly because it could, well, purify…it could remove any unwanted side effects from being…well…what we are, Ethan.  It made beings more human.”  

He raised an eyebrow, thinking of the mirror image.  Unwanted side effects, huh. 

“But it was used in the resurrection ceremonies, which were rare.  The reason I say Holy Grail is that, like the Grail, this…disappeared at some point in far away history.  It has never been seen since, and fell into legend.  My mother tested out many artifacts, thinking it disguised, but she never found it.  She would even now give anything to have it, yes.”

Eva looked skeptically at the grinning man next to her.  “ You took it?”

“I tried asking, they said no,” he shrugged.  They all laughed at this, but then Ethan’s smile was replaced by a rather sorrowful expression.  

“They punished you for stealing it, to help someone you loved?”

“That…yes…. and punished for a man’s love,” Godric said with a frown.  He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.  “Was told my life, you are strong! Big! Get a family.  Get a Queen.  Heirs.  Baaahhh.”  

“Not the queen-having type,” Ethan quipped, but Eva raised an eyebrow. 

“More than that, if the texts are correct.”  She looked at Godric with a new curiosity.  “You were…?”

“No one,” Godric said with a wave of his hand.  Ethan pondered on this, wondering if it meant that the King was asexual, and the other man seemed to agree with this silent question, nodding his head.  “I had feelings for no one.  Only friends! My whole life.  Teachers, doctors, priests, called to help.”  He laughed uproariously.  “Trainings! For how to…” he gestured with a displeased face.  

“Ew,” Ethan said, which made Godric laugh loudly again.  The merry sound was short-lived.  Large patches of black were slinking past their vision, appearing over the stained glass windows.  All three turned to survey the room.  Soon the black strands would cover the door.  

The blond stared at this in silence, and then turned back to the King.  “So you helped your lover, the first, ONLY, lover you ever had, escape this place, and you got put in some kind of…mold, prison? For it?  That’s why you can manifest after so many years, your mind is protected by being here?  But you can’t go anywhere else.  You’re stuck in here.”

Godric had been nodding at first, but he frowned and said thoughtfully, “My mind is protected because I remember.” 

“Remember what?”

“To grieve.  Remember what I told you?” 

Ethan, for once, was spellbound by the eye contact and couldn’t look away.  In a small, meek voice, he recited, “Anger and…and love.” 

Godric nodded approvingly.  “Keep feeling it.”  He twirled Ethan’s hair.  “You need it too.” 

“How cruel of them,” Eva said in an unusually unhappy tone; she looked rather distraught.  Godric was still petting her hair, but now he pulled her in more closely for a hug, planting a kiss on her disheveled head.  “Thank you.” 

“Is there something we can do?” she began, “Some way to….to…” 

“Need a Queen,” he said sadly, and her face fell.  “And then, only maybe .  It would be difficult.” 

Ethan was frowning deeply, and he barely registered any of this conversation.  Godric caught onto this and pulled the blond’s gaze away from the doors.  “What is it?”

“I just.”  Ethan chuffed.  “I don’t understand why he would leave you, or let you do something that would get you in so much trouble…I get that he was forced to be here, but if he loved you–”

“He did not know.”  Godric shrugged.  “I did not say.  He was to send letters, maybe come back.  He sent one letter, and our secret was found.  Maybe he sent other letters, I was not there to see them.  But.”  He sighed, hugging the pair close.  “Now you know.” 

“This is awful, I’m so sorry,” Ethan blurted out, and when he met the intense gaze this time his eyes were brimming with tears.  “I wanted to learn about you, but this…You’re here, all alone, punished for–how many centuries?--and we can’t do anything about it?  Just because of another stupid crystal, and the stupid village?  I can’t.  I can’t–”

Godric was almost giggling at watching Ethan get riled up.  He poked him in the shoulder.  “I thought you are to learn to let go.” 

“Yeah but….not about this!---About–I….” 

“You make me more real,” the other man commented, finally pulling his arms in and staring at his hands.  He no longer looked translucent, as he had at their first meeting.  He turned the hands over as if showing them off.  “You come, speak, I feel you, I remember more.”  His smile was lopsided.  “It is not so bad.  I remember good things.” 

Ethan was still staring skeptically, and Godric tipped his head back again.  His oddly colored eyes closed.  “I remember old things now.  How he could sing.  He could play.  And he wrote always, always made art. He was very gentle.  Curious.  Always learning.  Reading.  Taught me to read.  So good to touch, so soft.”  

Godric opened one eye and nudged Ethan.  

“Sharing sorrows helps with healing.”

Abruptly he put his palms on their backs, pushing them up and away from the bench.  

“Go, my friends.”

“Thank you,” Eva said in a still-somber tone, “So much, for sharing this with us.  You are an extraordinary being.  I promise; we will right the wrongs of my mother, and of everyone who hurt you.”  

He lifted her up as if she were a houseplant in a vase, pinning her arms, and planted a kiss on her forehead.  Then Godric hugged Eva tenderly, whispering something to her in her own language.  She reluctantly moved toward the door, waiting for Ethan.  

Godric’s smile was different when he turned to Ethan; he had shared the source of his deepest wound, the blond realized as his lungs were forcibly collapsed again in a hug.  They felt closer.  The crushing feelings of loneliness that Ethan felt while ‘reading’ the other’s memories made sense now.  That feeling permeated the air as they prepared to leave.  Ethan squeezed Godric’s hand one last time before stepping toward the door.  

“Thank you,” he repeated Eva’s statement.  

“Remember, awaken–”

“I know, I know, I will…Moreau,” Ethan said in the irritated tone that made Karl chuckle and Godric roar with laughter. This time, Ethan didn’t even flinch when Godric’s lips moved to his cheek, pressing into the soft flesh.  And this time, Godric very gently held Ethan’s other cheek while doing so.  He patted the blond’s cheek after, his good-humored expression returning.  When he plopped into the throne lazily, Godric held up a hand.  “Oh!  The drink…” he spun a finger around his head. 

“Lie down.” 

“Great,” Ethan commented sarcastically as they tipped into the blackness beyond what Ethan now knew was a prison.  

#ethan winters #karl heisenberg #wintersberg

[treesandwords]

Find the word tag

My words: lonely, breaks, reply, town, & head

Your words: Field, flee, red, table, suitable

Tagged by: @on-noon Tagging: @kaatiba @writerfae @writingmoth @kingsinking

Lonely : It seemed even now that three of the four pillars that held up their family had been suddenly ripped away, leaving his mother a lonely column with a household close to breaking her back.             By the light of a candle Jerod wrote more, until his fingers were blackened with ink. At the bottom of the page, beneath lines of distressed ramblings, he scratched in second month of summer season, fifteenth day. This was what happened today. Somehow he felt he would need to remember that in years to come

Breaks: N/A

Reply: When he received no reply, Ulric addressed them again. “Did you not hear me? Look at your father, both of you.” They did, reluctantly.             The knife pointed at Jerod’s father next. “This man calls himself our ally and friend. And then he pays us a visit after years of abandoning us, but not to help us, oh no. Instead he wants me to play friendly with the bastards that took everything from us. Does that sound like a friend to you?”             “I did not abandon you, Taigen,” said Jerod’s father, quietly yet precisely. “I have told you – the raids were unknown to us until  -“             “Shut up.” Taigen Ulric the Elder pounded his fist against the stone table. “You don’t get to contradict me in my own home – this is my hall, Dalion, shut up with your half-truths before I gut you.” Town: The candle. It might have been stupid, but it made him uneasy sitting there in a wooden hut. The last thing he needed was it and the whole town to go up in flames.             It was right by where the snake was coiled. “Get behind me,” he told Nurei. Inch by inch, trembling, he crouched down towards the candle. The snake stared back at him, tail flicking again. He tried to breathe slowly, in and out.             Even when his hand closed around the candle holder it shook so badly he feared he would drop it . Hot wax ran down onto his hand and burned, he only clutched it tighter.             The snake stared. Head: In the firelight Jerod looked up at the great tapestry on the wall above, of the two Kings facing one another in all their glory. On the left was the Holly King, the king of winter, his face shades of dark green and red with the leaves and berries of his namesake, and with yew, branches of fir and pinecones forming his tangled hair, white mistletoe crowning his head and making the whites of his eyes. Those eyes faced his rival, the king of summer, but in the dimness Jerod could have sworn it was him they followed. This was the time of his domain, the time of darkness and cold and fractured promises. You did not pray to the Holly King – doing so invited only trickery and disappointment.

#writing #my wips #wip: sons of the summer king #writeblr #tag game #find the word tag

[gcblinslayer]

[Continued from HERE.]

@hxvemxnd:

Alright... They can no longer keep overlooking this.

So far their own hive had been mostly safe from this strange onslaught. Fringe nests of hives had been hunted, and Zazie wants to brush it off as natural selection. They assaulted the wrong person, and they were killed in spite. Not something they want to let be, but humans will behave as they will.

But the longer this has gone on, the more this feels... targeted. Hunting. And Zazie is not a fan of those who try to wipe out native species on No Man's Land. So, this challenger wanted a fight? Oh, then he would get one.

He seems content to be swallowed which just works all the easier, and Zazie is quick to let their presence be known. Anger seeps even into the way they stand to greet him, shoulders tensed, and hands balled into fists. Angry buzzing, loud and echoing inside their worm, all emanating from the collective themself. They will kill him if they have to. Honestly, they may even if it simply just pleases them at this rate.

"Explain yourself," Zazie commands, crossing their arms over their chest now as they look at this... What was this? Humans didn't dress like this as far as they'd seen. Maybe that meant he was a dangerous evolution of theirs. No bother - Zazie would fix that.

"Why do you continue to harm the planet? You are playing a dangerous game."

“I’m killing worms,” the stranger replies easily enough, unhurried, as though speaking of the weather. 

Is this their Queen? He was expecting something more... No- That isn’t the point. This isn’t time to speculate on what could be. There is only reality.

It’s not a question of if, why, or whether he can do it. He must. He will. 

He will, or he will die. That is reality, too.

“I hunt them down and the planet still spins. So what?”

This does not seem an adequate answer for the small person yelling at them.

“"Think about how it would feel if your home was suddenly attacked by monsters... Yes- If your home was suddenly attacked by monsters one day. They come in and consume everything they can find: Your parents. Your friends. Neighbors. You are hidden somewhere by your elder sister, just in time, but you can do nothing to save her. You must hold your breath, stay hidden, even as they chew through her flesh and eyes, crawl up her nose into her brain to lay more of their brood.”

He takes a step forward, looming over the minute figure staring hatefully up at him through the gaps in his faceplate. The firelight from his handheld torch cast gloomy shadows over the inner walls of the feeder worm, glowing and breathing as it digs it’s way through the sands. 

Somewhere within that metal shell he calls a helmet is still a scared little boy. But he must decide what to do and act, no matter how terrified he is. Because that is how he’ll win.

“There's no way you'd ever forgive them." 

#hxvemxnd #♞ rp thread. #insects tw #gore tw #worm slayer: now if you'll excuse me i need to blow up this giant worm

[starlightswitch]

Newbie Misunderstanding

@flashfictionfridayofficial Annnnd another late one because apparently I only get ideas at 11 o'clock or later now.

At the last cast party, the seniors disappeared into the basement and came up with funny awards for everyone in the cast and crew. Usually. This year the last cast party was at Joshua’s house and it didn’t have a basement– just a garage that had two cars and a bunch of outdoors equipment and no room for a conference– so the seniors took over the living room and made everyone else stay in the kitchen. This left the kitchen so packed that, even though it was mid-November and close to freezing outside, people started drifting outside. Someone got the firepit going. Michaela sat in one of the chairs near it, shivered when she felt the cold of the metal through the cushion, and moved up to sit on the wall instead. It was low enough her feet almost touched the ground.

Ren came and sat by her. After a bit of conversation about the play being over and the director being right about post-show depression and they were already looking forward to fall drama and what might the show be? they lapsed into silence.

No one else was staying by the fire for long. Most people seemed to be trading off the crowded indoors for the cold outdoors.

“You want to go in?” Ren asked after a while.

“If I wanted to go in I’d go in.”

“You look… maybe… cold.”

“Well, I’d rather be cold than… crowded in there with everybody.”

“Still.” He slid closer to her, and it was nice that he was warm.

“Thanks,” said Michaela, and then looked up in surprise when Ren grabbed her hand.

“Your hands are cold too,” he said, pressing hers between both of his.

“Always are. Are you cold?” she asked, turning to look at him when she thought she felt him shiver. Their faces were very close.

He hesitated, the firelight flickering over his face. “Nervous, maybe.”

“Hm?”

“I’ve never been this close to you before. Well, when a director hadn’t told me to. I appreciated it when a director told me to.”

There was a pleasant little twist in Michaela’s stomach. She leaned a little closer, and when he didn’t close the distance, she did.

It was a light kiss. Then he smiled and leaned in for another, longer one.

They stopped when the door opened, both quickly looking that way. The silhouette stopped near the house, didn’t come toward the fire, probably because they had seen what was happening there.

“So…” Ren shifted. “How do you feel?”

“How do I feel?”

“Well, um… do you like kissing or do you like me?”

Michaela laughed, but caught herself and made sure it was gentle. “I…” Suddenly she was remembering a lot of times he’d made quiet jokes she’d laughed at, or given her encouraging looks when she got notes she was clearly frustrated with. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but I think I could.”

“Could… like me?”

“Yeah.” She grinned and gave him another light kiss. “I definitely think I could.”

When someone yelled for them to get inside because the seniors had finally risen from their graves and awards were about to start, she got up and said with a lightness that came from knowing that someone liked her back– liked her first– “You sure this isn’t just, you know, the emotions of the show being over and…”

He stood up and kissed her again, and with their faces close he said, “Definitely not.”

And then he didn’t speak to her again.

Okay, maybe he hadn’t copied the cast phone list into his phone like she had, and maybe he hadn’t been able to catch her after awards were over since Joshua’s parents didn’t want people in their house until all hours so that was basically the end of the party. He could have gotten her number from someone else.

She cornered him backstage at strike the next day. “So you didn’t mean it?”

“Mean… what?”

“Did I misunderstand?”

“What?”

“You didn’t text me.”

“I… Did I tell you I would text you?”

“You said you liked me, and it wasn’t just post-show emotions.”

“It wasn’t, and I do like you!”

It was the most frustrated she’d ever heard him, and probably the loudest. Michaela almost looked over her shoulder to see if anyone working on the stage had heard. “So you didn’t text me…?”

He took a deep breath. “I was hoping you would text me. I, um. I don’t really know how this works.”

“How what works?” Michaela noticed too late that still sounded like she was interrogating him. She tried to think of something to assure him…

“How a relationship works.” He ducked his head. “I haven’t really… been in one before.”

“I haven’t either,” Michaela pointed out.

“How is that possible?”

It was even more of a compliment because he said it with such surprise.

She shrugged and said, even surprising herself a little, “Nobody even liked me before.”

He kept looking at her with surprise, and then he reached for her hand. “Do you want to figure out how together? How to be in a relationship?”

She squeezed his hand and grinned. “Definitely.”

#my writing

[eulogyeula]

Abstruse

Chapter 1: Mari and Ekko

     The Undercity was filled with catacombs. The only people that knew of their existence were the architects that built the place and the few people that managed to discover them on their own. It was incredibly difficult to find them, but one girl, Mari, did.

     When she was twelve, Mari was lurking around Vander's tavern, The Last Drop, playing with the rocks in the walls. It was then that she noticed a weird pattern of stones that jutted out from the rest of the wall. When she pressed down on them, they depressed into the wall, but sometimes they would all pop back up. Mari figured that it must be some kind of code, so she took a piece of blue chalk and marked the thirteen rocks by their numbers. She took a piece of paper and recorded the order in which they needed to be pressed down before popping back up, and after an hour, she figured out the code. It was 5,1,7,12,4,6,9,10,13,3,11,2,8.

     Once the rocks were pushed down in order, a small panel opened up under the table Mari was sitting next to, revealing a dusty and cobweb-filled passage. She took one look back at the loud and crowded bar before crawling into the space. The door closed behind her and for a moment she was scared that she wouldn't be able to get out. However, she took a large yellow glowstick from her belt and cracked it against the wall. She turned back to the entrance and noticed a small switch, flicking it to open the passage again. After a moment, the door closed and Mari noted that the door would only stay open for a short amount of time.

     She turned back to the small hallway and began to crawl forward, marking the walls with her blue chalk so she could find her way back if she got lost. The chalk glowed green under her glowstick's light, Mari coughing out dust as she moved forward. After a moment, the hallway opened up and a set of stairs descended into the dark, Mari marking the wall so she wouldn't fall if she had no light in the future. As she walked down the stairs, the ceiling and walls grew wider, giving her more space. A line of electric sconces lined the walls, the light bulbs having burned out long ago. Mari stopped and pulled from her satchel an assortment of different bulbs she had stolen that had caught her eye. Most of them were multicolored.

     Mari replaced the bulbs in the sconces and they lit up beautifully, lighting her way. She kept the old bulbs in case she needed to smash them for a trap or distraction, trekking further into the tunnels. Soon, the stairs stopped, and she was faced with a split path, deciding to go right. The sconced disappeared and Mari pulled out her glowsticks again, walking down the curved hallway for about ten minutes before she reached another split. This time, the wall in front of her had a ladder leading up, Mari taking a few steps back and marking the wall with an arrow pointing ahead and a small drawing of a ladder.

     She went back to the wall and stuck her glowsticks in her teeth, deciding to go up. It seemed like the ladder hadn't been used in many years, but it was still sturdy and showed no sign of decay. After a short climb, Mari reached a trap door, pushing up and coming out in a small room filled with hand-made gadgets, skateboards, telescopes, firelights, and everything covered in glowing paint. She pulled herself up and stood in the room, brushing her dark green hair behind her ears and dusting herself off. Suddenly, a voice from behind her asked, "Who are you?"

     Mari whipped around to see a boy her age with white hair and striking brown eyes staring at her from across the room. "Um... my name is Mari."

     "How did you get in here?" The boy held up a pipe to his chest, ready to swing at any moment. Maro took a step back and said, "The trap door?" The boy's eyes widened and he asked, "What trap door?" Mari pointed at a dent in the floor where she presumed the handle was, the boy in front of her stepped forward to examine it. He set his pipe down and squatted to lift the door, a cloud of dust coming up from the crawlspace and making him cough. "How did I not notice that?"

     "I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone lived here. I was exploring the tunnels underground." The boy turned to face Mari with an excited expression. He seemed to forget that she had broken into his room. "We have catacombs?" Mari nodded and said, "Yeah, I just found them today. Do you want me to show you?" The boy nodded and said, "Yes, let me grab my bag." Mari watched as the boy grabbed a large satchel and filled with with candles, tape, chalk, glow-in-the-dark paint, food and water, and firelight bait. Mari motioned for him to follow him down the ladder and said, "Watch your step, the ladder is kinda shaky, but it won't break." The boy nodded and followed Mari down the ladder, her glowstick lighting up the surrounding area.

     When they got to the bottom, Mari asked, "What's your name?"

     "Ekko." The girl wrote on the wall in her blue chalk, "Ekko's Room" with an arrow pointing up. Ekko took a lightbulb from his bag and taped it to the wall, then tied a wire around the base that he had lead from his room. The bulb glowed bright green and lit up the small area, the two nodding to each other. "How much have you explored so far?"

     "Not much. I found an opening at Vander's under a table and that led to a staircase, then a split, then to the ladder. The two sat down and Mari took her paper from before out of her bag, flipping it over to draw a map on the back of it. "I wonder how far the tunnels go. It looks like no one's been down here since the city was built. There's spider webs everywhere, but no spiders, so I assume they all died of starvation. I haven't found any cracks in the walls which means they're super strong."

     "How cool would it be if we found a bunch of secrets rooms and turned this into a secret base?" Mari looked up from her paper into Ekko's happy eyes and the two grinned widely at each other. "If these tunnels lead through the whole city, we won't have to worry about starvation or boredom again! We could help everyone secretly and they'd never know it was us!"

     "We could be secret heroes!" Ekko and Mari high-fived and packed up their stuff, Mari leading her new friend up the now-lit staircase so they could explore the right side of the first split which they named Vander's Split. It turned out the other passage just led to a large empty room and Mari had the idea of turning it into a loft. She didn't exactly have a home of her own, so they divided the room in half and marked their names on the floors. Eventually, they collected enough of their belongings to decorate the space and turn it into a bedroom.

     To the left of Ekko's Ladder was a large library filled with old books covered in dust. To the right was an old storage space lined with empty shelves. Mari decided to turn that room into an art studio and she and Ekko collected new books to fill some of the empty spaces in the old library. They set up some chairs and posters and painted everything in the glow-in-the-dark paint for some decoration, setting up candles and string lights along the floors. Mari spraypainted the walls of the catacombs with beautiful abstract murals and Ekko set up firelight feeders along the halls, bringing beautiful light to the space.

There were a few ladders along the walls leafing up to small grates where the two could see out to the street, Ekko installing cameras with feeds leading to a monitor in the bedroom. They also found a set of Walkie-Talkies that they set up a charging station for and found an incredible, open-ceilinged room. The room was built at the convergence of four city blocks, the walls curling around in a circle. It seemed as though no one had discovered this room because the walls to the surrounding buildings were completely flat with no windows. The way the enclosure was built was to make sure no one could find the room.

At the center was a large pool filled with crystal-clear water, four spouts pouring small waterfalls into the pool. There were firelights swarming above, beautiful purple flowers growing along the walls in vines, and the moon was fully visible overhead. In the middle of the pool was a large tree covered in lichen, stool mushrooms, and sphagnum moss.

For a year, Mari and Ekko used this place as a hideout, discovering more rooms amd hallways and updating their map as time went on. They were able to collect a lot of information and intel from the city through their camera's and trap doors, often steaming from Piltover homes in order to bring gifts to their friends, Vander's adopted children, and to furnish their passageways.

     Soon, the catacombs would become a vital part of Mari's life.

#arcane #league of legends #lol #fanfiction #fanfic #arcane fanfic #fluff #arcane oc #original character #ekko lol

[azthernom]

Closed Doors

A great big door stands in your way. The top of the frame, where a lantern hangs, sits just beyond the tip of your hand. When did you lift your hand? Were you reaching for something? The lantern, perhaps? The flame inside flickers to life and dies down, just to flare back up seconds later. It casts fun shadows on the door; they dance across its surface, tripping every now and then on a knot or a crevice. The wood is aged and cracked, with dark edges and coffee colored veins. It curves at the top to make an upside down U shape with the surrounding crude rock. The frame itself isn’t rock, but some odd metal reminiscent of an angry thunderstorm. Where the granite meets the metal, dark oil seeps through. It glimmers in the firelight, like a stream of small glinting diamonds. You find yourself mesmerized by the come and go of the quivering highlights. You’ve moved closer to the door unaware. 

Something pulls you back abruptly. Your brain scrambles for an explanation. You realise you’ve stepped away from the door unconsciously. Blood. Old blood. The answer comes from some hidden recess of your mind. “A door framed in the blood of Gods”. A conversation with a regal looking girl in a pale blue dress holding an odd coffer echoes through your thoughts. Who was she again? An intruding realization drags your attention away from the memory of the child: the door is closed. This shouldn’t strike you as odd seeing as doors are meant to be closed. And yet, you find yourself looking around, almost expecting an ambush of some sort. But from who? 

Come to think of it, how did you get here? The harder you try to remember, the more distracted you become with some minor detail of the door. The metal ornaments, for example, curve around the frame, grasping it gently. It reminds you of a mother’s grip, or a couple holding hands. And the veins of the wood form beautiful patterns, like a copper river flowing down a bed of burnt rocks. The stone hugging the edges catches your attention next. It’s texture shifts under the changing light. You watch the shadows play games across its surface. As your eyes trace the roughly cut edges of the stone, they suddenly find themselves looking into darkness. 

There’s no wall. The door stands in the middle of the path, free on both sides. You reach around the edge of the frame to glimpse the background, only to see a night sky, a welcoming forest, and a dirt path. Why is this door here? Who took the time to build and adorn it but left it attached to nothing but air? You come back to the halo of the lantern. The shadows grin at you playfully as they skitter across the surface. 

What were you thinking again? Something about an imminent danger, perhaps? Or was it something to do with the- that’s it. You were pondering how you came to be standing in front of this great big door. You hardly get a chance to form a coherent thought in response when deafening silence swamps you. Your brain hadn’t noticed the subtle rasping of the wind or the crickets' familiar chirping weaving through the night, not until they’re absence pushed the air out of your lungs. You begin to step back, only to find your feet won’t move. The shadows on the door have stopped performing their dance. The flame in the lantern is frozen in time. Your eyes dart beyond the stone edge, where a moment ago there was movement. The stillness in the air becomes suffocating. Your head gets light and airy and you find yourself holding your breath. How long has it been since you last took in air? The skin on the nape of your neck pricks up. Your heart beats in your ears. You find yourself tensing up, muscles ready to dart at the first opening.

You’re abruptly torn off your feet and sucked into the doorway, which has blown open too quickly to process. 

The lantern shoots out of reach as you’re pulled further and further into the void, it’s light fading out in seconds. 

And then, nothing.

#Wolfgang

[thewaywardhealers]

Sadira was hers. Lorna had cornered her, at it stood as a stand-off, words exchanged, jabs at both their prowess for anyone moving.

Lorna laughed, "we women use what we have to get ahead, you and I are the same, but different. I found my way, on my own, you...you still answer to a man."

Fire against fire, Lorna was reminded of the lessons Exene had put her through, and with the fire encapsulating, she found herself able to command all things that could move.

A strain, but she managed, and the two brawled. Invisible shield against a wall of fire, swarms of flies against fire, gossamer wings incinerated. "Come now.... let us play nice."

It was the sudden silence that worried her, and Lorna glanced to Sadira, trying to read her reaction.

Sadira laughed, "Your people there..." and suddenly stopped, her expression growing blank, and then curious as Malus called to her, and she retreated, "We will have our chance fire witch." And smoke consumed Sadira.

Lorna stayed low, on her knees. Fire was easy to her, but the telekinesis was wearing her down and she took a breather, "Come on you hag...you want to fight fist to fist, then let me show you what I can do." And laid low.

The fighting continuing, as she wondered for the great beast that was her lover Dom, when she charged from her spot to ignite the skies in firelight, when Sadira covertly reappeared and stuck her blade to the hilt into her shoulder.

The hollow sound as the glowing blue blade cut deep into her shoulder made Lorna suck in her breath, and turn on the buxom witch Sadira. "You cu-"

"Now now..." Sadira smirk, "We are ladies after all." And pulled the blade free, "I can see the power draining from you...oh you clever little mutate....one down, two to go..." as she caressed Lorna's cheek.

Just as she made to depart, Lorna shot back, sending a red hot palm sized stone, cutting through the air, and hit her, searing into Sadira's side.

#lorna blake #the village of arbor #at war #sadira the seductress #dominic necastro

[annarellix]

BREAKING TIME By Sasha Alsberg (EXCERPT)

Book Description Fate brought them together. Time will tear them apart.

When a mysterious Scotsman suddenly appears in the middle of the road, Klara thinks the biggest problem is whether she hit him with her car. But, as impossible as it sounds, Callum has stepped out of another time, and his arrival marks the beginning of a deadly adventure. Klara soon learns she is the last Pillar of Time—an anchor point in the timeline of the world. After being unable to protect the previous Pillar, Callum believes he’s fated to protect her. But now a dark force is hunting the Pillars—and Klara and Callum are the only two standing in the way. They’ll have to learn to trust each other and work together…but they'll need to protect their hearts from one another if they're going to survive

The Author Sasha Alsberg is the #1 New York Times bestselling coauthor of Zenith, the first book in The Androma Saga. When Sasha is not writing or obsessing over Scotland, she is galavanting across social media with her two dogs, Fraser & Fiona. Sasha lives in London, England.

Social Links: Author website: https://www.sashaalsberg.com/ Twitter: @sashaalsberg Instagram: @sashaalsberg Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sasha.alsberg Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15100575.Sasha_Alsberg

Buy Links: Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Breaking-Time-Sasha-Alsberg/dp/1335284893 Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/breaking-time-sasha-alsberg/1140332910 IndieBound: https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781335284891 Books-A-Million: https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Breaking-Time/Sasha-Alsberg/9781335284891 AppleBooks: https://books.apple.com/ch/audiobook/breaking-time/id1591477301 Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Sasha_Alsberg_Breaking_Time?id=5TlHEAAAQBAJ

EXCERPT: Excerpted from BREAKING TIME by Sasha Alsberg, © 2022 by Sasha Alsberg, used with permission from Inkyard Press/HarperCollins.

Callum - 1568

“Thomas!” Callum yelled as he left the pub. The wall of crisp night air dizzied him, causing him to stumble over cobble¬stones that seemed to shift beneath his feet. Drunken laughter muff led as the door slammed shut behind him. “Where the hell are ye?” he shouted. His voice echoed through the deserted streets. No answer came. Lanterns flickered along the main road, setting the heavy fog aglow. In a wee town like Rosemere, the slightest whis¬pers could be heard a mile away. They carried farther than that, Callum knew; the windows around him were shuttered, but candles burned low just inside. How many prying eyes watched from behind the slats? How many would speak of his friend, the disgraced fighter, in hushed voices at tomor¬row’s market, over bread bought with the coin they’d won betting on him mere weeks earlier? Callum clenched his fists. The whole pub had shouted and jeered while Thomas got pummeled that night. Sounds still rang in Callum’s ears: the thud of fist and flesh, the sickening crunch of bone. It was the third time this month that Thomas had lost—only the third time, in two years of fighting. Brice would be angry. Master, keeper, devil, father. Brice MacDonald was all of these things to Callum and Thomas. Whatever Brice’s wrath tonight, Callum could not let Thomas face it alone. Not when Thomas had looked after Callum for so long, raised him up from a nipper as well as a real older brother would. But he would not abandon Thomas like his mother had abandoned him. The thought sobered Callum. He called again, lowering his voice to a taunt. “Thomas! You owe me three shillings!” Thomas could usually be drawn out with a jab. Callum paused, straining his ears for a response but was met with unease instead. An owl watched from its perch atop the baker’s roof, golden eyes unblinking against the dark night sky. The shining orbs fixed on him. He tore his gaze from the bird and walked on, moving away from the firelight and into shadow. Even more worrisome than Brice was the fact that Thomas had given Callum his most treasured item earlier that night: his notebook, small sheaths of vellum bound in leather. When he first began carrying it around, Thomas claimed to have stolen it from the apothecary when he went in for a poultice. He had kept it on him, always, and had never let Callum lay eyes on what was inside. Yet he had pressed it into Callum’s hand, just before the match tonight. He said something to Callum when he did, but his words were inaudible within the roar of the pub. Then after, he disappeared from the pub without even a goodbye. Now Callum was wandering the streets, alone. It was unlike Thomas to behave so strangely, to lose so badly. The Thomas he knew—boyish and rowdy, tough as leather but never mean—had fallen away with the autumn leaves these past months. Instead of spending evenings at The Black Hart Inn, weaving stories he’d learned as a child of selkies and sailors for red-cheeked barmaids until the sun rose, Thomas began to disappear for days, weeks at a time—stretches too long for Callum to explain to Brice. He took a beating or two for it, too. When Thomas returned, he was sullen, sometimes violent, and consumed by a strangeness Callum had no words to describe. His eyes stared but did not see, as distant as stars burning in his skull. If he spoke at all, he told tales of the demons that terrified them as children: like the Sluagh, spirits of the dead who wandered in flocks, flying around the sky like soaring reapers and stealing souls, flesh hanging off them like blackened rags. Or the bean-nighe, banshees, messengers from the Otherworld and omens of death, who lingered in lonely streams, washing the clothes of doomed men. Normally Callum heard of such dark crea¬tures within the stories of heroes, but Thomas’s stories didn’t end in life…but death. He fixated on that fact, as if it were coming for him. I saw her, he’d said of the bean-nighe. I refuse to die. It worried Callum, but just as his worry morphed into con¬frontation, Thomas would come back to himself. This was enough to comfort Callum as he watched Thomas return to tales of ancient heroes and kings. Maybe he accepted his re¬lief too soon since the nights of those stories were fewer these days, and more often Thomas’s speech would turn dark again. He would speak of strange visions, of men who leaped from one world to the next. They’re coming, Cal, you’ll see. It’s as simple as stepping through a veil. Who’s coming, Thomas? What veil? Callum asked, and Thomas would laugh. It was no tale that Callum knew. He’d warned Thomas not to tell it. He didn’t like the wary looks it earned him. It was one thing to be a bard who told these stories for a living, but it was another thing to speak like a madman of evil spir¬its and fairies as if they were tangible things away from the lyrics of a song or the pages of a book. Callum reached the end of the main road—the turn for Kelpie’s Close. If you wanted trouble, you found it in Kelpie’s. The narrow backstreet edged Rosemere like a blade pressed against the town’s throat. A chill clung to his skin. Here, there were no lanterns to light the way, his only guide sparse slivers of moonlight. The wind picked up suddenly, lifting his hair and reaching under his woolen cloak. He tried to shake off visions of the Sluagh hovering above him, raking their cold fingers down his neck. “It’s as dark as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat,” he mumbled. Callum reached for the dirk tucked under his arm and found the carved handle concealed under layers of wool, feel¬ing a sting of guilt. It was Thomas’s knife. Callum had slipped it away from him before the match, worried about what his friend might do in the crowded pub if he got enough drink in him. He tapped it, drawing enough strength to plunge into the darkness. “Scunner!” he cursed, meaning it. “Where are you?” A cry pierced the quiet. Callum’s heart pounded as he followed the sound farther down the alley. He pulled the dirk from under his arm, cer¬tain now that he’d need to use it. “Thomas?” Unease, cold and metallic, crept up his spine. The alley appeared empty—strange, for this time of night—but the si¬lence was thick, alive with a feeling Callum couldn’t name. He pushed on, deeper into the gloom. “Thomas?” Another strangled cry, ahead. Callum broke into a run. A single lantern flickered a short distance away, casting a wan glow over a lone figure slumped against the wall. A sweep of red hair, bright even in the dim alley. “Thomas, ye bastard, do ye ken what—” The insult lodged in his throat. Thomas lay on the ground, his legs splayed at sickening angles. Blood seeped through his shirt, blooming like ink on paper. Callum rushed to his friend and knelt beside him. He dropped the dirk and pressed his hands against the deep slice that marred his friend’s torso. A knife wound. “Dinnae fash, Thomas, dinnae fash,” Callum repeated, voice tight and panicked. He glanced up, searching for friend or foe, and found no one. “We’ll be back to the pub before Anderson kens we havna paid our tab.” Thomas stared up at him with glassy blue eyes. With each shuddering breath, more blood spilled through Callum’s fin¬gers. He ripped the cloth stock from his neck and pressed the fabric onto the wound. It did little to stem the flow of blood. Within a few heartbeats, the cloth was soaked through, red and dripping. If he pressed any harder, would it be doing more harm than good? Should he call for help, though it might draw the at¬tacker? Callum hadn’t a clue. He wished suddenly, ferociously, that he’d had a proper mother, one whose wisdom he could call upon to calmly guide his hands. However, Thomas was the only family he had. His only family was dying. Thomas opened his mouth, but instead of words, a wet cough came out, splattering red across his pale face. “Dinnae move, Thomas,” Callum shushed him. His uncer¬tainty gave way to desperation, burst from his throat. “Help! Help us!” His words dissolved into the night air, leaving behind only a tightness at the center of his chest. If he hadn’t taken Thomas’s dirk, he would have been able to defend himself, he wouldn’t be dying in Callum’s arms— Thomas gasped, but it seemed as if no air reached his lungs. Lowering his head, Callum gripped Thomas’s hands, though his own were shaking. “I will find the man who did this, I swear—” Then the world flipped sideways. A blow had hit Callum like a runaway carriage, throwing him against the alley wall opposite Thomas. Pain exploded along his ribs. Grasping the mossy wall for purchase, he struggled to his feet and wiped blood from his eyes, scouring the darkness for his attacker—and found no one. “Show your face,” he growled. A cruel whisper cut through the quiet. “Are you certain?” The man emerged from the shadows as if he had been one with them. He wore a dark black cloak, in stark contrast to his unkempt, pale hair. Deep set in his face, a pair of amber eyes seemed to emit their own light. Callum’s gaze was drawn to a glinting shape in the man’s hand. A dagger, dripping with blood. Thomas’s blood. Callum’s heart pounded like a war drum in his ears. The man sighed. “Move along. Unless you’d like to meet the same fate as your compani—” Callum lunged forward, cutting off the man’s speech with a guttural cry, striking with the speed of a viper. The man ducked. He whirled around as Callum charged again. He overreached with the arc of his knife, and Callum used the moment to surge upward with a punch. His fist took the assailant in the chin— And the force knocked Callum back. He stared. A blow like that would have laid out the tough¬est fighter, yet the man stood and smiled, rubbing his chin with a gloved hand. “I’m going to have fun with you,” the stranger whispered. “I like a man with a bit of fight in him. It’s more fun to play with your prey, don’t you think?” Callum didn’t see the blow coming, only felt the pain sear¬ing across his temple as he was thrown to the ground again. He lifted his head, vision blurring. He blinked it clear, took in his friend’s ashen face. The sight flooded Callum with rage. Whoever said to never fight with anger fueling your fists was a fool. Thomas’s best fights had been powered by emo¬tion. Callum wasn’t fighting for money now. Or for Brice. He was fighting for Thomas. Because Thomas was— “Stay down, little man,” the attacker’s voice hissed. Callum dragged himself to his feet. His body, corded with muscle from a lifetime of training, screamed for him to stop. Instead he stood, swaying. “I dinnae believe I’m going to Heaven,” Callum said, rais¬ing his fists once more, drawing strength from the familiar ache that radiated through his arms. “But I cannae wait to bring you to Hell with me.” Lunging forward again, Callum poured everything he had into a single strike. He swung, landing the punch more out of luck than skill, half blinded by blood and dirt. The man merely flinched, then caught Callum easily by the throat. A grin curled over his face. How could that be possible? “My, my, you are a feisty one,” he hissed. The man lashed out, and pain flared along Callum’s torso. He released Callum and stepped back, red-tinged silver shin¬ing in his fist. Callum touched his side, and his fingers came away wet with blood. He watched as crimson spread across his shirt. He tried to take a step, only to crumple to the ground beside Thomas, whose head rested limp against his chest. Callum had never feared death, but now as he looked into its eyes, terror seized him. “Many thanks for the entertainment,” the man said. To Callum’s horror, he bent low, holding a vial to the spreading pool of Thomas’s blood. He was gathering it. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s one last Pillar I must find.” Pillar? The unearthly amber eyes melted into darkness as his oppo¬nent backed away and turned, disappearing into the shadows once more. Softly hissed words echoed in the alley. Àiteachan dìomhair, fosgailte dhomh, Àiteachan dìomhair, fosgailte dhomh… The words the man spoke were Gaelic, but Callum’s fad¬ing mind couldn’t make out their meaning. A dark, mist-like substance rose from the ground and curled around the man’s feet, nearly indistinguishable from the dim of night. Like a sudden fog had rolled in. Callum sputtered a curse, lacking the strength to spit. He tried to lift himself, but with each breath, pain flared in his side like a web of fire. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” he croaked. Tears fell freely down his face, mingling with blood and sweat. He pressed his forehead against his friend’s. Grief washed over him at the still-warm press of his skin. Thomas was gone, and Callum would soon follow. A shiver raked his body. His eyes drifted shut. Take me already, he pleaded to the darkness. And the darkness answered. No, not the darkness—Thomas’s voice, a memory now, though it was solid as stone. “Get up, scunner.” The warmth of the words turned electric, spreading through Callum’s body like wildfire. His eyes shot open and he gasped, breathing in a shock of cold air still sharp with the smell of blood. His fingers found the dirk he’d dropped earlier. Grief and agony and pain and rage lifted Callum onto his feet, thrumming in him as he charged after Thomas’s mur¬derer, knife raised and eager for flesh. He grabbed blindly, finally grasping a handful of fabric—the man’s cloak. Turn¬ing, the man’s eyes widened, making two white rings of sur¬prise in the dark. Callum’s hand grabbed the man’s neck and aimed his dirk at the pale slash of his throat. Suddenly, they froze. Callum could not move. His hand remained around the man’s neck, the tip of the dirk pressed against his vein. Light flowed around them. It’s not time for sunrise, he thought. Dimly, he noticed markings along the man’s collarbone. Knots carved into his skin. The man cried out—not in pain, but in anger—but then, the cry was stifled by a rush of silence, so thick Callum thought he might drown in it. His stomach turned violently as the ground seemed to drop out from under him, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut. He was falling, flying, falling. I must be dead in the alley. The man must have killed me. This must be death. A bright glow burned against his lids. He closed his eyes tighter and welcomed whatever might follow, only hoping he’d find Thomas there. A wall of light had formed above, descending as if the sun were pulling him through the sky. His body rose into its searing embrace. He waited for the long drop to the ground, but it never came. Callum kept soaring. Not just through the street. Not to death’s embrace. But somewhere else. Leaping to another world, like the man in Thomas’s story, Callum thought. So he leaped.

#historical fiction #historical fantasy #romantic fantasy #excerpt #blogtour #inkyard press

[junehan]

arcane characters and their reverse icks ☆

🕷› vi

coming out of the shower with her hair wet knowing just how good she looks. with her towel thrown over her neck, lounging across both shoulders, she'll smirk at you from across the room

"everything okay, cupcake?"

everything isn't okay and you know it, she especially knows it but you have to play dumb to preserve the last of your dignity

its evident from your body language to the way your eyes flutter around the room that you're flustered, and she loves that, truly. she loves poking fun of you, teasing you, leaving you red and momentarily perplexed

she'll walk closer to you, make you back up against a wall and pin you there with a dominant arm, watching you nervously look anywhere else but at her. or maybe that's all you're doing, so surprised that all you can do is gap at her smug face

she might leave you hanging, turn around and ruffle her dripping hair with her towel as if nothing happened, talking nonchalantly about your plans that afternoon. or, she might give in to your wishes because though she loves the way in which you react to her every move, she's also equally as infatuated

🕷› caitlyn

both of you quietly stealing snacks late at night only to suddenly find everything hilarious. the sweltering summer night had been unbearably unforgiving, and you found yourself unable to sleep. thankfully, as you had been sleeping at caitlyn's, she had a similar issue

cue a disastrously serious mission to sneak some leftover cookies from that night's dinner and to heat up some warm milk

you take it far too seriously really, all hushed up and signalling one another from adjacent walls, peeking around corners as if anyone else would be up at this god forsaken hour. the thought hits you randomly and a quiet chuckle escapes you. caitlyn catches your eye, ready to shush you when she finds your laughter contagious

you both attempt to smuggle your giggles behind your palms, avoiding eye contact, but you find it futile and you burst into a somewhat muffled fit of laughter

later, you end up dancing under refrigerator light, still hyped up from your previous antics. you note the way caitlyn seems so relaxed in your arms, so at peace with having fun around you

🕷› jinx

drawing on your arm when silco scolds her, you somehow dragged along

it's no secret that she isn't paying attention to what he's saying, not that he notices, his mind (and mouth) too preoccupied with recounting the tales of the topside destruction that had just occurred

she nudges you with her elbow and you turn, looking down at the drawing of her and you blowing up a building. you giggle under your breath, her head perking up slightly from the palm of her hand, before reaching for your own pen. you add little details like fishbones, your preferred weapon and little evil smiling emotes (which had originally been normal smiley faces before she added the eyebrows)

you'd take turns adding elements like sevika with crossed out eyes laying passed out on the ground, a descending disco ball that looked suspiciously like a bomb and even silco who looked so realistic with a permanent, exaggerated scowl on his face

soon, you have a whole comic scene with annotations on your arm, courtesy of both jinx and you before silco notices. his uproar is kind of funny as you make eye contact with jinx

you'll forever treasure the drawing and the add-ons imprinted into your arm, and preserved that way for however long you're able to, and she'll forever treasure the memory of your gleeful eyes, sharing a moment with her

🕷› ekko

teaching you how to ride the firelight boards (?) because though it's not really your style, you just really wanted to have him around you

of course, he's happy to teach you. at first, you're determined to get it right, a foot here, the other there, but the shift in balance is something too unfamiliar that you really struggle

eventually, his verbal teaching turns a little physical. he begins to readjust your feet positioning gently, almost cautiously at first, before placing his hands on your hips, shoulders and arms once you tell him it's okay. you begin to grow a little too conscious of his touches and words. and maybe he is too, just a bit

"c'mon, hot stuff, just put your arms out and hang on."

somehow, after things flip for the better and you're up in the air, you turn a full 180 (metaphorically and physically) and suddenly .. fall

a startled yelp leaps from your throat and you brace yourself for a painful impact with the ground. that is, until a hand loops around your waist and you're pulled into someone's chest. when you open your eyes, you're met with ekko, the both of you suspended in the air on his board.

the two of you take a breather, both coming to terms with the fact that youre both okay when he sighs, pulling you closer. "let's try something else."

🕷› viktor

sleepy, distracted kisses on the cheek as he promises you that you're not bothering him despite his attention solely focused on his project. you don't mind; you could look at him work all day, eyebrows knitted together and lips scrunched in an effort to concentrate

every so often he'll remember your presence and lean over absentmindedly to kiss your cheek or mutter quick affirmations of his love for you

"are you getting tired? don't stay up too late."

you know he says this to show he cares for you, but you can't help but feel its awfully hypocritically considering his unhealthy state. usually it'll be you who has to pull him away from his studies and him who has to convince you just a few more minutes

and of course you let him be because well, he caught you off guard with a meaningful kiss. you pretend to be reluctant but let's be honest, his shows of love are so subtle that when they happen, you're always left in awe and melting

he knows his effect on you sometimes and you don't miss his quick smirk at your flustered state

🕷› silco

remembering small details about you, even though you have your doubt's about his affections

sometimes, loving silco came with a list of doubts you were afraid to confront, especially when his attention always seemed to be pulled from multiple directions either from his sinister, diabolical plans, or his kind-of daughter, jinx

sometimes, you wondered if he truly did care for you, or if you were just convenient.

but loving him did have benefits because though his lack of affection stung sometimes, you realised his love language was a lot more subtle and something to be treasured

like when you're dining at new, exotic places that he takes you out to, reprimanding the waiter about your food allergies even when you yourself have forgotten. or when he chides others to be quiet when you're trying to doze off or when he wordlessly allows you to lay your head on his lap, shuffling even to ensure you're comfortable

or even after when you mention your insecurities to him, and he makes the extra effort to reaffirm his love for you with fleeting, random touches, and quick, somewhat awkward words. you accept that loving silco is quietly intimate though still as full

a/n ; thanks for reading this headcannon ! i actually didnt know what to put for silco because i know a lot of yall Love him but i .... i ......... well, i'll leave the fixing of his character to you. ALSO i unfortunately do not remember what those firelight hover boards are called? if you could lmk for future references, that would be appreciated. hope you enjoyed ☆

#arcane x reader #arcane headcannons #vi #caitlyn #jinx #ekko #viktor #silco #vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #jinx x reader #ekko x reader #viktor x reader #silco x reader #arcane #vi headcannon #caitlyn headcannon #jinx headcannon #ekko headcannon #viktor headcannon #silco headcannon #league of legends