Why would you fuck

If asked, I can show the work in progress; I will otherwise only share it once it's done. It can still be altered afterwards.

*silly, fluff, hurt/comfort, horror, surreal, Just Hanging Out...

**ranges from content (i.e. alcohol, smoking) to themes/tropes (i.e. reincarnation)

Do you do original works?

Sure. Requests of this kind will need to be extremely specific and to include as much information about the setting and characters as possible, since I will have no source other than you and if somebody messed up portraying my own original characters I know for a fact I would cry. Describe everything in enough detail so I cannot fuck up.

This also applies to AUs.

Do you do NSFW / suggestive?

If you're upfront about it, yes. Do not let me in on it only after I already agreed and only because I asked for clarification, especially if it's fetish content. It's happened before. I despised it.

Unless requested otherwise, sex will not be detailed and genitals will be unspecified. Kinks can be requested but I won't write something that makes me uncomfortable (i.e. anything with piss). Non-con is only allowed as a kink scene; p*do and b*stial are flat out rejected.

Can I post my commission?

If it's NSFW, I'd rather it remains unpublished. For others, if you properly credit me, sure.

How/When do I pay?

Paypal or ko-fi. I will share the necessary information once the commission is finished to proceed with the payment.

How much does it cost?

Up to 100 words - 2 euro

100 to 500 words - 5 euro

500 to 1k words - 7 euro

1k to 2.5k words - 10 euro

2.5k to 5k words - 15 euro

5k to 7k words - 20 euro

7k to 10k words - 25 euro

Above 10k words: 30 euro*

*+5 euro for each additional 5k words

What sources do you usually write about / have written about / are knowledgeable of?

Bendy and The Ink Machine, The Legend of Zelda (varied games), Pokémon (varied games), Dark Deception, Darkest Dungeon, Ace Attorney, Dark Souls (trilogy), Bionicle.

Where can I find your works to check out your writing style?

In #random writing and on my Ao3 account.

How long will it take?

Mutters and blatherings buzzed on, soft, quiet, alien voices rambling notes to no one and nothing as electric hums and severing hisses and skittering fingers to accompanied them - ticky-tac-tac ticky-tac-tac ticky-tick-tac-tac, incessantly clicking their metal joints amidst the squelching tugs.

A jolt, a choked sound, a request for explanation without words or breath through pinned lungs and a carved esophagus.

Dark eyes like opaque lightning stared.

Too soft weights pressed on bared organs - stab the sinew, the muscle, jam the pistons and gears, don't let this one get away! We lost enough time to the last! The little skinned things crushed the table beneath their changed bodies, smothering what little fight still tried to crawl against them through the pain and the sutures and the lingering death, smothering the shreds of mind desperate not to slip away under the sharp edge of their scalpels, their pins, their nails--

The body struggled, jolted, shivered within their holds, shrieked as best as it could through the emptyness of its throat, whatever muffled sounds it could produce lost to the frenzied chatter of its captors - but the surgery was too far along.

Nerves flickered, sizzled dead; glowing eyes returned to darkness.

The Kestora felt no relief in their short-memoried madness.

Because he knew there was blood on his hands (hardly a surprise: his own were stained in the same manner), and if he'd truly been as meek a creature as he looked his permanence on Odina would have been short, painful and brusquely interrupted; but it was that little conjunction, that "for", which stumped him and gave him pause.

Killing at its core is a selfish act. One kills for money, for food, for vengeance, for boredom, for an opportunity, for their life, for their comfort. Killing for someone implied a transaction - after all, what mattered to him if some poor fool happened to have ticked off the wrong being? Nobody, under any circumstance, would have cared to get make heads roll at the fussy demands of the first fat Muaka with too much self-importance to get their own hands dirty. There had to be an incentive, and profit is the most reliable one.

Idiots who killed for someone out of some demented Hordika instinct got themselves in more trouble than it was worth. It was a waste of time and energy, and what would you get out of it? Companionship? Gratitude? Defense? Bah. Too temporary, too ephemeral, too volatile. Look at their lot when they'd split from the Dark Hunters: who would think it worth it to risk their life for a bunch of knives just waiting to get lodged in their back?

But the problem was...

Well, the problem was that he knew the answer.

Avak would kill for him.

Avak had killed for him.

He'd torn a Bone Hunter to shreds, and maybe if Reidak hadn't stopped him he would have tried to carve his way through two more at the cost of dying, all for the crime of having drawn a drop of the Earth Skakdi's ichor - something so small, so trivial in the face of his Adaptation--

And yet.

Reidak could feel the warmth against his back.

Avak ran as hot as a Ta-Toa, even in the freezing dead of night, and kicked and shivered and curled up tighter and tighter the whole time in the vain hope of holding onto the heat that instead, traitorously, bled into the sand and rock until it faintly stained black armor. It sank into the scars like golden paint, dripping upwards, inch by inch... It was so damn cold. It must have felt so comfortable to hold him, if his stupid spikes wasn't so perfectly knife-shaped.

His claws ghosted over the wound the other had stitched close, feeling the difference between the tendons' toughness and the sensitive flesh very carefully.

He was the Fikou's shield. His barrier. Of course he'd stuck to him, of course he'd fought for him - without that hulking earthly mass to cover his ass he wouldn't last a day, maybe not even half of a day in this blasted alien world populated by overly aggressive, excessively intelligent, lizard-riding, sword-waving, fleshy, furred bastards.

It made sense, perfect sense. If he hadn't had the luck of being made as prime a specimen as he knew he was, he too would probably whine and scuttle in the shadow of the nearest wall of protodermis he could find just to be assured a bit of safety.

And yet.

He kept feeling the closed wound, the trickling heat, the shifts so close yet far of an antsy body trembling beside him.

Smother it, says the voice of gold within your throat, within your crystal brain wrapped in its leaves, smother it. You hands were made to kill it if you so desire and I so desire; smother it. Fear not the burn that cannot reach you. I so desire: smother it.

Smother it.

There is a heat.

Sweet and feeble, cherry-sweet, too sweet, too bitter, too burnt and sour, sour like a medicine that can't cure you, bitter like a lie - oh how you hate it, how you hate it. How it tries to peel its way to you, to appeal to you, after all of it, how you hate it, hate it. You can't stand it, you can't bear it.

There is a heat.

Cherry-sweet and burnt, left simmering too long, encrusted around the flame, rough and cracked, how you hate it, hate it - and yet how you cannot hate it enough to undo its gentle reach, to pull yourself away from it as it worms into the gold, as it sinks into it, rough against soft, warm against cool, a flesh too tender to fight back.

The gold peels.

It stretches too much, frays, a hole with messy edges at last opens on the fabric-soft gleam, tears the skin without ichor or pierce or cut to rend it apart: beyond it you can look away, beyond the glow, into a world you don't recognize, look at an absence that is a presence, at a heat feeble and dark and bittersweet, at a voice.

Smother it, says the voice of gold within your throat, smother it, smother it, I so desire: smother it, before it melts you down, before it melts the golden leaves around your crystal brain; your hands were made to kill it if you so desire and I so desire - smother it, fear not the burn that cannot hurt you, that can kill you, smother it, crush it, choke it to death in your hands that were made to kill it if you so desire and I so desire.

Are these your hands?

These things you've never seen before, scalding hot, rotten cherry burnt to black, moving in a way you cannot fathom to understand: pushing feebly against the gold, towards the heat, burning worse than the warmth they ache to reach and yet unable to pierce through the tender metal skin, the gleaming flesh, retreating when it clings to them, when it coats them in its sheen. They grow hotter to dispel it, yet still they cannot melt it; and again they push, weak and desperate, towards the heat, towards the world outside, towards the absence that is a presence, towards the voice.

Are these your hands?

You cannot recognize them. It cannot be you moving them. You haven't had hands in so long, let alone hands to move on your own. You've never had hands at all.

There is a heat.

Your hands reach towards it, desperate, towards the holes it burns in the tender gold.

Smother it.

Your hands were made to kill it if you so desire, and I so desire: smother it.

Are these your hands?

Is this your voice?

Cawing from disuse, calling weakly, struggling through the gold in your throat, calling beyond, through the holes, through the air, clean air, for an absence that is a presence.

The gold peels.

The gold melts, the gold crumbles, the gold drips and folds and curls on itself under the cherry-sweet and bitter heat's push, reveals a world you don't recognize, a world the hands that are yours reach for, a world the voice that is yours calls out to, a world where an absence that is a presence calls out to you, a voice.

Smother it!

The voice of gold in your throat screams, Smother it! Smother it! Kill it! Fear not the burn that cannot reach you, that can kill you, smother it! Smother it!

The gold peels.

Are these your hands?

Is this your voice?

There is a heat.

Tender and mellow and piercing through the curtains of metal flesh it singes apart, reaching for you, an absence that is a presence, a voice, a hand, an eye that sees beyond the gold and the mask and the memory and the guilt, a noun you hate and yet cannot hate enough to hate forever, a voice that calls the name you had forgotten through the cascading molten flesh at last peeling, dripping away from you, from your hands, from your voice.

Is this your breath?

Heaving and shallow and fast, like you haven't breathed in a millennium.

Is this your body?

Crumpled and cradled and tense, still reeling, so tired, so heavy, so tightly held.

Is this your mind?

There is a heat, gentle, cherry-sweet and sour and bitter and burnt - an absence that is a presence, a voice wrapped around you, calling your name: it's passed, it's passed, you're here, I'm here.

I'm here.

The gold peels.

Smother it.

Hoo! (what a curious sound to make); he had laughed at the very idea, and when he had been done laughing and the Toa of Ice had not backed from his unspoken offer he had jumped down to them.

That was the first time they'd met.

He'd never told Nidhiki of those sudden thoughts, and Nidhiki had never asked, or perhaps he had forgotten to, as he often seemed to do when he stopped looking at him by the corner of his eye as if to dig out the answer of a truth he assumed he would not have been told of from the creases between red and gold.

But the Le-Toa had learned to know him: he'd learned to read him, to unspool his reckless courage into the fear of a bloodied loneliness that made him a pale cold shadow crawling in the wake of Whexie's fate-defying snowy warmth, and from Whexie's example he'd learned to coax him out of the shadows of his furnace, out, into the jaws of a beast a thousand times his size, into the suns who hid away his every darkness; and perhaps, then, if he had learned to read him so well, Nidhiki had never needed to ask. Perhaps he had only needed to look back into that moment and see the mesmerized, unfearing terror glimmering behind his Hau.

Maybe that was why he'd stuck so close to him, beyond the simple instinct to look after each other that siblings had, beyond the painstaking work of dragging him out of his frozen, petrified shell. Always within arm's reach, always leaning towards him, hand on his shoulder, on his bicep, on his back, on his nape - shaking him, grabbing him, touching him. Always touching him.

He had missed that, when everything had started to crumble.

He had missed that, when he had been the last one.

Nidhiki couldn't wear the smile that tilted across the side of his face with mandibles like that, and he could not grab him without cutting his spine in half with claws of that size.

He would have, given the chance.

He would have, because so would Lhikan; because neither could stomach anything but vitriol for each other, not after the betrayal, not after the abandonment.

And yet still, as the change happened, as it crumpled him into proportions that once had almost been familiar, as a weakness he hadn't experienced in years struck him under the frenzied tingling of electrical currents, as he watched again the eyes as frightening as a flame straining to grow into a howling fire widen at his last defiance manifest, his hands lurched to grab the wayward spark, to hold it in his palm - to smother it under the grudge that had eaten him, to shape it back into the dear heat it had once been.

For whom would he make a nest either way? He couldn't imagine it, didn't want to imagine it. The mere thought made him nauseous from the strain of shooting down the instincts trying to offer unwanted elucidation on the questions he couldn't help but have. Against his will, he listened keenly.

Scraping. Heavy, scratchy, thumps and cracks like rock upon rock, thuds and creaks of metal forcibly domesticated into comfortable shapes. Must have been for Onewa, his clouded mind concluded as much as he tried to stop it, because those were his elements. (The thought filled him with vitriol.) But no, no, listen: softer, softer, binding and muffling, someplace gentle to lay, someplace sweet. How big could it be, for how many? Maybe for all of them. (Better. Better, but not what he wanted.)

Want? Want? When had he started to want?

The sounds dragged him away from the fluster, the anger, the tugging and twisting of his stomach; back to the nest.

He was hard at work, hard at work like his life depended on it: laboring away on his nest, antsy, almost desperate, murmuring and whining about it all like an architect left to pick up the slack of a whole crew. His claws hissed along the walls of his nest, picked at the stone and steel, turned it, placed it, forced it together, with the careful carelessness of someone who'd never made something like this before but needed, needed, to get it right.

He could hear him - hear him! His voice rough, crackling like a lizard's discarded dried out skin, almost a sob as his mind pushed his limbs into actions he couldn't understand, desperate to find some kind of solace in it all, but what solace is a nest to inhabit alone?

What nonsense. A nest for one alone was his heaven.

(But he craved the touch, the nearness, the knowledge of an Other next to him, alert if needed; and Matau was so jumpy, so physical, yet so quiet, quiet, exactly as warm as he needed him to be, and he was making the nest for himself and for someone, someone, one of them, only one, only one.)

He curled his arms and legs, he struggled, he scraped his head against the ground to drown out the fussing and the thoughts.

(He hated the idea of the nest becoming for someone else. He hated the idea that it wouldn't be for him. He needed to beat the others to it, he needed to stand and find him, slither into place, into the nest. He needed to. Needed to.)

Another sound.

Muffled voices - real voices. Two voices. Speaking words.

Nuju laid and listened, frozen in this body that forced him to want and think and tremble.

He listened to the sounds of the night.