#torta talks

[tarot-archives]

This is laios

[schr-torta]

imagine simon riley complaining about how tired he is. he endlessly complains about getting some good shut-eye for once. so you get up from the couch to get the comfiest pillow in the house, you say. but before you do, he pulls you back down the seat then lays his head on your lap.

“what are you talking about? i have the best thing right here.” and has the best nap of his life.

[schr-torta]

simon riley and the great urge to cover his face or change any aspect of him resembling his abuser, his father.

“you look like your old man!” He frowns.

“yer growin up like yer dad, Simon.” He clenches his fists.

“You take after your dad, ‘than your mum.” He takes a good look at the mirror he wants to smash his knuckles in.

The disgust. The inherent need to mar his face so not a single trace of him is on simon. He has his hair. He has his eyes. He shares the physical attributes as his father, and nothing puts greater shame than that. How can he tolerate himself when he’s a walking carbon copy of the man who made his life a living hell?

The nails have dug into his skin. The fat of his cheeks rubbed red and rugged, ready to carve his face away. He loathes it. His repulsive features would pull him into a meltdown, pushing him down on his knees, unable to stand up. It’s one of those days. One where he curls up crying in a room that wasn’t his, but he yearns it to be.

Friends are a gift in the world, his best friend was a proof of that. Their eyes see the twitch of his fingers, Simon’s avoidance towards his reflection, and the silent spell making him mute other than grunts and groans. The small signs of aggression was all it took to pull him away from prying eyes and into the safe space they made for him. It had now turned into a place of comfort for Simon. The various clothes and items were the proof of his second home.

His hands pull at the muddy mop of his hair, the dirt shade resembling his father’s, as he folds into himself. Quite pitiful, he knows that. But he can be weak as long as it was with them.

They cover him with their jacket, the smell of vanilla wafts him into a state of calm.

“It’s alright, Simon,” they place their hand on top of his. The sweet gesture making his heart die down a bit slower. “Just let it all out. I’m here for you.”

He leans into their touch. He caves into his weakness, and the weakness being something else than his horrible face. His weakness was formed from a bond grown from kind moments and patience. He’s weak for them. He doesn’t mind being vulnerable if it’s with them. His world be dammed if it wasn’t for them.

He pushes them on their back as he lays on top. His arm wrapped around their middle now as he eases himself into a short nap.

“you think I look good blond?” he mouths against your stomach.

They ruffle his hair, “I think you look good in anything, Simon.”

[schr-torta]

—it’s been a long, long time

sfw. fluff. longing.

slow dancing with price inside your cabin. no prying eyes. just him and you, balancing the steps as the vessel rolls with the sway of your aging hips. he rests his forehead on your shoulders. says he’s seasick. you tell him to toughen it out, then you laugh.

watching soap play football. giving him a towel and some sports drink when he shares your shade under the umbrella. you’ve grown, but his shadow still towers over you. but now, the spaces are closer and your smiles even the more pleasant. he eyes the bottle he drank from in your hand, as your lips touch the same spot he placed his.

lazy mornings with ghost. he feels disoriented being in a lofty bed with a blanket that wasn’t eaten by silverfishes or covered with dust. and the best part when he wants to feel warm, he no longer need to gets out of bed for tea. he reaches for you, while he drinks up your soft features under the creeping light of the sun. he has a home.

gaz receives a gift. after coming home from a mission, a parcel came from the general he used to work with (a kind man who wouldn’t fuck him over like shepherd). it was sweet goodies, a cap, and a letter with a promise to see each other again. not the general, no. it’s from the general’s niece. a fine lady who he became quick friends with… maybe something more.

König who puts Christmas decorations in September. after years of assignments on a small county filled with colorful culture, he brings a part of the liveliness into his home. there were no other decorations on his dull apartment, just a star parol he made from barbeque sticks and plastic. hot chocolate taste better with tablea.

valeria overlooking las almas. it was a rare quiet evening. the kind where she can here the crickets chirp with no drunkards or gunshots echoing in the background. she looks up the stars, the constellations she knows from the ones you told her all those years ago.

rudy who is fixing his old guitar. he needs to replace the strings, but at least the termites hadn’t eaten it yet. and overall, it still play a decent tone. he strums a song embedded into his soul like muscle memory. the melody he played at your impromptu Quinceañera.

Alejandro who’s stressed with the paper work he has to file. being a colonel isn’t all about the frontlines and deadly missions, it was also about accountability. he’s in his office, alone with a computer and stacks of paper. but the nurse comes in with a hot drink in her hand. says she needs company of a friend. and well… alejandro is accountable for her happiness too.

Horangi who empties his pockets for the food stall at the night market. He is a voracious eater. He jumps from one booth to the next with delicacies fit for two in his hand. at the third meal, you swear you’ll explode if he doesn’t stop buying you food. so buys one serving instead, but still shared for two people of course. he wants to spoil you like you have spoiled him.

and faralex just chilling on the side

[schr-torta]

Witch! Reader x Familiar! Octo! König.

hurt/comfort, sfw, fem! reader

@milkywayhou ‘s art was the inspiration for this fic. please look at her wonderful witch! reader works and snow. witchy is the nickname we came up, but it’s typically for the reader.

witchy likes to pick up strays. she started with him, but she won’t stop with just… him.

it’s not her fault her heart is so barren as she tries to fill her aching chest with pliant familiars. it’s not her fault they fall in love with her. it’s not her faults she’s kind enough to return their love.

“all lives deserve to be loved, könig,” she told him one night. ghost was the second familiar to come into the house— a chuch grim without a plot. he was abandoned as the graveyard was forgotten with its inhabitants. könig had said his disinterest. that he could find another grave to guard, but when könig looks down at her, with a glassy sheen over her eyes, he knows he had lost.

“i guess you can have another familiar,” he resigns to her whims. “but we need extra bedspace. i won’t have him share with you all the time!”

then one turned to two, then eventually it was five—a dragon, a tiger hybrid, a selkie, a church grim, and him (an octopus hybrid).

könig was big, but her heart was bigger, taking in more and more familiars to take care and love. he had to learn to be less aggressive, to be less destructive when sent into a jealous rage. his mistress has known a world of pain. not once should it ever come from him.

he was the first familiar, he doesn’t care who comes right after. all he wants is to be her last. which was where all things were headed eventually. birds leave the nests, salmon return to the sea, and all familiars had to grow and live their lives elsewhere.

all except for him, of course. the usual six cups of tea dwindled down to the original two. könig lays the tray on the patio table, looking at her as she stares at the full moon. he knows that solemn expression.

“do you miss them witchy?” könig asks. it was just the two of them now, as it should.

she takes a sip from the cup before she answers, “yes, but i’m happy for them.”

“even when they left you?”

“even more now as they have left me,” she smiles. it was a sad, but satisfied smile. könig had learns that letting go was an act of love too.

there is still too much to learn about humans and witches. although, letting go was something he will never want to learn when it came to her.

[schr-torta]

König: You being horny shouldn’t be my problem.

Y/N, embarassed: I’m sorry…

König: But I can be the solution.

[tarot-archives]

had this idea about after the battle, the winged lion! laios didn’t entirely disappear. when the infinite dimension exist, it will always have its connection with the finite world.

in this case, the winged lion! laios somehow ends up in your inn (specifically your room). the look alike explains how your feelings has piqued his interest, a trait leading to desire. and that he’d like to stay and observe you. he can grant your wishes too, but your mental resolve is difficult to crack.

but you have to have a weakness, if you didn’t, you would have reported him to the original—king laios, devourer of all things horrible. king laios, the ruler of the golden kingdom. king laios this. king laios that! never your laios—

you can’t, right? you want him to stay right? he has his thoughts. he sees you through his memories. he knows what you are.

the winged lion craves this new carnal desire.

[tarot-archives]

hear me out tomorrow buut

king laios of the golden kingdom yeah? imagine being the 1000 year old knight who was stuck with yaad and the rest inside the frozen world. thistle may have stopped aging but your family’s duty still remains. you are honor bound to protect the king like your ancestors did before.

and now, as you stand beside the newly crowned king, you will fulfill that sacred vow. you will lay your life to protect laios, his majesty, the man who holds your life at his beck and call.

pressing your lips to his knuckles, it was the ceremony like all the other holy knights did before. it starts with a prayer, seeking the divine power of God to flow through you as a vessel. your eyes look up at him, listing your duties to the king, but what came after was a shock. should the complexion of rulers blossom like summer cherries? and should his skin taste just as sweet?