#+ they made us do one just using straight lines by using a playing card as a ruler lol?

[lucky-draws]

26.9.23

[ceilidho]

hound dog

prompt: You pick up Ghost from a bar for a one night stand. Too bad Ghost isn't interested in a casual hook up. (nsfw, 6.7k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

-

Rare is the day when a stupid girl doesn’t do stupid things.

This is just one of many such occurrences. Stepping into the dimly lit dive bar—the one miles from your place, reeking of tobacco and leather and motor oil, the noxious perfume of week old sweat and weed stinking up the joint, pardon the pun—with too much eyeliner and mascara on, and a skirt too short for you—and would you just stop fiddling with it? But you can’t because that would mean admitting that it barely fits over your ass, that putting on a skirt so short was a choice, an invite, a teasing little taunt to the men in the bar saying, what are you waiting for? I’m asking for it, aren’t I—

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

It’s why you’re planted at the bat some six weeks after being dumped, two weeks after being ghosted for the third time in a row, a smile on your face despite your crumbling self-esteem. Pride hanging in tatters. Grimacing when you find the bartop sticky with congealed liquor, the residue sticking to your skin when you quickly lift your elbows off. But there’s a time for self-pity and a time for getting it the fuck togther. This just happens to be one of the latter times.

“What’m I gettin’ you?” the bartender in front of you asks, barely impressed with your get-up. Not even attempting to conceal his distaste when he eyes you up and down, lingering on the way your tits are practically spilling out of your top. 

“Do you have any cocktails?” you ask. Wrong question. The eye roll isn’t even suppressed for your benefit when he makes it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that it’s whatever he can pour straight from a bottle or the fancy bar for cityfolk down the road. He says it like that, the word practically sneered out. Cityfolk. 

Nerves shaken, you sip at your red wine after he leaves you to your own devices, your glass poured straight from the box. It could function passably as lighter fluid if the circumstances called for it. Still, you swallow it with a positive attitude, emboldened by the knowledge that you’re here for one thing and one thing only:

to get fucked within an inch of your life by one of the greasy-haired, cut-wearing, cigarette-smoking men lining the bar. 

Even the thought sends a thrill down your spine. 

It’s an age old question, isn’t it? What’s a girl to do (when her love life’s falling apart / when her credit score just bottomed out because her ex-boyfriend ran up her credit cards behind her back / when her job’s steadily becoming unbearable but quitting would mean scrambling to find a job that’ll pay anywhere near to what this one’s paying her) to get a drink around here? 

Evidently, the answer isn’t to use a dating app; you can say that confidently after waiting around in fancier bars than this for several no-show dates. 

You’re feeling appropriately over the whole thing. Ready to call it quits. Uninstall all of the apps on your phone and hire a matchmaker or ask a friend to set you up with a coworker of theirs. But that’ll be later, down the line when you aren’t dealing with the issue at hand.

The issue being that—

you’re really fucking horny. 

Embarrassingly so. Enough that you were willing to travel miles away from home to avoid accidentally hooking up with anyone you might run into later on while out getting groceries or on a morning run. 

It’s just better to play things close to your chest. Keep your romantic life and your sexual exploits far apart (not that you’d know much about keeping things separate; you’ve never had much of a sex life to keep hidden) lest you get mired in a stickier situation than you’re comfortable being in. 

Despite the rough start, the bar you chose seems promising. There’s a man at the other side of the bar that keeps drawing your eye. It’s the hulking size of him at first, then the grime clinging to the folds of his skin, worn in from years of hard labor. He looks like a man fresh off a fourteen-hour shift or a fortnight spent on an oil rig in the middle of the Baltic sea, freshly washed ashore, kelp and barnacles still fused to his skin, not yet pried off. 

Rough is the only word you’d use to describe him. A face covered in nicks and old scars, his upper lip slightly puckered and scarred from cleft lip surgery. When he turns his head to say something to the bartender, you catch a glimpse of a cauliflower ear, the cartilage of his tragus and antihelix swollen and deformed. 

He’s exactly what you’ve been looking for. If you’d given it more thought, you think you could’ve conjured up an image of the man across the bar all by yourself. It’s like someone plucked him straight out of your head. Big and brawny, broad shoulders that you can imagine dangling your ankles off, and well-muscled arms that you can imagine digging your nails into. It would take both of your hands and extra to wrap around his bicep. The thought makes you shiver.

You try to catch his attention subtly. Looking over at him from under your lashes, quick, smoldering glances meant to draw his attention to you, so that he approaches you first. You keep waiting for the moment when he’ll notice your stare and hold your gaze, a question being asked and answered between your eyes before reeling him in with a coy little smile. 

But when a half hour goes by without a single glance your way, your hope begins to wane. 

He doesn’t look up no matter how many times you glance over at him. It’s frustrating; you know he feels the weight of your stare. His disregard is purposeful, deliberate; like he knows your attention is fixed on him but he can’t be bothered to so much as return your stare. You wonder if that means he’s got a lady at home, a little bird cooped up in his house that he’s more eager to get back to after he’s had a drink to take off the edge than flirt with some trussed up floozy at the bar.

That makes you squirm, self-consciousness rearing its ugly head again. Maybe you made a mistake coming here. 

It’s not as though you’re being completely ignored, it’s just that the caliber of men that have approached you so far haven’t really inspired much, carnally speaking. You’ve sent the few braver ones away, a half-hearted thanks but no thanks when they offer to buy you a drink. Most leave without a word, though a few mutter obscenities under their breath before shoving their hands in their pockets and stalking away. Bitch. Dumb cunt. 

Calling it a night feels like a natural next step. With the attitude you keep getting from the bartender and the way the only man you’re remotely attracted to refuses to so much as glance your way, it doesn’t feel right to stay out any longer. Embarrassment heats you like a low grade fever, warm in your belly. Wine sloshes around in your stomach when you slip off the stool, hunger now another pressing concern. 

You’ll ask him on your way back from the bathroom. If he turns you down after that, you’ll slink off into the night with your tail tucked between your legs. There’ll always be next weekend to try again. You promise yourself that because the alternative is acknowledging how defeated this entire experience has left you, no less disappointing than going on the same boring first date with a guy from Tinder. 

In the bathroom, you dab your face with water and stare at your reflection in the dirty mirror. It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years; finger smudges and white strains streaked across the glass. You wonder how many strangers have fucked in this bathroom over the years. The thought makes you grimace even more when you notice that the floor is slightly sticky, the ground sounding tacky beneath your shoes. 

When you come out, the man from across the bar is waiting by the door, so close that you flinch, eyes widening. The narrow hallway means that he’s barely three feet from you when you stand in the doorframe. 

“We leavin’ or what?” he growls, voice as deep as you thought it might be, gruff and husky. 

He’s just as imposing in front of you as he was from across the bar. Maybe more so. You’re forced to crane your neck to look up at him this close, lips parting on an inaudible exhale. There’s something about a brutish man that’s always taken your breath away; everything from the blunt chin to the pronounced brow. His face is flecked with pale, keloidal skin; rubbery nodules from old injuries. 

Dumbstruck, you can only nod, following behind him when he turns away from you, headed towards the parking lot out back where his truck is parked. 

You’re really doing this. You’re really doing this. That’s the only thought in your head when he unlocks his truck and pops the door open for you, waiting until you’re buckled in before slamming the door shut. 

He’s quiet on the car ride back to his place, unconcerned with getting to know you or defusing the tension in the truck. You can’t say you blame him. There’s a reason you chose a bar so far from home as a hunting ground. If you wanted to get to know someone, you would’ve met someone at a coffee shop. 

When you ask his name, he grunts it out like it’s an inconvenience. Simon. He doesn’t give you more than that, even when you awkwardly ask him what he does for work. Blatantly ignores your questions. The rebuff smarts for some reason, makes you frown and duck your chin to your chest, shoulders hunched.

His demeanor is so off-putting that halfway through the drive, you wonder if you misunderstood him somehow, if he means to drive you home instead of taking you back to his place (but that can’t be right, otherwise wouldn’t he have asked for your address?). It’s just hard to reconcile his churlish attitude towards you with his ostensible invitation to fuck. 

Maybe he doesn’t intend to fuck you at all. Maybe you managed to pick up the one serial killer in a twenty mile radius and stupidly followed him back to his truck without telling anyone who you planned to go home with. Your blood curdles at the thought, hackles raised when you imagine him sizing you up from across the bar, all prettied up and doe-eyed, easy prey. 

Your breathing picks up. “I, um…actually, c-could you…could you just drop me off at my place?”

Simon rolls his eyes so hard that it’s almost audible. “Not gonna kill ya, bird.” 

That doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you, but you don’t dig your heels in and demand he take you home either. 

“Do you live nearby?” you ask, suddenly chatty. Why, oh why.

Simon looks over at you, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. He drives a manual, you notice. A few too many seconds go by in silence. You wish somebody would just staple your mouth shut already. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, turning back to watch the road, taking a left turn up ahead without using his signal. So it’s that kind of drive.

You keep your mouth shut for the rest of it lest he decide you’re too much of a hassle and turn back. You’re poised right on the edge of something new and exciting, and the thought of that slipping through your fingers makes you feel a bit crazy. So many men before have shown you that same snap dislike. Like you’re tolerable over text or as a dimensionless photo, but not as a flesh and blood person, the real mechanics of you all wrong. It’s an intolerable thought—that people can only like you when you smile and keep your mouth shut.

Still, you’ll do it now, for a price. 

Part of you expects him to pull you into his lap when he pulls into his driveway and puts the truck in park. It’s what you’ve seen in movies. The rest of the night plays out in your head in piecemeal flashes; ravenous passion, hands tearing clothes off each other’s bodies, a shoe left on the porch in your hurry to get inside. Hungry, devouring; slick mouths parting for barely long enough to breathe.

Then Simon cuts the engine and gets out of the truck without so much as a glance your way, like you aren’t even there.

He still comes around to open the door for you. You frown at him through the window, affronted. Baffled at his continued nonchalance. Like even keeping your mouth shut isn’t enough to keep a man’s interest. Where you expected passion and fervor, you’re met with cool indifference. 

Simon pops the door open. “Get out.”

The house itself is nothing special. A two-story cookie-cutter house built in the seventies; weathered, beige-coloured vinyl siding and a neatly trimmed lawn, with a few patches of overgrown grass and weeds. There’s a trailer parked in front of the closed garage, a few planks of wood strapped down in the bed. When you follow him up the walkway, you notice how quiet the neighborhood is, and for some reason that makes you even more jittery. 

You stop in the doorway, frustration breaking your timidity like snapping an ampoule. “Do you even want to—” fuck me, goes unsaid. Too humiliating to even ask. But you ask anyway, the question itself implicit even in so few words. 

Dark eyes stare down at you, impenetrable. You’re struck by the sense of something primordial slithering under his skin. His expression is hard, his face carved from granite; when his expression shifts, it’s like watching tectonic plates create mountains, plates pushed upward by mantle plumes.

He fits a big paw under your chin, fingers pressing into the fat of your cheeks hard enough to make your lips purse. Your heart skips a beat when he angles your head from side to side, looking you over like a pet he’s considering bringing home. You almost go cross-eyed when he bends down, his forehead nearly brushing yours, so close that you can smell the scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes, see the grease smudged on his face and the folds around his eyes. 

A grin flickers across his lips, gone as it came. “Yeah. I do.”

And doesn’t that tie your stomach in a knot? Your nerves in a pretty bow? 

Inside, his house is just as unremarkable. You’d know in a single glance that a single man lived here; a functional, no-frills living space. Nothing more than a worn couch, a TV, and a few pieces of obvious hand-me-down furniture. It’s hard to glean anything from the minimal decoration around his place, but he doesn’t give you much of a chance to look around. That’s not the point of why you’re in his house. 

“Eat anything yet, bird?” Simon asks from the kitchen, opening the fridge without purpose. It looks like more of a reflex than anything, the first thing he does the second he gets home for the night and the last thing he does before going to bed. From the size of him, it makes sense; his body is muscle on muscle, covered by a healthy layer of fat, just a surface layer over the bulk beneath. 

You shake your head. “No.”

“Have a bite, then.”

“I’m not, uh, hungry though,” you deflect rather than saying the obvious, which is, I came to your house to have sex, not make sandwiches at the kitchen counter together. 

He shuts the fridge door, pinning you with his stare. “Your call. Could’ve used the energy though.”

You swallow. 

The first thing you do after he herds you into the bedroom is try to pull him into a kiss, cupping his cheeks and standing up on your tiptoes. Before your eyelids flutter shut, you catch a glimpse of a cocked brow. Then you press your lips to a slack mouth that doesn’t move no matter how much passion you infuse in your kiss and feel embarrassment flare up in your guts. 

Bastard. You should’ve expected that he wouldn’t kiss you back. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, breaking the facsimile of a kiss and dropping back down onto your heels. 

You flinch when he grabs you by the back of the neck and reels you back in, forcing you back onto your tiptoes, “Don’t be,” grunted against your mouth before fusing your lips together. A pathetic keen climbs up your throat, eyelids slipping shut. 

His greed leaks from him like tar, his kiss so messy and violent that you’re almost too jarred to do anything apart from hang on. Teeth clack against yours, a horrid sensation, the lust in your belly abating long enough for the real world to slink back in and you get flashes of it: hands winding around a thick neck, a scratchy cheek against your lip when he twists his head to angle your noses better, a tongue shoving into your mouth unceremoniously, no finesse at all. Straight to the main point. 

A shudder wracks you from head to toe when you try to break the kiss only to find the hand on your neck firm, holding you in place. The subtle reminder that he can do whatever he wants with you, that you willingly went home with a man big and strong enough to pin you down and fuck you however rough he wants. 

“Simon,” you whine, squirming against him, gasping a breath and his name again when he wrestles you back into the kiss. “No—Simon—”

“Stay fuckin’ still,” he snarls against your lips, and you freeze, knees going weak when his fingers dig into your jaw to hold you in place.

The endorphin rush nearly makes your vision white out. A sudden winter storm, the blood rushing to your cheeks and the tip of your nose, your breath coming out quick and choppy. Lungs barely filling up with each inhale. 

“Get this off,” Simon growls, tugging on your skirt when you don’t move fast enough. He doesn’t wait for you to catch up, content to wrench your skirt off himself instead, your panties along with it. 

It takes your breath away, how fast you go from clothed to partially nude. Trying to match his fervor is a losing game, so you just try to keep up. Your hands tug at his belt, desperately trying to undo it, and he chuckles when he notices; big hands paw at your ass while you shakily pop the buckle out of the first loop. 

He takes over after that, popping the button on his jeans one-handed. 

“Wanna handle the rest?” he prompts, an eyebrow jutting up, expectant. Lazy with his arrogance; oozing rugged masculinity. It’d infuriate you if it didn’t get you so hot. 

Your fingers are numb by the time you pull his jeans down, kneeling at his feet and gazing up at him with wide eyed devotion as he kicks off his boots and shakes the pants off his legs, nothing under his jeans. His pale white thighs are dusted in fine blond hairs, mottled with burns and scars and old, faded cigarette marks, like someone used his legs as an ashtray. The thought makes your throat close up.  

He shucks off his shirt while you stare at the shaft heavy with blood hanging between his legs, drooping with its own weight. Flushed red at the head and streaked with dark veins, leaking a steady drip of precum. The hair at the base of his dick is of a darker shade, gold like straw. 

Your stomach swoops at the sight, dropping to the pits of you. You swallow. Maybe you’ve bit off a little more than you can chew. A lot more.

As if sensing your unease, a wide hand is suddenly firm on the back of your head, urging you closer. “Gonna give it a kiss?”

It’s not a question. You know that and you know that you’re way out of your league; that if you panic now you’ll flounder. So instead of fighting it, you lean forward and press a shy kiss to the weeping head of his dick. 

You lick your lips instinctively when you draw back, lapping up the precum smeared across them. The taste makes you wrinkle your nose. It’s salty; bitter. Not altogether pleasant. 

Simon wraps a hand around his dick and holds it to your lips. “Open your mouth, bird. Get me nice ‘n wet.”

A shudder rolls through you, but there’s little else you can do except part your lips and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a struggle to fit more than just the head in your mouth, his dick too wide to take more than that. Your eyes water at the stretch, the musky taste of his cum overwhelming. 

Any experience you’ve had before this pales in comparison. It’s like the first time all over again. His cock is heavy on your tongue, instantly making your eyes water. The grip he still has on the base of his cock tells you that he doesn’t expect you to swallow the whole length (an impossible task; you go cold with dread at even the thought), but Simon doesn’t hesitate to grip your head firmer when he feels you falter, forcing you to take as much as you can.

When you gag, he shushes you. “Keep at it—you’re fine.”

You wonder if he thinks by saying it, it makes it true. You’re very much not fine, struggling to breathe through your nose and suck him off without scraping his cock with your teeth.

Your exhale when he pulls you off his cock by your hair is full of both relief and trepidation. Your lips feel swollen and tender when you touch them with your fingers. 

“Can we please have sex now?” you ask, dazed enough to be bold. 

Simon cracks a smile at that, endeared somehow. “Gotta get up for that, bird.”

You have to brace your hands against his chest when you get to your feet, the blood that rushes to your head making you wobbly. Even on your feet, he’s so much taller than you, a behemoth. Men like him have always been your type, but Simon is really in a league of his own. 

Glancing up at him from under your lashes, you bite your lip. You’ve seen that in movies before, starlettes bringing men to their knees with just a look. Coquette; demure. It’s harder to replicate than you thought, but you’ve never rehearsed this before. This is a one-time, live performance. The culmination of everything you’ve ever read or watched or studied. 

You keep up the ruse of being sexy by crawling onto his bed on your hands and knees, dropping down onto your elbows once situated in the middle of the mattress. The debauchery of wiggling your ass back at the man who took you home from the bar would overwhelm you if you weren’t playing a part right now. Role playing. This isn’t who you usually are, but if it’s only for one night, you can force out the self-scrutiny and timidity. 

Silence hangs in the air like a bubble, waiting to be burst. You fight the urge to look over your shoulder at him. 

Then Simon exhales, breaking the silence. Goosebumps ripple down your arms. 

The mattress dips under his weight when he settles behind you, hands immediately sinking into the flesh of your ass and pulling your cheeks apart. No preamble. You open your mouth to say something, but thick, coarse fingers are already dipping between your thighs and playing with your hole, sinking a finger in up to the first knuckle. 

You breathe out shakily, shoulders tensing. The sheets reek of him, musky and ripe; you concentrate on that instead of the fingers penetrating you, getting you ready for his dick. Your walls squeeze tight around his fingers when he forces another one in. 

When he finally feeds his cock into you, the stretch is nearly unbearable. The sharp stab of pain that accompanies it almost makes you flinch away, but Simon drags you back by your hips.

“You’re not going anywhere, bird,” he rumbles. “Relax. It’s going in.”

What can you say to something like that? 

His whole frame presses you into the mattress, the breath forced from your lungs. Bigger now that he’s got you on your belly. Suddenly making two hundred pounds seem less abstract, more real. He bullies as much of his cock into you as he can, paying no mind to the way you squeal and kick your legs. 

“Real tight cunt,” Simon grunts, humming with his pleasure when his hips punch forward and your pussy squelches around his length. So lewd.

His knees on either side of you keep you trapped in place, nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. All you can do is lie under him and let him rut between your thighs, gasping for breath with every thrust. The sweat is slick down your back, half yours and half his. 

“Ya let other men fuck this cunt, bird?” he asks. It sounds hypothetical, like it’s said half to rile himself up, and though it prickles at your nerves, you don’t complain too much because he fucks you rougher after the words slip out of his mouth. 

When you don’t answer him though, concentrating more on filling your lungs and not biting your tongue off, he grabs your face and twists your head until you’re looking over your shoulder at him, neck aching with the strain. 

“Answer me,” he demands, sounding almost pissed off. 

“N-no—”

“Good,” he grunts. Satisfied.

His words should piss you off. How dare he ask you about fucking other men as if he were your husband or boyfriend. You have half a mind to cuss him out, but then he pumps his hips forward and your face goes numb from pleasure. Electric impulses zip up and down your skin, sizzling your nerves. 

Besides, maybe it’s hot that he’s acting like you belong to him. Like you’re his; his girl that he picked up from the bar after a long shift, eager to go home and lay her out on the bed so he could fuck his pretty girl into a tongue-tied stupor. It certainly does it for you, a thin filigree of pleasure winding its way down your spine. 

It’s an intoxicating fantasy—being wanted by a man in a real, visceral way. It’s one you’ve never gotten close to before, never even grazed with the tips of your fingers, no matter how far you stretched out your arms. You don’t know what men see when they look at you, but it can’t be anything worth keeping. 

He fucks you like he wants to pry you open and leave a piece of him inside. A big hand fits around your neck and tightens; a collar, a manacle. 

Hard to feel anything but grateful though. It’s everything you wanted but never thought you’d get out of this experience. You expected to feel like a body on a butcher’s block, hacked limb from limb. Marble ribbing on the inside. Brought to a high only to be left out in the cold after. 

You never expected apotheosis. You never expected the filth murmured into your ear, the lurid, coarse diatribe in surround sound, all perfect fuckin’ pussy, can’t wait to shove my tongue inside, gonna make you suck my cock while I eat that perfect cunt out—

All—

Perfect fuckin’ girl; you don’t give this to anyone else, do ya? Knew you were gaggin’ for it back in the bar, but wanted to wait ‘n see; turned the rest of ‘em down, didn’t ya? Not a fuckin’ slut. Jus’ for me—only hungry for my cock—

It’s too rough, too much. Overpowering. Musk and body heat and raw strength, his forearms planted on the mattress on either side of your head. The scent of him suffocating, smothering. Heady. In your pores, on the back of your tongue, in your belly. He’s everywhere.

If only you could put it into words. The fire in your belly growing so wild, so out of control, that it threatens to incinerate you. Thinking dangerous thoughts—that you could be his, that he wants you so bad he can’t stand the idea of anyone having you before him, that he’ll kill anyone that touched you before, rip them apart with his bare hands, cut out their hearts and slice it ‘em up real thin so he could feed you the strips with his hands—

“Fuck—” Simon pants in your ear, pulling his cock out of your cunt. You whine, clenching down on nothing, suddenly empty, until he turns you roughly over onto your back and grabs one of your flailing ankles, hooking it over a burly shoulder. “Cunt this good oughta be locked down. Should just chain your leg to the bed so I can wake up to this pussy every day. Would’ya like that, bird?”

Like it? You think wildly—

Keep me, keep me, keep me, pleasepleaseplease.

The leg not hooked over Simon’s shoulder gets pulled around his hip, spreading your legs wider to accommodate the width of him between them. The scour of his voice threatens to erode you, smash you to pieces. There won’t be anything left after he’s done with you. 

He’s just so big. Built like an ox, broad and solid. When he braces his forearms on either side of you, his biceps bulge, skin pulling taut over the muscle. The dark hair of his pits is stark against pale flesh. 

Blood roars in your ears and over you, he moves like a wave, filling you up again and again. You’re swimming in uncharted waters now; gazing out into an unfamiliar and dangerous sea. A swell this big might take you right under. 

Too bad for you, the hazy adumbration of danger in his words is pitted against the maw in your soul, the deep, cavernous hole that yawns wider with each passing year. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: overlooking a sea of evergreen peaks illuminated by a silky moonlight hue, winding a long, narrow road darkened on both sides by tightly clustered trees, your arms wrapped around your chest. Cold layered like a skin, sinking deep into your bones, cold wet like a damp hate; trees clustered around your wandering soul, spurned into wandering like a little undead ghost with teeth clattering in Morse code, saying: so many wrongs done, it is almost incomprehensible.

Is it too much to ask to be wanted? 

You need it like air. 

The issue is that—

more than horny, you’re really, really fucking lonely. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: a dream of being a lighthouse keeper, skin saltwater slick, seafoam on the backs of your knuckles, slathering over frozen fingers clutching at the gallery railing. Beckoning something to you.

What it is, you do not know.

“Look at tha’,” Simon says wonderingly, grabbing your face and yanking it towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “Just needed to get turned out on a fat cock, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah,” you gasp. “So good, Simon, ohmygod—”

“Only this needy for me, right?” The glint in his eye is terrifying.

“Only you, only you—”

“That’s right,” he growls, bearing all of his weight down on you, forehead to forehead. His sweat-slick chest slides against yours, cock buried so deep that you can taste him at the back of your throat. Dark eyes stare down at you with an intensity that steals the breath from you, glossy like he’s rapidly losing the ability to be consciously present, but ever attentive to the pleasure rippling across your face. 

When his cock grinds into the soft plug of your womb, his eyes narrow when yours bulge, and he batters that spot until you seize up and spasm around him. His buzz cut gives you nothing to hold onto, so you dig your nails into the bulky planes of his back instead. 

“Fuck—hold on, Christ, fuck; here it comes,” he spits, the veins in his neck protruding when he grits his teeth. 

Your blood goes red hot when he rams deep into you, each thrust deliberate. Hips losing their rhythm. You don’t notice the first spurt of cum, too preoccupied with the smell and weight of him blanketing you, infiltrating every crevice of your body, but the second is hot. Scorching. You ignore the screaming alarm at the back of your head, barely coherent enough to parse out its meaning. All you can focus on is the warmth spreading inside you and your own walls pulsing around his cock, milking his release out of him. 

Time blurs. You lose some of it. 

You don’t come back until Simon rolls over onto his back, taking you with him. His cock is still buried inside of you, his cum running out in rivulets, pooling at the base of his dick lodged at your entrance. You’re going to be messy when he finally pulls out. 

Despite the ache already setting in, you feel reborn. Renewed. The old, dead skin flayed off. You can’t imagine how you’ll feel when you’ve got your energy back, when even tracing your eyes across the other side of his room doesn’t take tremendous effort. The traces of him littered around the room make you curious. A half empty glass. Steel-toed boots sticking out of a half-opened closet. A damp towel crumpled into a ball on the floor. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. There’s no use trying to fill the gaps in. Whoever Simon is won’t matter in the light of day. You repeat this to yourself until it sticks. 

When you try to get up, planting both hands on his chest, he pulls you back down, forcing your head onto the pillow of his chest. “Simon, the sheets are wet—”

“I’ll deal with it later,” Simon says, eyes already shut, on the verge of falling asleep. “Now shut up. You’re ruining the fucking afterglow.” 

You wake up the next morning covered in bruises and bite marks and dried cum between your thighs and on your belly, so sore that even twitching your finger hurts.

It takes awhile for everything to come back to you. When it finally does, consciousness snaps back into you, discomfort giving way to quiet self-satisfaction. You managed to do it. Your first one-night stand. A real milestone. The tacky sheets beneath you are proof enough of your accomplishment. 

The sadness slithers in when you realize that it’s over. One and done. In a half hour or so, the man plastered against your back and breathing heavily on the crown of your head will wake up, groggy and bleary eyed, and side-eye you until you put back on your clothes from the night before and slink out, tail tucked between your legs. A few hours delayed from when you were planning to throw in the towel at the bar, but still. In the end, it always comes around. 

A gruff voice at your side tells you to quiet, bird—s'too early for your bitchin’ before manhandling you onto your stomach and shoving his raw cock into your cunt and it’s only now that it dawns on you that you were too horny last night to remember to ask him to use protection. 

The thought is wiped from your head when he bucks his hips forward, impaling you on his swollen length. You lose track of time after that. 

Breakfast is an informal affair. Cereal from a box and a bit too much milk, and a cup of instant coffee. You wince when you sit down across from Simon at the kitchen table, your inner thighs still tender and pussy sore from the battering it just took. If it strokes his ego to see how gingerly you sit down, he doesn’t show it. 

It’s weird sitting across the table from him after last night. Hard to just leave it unaddressed, the truth simmering in the air. The red marks across his back make you wince, cheeks heating. Thin crescent marks and scored nails. It’s hard to reconcile yourself with the girl from last night. 

He eats in silence for the most part though, ravenous after the night before. Doesn’t comment on the state of his shoulders or the way you shift on your chair. Not even bothering to make eye contact with you. Your appetite takes a bit of a hit watching him shovel food into his mouth, hardly even pausing long enough to breathe, but you’ve seen plenty of hungry men eat before. 

Still though, silence has always had a way of getting under your skin. You’re not comfortable around it, prone to chattering. So you can’t help the way your mouth opens and the words come out involuntarily. 

“Do you do this a lot?”

“I don’t shit where I eat,” Simon grunts dismissively.

The expression makes you grimace. “So do you usually pick up girls elsewhere or—”

The look he gives you could melt the flesh off your bones. You realize your misstep, interrogating the man you just fucked about his other hookups. Best not to ask questions. It’s not like you’ll see him again after this. 

These last few moments are bittersweet. There won’t be many opportunities like this in the future, mainly because you don’t think you’re cut out for one-night stands. Last night proved that. As good as it was—and for as many times as you came, another time in the wee hours of the morning when Simon rolled over on top of you and shoved your legs apart to eat you out (a midnight snack)—in the light of day, you feel world weary. Like something monumental happened and passed you by. 

You almost want to thank him for making it special, but the anxiety around finally pissing him off is more than you can bear. You want to leave on a good note. It’s better this way. You’ll never have confirmation about whether he’d eventually grow tired of you like everyone else. Never know if he’d one day manage to lose interest in the real you, not the made up sex kitten from the bar. 

It’s better this way.

You tell yourself that when you push your chair out and stand up, hands fisting in the oversized shirt Simon made you wear before leaving the bedroom. “I should get going.”

He stops eating, staring up at you. His eyes are inscrutable, and the longer he stares, the less you understand his look. 

You shift from foot to foot. “Thanks for… I had a good time.”

Simon doesn’t say anything, but when he drops his spoon into the bowl, the metal clang makes you flinch. 

His silence leaves you off balance, like you’ve overstepped somehow. All motion stills under his scrutiny. 

“Got somewhere ya need to be?” he asks, a vague, almost menacing undercurrent in his voice. It’s said like a warning. There shouldn’t be anywhere else you need to be. 

“I…—don’t you want me to leave?”

He looks distinctly unimpressed. “You gonna walk home like that?” His words make you tug at his shirt, pulling it down to cover your thighs.

Your whole life has been made up of misunderstandings. Missed opportunities. Men who you thought loved you vanishing into thin air. You’re a poem often lost in translation. A long game of hide and seek; people run towards you then feign right, leaving you in the dust. 

Whatever this is, you don’t recognize it. 

You swallow on a dry throat. “…No?”

Simon searches your expression for something before he nods, satisfied. “Then sit the fuck back down. Finish your damn breakfast.”

You sit back down (wincing when you do) because the alternative is admitting that you don’t know what’s next. That you’re out of step again, but this time without that sinking feeling in your belly. A wild fluttering instead. That thought again that maybe you’ve bit off more than you can chew. 

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

[bcmbiquinn]

Boyfriend!Eddie Munson Headcanons

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ He’d always make mixtapes/playlists for you for any occasion, “songs that remind me of us” “we should make out to this rhythm” type of thing.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ He’d drag you to every underground metal concert he can find but he would also go to any concert you want.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ Following the above, he would do anything to get you tickets for your favourite artist, like anything! Camping the night before to be early in line -modern Eddie would have a laptop, 3 phones and a tablet to get you tickets-

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ Late night drives with your boy, yup! Blasting music, windows down and taking random turns until you end up in a secluded spot and make out for hours. (Maybe more)

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ Eddie is definitely a total romantic, he would write you cheesy love notes on scraps of paper, make poems for you, showing up late at night outside your window with a flower he stole from your neighbour yard.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ He would try on making breakfast for you, but it’s mostly just burnt toast and half cooked scrambled eggs, he tried tho!

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ Touchy touchy, this man can’t take his hands off of you, pinching your cheeks, hand on your lower back, on your knees, caressing your arm, kisses on your forehead and neck and so on.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ Eddie definitely needs a lot of reassurance, deep inside he always feels like people would eventually leave him, he desperately wants you to reassure him but struggles to ask for it, but once you do it and tell him there’s no one else you’d rather be, he melts instantly!

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ He’s really into matching tattoos and would love to get one with you but if you’re hesitant about, he’d just draw one on you with a sharpie.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ ridiculously overprotective, you stub your toe, he’s like “Who did this to you?” Then proceeds to flip of the chair or hit the couch with his foot and ends up hurting himself too!

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧He’s sooo dramatic when he gets a cold, acts like he’s dying, all tucked acting like he’s on his deathbed holding your hand dramatically “my love…i don’t think I’d make it this time”

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ He can’t lie and definitely can’t keep secrets from you, if he has planned a surprise for you, he’s going to mess up immediately “Okay but when we get to the… I mean the totally normal thing we're doing! Forget what i said that!”

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ He would stole your snacks and leftovers, his logic? “What’s yours is mine, love. That’s how love works”

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ He takes fake offence to everything, if you say you don’t like a band he loves he would act as if you just stabbed him.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ He’s genuinely protective of you, if someone upset you he goes full beast mode, “do I need to kick someone’s ass?” He doesn’t play about you or your safety.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ if he’s ever mad at you, he would never be mean, he may cross his arms and grumble but the moment you give him puppy eyes he melts “you’re so lucky I love you, you little gremlin”

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ Our boy is a crybaby but he never had someone to rely on until he found you, he would try to hold his tears but the moment you hug him and whisper “I got you, Eds” it’s over, he buries his face on your shoulder shaking as he sobs.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧ He loves making gifts for you, he thinks it’s way more romantic, he would spent hours making the perfect necklace, ring for you, love letters, a scrapbook with all the memories you’ve made together, concert tickets, Polaroids.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧He totally loves your quirks, if you’re into collecting rocks, you better believe he would get you the prettiest rocks!

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧He would give you one of his rings and if it doesn’t fit on your finger because it’s too big he would turn it into a necklace.

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧he would give the most out of place birthday cards “congratulations on your promotion” “yaaaaaaaaay”

‧˚ʚɞ˚‧He gives you his stuff to you for no reason, his jacket? Take it, his favourite band pin? Take it. If you ever mention liking something he has, straight right into your hands “No, really take it, I don’t even need it” he probably does need it.

We’re close to valetine’s day baddies!

Divider: @adornedwithlight

[morganas-pendragons]

sweet and soft | elrond peredhel

okay LISTEN

I read this prompt about the elves ears DAYS ago and it has not left me alone. it being their most sensitive part of their body along with touching their ears meaning you want courtship.... and I then had a dream about this with Elrond

not a drop of angst in here, I want to kiss him so bad

enjoy!

***

Sunlight cradles the two of you from where you sit among the gardens in Lindon. It is a rare day where the High King has given Elrond reprieve from his duties as Herald, and you both took the opportunity to spend the time together in the gardens where you’d met.

Elrond only had one condition: You had to play for him. As your skill with a violin was renowned, you’d earned your place as High King Gil-Galad’s violinist who was often called upon for important events. It was what had initially drawn Elrond to you, seeing you playing at Gil-Galad's feast.

That was almost six months ago. Now you find yourself enraptured by the Half-Elven man with his head in your lap, your fingers idly carding through unruly curls as you recite lines of poetry from the book he’d brought to read.

Your first mistake in being so engrossed in your poetry is that you miss Elrond’s breathing hitch when your fingers ghost the tips of his ears. He is aware, as are you, what the implications are behind touching the ears of another elf. Elrond has never made the depth of his feelings for you known.

He is cognizant of one detail, at minimum. Elrond wants to court you.

He is also aware that his cheeks are burning as he turns to press his head into your thigh.

Your fingers curl just beneath the neckline of his shirt before dancing upward once again and repeating the same motion. Out of the corner of his eye, Elrond catches the faint smile upturning your lips as you peer down to meet his gaze. His eyes are astonishing already, but washed in the glow of the morning sun, he almost seems as if he is sent straight from the Valar themselves.

“Is something wrong, Elrond?” You ask innocently. He reaches up to snap the poetry book shut, allowing him the opportunity to sit up and face you. “I thought you were enjoying the poetry. This is our weekly routine, after all.”

He takes those next few beats of silence to allow his eyes to sweep across your face. Elrond has known you to be somewhat of a mischievous person, feigning innocence and naivety in situations where repercussions are demanded if fault is admitted.

“I was simply admiring the person who chooses to spend their waking hours with me instead of making practical use of their time,” Elrond remarks, voice stuttering as you curled your fingers into the lengthening curls at his temples to tug him close to you. “And how devious you are.”

You grin widely at him. Elrond is the only person you have ever allowed yourself to be genuine with. Being in Gil-Galad’s favor means that you so often have to wear a practiced facade of grace and poise. There is no room for child like behaviors.

Being with Elrond allows you to truly, truly embrace the very being of who you are. That is one of the many characteristics you have come to love about him.

“Me? Devious? Surely you are joking." You tease. "All I did was-“

He catches your hand before you can do it again. The two of you sit there in silence for a brief moment as you stare at your hand caught in his own. It’s the first time he’s really taken it. Sure, the two of you have walked with one another in these gardens plenty of times, but only as friends.

You have wanted Elrond for what feels like lifetimes. For the sake of yourself and for him as parts of Gil-Galad’s court, you chose to love him from afar. You didn’t want to impose upon Elrond. He already carried enough.

However, given the way he’s looking at you, part of you quietly wonders if he feels the same way and chose not to speak it for fear of your rejection.

Elrond takes each one of your fingers and spreads them apart, laying a kiss on each fingertip before enclosing your hand with his own. Your breath stuttered in your chest as he leaned impossibly closer.

“You know what it means to touch the ears of another elf,” Elrond said lowly. It almost sounds like barely concealed restraint. “Do not tread upon a path you do not wish to walk down.”

You hum softly and grab his chin with your fingers so he will look at you. Trepidation lingers in the depths of the gray irises that stare back into yours. “And if it is a path I wish to tread upon?” You whisper. “Let it be my choice.”

Elrond shudders as your fingers trail upward to tangle in his hair again, and he finds himself unable to breathe as you slowly shift your positions so you can settle yourself into his lap. It's a bold move considering you have done little else outside of resting your head on his shoulder and holding his arm as you venture Lindon's gardens. You're quietly praying that you have not overstepped a boundary.

Elrond doesn’t push you away. He welcomes it. He welcomes you.

He tries to focus on the sights around him to avoid the fear of disappointing you lingering in the back of his mind. You are a sight to behold among Lindon’s gardens. Despite the wonders of the sights around him, none of the flora and fauna that have grown here over the centuries are comparable to you.

“Hey,” You call softly. “Where did you go, nin mel?”

Elrond is not usually one to fumble over his words, but they roll off his tongue before he can stop his rambling, “I do not want to bring any disappointment if I am not what you wish me to be.”

You’d be lying if you said the statement didn’t make you melt. He was so earnest and sweet when it came to ensuring he lived up to what other people wanted but so often gave himself such little credit. “Elrond,” You began, taking his hands into your own to press them against your waist. “I have wanted you for so long. You could never disappoint me, meleth nin.”

You bend your head to the juncture where his jaw meets his neck and place a kiss thereupon. As you anticipate, Elrond groans low in his throat and grasps you more tightly. “Please,” He breathes, breath hot against your ear as you drum your fingers against his neck. “Please touch me.”

It was the closest to a declaration you were going to get at that moment. He wants you to be near to him, to touch him, to be witness to the rawest and most vulnerable parts that he so often hid from everyone else. He had to hide. Who would want to see the human side of the Half-Elven Herald of the King?

You tilt your head and gently graze your fingertips over his ears as he bends his own head to meet your mouth halfway. It's cataclysmic. You've been dreaming about this moment since the first time he asked you to play for him at the very end of one of Gil-Galad's feasts with the other elves who dwelt in Lindon.

Elrond shudders as you come together and lifts a hand to touch your jaw just beneath your own ear.

The action alone causes you to gasp just enough for him to take the opportunity to kiss you more deeply, licking into your mouth with a low groan as you wind your fingers through his hair.

"Elrond," You breathe. The two of you pull away just enough to feel the warm breath of the other on your skin, your fingers twirling circles against his temples as he worked at undoing the braids that hung over your shoulders. You want more of him. You want to bury yourself in his heart and never let anyone hurt him again. "That was-"

"I would very much like to do it again. And again, and again, until you are rendered breathless," Elrond whispers, reaching to the side to pluck a lily from the flower bed before tucking it behind your ear. There is hope lingering on the edge of his tone as he looks at you. A hidden promise for something that you both can chase, not a futile dream he has to chase alone. "But only after I hear you play."

You stand to your feet and motion for the violin case beside him. "One on condition," You reply as you tuck your chin into the base of the instrument and poise your bow against its strings. "There must be more kisses at the end of this song."

You swallow the knot in your throat as the melody begins to echo in the gardens, allowing Elrond the opportunity to lean back on his elbows and peer up at you from his spot on the blanket. "I believe that can be arranged. Is there anything else?" He asks innocently. You raise a brow and pause as his shirt shifts to reveal the skin beneath. Warm, tanned skin that you wanted to... "You're staring. You're going to mess up your song."

"You are distracting me." You retort. "I do have one more condition."

There are several beats of silence between you two as Elrond goes quietly, enraptured by the melody that seems to encompass your entire being as if it comes from the very heart of you. You are the very essence of what makes music beautiful.

When your final note decrescendos into the serenity of the garden's life around you is when you open your eyes to look at Elrond once again.

"What's that final condition?" Elrond asks.

"A date, Elrond Peredhel." You muse, leaning down to return your violin to its case before swooping in to press a kiss to reddened cheeks. "Anywhere and any time. I will leave the rest up to you."

He does not dare move as he watches you walk back towards your rooms. You truly are a marvel, a sight to behold. You are the brightest light that has entered his life since he lost Elros. He would not dare to dim that light.

"Anytime and anywhere," He whispers to himself as he traces his fingers over his cheek. "For all my life-time."

[nameless-jamie]

Hi, I love your writing and I love that you post so frequently! Could you wrote a fic based on the scene in the finally in which Rupert tells West Ham's coqch to take Jamie out? Could be a separate story (maybe Y/N is Richmond's lawyer) and she finds out and wants to finish Rupert? Or in the P/A universe and Jamie teases her about being protective and caring about him after she stands up to Rupert?

Thanks!

Red Card

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing, suggestive scenes, angry Y/N, sexist joke from Rupert

A/N: I hope it's okay that I used your request for a Jamie Tartt x PA ff, I thought it fit so well. Thank you for the idea!

The energy in Nelson Road was electric. The stands were packed with Richmond fans, their chants echoing through the stadium as the team prepared for one of their toughest matches yet. The anticipation was palpable, the tension thick in the air, but none of it compared to the storm brewing inside her the moment she overheard Rupert Mannion’s words.

Y/N wasn’t even supposed to be standing on the sidelines during the match—technically, her job as Jamie Tartt’s personal assistant didn’t require her to be this close to the action. But after years of working with Jamie, she’d become part of Richmond’s inner circle, always hovering near the dugout with Roy, Beard, and Ted, ready to handle whatever ridiculous emergency Jamie threw at her.

But tonight? Tonight, she was glad she was there.

Because she overheard everything.

Standing just a few feet from West Ham’s technical area, she had no choice but to hear Rupert fucking Mannion—West Ham’s owner, snake, all-around waste of oxygen—lean toward his coach and murmur,

"Take Tartt out."

She had frozen, fingers tightening around the clipboard she had been holding.

"Hard. Do whatever it takes."

It was quiet. Calculated. Cruel.

Rupert’s voice was as smooth as it was poisonous, a quiet command given to West Ham’s coach, the kind of thing meant to be whispered in dark corners and carried out with no one the wiser. But she had heard it, and once she had, there was no way in hell she was going to let it slide.

It made something snap inside her.

Without thinking, she stormed across the grass, ignoring Roy’s “Oi, what the fuck are you doin’?” and Beard’s sharp “Y/N—don’t—”

She was already moving.

Marching straight up to him.

“Mister Mannion,” she said, voice saccharine-sweet with rage.

Rupert barely glanced at her. “Ah, Miss Y/L/N. Didn’t realize Jamie let his little assistant wander around unsupervised.”

She clenched her jaw. “I heard what you just said about Jamie.”

Rupert smirked. “Did you?”

“You told your coach to injure him.” Her voice was pure steel.

Rupert sighed, as if she were boring him. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Football is a physical sport.” He tilted his head, looking her over like she was some insignificant little thing he could swat away. “Though, I suppose you’d know all about being handled roughly. What’s Jamie got you doing these days? Fetching his water? Maybe warming his bed?”

Y/N lunged.

Her vision went red as she launched herself at him, fully prepared to end him right then and there.

Before she could so much as grab the smug bastard, two line refs yanked her back.

“Let me go—” she growled, twisting in their grip.

Roy and Ted were already jogging toward her, Roy looking absolutely thrilled and Ted looking like he was suppressing laughter.

One of the refs shook his head. “Sorry, miss, but you’re outta here.”

She stood beside Roy and Ted on the touchline, fuming, while the referee held up the red card like she was some kind of violent offender.

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Ted said, ever the peacemaker. “Now, I don’t wanna tell ya how to do your job, sir, but surely we can all agree that giving someone a red card when they aren’t technically a player is a little… excessive?”

“It’s the rules,” the ref said flatly.

“She doesn’t even play, mate!” Roy barked. “You can’t send her off!”

The ref shrugged. “Rules are rules.”

Roy, arms crossed, scowled so hard he looked ready to combust. “It’s a stupid fucking rule.”

“Stupid or not, she has to leave,” the ref insisted.

Y/N threw her arms in the air. “Oh, come on! I didn’t even do anything.”

The linesman coughed. “You tried to assault West Ham’s owner.”

“Tried being the keyword,” she snapped. “If you lot hadn’t held me back, I’d have succeeded.”

Rupert, still standing smugly nearby, let out a low chuckle. “My, my,” he said, voice dripping with condescension. “I didn’t realize Jamie’s assistant was so… passionate about her job.”

Y/N whirled back toward Rupert. “You’re a disgusting, pathetic excuse for a man,” she seethed.

Rupert only chuckled, waving his fingers at her like she was some little girl throwing a tantrum. “Run along now.”

The rage inside her burned.

“If anyone on West Ham lays a hand on Jamie, I swear to God, I will—”

Rupert tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “It looks an awful lot like you’re getting rather—” his lips curled into a smirk, “—emotionally involved with your client.”

The audacity of this man.

She felt the anger boiling in her chest, sharp and blinding, but before she could lunge, two line refs grabbed her arms, holding her back.

“Ohhh, I hate you,” she seethed.

Rupert just smiled, infuriatingly unbothered. “Careful now, boys. Wouldn’t want Jamie’s newest toy to get too scratched up before he inevitably trades her in for someone better.”

That was it. That was her breaking point.

She surged forward, only for the refs to tighten their grip, dragging her back toward the tunnel.

“LET ME AT HIM,” she yelled, legs kicking uselessly as she was forcibly removed.

“Jesus Christ,” Roy muttered, but there was unmistakable approval in his tone.

Ted just sighed. “Well, that went about as well as we could’ve hoped.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the way he dismissed her or the fact that she couldn’t do a damn thing about it, but she let the refs drag her off, still spitting curses as Roy followed them, arguing the whole way.

Jamie, standing on the pitch, barely caught the end of it—just enough to see his PA being forcibly escorted out, Roy yelling at the ref, and Y/N looking ready to kill someone.

He frowned. “What the fuck?”

Isaac, jogging up beside him, snorted. “Mate, Y/N just got a red card. She got sent off.”

“Right. And… why?” Jamie blinked. “She ain’t even a player.”

“Yeah, well, she’s got more fight in her than half of us,” Isaac muttered.

Sam, ever the optimist, said, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explana—”

“—Apparently she tried to murder Mr. Mannion,” Colin interrupted.

Jamie’s eyes widened. “Oh, fuckin' hell.”

Jamie found her in the locker room after the game, sitting on one of the benches with her arms crossed, scowling at the floor.

She barely glanced up as he walked in.

He leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, smirking. “So.”

She huffed. “So.”

He tilted his head. “Wanna tell me why my personal assistant got sent off the pitch? ’Cause, I gotta say, love, that’s a new one—even for you.”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “Rupert told his coach to target you. To hurt you.”

Jamie felt something twist in his stomach. He wasn’t surprised—not really—but hearing it from her, hearing how angry she was about it…

It did something to him.

Before he could respond, she turned to face him fully, eyes blazing. “And then that prick had the audacity to say some sexist bullshit about me, and I—” She clenched her fists. “I snapped.”

Jamie smirked. “You snapped.”

“Yes.”

“And got dragged off the pitch.”

“Yes.”

“And got a red card even though you don’t play football.”

She groaned, rubbing her face. “Yes.”

Jamie couldn’t help it—he laughed.

Y/N shot him a glare. “Jamie.”

“Nah, nah, I’m just—” He shook his head, grinning. “You got sent off tryin’ to protect me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s definitely a thing.” A really sexy thing. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Admit it. You care about me.”

She scoffed. “Of course, I care about you. You’re my job.”

Jamie smirked. “And?”

“And nothing.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Jamie leaned in, voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “You sure sure?”

Y/N shoved him. “Shut up, Jamie.”

He laughed, stepping back. “Alright, alright.” He crossed his arms, eyes still bright with amusement. “But just so you know—next time, if you’re gonna get sent off, at least make it worth it.”

She huffed. “Oh, trust me. Next time, I’m throwing a punch.”

Jamie grinned. “Now that, love, I’d pay to see.”

And even though he teased her for it—because of course he would—he couldn’t help but feel something warm settle in his chest.

Because she had fought for him.

[cindol]

BILLS BILLS BILLS !💸

tw— reader a pretty princess, reader is 26 and ino is 22, ino is rich somehow just by being nanami’s assistant don’t ask me!!,

synopsis— ino is the perfect boy for a girl like y/n.

congrats on 600 naj! @honeybleed . 90’s collab event

y/n’s worst trait was how forgiving she could be, even to the most heinous acts to her, her boyfriend now ex boyfriend took great advantage of that. It was sweet at first, him taking her to restaurants no matter how cheap they were but then it turned bitter sweet. Turning from him asking her for extra cash and even getting the audacity to even steal her credit card and use her car on his own whim. Once the breakup soon happened she had to ask the question, ‘where are all good men?’ This question even was on her mind as she was at the newest popular club with her girls.

When ranting to shoko and utahime on the Group FaceTime they took her to the new Blue Eagel club saying how there was a lot of eye candy at this joint. Y/n sipped the glass of pink Whitney she had as shoko and utahime had their usual Hennessy. Shoko smiled seeing the corners of y/n’s lips turned off.”whole lotta’ eye candy right? Get you outta that bummed out mood?” Y/n couldn’t help but make a chuckle come out her throat.”Mm… whole lot of male eye candy..”looking around the club she could see some now. a small group of tall of six men, there was about one that stuck out to her. She could’ve sworn she could see him staring at her from her small table. She was broken out her stare from how shoko and utahime made tipsy ‘ooo’ sound effects.

She rolled her eyes smiling at the two.”looks like our babe found her some skinny eye candy?” Utahime teased and it made y/n even scoff with a chuckle hidden in.”oh please.. I just got out a sticky ass breakup, what would I look like lusting over another scrawny man?” Shoko and utahime just raised their eyebrows up and down with a cat like smile.”ain’t that your type?” Shoko said in a teasing tone making y/n have a barely visible blush on her cheek.”Oh hush.. go on somewhere if y’all are just gonna tease me.” That was the invite for the two tipsy girls to make their way off to the dance floor.

Just as they left the man came closer to her table and she got a good look of him. He wasn’t very dolled up like the guys he came with. He was sporting just a normal black dress shirt, some grey slacks but had some generic lazy brown hair. He now stood right in front of her with a cheeky smile.”hey, don’t know how my buddies even do this kinda thing but.. saw ya staring at me across the room.” As soon as he said those words he wanted to cringe and turn pink when you rolled your eyes smiling.”room? We’re in a club. Don’t you mean across the dance floor?”

He played it off chuckling and scratching the back of his head.”I’m bad at catch lines what can I say? Can’t knock down a guy for trying.” Y/n liked his wit, she could tell he was obviously just a nervous boy but still very smooth with his comebacks. She took a sip of her pink Whitney.”mhm.. take a seat yes?” He listened to her taking a seat from across her at the small round table. Now that he was taking a close at her she was a gorgeous girl, with a beautiful dark straight haired brunette lace sat on her head perfectly when he looked at her face she had some light makeup on but her lips popped out with them lined and glossed up and even her outfit was pretty, with her wearing a light pink halter top and a pink mini skirt and chunky light pink chunky platform heels that matched her brown skin perfect. Everything about this girl was pretty to him

She noticed how he was zoning out just staring at her and snapped her fingers.”aye, eyes up here sir!” That made him blink and chuckle.”sorry bout that, can’t help but stare at a beautiful girl y’know?” That made her a bit bashful as she smiled at his cheesy lines. He could tell he was winning her over slowly.”instead of this awkward tension let me know something about the girl who was staring me down just from the dance floor.” She made a light chuckle tapping her fingers on the tables surface.”well, I just got out of weird breakup last night and now I’m here. That’s a small fact.” Ino could control the small damn he let out at that.”Ah shit, sorry that’s just a big bombshell.” She giggled at his reaction.”No no, my ex boyfriend was a bit of dick anyways.. He was always borrowing my car, money and nearly maxing my card out.”

That made ino’s brows raise.”what a way to treat a girl you love huh?” She hummed in response.”what can ya do though? Not much good boys in this town really..” Ino made a huff sound at that, the next thing he said he couldn’t even control out his mouth.”I would never do that to you.” It made y/n giggle to have a boy she barely even knew say this just 9 minutes into the conversation.”you barely know me boy, and yet you think you know what’s best for me hm?” She jokes a little which takes ino aback, everything she said made him fluster and think about the stupid words he said. He attempted to play off his words, still showing his boyish charm and overall confidence despite his blushing.”well I don’t know you well enough since I just met you well about some minutes ago but with how you stared at me across that floor and your body language maybe we can figure something out y’know?”

Before she could make another witty comment he continued.”You may look like you have more experience and a more rich taste but trust me, I could be that man for you. I could do the bill paying, the nice spa treatment and resorts. Just give me one chance.” That made y/n’s legs clench a bit, she still had some excuse up her sleeve.”you don’t even know my name.”

“Takuma ino, what’s yours?” He said it so quickly like he wasn’t taking no for a answer or any excuse. Y/n gave in seeing how determined this boy was.”l/n y/n.”

🎀 ᘏᘏ 🎀

In the 6 months y/n had gotten to know ino he kept his promise and word about treating her right. He definitely paid her bills and treated her to the best restaurants and clubs. It amazed her how he could just have this much money from being a assistant apparently. Throughout these months she started to date ino he showed a lot of chivalry for his age, there were some instances where his romance showed out.

He was very serious about paying her bills and expenses like she thought. Truthfully she thought it would just be some fun little three months she would be dating him till she was 4 months in and saw the effect. Even knowing how financially stable ino was she still hesitated asking him to pay for things, it was just her mentality when growing up poor. Ino had this mentality himself when he was younger, that’s how he picked her up on her habbit of always turning lights off and yelling at him across the room to make sure to turn the bathroom light off once he’s done in her bathroom, she even did this in his house without noticing.

When she was scolding him once again about turning the shower water and lights off more often he just hushed her with a finger on her lips.”babe babe, I can take care of all that dumb bill shit.” It stunned her a bit how he hushed her and he chuckled noticing.”I’m your rich new boyfriend did you forget?”

Another instance was him amazing her when taking her to a fresh new restaurant. It was foreign to her a little, as she looked at the fancy menu and the other customers around she felt a bit out of place even in the mini pink dress she had on. Ino could feel how uncomfortable she was, he had gone through the same feelings she did. Across the small table he put his hand on hers rubbing the back of her hand.”hey, enjoy yourself y’know? You deserve the best treatment. Can’t let ya leave out before you try the oxtails this place has.”

Ino was definitely trying to get her comfortable in his lifestyle and it was working slowly. Y/n didn’t even notice how she was wearing more tennis girl wear and going to a country club with him to meet some of his colleagues and friends.

He was showing he could be the boy to pay her bills and everything and more, before she even knew it.

[porcelainstarrr]

CHAPTER 9

⌖ continued scene from chapter 8

We didn’t speak after that.

Not really.

Not after the tension, the storm of it, the weight that threatened to swallow the room whole. Not after the heat in his eyes and the way he stepped away like I had done something wrong. Like I was the one who crossed a line.

We stood there for a moment.

In silence.

And just before I turned to leave, before I gathered the last pieces of my self-respect off the floor, he said it-

“You were right to end the session early.”

That sentence.

That fucking sentence.

It rang in my ears like a slap. It was the gentlest knife I’d ever been handed, and I walked straight into it. I didn’t respond. I didn’t look back. I just walked out, head high, heart somewhere on the floor behind me.

─────── ⌖ ───────

CHAPTER 9

⌖

Hours later, I was home.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

But it didn’t feel like mine tonight. The lights stayed off. The curtains stayed closed. My coat never made it to the hook. I didn’t eat. I didn’t shower. I didn’t even change. I just lay there on top of the covers, limbs loose, mouth dry, breathing shallow.

No music.

No TV.

Just the sounds of Hell’s Kitchen outside my window muffled sirens, distant yelling, engines, footsteps, laughter, the city doing what it always does: moving on.

I stayed still.

I couldn’t get the scene out of my head.

Him.

His voice.

The way he looked at me.

The fucking nerve of him pulling away after everything. After weeks of building something that felt… real. Present. Emotional. The way he made me feel like I was losing my mind for noticing, like I was imagining things.

Like, I was the problem.

I turned my head on the pillow, eyes dry and wide. And then I saw them.

The cards.

Tucked between a stack of books on my nightstand. Two of them. One from the lilies. One from the cake.

Happy birthday.

Again, happy birthday.

No names. No handwriting analysis needed. Just... the ache of knowing.

I sat up slowly. Reached for them.

Held them in my hand like they were evidence.

And that’s when it hit.

Like a match dragging across bone-

Fire.

I was on fire.

Chest tight. Breath sharp. I was so goddamn mad. At him. At myself. At the silence. At the confusion. At how he toyed with the line between vulnerability and manipulation, like it was a game only he knew the rules to.

He watched me from the windows.

He gave me lilies.

He improved in our sessions.

He kissed me with his eyes and then made me feel ashamed for even noticing.

And then tonight? That writing task? That smirk?

“You were right to end the session early.”

Like, I embarrassed myself. Like I overstepped, like I was delusional for feeling the shift he started.

No. Fuck that.

I was done playing nice. I had something to say. A lot, actually.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I was already moving. Shoes. Keys. Phone. No plan.

Just fury.

Fury and muscle memory.

I don’t remember the train ride. Or the streets. Or the cold.

But somehow, I was there.

At the gate.

Back at the facility.

It was quiet. Different. The usual daytime buzz was gone. No receptionists. No admin. Just night shift guards, most of them tucked behind glass booths, drinking from thermoses, rotating posts. Fewer eyes. Fewer rules.

Lucky me.

I didn’t badge in.

I couldn’t.

My ID swipe would leave a timestamp, an automatic entry log. Questions. Reports. I’d be done. So instead, I went around. I knew there was a service access near the north wing used by maintenance staff, emergency exits, and deliveries. It had a motion-sensitive lock, only used during security drills and authorized reroutes.

Most people didn’t know about it.

I did.

Back when I first got this job, I obsessed over the building layout. Learned its corners like I was preparing for a siege.

So I found it.

Dark alley. Locked door. I crouched low, slid the card from my coat sleeve, an emergency override given to internal psych leads. For crisis evaluations only.

Tonight felt like a crisis.

The green light blinked once.

Click.

I was in.

Dark corridors.

Dimmed lighting.

Silence like a held breath.

I moved quickly. Soft steps. No badge scans, no cameras in this wing, only periodic guard rotations every half-hour. And judging by the echo down the hall, they were somewhere near the south end.

His wing was clear.

I reached it. The hallway was long, sterile, all metal, and muted in color. The last door on the left.

My breath was hot in my throat. My fingers curled into fists.

This wasn’t just about answers. This was accountability.

I reached for the handle, still furious, still burning, and I heard it-

Footsteps.

Not far.

Shit.

I opened the door, slipped inside, and shut it fast.

No sound. No slam.

Just in.

Safe.

And then-

There he was.

Dex.

Sitting on the couch, legs stretched out, black headphones over his ears, his recorder resting on his lap.

So fucking casual.

He didn’t react immediately. Probably thought it was just a guard.

But then… he looked.

And his expression shifted.

First confusion. Then awareness. Then, concern.

He sat up straighter.

Took the headphones off slowly.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, low.

I stared at him, frozen.

“I have a lot to say,” I said, my voice quiet but sharp.

He stood. Fast.

Crossed the space between us in two long steps.

“Get in the closet,” he said.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

His voice dropped. Urgent now.

“Get in. Now. Go.”

“What-”

“Trust me. Go in. Now.” 

He nudged me gently, but firmly, toward the side door. For some reason some insane reason, I listened.

I stepped in.

He closed the door behind me.

Darkness.

Tight space.

A few peepholes near the slats.

I crouched. Waited. My heart is in my throat.

I heard the door to his room open, a guard. Muted conversation. Dex’s voice. Calm. Cool. Nothing suspicious, once the guard was gone. I heard the door shut, his footsteps retreating down the corridor, fading into the kind of silence that only exists in high-security buildings after hours, sterile and suffocating.

Then-

Click.

A loud one.

Heavy. Mechanical. Final.

It wasn’t from Dex.

It wasn’t from the guard.

It wasn’t just the door.

It was every door.

The entire hallway.

Shit.

The lockdown.

My breath caught mid-inhale.

No.

No, no, no. I forgot.

Midnight sharp.

Every night, without fail.

The system initiates automatically. Total lockdown of the isolation wing. Every reinforced door seals shut. No override. No access until morning. It’s a security protocol part of the psychiatric containment standards. No staff are allowed in after midnight. No staff are expected to be here.

I am not supposed to be here.

And now I’m trapped.

Inside. With him.

As the realization rolled through my chest, I heard another sound, a low mechanical hum. Overhead, the lights shifted, dimmed slightly. A subtle change, but it made my skin crawl. Less clinical. More... bedtime. Like the building itself was telling me to lie down and sleep. My fingers curled into my knees where I sat, still crouched in the darkness of the closet. My back pressed to the wall. The air was already too warm. Too close.

I had no plan for this.

What was I thinking?

What the hell was I trying to prove?

I hadn’t moved. I hadn’t said a word.

I was frozen in place.

Then, from somewhere in the room, I heard his voice. Calm. Low.

“You can come out now.”

I didn’t respond.

I couldn’t.

His voice came again, a little closer this time- 

“Are you going to sit in there the whole night?”

Still nothing from me.

My tongue felt heavy. My thoughts were running in circles.

What have I done?

I’ve never broken a rule before. Not really. Not like this. I’ve always been the follow-every-policy, double-check-my-clipboard, get-it-approved-in-triplicate kind of woman. And now I was hiding in a patient's closet. At midnight. In a federal facility. I curled into myself slowly, my limbs folding tighter. My forehead met my knees. My hair fell forward like a curtain, shielding me from the tiny slivers of light filtering through the wooden slats. I breathed through my mouth, quiet and shallow.

I was spiraling.

Hard.

You’re going to lose your job.

Your license.

Everything.

You’re going to be reported.

Fired.

Discredited.

You’re going to be a headline.

I hugged my knees tighter. The closet was small. Uncomfortably so. I could feel the cold wall of the closet pressing against my back, and the cold floor beneath me. I thought I might cry- just let it out, just a little. But I couldn’t.

There was too much.

I was too full of it.

Embarrassment. Shame. Anger.

Why am I like this?

Why did I come here?

Why can’t I stop thinking about him?

Then-

Light.

The closet door opened.

A sharp burst of brightness flooded the tiny space, cutting through my cocoon of denial. But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t lift my head. I stayed right where I was, hoping that if I stayed small enough, still enough, this would all just-

“Well…”

His voice.

Dry.

Low.

A little too amused.

“…You’re well-adjusted.”

The motherfucker.

I still didn’t move. Not at first.

But my voice found its way out of me, muffled against my knees. “I’m not supposed to be here.” The words barely filled the space. But somehow, he heard them.

A pause.

Then, softer now-

“I know.”

I felt something shift. I don’t know if it was in him or me. Slowly, I lifted my head. My eyes squinted against the light overhead, harsh at first, then clearing, he was standing over me.

Tall. Still. Just looking.

And in the way the light hit him from behind, casting a faint glow around the edges of his hair, his shoulders, he looked almost unreal.

Like a fucking angel.

An angel with a high kill count.

My breath caught for a second. My chest tightened, my arms still hugging me.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just stared.

And that’s when it hit me.

All over again.

That white-hot rush.

The rage.

The thing that brought me here in the first place.

The gift.

The drawing.

The smirk.

The look.

The writing exercise.

‘You were right to end the session early.’

That sentence burned its way through my brain like acid.

He made me feel like I had done something wrong.

Like I was weak.

Like I was imagining all of this.

When he was the one who started it.

He watched me from the goddamn window.

He sent me birthday gifts and left me guessing.

He started talking. Opening up. Trusting me.

He kissed me with his eyes and made me feel like I was spiraling for it, and now? Now I was locked in his fucking room for the night like I was the one who lost control.

And maybe I did.

But I wasn’t going to sit in this closet and cry about it.

Not anymore.

I remember why I’m here.

The moment slams back into me like a goddamn freight train.

"You son of a-“ I hiss, shooting up from the closet floor so fast I almost lose balance.

My palm hits his chest.

Hard.

It’s the only thing I can think to do, push him. Get him away from me. Shove all the weight off my chest and into him.

He doesn’t budge.

Didn’t even flinch.

Of course, he didn’t.

“a- bitch!" I finish, voice cracking through the syllables as I storm out of the closet like it was a prison cell. “You’re the reason I’m here!” I spin around to face him fully now, my hands gesturing wildly as all of it, every emotion, every thought I’ve swallowed, erupts from my chest in one long, tangled mess of anger and pain. “I came here to yell at you! That’s what this was! That’s why I walked through those fucking gates like a lunatic, like a psychopath because I needed to scream at you! I was mad and confused and humiliated.”

He doesn’t move.

Just watches me.

His expression was unreadable.

Too unreadable.

And that only pisses me off more.

“You made me feel like I was in the wrong,” I spat. My voice trembles, not because I’m scared, but because I’m done trying to keep it together. “You made me feel like I crossed a line. Like, I was unprofessional. Like I imagined, everything! Like I made this whole thing up!” I’m pacing now. My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into my palms as I talk louder, faster, angrier. “You started this. You. You watched me from the window like some kind of stalker, and I let it slide. I thought maybe it was my imagination, maybe I was losing it until you started acting like you gave a damn. You started engaging in our sessions. You gave me the damn writing prompt answers like they meant something. Like I meant something.” My voice breaks. I catch it. Force it back. “But then you sent me the flowers. The card. The cake. Don’t pretend you didn’t. And then the drawing. A lily, Dex. A fucking lily. My favorite.” Still, he doesn’t speak. He’s just standing there, still as a statue, watching me burn alive in the middle of his room. And I hate how steady he looks. How quiet.

“What was it?” I demand. “Some twisted test? See how far you could push me? See if I’d crack and become just another case study? Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I wouldn’t put the pieces together?”

Nothing. No answer. Just that same maddening look.

“And then today, today you made me feel like a fucking idiot.”

I stop pacing.

I look him in the eye.

He’s close enough now that I can see the faint scruff on his jaw, the sharp line of his mouth. His chest was rising and falling slowly. Controlled. Mine isn’t. “I tried to act normal. Like this was normal. Like writing those questions was about treatment and not about my fucking heart exploding from not knowing where we stand. And how do you respond?”

I take a step forward. My voice is lower now. Sharper. Deadly. “‘You were right to end the session early.’” I mimic. I stare at him, my throat tight, the ache blooming behind my eyes like pressure trying to escape. “That sentence made me feel like I did something wrong. Like I crossed a line I shouldn’t have crossed. Like I should be ashamed for feeling something.”

His jaw ticks. Slightly.

But he still says nothing.

“You pulled me into this, Benjamin. You did. And then you pulled away. And now I’m stuck with whatever this is. This fucking mess in my chest. This guilt. Like I should’ve kept my distance. Like I should’ve known better. Like I asked for this.”

My voice breaks on the last word.

It cracks right through the air, sharp and splintered, like something inside me finally gave out. But I don’t care. I’m shaking now, not visibly, not the kind of trembling anyone else would see, but I feel it. In my fingers. In my throat. In the tight coil behind my eyes that threatens to snap if I blink too hard.

He doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t flinch.

He just stands there. Still. Watching.

And I hate it. I hate how calm he looks. I hate how much effort I’m putting into not falling apart in front of him, while he stands there like he hasn’t wrecked me from the inside out. Like, I’m the one making this complicated. Like I’m the one who crossed a line that he drew in the first place. My chest is a battlefield of conflicting emotions, rage, shame, confusion, something stupid and warm I don’t even want to name. My skin feels too tight. Like I’m being squeezed from the inside out. I can’t even look at him properly. My eyes are blurry, not from tears, but from heat. From humiliation. I’m not crying, not really, but something hurts.

And the worst part?

I don’t even know if I want to scream at him or pull him closer.

So I just stand there.

Burning.

Breaking.

Waiting for something, anything to snap.

And maybe he feels it too.

Because when I look up again, he’s changed.

He’s... closer.

Not much. Just a step. A single, silent, careful step.

I blink, heart skipping.

When did he move?

He’s not rushing. He’s not charging toward me with some dramatic declaration. He’s just there, closing the space between us like it always belonged to him.

Another step.

And still, nothing from him. No words. No explanation.

Just that look.

That intense, searching stare that’s felt like a weight on my skin since the very first session. It’s the way he sees me, like he’s always been able to see right through my skin, right into the nerves and chaos beneath it. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

I can’t breathe.

He takes another step. And now I can feel him. Not touching. Not yet. But present. Close enough that the air between us feels charged. Denser. Like the oxygen itself knows what’s about to happen.

And still, he doesn’t touch me.

Not yet.

Instead, his gaze drops to my mouth.

Just for a second.

Then it flicks back to my eyes, and I feel my knees nearly give. He’s reading me. Studying. Looking for permission, or maybe waiting for me to run.

But I don’t.

I don’t move.

And then finally-

His hand.

Slow.

So slow, I feel every second of it before it happens. 

His hand lifts. Barely more than a twitch at first. Then higher. Past his chest. Past his collarbone.

And then, 

My face.

His fingers find my jaw with a gentleness that makes my breath stutter.

His thumb brushes just beneath my cheekbone. Careful. Measured. Reverent.

Like I’m something fragile.

Like he’s afraid he’ll spook me.

And then the other hand follows up, resting just behind my ear. His palm cups the side of my face. Warm. Solid. Real.

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

And I swear the whole world shifts beneath my feet. I feel the tremble of his breath before I hear it, soft, shallow. Like this moment is costing him something. Like he’s holding back so much, and this is all he’s letting himself have.

And then, finally-

He leans in.

Not fast.

Not dramatic.

Just… closer.

And then, his lips.

They meet mine like a question.

Like a secret.

Like a fucking prayer.

He doesn’t devour me. Doesn’t claim. Doesn’t take.

He just kisses me soft, slow, aching like this is the only way he knows how to apologize. Or confess. Or admit everything he’s refused to say out loud.

My heart breaks open.

My breath catches in my throat, and I swear for a moment I forget where I am. I forget who I am. I forget the world.

Because he’s kissing me and I’m kissing him and suddenly, nothing else matters.

My hands, shaky, hesitant, rise on instinct. One curls around his wrist, grounding myself against the heat of his skin. The other finds his chest, resting over the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

He tilts his head, deepens the kiss just slightly. Just enough. His lips part, and mine follow. It's still gentle, still patient, but there's a weight behind it now. An ache. A quiet desperation that says I've been waiting to do this since the moment I met you. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth like he’s memorizing the way it feels. His fingers tighten, just a little, like he’s afraid I’ll pull away.

But I don’t.

I press closer.

I kiss him back like I’ve never kissed anyone before.

Because I haven’t.

Not like this.

Not with everything. Not with all of me.

I melt into him. Slowly. Fully. My body sways forward on instinct, and his hand slips to the nape of my neck, cradling me like he’s anchoring us both.

Our foreheads touch when we break, barely. A breath apart.

His eyes are still closed.

Mine, too.

And then-

He exhales.

Like a confession.

Like a surrender.

My hands are still on him. I don’t move. I don’t want to.

Because if I do, this moment ends.

And I’m not ready.

Not yet.

Neither of us speaks.

We just breathe.

Together.

The silence is loud now. Full. Sacred.

His lips break from mine for only a second.

Barely a breath.

And in that breath, I hear it.

His inhale. Sharp. Through his nose. Like he’s trying to reel something back in before it breaks loose.

But it’s too late.

Because when he kisses me again, it’s different.

It’s no longer tentative. No longer searching.

It’s need.

It’s possession.

It’s him.

His hand tightens at the back of my neck, not hard, not forceful, but secure. Claiming. Like he’s grounding himself in the feel of me. The other hand moves slowly, but sure from my cheek down the side of my throat, across my collarbone, his fingertips barely brushing the skin beneath the neckline of my shirt.

And God.

That touch.

It’s feather-light. Barely there.

But it sets something on fire.

I gasp into his mouth, and the sound, raw, startled, pulls a sound from him. A low, barely-there hum deep in his chest. He swallows it, breath stuttering against my lips like he hadn’t meant to make a sound at all.

Then, he steps forward.

And I’m backing into the wall again.

But this time, not in panic.

This time, it’s like instinct. Like we need to be closer than close. My back hits the cool concrete with a quiet thud, and he follows—presses into me, chest to chest, thigh between mine. Solid. Unmovable. There. 

My hands are in his hair before I can think.

God, it’s soft.

I curl my fingers there, tug just enough to feel him respond, his lips part, his body surges forward. And suddenly I’m being kissed like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Like the dam’s broken, and this is all he’s ever wanted. His mouth is warmer now. Slower, but deeper. He’s kissing me with more tongue, more breath, more intention. Like he’s memorizing the shape of me, the taste of me, how I move against him. Like he’s been starving. His hand skims down my waist, fingers dragging over the curve of my hip, and I feel him hesitate.

Just for a second.

Like he’s asking without words.

And I answer just as wordlessly, my hips roll against him just enough, my hand sliding from his hair to the nape of his neck, guiding him back to my mouth like I need him there.

He groans.

Quiet. Deep. Resigned.

Like fuck it, like this is happening, like finally.

His mouth is everywhere now, my lips, my jaw, my cheek, down to my neck. He kisses like he’s starved for it, but still careful. Still holding back the worst of what he could be.

Still not taking too much.

But God, I want him to.

“Benjamin,” I whisper against his ear, against the corner of his mouth, I don’t even know.

And something in him stutters.

Like hearing his name said like that did something to him.

He exhales hard through his nose, and then his hands are on my thighs, sliding up, firm, and I feel my knees almost buckle from the sheer force of want building in my spine. His body presses harder. Not crushing, not overwhelming, but present. Like he’s everywhere at once. My chest. My stomach. My hips. The heat of him, the weight. His scent. My mouth opens wider beneath his, inviting, matching his intensity now, our kisses turning wet, deeper, sloppier.

Breathless.

My hand slips beneath his shirt, fingers splayed against the warmth of his stomach, and his reaction is instant his whole body jerks just slightly against mine, and he kisses me harder, rougher, teeth grazing my bottom lip before he catches it between his and sucks.

I moan, actually moan.

And that sound.

That sound wrecks him.

He grabs both my hips now, holding me firm, his body moving against mine with more friction, more need, more intent.

I don’t know where this is going.

I don’t know if it’s going to stop.

I don’t know if I want it to.

All I know is-

We’re not the same people who walked into this room hours ago.

And I’m not sure we ever will be again.

His lips are on mine again.

Desperate now.

Hot and open, the kind of kiss that doesn't ask permission anymore, it takes.

And I let him.

I let him take.

Because I want it just as badly.

His tongue brushes mine again, deeper this time, and everything around us disappears. The walls, the lights, the rules, the job. It all slips away, buried under heat and the weight of us. His hand moves back to my jaw, fingers spreading along the side of my neck like he’s anchoring me there. Holding me in place, and God, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

He presses harder. Chest to chest, thigh between mine again, holding me open and still while his mouth maps me like he’s been waiting for this moment his entire life.

But then-

He stops.

Just a breath. Just a flicker.

His lips barely pull from mine, but it’s enough.

Enough to feel the ache of separation.

Enough to feel that sharp pang of panic, don’t stop.

He leans his forehead against mine, chest heaving, so close, but not kissing me.

Not yet.

His voice was low. Ruined. Begging.

“Tell me to stop.”

I blink.

I can’t process the words at first. My brain is slow, heavy with want. It’s like trying to think underwater.

His thumb brushes my cheek, so soft it makes my throat close.

“Please,” he whispers, more desperate this time. “Tell me to stop.”

And the way he says it-

It’s not control.

It’s not about asking for permission to go further.

It’s a plea.

A final, fragile attempt at doing the right thing.

Because he knows once he crosses that line-

There’s no coming back.

But I don’t say anything.

I just stare at him. Eyes locked, heart a fucking drum in my chest.

My hands slide down his chest slowly, resting flat over his ribs, and I shake my head.

Not once.

Not twice.

Just once.

But it’s enough.

He exhales, like he’s collapsing from the inside. His body bows slightly, tension snapping like a fraying wire.

And then?

He loses it.

His mouth is back on mine, but there’s no hesitation now. None.

He kisses me like he’s been starved for years. Like he’s dying and I’m the only thing that can save him.

And maybe I am.

Maybe he is.

His hands roam urgently, searching. Down my sides, around my waist, gripping my hips like he doesn’t trust himself to let go. He pulls me flush against him, and I feel every inch of him, feel just how badly he wants this, wants me. I moan into his mouth, hips grinding instinctively against the pressure of his thigh, and it makes him groan, deep, guttural, feral.

His hands are under my shirt now, hot palms splayed across my bare skin, dragging up my spine, leaving heat and goosebumps in their wake. He’s not rushing, he’s savoring. Like he’s been dreaming of this, fantasizing about how I’d feel beneath him.

And me?

My hands are everywhere. In his hair, across his back, under his shirt, I can’t not touch him. His body is like a live wire, thrumming with tension and restraint and need. Every muscle is tight. Every movement is deliberate.

He kisses me again. Slower now. But deeper.

Like he wants this moment to burn into us.

Like he knows this might be the only time.

But it doesn’t feel like that.

It feels like the beginning.

His hands slide beneath my thighs suddenly, lifting me without warning. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and he walks us backward, careful but determined, until my back hits the wall again, harder this time. He pins me there with his hips and kisses me so deeply I nearly forget how to breathe.

I can feel how badly he wants me.

And it makes my head spin.

My fingers twist into the back of his shirt, knuckles white, dragging him even closer, even tighter, until there's no space left at all.

And I don’t want space.

Not now.

Not ever.

We kiss like it’s war.

Like it’s confession.

Like it’s the only thing keeping us alive.

And maybe it is.

Because right now?

In this room?

With him?

I’ve never felt more alive.

His mouth never leaves mine.

Not even for air.

Not even for a second.

It’s relentless, the way he kisses me now. Like he’s been waiting too long. Holding back too much. And now that the leash is off, he can’t bring himself to stop.

I don’t want him to.

I grip him harder, my nails catching the fabric of his shirt as his body grinds into mine. Every point of contact burns. Chest to chest. Thigh to thigh. Mouth to mouth. My breath is ragged against his, but I’m not pulling away. I’m sinking. Spiraling.

And still, he doesn’t let go.

His hands roam, one braced beneath my thigh, the other sliding up the arch of my back, fingers splayed across my spine like he needs to memorize the feel of me. He breaks from my mouth just long enough to kiss the corner, then my jaw, then down to my neck, and my head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, a soundless gasp catching in my throat.

He groans.

It’s low. Guttural. Desperate.

And the sound is enough to make my knees go weak.

His grip tightens instinctively as he feels it, as if he knows I need him to hold me upright right now.

And he does.

God, he does.

But even through the heat, even through the pressure building like a storm under my skin, there’s this ache in my chest that grows and grows. A knot of something else. Something deeper. Something rawer than lust.

I blink through it.

And I look at him.

Really look at him.

His eyes are darker now. Dilated. But focused, locked on me like I’m the only thing that exists in this room. His lips are parted. His chest is rising too fast. And for a moment, for one flicker of space between us, I see the tremble in his restraint.

He’s holding back.

For me.

And maybe that’s what does it.

That’s what knocks the wind out of me.

Because this isn’t just about wanting.

It’s not even about needing.

It’s about trust.

It's about the unspoken thing sitting between us like a live wire, something neither of us has said out loud, but both of us are bleeding from.

And I can’t take it anymore.

“Come here,” I whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He carries me to the couch with a kind of care that makes my heart throb harder than my body ever could. He sits, settling with me still wrapped around him, and I shift, careful, slow, and straddle him, legs bracketing his hips as my knees sink into the cushions.

He exhales like he’s unraveling.

I lean in, kiss him again, slower this time. Not desperate. Not frantic.

Just… full.

He kisses me back with that same weight, hands resting on my thighs now, thumbs moving in slow, firm strokes. Like he’s grounding us both. Like if he stops, we’ll float away.

My fingers slide up the back of his neck, into his hair. I tilt my head, deepen the kiss just slightly, and he groans into it, his hips shift, just once, but I feel it. All of it.

And then-

It hits me.

All at once.

The gravity.

The intimacy.

The vulnerability.

My lips falter against his.

I pause.

I blink.

And suddenly, I can’t breathe.

Not from the kiss.

From the feeling.

The knowing.

That I’m here. On him. In his arms. In his world.

And there’s no pretending anymore.

No distance. No walls. No structure to hide behind. I’m not just crossing lines, I’m obliterating them. Letting him touch parts of me I don’t even let myself touch.

It overwhelms me.

It terrifies me.

My hands drop from his neck. I pull back, just slightly. Just enough to break the kiss. He opens his eyes slowly, immediately alert. His brows furrow, not in frustration, but in focus.

He feels it.

He sees it.

And then he speaks.

Soft. Quiet. A whisper only for me.

“Hey…”

I look down. My hands press against his chest, still on him, but not pushing.

“I’m okay,” I whisper. “I just-”

His hands slide up my arms slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he moves too fast. His touch is so tender, it makes something in my throat sting.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says.

And I believe him.

He rests his forehead against mine for a moment. Breathes me in. Let me sit there with it. With all of it.

And when I finally exhale, when I finally let the weight in my chest go, I shift off of him.

He helps me. Doesn’t make it weird. Doesn’t ask for more.

Just opens his arms as I curl next to him, my knees pulled up, my head resting against his shoulder.

He lets his arm wrap around me.

And then he strokes my hair.

Again and again.

Soft. Steady.

I don’t know how long we’ll sit there like that.

Maybe an hour. Maybe five.

Time doesn’t exist in this room anymore.

Only the sound of his breathing.

Only the feel of his fingertips in my hair.

At some point, I stop thinking.

Stop remembering what I came here for.

Stop counting the mistakes I’ve made.

And I sleep.

I let myself sleep.

Because it’s the only time I’ve ever felt safe and undone at once.

Because it’s him.

─────── ⌖ ───────

Heyyyyyyy….. I KNOW. I hope the slow burn and build-up were worth the wait but of course, we’re not done yet. Chapter 10 is dropping today because let’s be real… I can’t make you wait when I can’t even wait

I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I loved writing it. I’d love to hear your thoughts, seriously!!!

Enjoyyyy,

Yours truly,

Raey ♡

─────── ⌖ ───────

[ next chapter ]

[drakorn]

Rewriting Veilguard Part 3 - The Grey Wardens

Rewriting Veilguard Part 2 - The Shadow Dragons

Disclaimer: I don't hate the game, I actually think it's quite great given the development hell Bioware went through in those 10 years. This is more of a hypothetical universe where there was less of that behind the scenes drama. Just a fun writing exercise.

Writing an Origin Story Mission for the Grey Wardens

So before we start, I would like to notify you of three minor changes I made to my previous blog entry regarding the Shadow Dragons:

Varric no longer tells us about Solas straight away. I believe that’s a bomb that would be more effective when dropped later, otherwise poor Rook might just be a tad overwhelmed.

Neve stays in Minrathous rather than accompanying Rook and Varric. Yeah, as much as I like the idea of your chosen faction determining your first companion, I don’t think it’s really doable given the circumstances a few other companions find themselves in at the start of the game.

The Dreadwolf title card does not appear just yet. I found a better spot to use it later.

Now that we have dealt with the Shadow Dragon origin story, let us move on to the Grey Wardens. And here, we are going to have some fun because boy do I have ideas for this one.

The Grey Wardens were kinda the faction I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to playing at first and there’s a reason for that. You see, we already played a Grey Warden in DAO, and I actually like each game’s protagonist being someone very different. However, when I think about it now, there is some narrative logic to it. If DAV truly is the last Dragon Age game (which is very up in the air right now), it makes total sense to have this choice to bookend the story. You started as a Grey Warden, and now you’ll finish as one. Plus, with the Blight giving us its last hoorah in this one, it only makes sense to put the Wardens in a more prominent position once again.

So, without further ado, let us jump into the Grey Warden origin story!

Creating Rook

We start a new game, Varric gives his opening narration about the overall state of Northern Thedas, and this time, we click on the Grey Warden origin. The little blurb reads as follows:

“You are a Grey Warden. An ancient military order sworn to battle the ever-present threat of the Darkspawn, the Wardens undergo secret, unbreakable rites that grant them supernatural powers against the Taint. As the last surviving member of the Dornen outlaws, you joined the order after a passing Senior Warden invoked the Right of Conscription at your execution and gave you the chance to fight another day. But what you will do with it, that is up to you.”

Right there, we have a great canvas to paint with when it comes to sheer roleplay. We are a former criminal, the last survivor of a group known as the Dornen. Our group wasn’t, like, evil, but we were enough of a presence in the area in and around Hossberg to cause some proper trouble. The Anderfels is a dangerous land, the most dangerous one in Thedas. People don’t live, they survive. This means that many turn to unlawful ways to make ends meet. But being a former outlaw beautifully lines up with the theme of second chances the Order gives to so many people.

In DAV, our Warden’s name is Thorne. “Dornen” is the German words for “Thorns”. The Anderfels’ linguistic and etymological side is mostly based on German (“Anderfels” meaning “Other Rock” or “Weisshaupt” meaning “White Head”). So wouldn’t it be a fun idea if “Thorne” isn’t really the Warden’s last name but just the name they ended up going with? They arguably never knew their family name and the Dornen were as close to one as they could have gotten.

Unlike Mercar, your racial choice won’t really have that much of an impact here as the Wardens accept everyone into their ranks, as long as they can fight. However, if you choose to be a Qunari, it will add a few unique dialogue lines about how few Qunari there are in the order. You are probably one of the only ones.

For this hypothetical playthrough, we shall pick a dwarf warrior, and I’m giving him a big ginger beard. Just going full Lord of the Rings here.

Alright, so we just generated our Thorne, and now we get to hear Varric’s continued narration. We get a series of those beautiful tarot-styled illustrations with Varric’s voice telling us what’s been happening with the Wardens for the last decade. The Wardens in the North specifically have been all gradually returning to Weisshaupt Fortress, by order of the First Warden. They have become much more reclusive and secretive than they already were and are sharing practically nothing with the outside world. Something’s definitely going on. And Varric thinks it might be part of something larger.

Weisshaupt Fortress

And now, for the first time ever, we get to see Weisshaupt Fortress in all its glory, a gigantic fortress carved into the very mountains, the great headquarters of the Grey Wardens that withstood for over a thousand years.

I really like the way Weisshaupt is portrayed in DAV, my only gripe is that we never get to actually properly explore it. I was…surprised by that, actually. So what better way to explore Weisshaupt than have it be part of the Grey Warden origin?

This is place filled with such incredibly rich history. Just imagine, this place has existed since the First Blight, an event older than Andraste. This is an absolute field day for lore enthusiasts such as myself.

As soon as Weisshaupt appears, we get a grand reprise of Inon Zur’s DAO main theme, establishing it as the Warden leitmotif. Now that we are able to properly play as a Grey Warden again, we are just eased back into that feeling. We might not be playing the Hero of Ferelden anymore, but we can definitely bring back the nostalgia. Music is such an important part of storytelling, it’s insane how much a well-chosen theme can do.

Meeting High Constable Janos

Thorne arrives at Weisshaupt after a recent patrol through the mountains and we are greeted by High Constable Janos, the second-in-command to the First Warden. For some reason that rank never comes up in DAV, so we’re just going to include that here.

Here we’re going to establish that Janos was the Warden-Commander who invoked the Right of Conscription during our execution all the way back in Hossberg a few years ago. But why would the Right of Conscription even work in a time without the Blight? Well, this is a fair question for any other nation than the Anderfels. But the Anderfels is constantly threatened by darkspawn incursions, making it the only nation where the Right of Conscription still holds weight without a Blight. Given how the First Warden is often seen as an advisor to the King/Queen, one can also say that the Wardens’ whole “no politics” spiel doesn’t really apply in the Anderfels, either.

Janos informs us of an upcoming mission, assigned by the First Warden himself. Thorne is to meet him, Janos, and a few others in the war room later that day. It is something quite urgent.

NOTE: Throughout the prologue, Rook is still referred to as Thorne, given that “Rook” as a nickname does not exist yet.

Exploring Weisshaupt

Before we head off to the war room, we get a chance to properly explore Weisshaupt for the first time. And there are some interesting things to be done here:

Thorne can walk in on a recruit training session hosted by Davrin. Yep, if we’re a Grey Warden, we get to meet Davrin a little earlier than every other origin. We won’t know anything about his secret griffon mission yet, so for now we just meet him as a trainer. We learn that Davrin and Thorne joined the Wardens at roughly the same time and initially disliked each other due to their different pasts. But over the years, they grew to a mutual understanding since that’s just what being part of the order does to you. In this encounter, we get to train the recruits with Davrin for a short while, even do a sparring session between the two of us.

We come across a few recruits who are yet to undergo the Joining. From here, we learn that there hasn’t really been a great influx of Wardens recently as people just don’t see the necessity. And while the Right of Conscription applies in the Anderfels outside a Blight, it does so only when the alternative is a crime verdict. The recruits know about the Joining already, so we can either reassure or prepare them for the possibility of dying.

We learn from the general chatter as we traverse Weisshaupt that many of the older Wardens are getting ready for their Calling. Since there’s such an unusually high number this time, they are organising something akin to a massive group exodus into the Deep Roads. From the same chatter, we also learn that there has been a staggeringly smaller amount of recruits every year. Some of the older Wardens are worried.

We can enter the library and meet Valya from the Last Flight novel. Instead of just leaving the Wardens for an unspecified reason like in DAV, here she stayed, survived her Joining, and has since been promoted to Chamberlain of the Grey, the order’s chief archivist after her predecessor embarked on his Calling. Her role in rediscovering the griffons had a huge part to play here, but we don’t know that yet. She has also entered a relationship with Caronel who has been promoted to Warden-Commander of the Anderfels. From Valya, who is also in charge with gathering reports from Wardens all around the world, we learn how the Wardens in the South are doing, and it’s quite something. Nathaniel Howe is now the Warden-Commander of Ferelden and operates from Vigil’s Keep. Yes, all Wardens have been ordered to return to Weisshaupt, but Ferelden is an exception to this summon as the First Warden deems Amaranthine  being an actual Arling and two Grey Wardens ruling the country as too valuable of an asset to just drop. The same can’t be said for Orlais, though, as we learn that the Orlesian Wardens, currently led by Stroud and Thom Rainier, have fortified the Warden stronghold outside Montsimmard and are currently acting as peacekeepers. In addition, Bethany is currently overseeing the still-standing Griffon Wing Keep. The First Warden looks at them with disdain for refusing to obey his orders, but he also can’t, in good conscience, declare war upon them as every Warden is valuable.

NOTE: Here we see some of our World State shine through. In this playthrough, Hawke was left behind in the Fade, allowing Stroud to be a force for good among the Wardens. Blackwall took back his original name of Thom Rainier and became a proper Grey Warden. Since Hawke took Bethany and Anders to the Deep Roads in DA2, Bethany was made a Grey Warden. Nathaniel Howe was recruited and both Vigil’s Keep and Amaranthine were defended properly, allowing the Wardens to once again maintain a strong presence in Ferelden. As mentioned in the previous post, Alistair and Cousland currently rule Ferelden. And, as we're about to see, Avernus has been left alive and allowed to ethically continue his research.

While still in the library, we get to read a few letters sent to Valya. One of them is from Cousland, dating back a few years now, stating that she is close to making progress on how to stop the Calling but that this is the last letter she’ll be able to send as she’s embarking to places where communication just isn’t possible. Another is from Stroud, stating his regret for how things turned out. Here we get some hints as to what happened when he came to Weisshaupt during DAI. Apparently him and the First Warden clashed on ideals, the First Warden insisting on staying distant and secretive and Stroud being in favour of change. The third letter is from Ramesh, the Warden from Tevinter Nights who discovered one of Ghilan’nains labs and is now searching for the other eleven. The fourth and final letter is a report from Avernus and concerns the progress of his superior Joining ritual. All of these are just codex entries as I doubt we'd get to see this publicly.

Meeting the First Warden

After exploring Weisshaupt, we enter the war room, where Jowin Glastrum, the First Warden himself, awaits us. Joining us in the meeting are High Constable Janos and Warden-Commander Caronel.

Now, let me make something very clear about the First Warden. I like that he’s old-fashioned and traditionalist in DAV, I think it was very in-character of him to act distant and dismissive towards people outside the order. However, he is also a Grey Warden first and foremost at heart, he has Thedas’ best interest in mind. He isn’t here just because of status and standing, no, he clawed his way up the ranks through valiant deeds. We know that many Wardens in the Anderfels come from noble lines and still have ties to those. While the First Warden is of a noble house, he doesn’t use that as something to flaunt over the Wardens. His idea of having ties to noble families is a strictly pragmatic one: the more ties, the more aid, the more recruits. While he might not get along with outsiders, he absolutely respects the Wardens under his command and, while not always agreeable, would never meaninglessly sacrifice them. He’s harsh, strict, often an asshole, but still a Warden at heart.

The First Warden briefs us on a mission: A strange crack into the Deep Roads has opened near the village of Lavendel and a darkspawn horde is gathering for a full assault. Wardens Evka and Antoine are already on-site, preparing the defences.

The First Warden orders us to take charge of the village’s defences alongside Caronel. Under no circumstances are we to abandon post. High Constable Janos will arrive with reinforcements to secure our victory. The idea is to lure the bulk of the horde out of the Deep Roads so that we can slay most of them.

We can inquire why Thorne was chosen for this, since our presence alongside the First Warden, the High Constable, and the Warden-Commander is pretty insignificant, to which the First Warden answers that we are very much due to becoming Senior Wardens ourselves, it’s just this one last assignment left until our promotion.

After the briefing, we leave the war room and encounter Davrin again, with whom you can share in your either excitement or humbleness. In any case, Davrin congratulates us on the soon-to-be promotion, claiming how deserving of it we are and how he would have never thought so upon our first meeting all those years ago.

If we wonder why Davrin wasn’t chosen to head to Lavendel, he’ll tease that he has something else going on, equally important, but won’t tell us what it is just yet as it’s top secret (wink wink caw caw).

Reaching Lavendel

We depart Weisshaupt and leave for Lavendel, a small but significant village not far away from Hossberg. We take a few newly joined Wardens with us, a group consisting of the recruits we met earlier at Weisshaupt.

Upon entering Lavendel, we are approached by Evka and Antoine, who have been busy preparing the defences. From the ensuing conversation we gather that Thorne is very well-acquainted with them, similar to Davrin, having shared in many patrols across the Anderfels with them.

While Caronel takes charge of the mission, he trusts your judgment on matters as it is your time to prove yourself further in the eyes of Weisshaupt. High Constable Janos leaves you be now and heads off to prepare the reinforcements on the other side of the hills.

In the distance, a faint dark red cloud indicates the approaching darkspawn.

Preparing for Battle

Before the darkspawn assault begins, we have the chance to explore Lavendel a little and engage in its defences. During this short segment, we have a few encounters to experience:

Naturally, we can talk to Evka and Antoine and reflect on some of our past adventures together.

We can speak to the new Wardens we’re supposed to co-lead with Caronel, either inspiring them or telling them to be realistic and not too hasty. It’s obvious many of them joined because of the heroic notion surrounding being a member of the order.

We can encounter Mila and her father, Lavendel’s blacksmith. Yeah, I haven’t made them occupants of Weisshaupt just yet, you’ll see why in a bit.

We can inspect the defences, which boil down to barricades, a few ballistae, and, of course, the Warden stronghold just outside the village. If we explore enough, we see a very large and lose rock on a jagged edge right next to Lavendel. Maybe this will be useful later? Since we took the extra time to look around, we can now have that in the back of our head. We can also spot a crack in the stronghold’s basement and encourage quick repairments to be made.

We can speak to Caronel and share in thoughts about the coming fight. All of us Wardens can sense the approaching darkspawn. Caronel isn’t too worried as it’s just a minor skirmish, albeit with a larger-than-usual horde. And why worry? We’ve got Janos swooping in with reinforcements, anyway. We can talk about Caronel’s promotion to Warden-Commander, which was very recent. It is surprising how one so young climbed the ladder so fast, to which Caronel responds that it’s really not so uncommon anymore, given how Ferelden’s Warden-Commander got the title only a year after joining. Well, granted, she took down the Archdemon and somehow lived to tell the tale, but the point stands.

Before we commence the battle, there is one big choice to be made about our position and that of the villagers. While Evka and Antoine suggest to pull all Wardens and villagers into the stronghold and brave the storm there, Caronel would rather only keep the villagers in there while us Wardens head out into the open and prevent the darkspawn from getting to them in the first place. We don’t really have enough Wardens to divide, so we must make that choice now.

Send both the Wardens and the villagers into the stronghold and fight on close and narrow ground. The villagers are at risk from getting into the heat of battle, but the Wardens will be close by to defend them.

Send the villagers into the stronghold and let the Wardens fight in the village itself. While the villagers will be more vulnerable in terms of sheer distance away from the Wardens, the darkspawn is less likely to even get near them.

For the sake of this playthrough, we choose to evacuate the village, and ourselves, into the stronghold. We feel confident but would rather keep our charges close to us. Being a former outlaw in the Anderfels has taught us how one should never leave their goal out of sight. Our aim is to defend, not to gloriously destroy. This shows us that Thorne is willing to cast the pride of glory aside and choose an arguably safer path.

An Old Friend

Our decision made, we deliver a short speech to the villagers, instructing them to head into the Warden stronghold. We shall follow suite immediately and position ourselves on the walls and in the courtyard. Since we’re familiar with the darkspawn’s habit of digging tunnels, we’ll make sure the basement is accounted for as well.

Once the villagers and Wardens head to the keep, we are approached by a most familiar face: Varric Tethras. This is certainly a surprise. While we’ve never met him in person, we’ve certainly heard and read about him. Varric says he was passing through on an errand of his own and figured he might as well aid Lavendel’s defences with Bianca. While we can question the sincerity of this statement, we can use any help we get.

Varric comments how many Wardens would seek out the more daring and glorious path and is pleased to see that we’re not one of them.

The Battle of Lavendel

Right so we’re all hunched up in the fortress, and the atmosphere is intense. Now, all of us sense the evil just outside our doorstep. The dark red cloud is directly above us. Everyone looks to Thorne and Caronel for leadership while Evka and Antoine keep morale up. Varric, while being easy-going, is very much battle-ready now.

The darkspawn slowly creep through the village like a dark carpet of disease and corruption. We hear the deafening screeches of shrieks in the distance and see various hurlocks and genlocks make their way between the buildings. At this point, a thought comes to us, one we share with Caronel. Holy shit, that’s a lot of darkspawn. And no sign of Janos yet. Where is he? Where are the other Wardens? Surely this can’t be less than the bulk of the horde yet. This is almost like a new Blight.

A horrifying thought grips us and we quickly sense into the Taint for any signs of an Archdemon’s song. To our relief, we hear nothing. The relief is short-lived, however, as the darkspawn reach the stronghold and send in a wave of shrieks to scale the walls.

We engage in a properly gritty fight against the darkspawn and can make use of several ballistae on the battlements. But we quickly realise that this place is just not at all well-prepared. Evka and Antoine’s pre-defences, alongside our inspection, are all that’s keeping this place from being overrun. Why is this in such a shoddy condition?

We then hear fighting from the basement. Ah, so the darkspawn did attempt to dig through. Good that we halted their progress by mending that crack, giving us time to respond.

We head into the basement and confront some hurlocks and genlocks. After the skirmish, we sent several grenades into the tunnel below, causing it to collapse without damaging our infrastructure too much.

Returning to the courtyard, we see something strange. A few of the shrieks have reached a group of villagers, but instead of slaying them, they’re trying to abduct them alive. While this wouldn’t be strange if all villagers were female, given that darkspawn need broodmothers to multiply, they are taking the men, too. What…?

We make short work of the darkspawn, and at this point, some of our newly joined Wardens have fallen, but only the Wardens. Now would be a really good time for Janos to show up.

At this moment, we hear loud dum, dum, dum. Huge footsteps approach. We look at each other and have all the same reaction: Ah shit.

The gates to the courtyard break down and a huge ogre walks in. Oh boy, here we go. Now would be a really good time for Janos to show up!

We take down the ogre with great difficulty and see that another large influx of darkspawn follows. After dealing with those, the fighting ceases for a moment.

We head to the battlements and see another group on the outskirts of the village. Then we remember the huge loose rock. Oh yeah, baby.

We quickly load up a ballista and aim across the village, towards the jagged cliff. It takes three shots for the edge to become lose enough, but it works. The huge rock collapses upon the newly approaching darkspawn horde, squashing them all beneath, but taking some of Lavendel’s houses with it.

The relief is short-lived, however, as we can still sense the Taint in our heads. Further away, past the outskirts of the village, we can already see a new horde of darkspawn amassing. And still no sign of Janos.

We gather a quick emergency meeting between the Wardens, and some start speculating that…Janos might not be showing up. Evka and Antoine are of the same belief, while Caronel holds on to the hope that reinforcements are on their way. Why wouldn’t they be? Wardens stick together.

But what about us? What do we believe? Janos personally recruited us all those years ago, he personally saw to our training. Why would he…but where is he then? Why isn’t he coming? Maybe he was held up? But by what? Was there another darkspawn horde on the other side of the hills? But why can’t we sense them? In fact…why can’t we sense any other Wardens in the immediate vicinity aside from us?

Wherever Janos might be, we have to hold out on our own. But if the darkspawn keep coming, we won’t hold out at all eventually. And if the Wardens die, the villagers will be…what exactly? Killed? Or taken? No villager has died so far. Why is that? What’s going on here?

Eventually, Thorne concludes that if we are to survive, we must seal that damn entrance ourselves.

But how will we go about this? Do we take all Wardens with us, or just a few?

Take all Wardens to the Deep Roads entrance. The villagers are exposed but the darkspawn may be largely drawn to us given that they haven’t even as much as injured anyone else yet.

Take Evka and Antoine and leave Caronel and the other Wardens with the villagers.

No matter what we choose, we are going against the First Warden’s orders to not leave Lavendel under any circumstances until reinforcements arrive. And at this point, if we are to survive, we have no other choice. We tell Caronel and the other Wardens to secure the villagers’ retreat from Lavendel, while Thorne, Evka and Antoine head off to seal the entrance to the Deep Roads. Caronel is hesitant at first but comes to agree with you. In Death, sacrifice, true, but the sacrifice has to mean something. Varric offers to accompany us but since he’s no Warden, we refuse. He’s more useful with protecting the villagers without risking getting instantly blighted.

Approaching the Crack

With Evka and Antoine at our side, along with several grenades from the stronghold, we head across the dark hills. A few darkspawn break off from the main horde and try to stop us, but we make short work of them.

After a few short skirmishes, we reach the entrance to the Deep Roads, a very steep crack located between two rocky hills. It is guarded by two ogres. The rest of the horde have already departed for Lavendel. It’s now or never. We might be fewer but two ogres…we can take them. Maybe.

We throw ourselves into a fight with the two giants and slay them after exchanging some fierce blows.

Now that we have a short breathing moment, we must quickly go about sealing that entrance. However, looking at it reveals that we can only collapse it by doing so from below. No use doing it from up here. But this action would cause the Warden who does it to be trapped.

We look at Evka and Antoine and order them to give us the grenades. They initially refuse but we remind them that as Warden Thorne, we have been given charge of this mission. It’s either us or no-one. We take the grenades and bid farewell to our favourite Warden couple, ordering them to return to the others. We then recite the oath of the Grey Wardens between us. “In Peace, Vigilance,” says Antoine. “In War, Victory,” says Evka. “In Death, Sacrifice,” says Thorne.

The Deep Roads

We descent into the cavern and find ourselves immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of the Taint. There are more darkspawn here, and they are coming.

We quickly go about preparing the grenades, when we are suddenly stricken by a strange sense. It is similar to the Taint, but also different, almost…purer. Suddenly, we become incredibly aware of the cavern around us. We can sense each layer, each type, each consistency. We can sense hidden passages, the tunnels the Darkspawn are digging right now. And we feel…whole, strangely so. And this is only something we experience if we picked a dwarven Thorne, for we are experiencing Stone Sense.

At this moment, a figure approaches us from the dark, followed by darkspawn. We look up and see a tall, cloaked being, wearing dark armour that we can’t recognise. We can definitely sense the Blight in it, but it’s…weirdly different in a way we can’t describe. The figure has veins of lyrium writhing all around its form, red lyrium.

It speaks to us, but we can only hear its voice in our head. It asks us to stop, to let be done what must be done. When we ask who and what this thing is, it simply refers to itself as “The Emissary”. While the Emissary won’t tell us exactly why it wants the villagers, it hints at a great and regrettable mistake that has to be rectified before it’s all too late.

Being the Warden we are, we attempt to still go through with our grenade plan, but the Emissary casts a spell of pure, raw magic on us, causing us to be knocked against a wall. But we refuse to go down fighting and challenge the Emissary to a one on one.

Similar with Laskaris in the Shadow Dragon origin, the Emissary is a fight we aren’t meant to win. But if we lower its HP to 0, the cutscene will be a little different.

In our seemingly dying breath, we hurl the grenades against the weakest parts of the crack, which we can clearly determine due to our Stone Sense. The Emissary howls in fury as the rocks descend upon us, sealing the Deep Roads off of Lavendel for good. All turns black around us.

Saved

But strangely enough, this isn’t the end. We wake up back in Lavendel and see Varric. He says he followed us in secret as he had a feeling we might be needing assistance. When Evka and Antoine showed up without us, he increased his pace and the three made it just in time. Varric climbed down and found us in the rubble, saving us from certain death.

Evka and Antoine join us and profusely apologise for leaving our side, despite us ordering them to do so. Well, it seems the Wardens in general have a feeling for disobedience as of lately.

When we inquire about Lavendel, we are told that everyone is save and none have been taken. This is because of the time we took to explore the place before the battle. By sealing the basement and collapsing the great rock, the darkspawns’ numbers were too few for what came next.

But…what came next? We find out the moment we walk outside.

A whole entourage of Wardens hurry about Lavendel. The reinforcements arrived after all. Or so we think.

High Constable Janos and the First Warden approach us. When we remark on the lateness of the reinforcements, the First Warden orders us imprisoned. What? Why? For disobedience, of course. We see that Janos is uncomfortably silent during this exchange.

But we saved Lavendel. We repelled the darkspawn horde and sealed the entrance to the Deep Roads. What could he possibly be so mad about? It can’t just be about disobedience, right?

Well…as we slowly, horrifyingly learn from the conversation, Lavendel wasn’t meant to survive. All who were there, Wardens and villagers alike, were supposed to fall to the darkspawn.

Here we get the context: the Calling has been manifesting in more and more older Wardens. At the same time, Weisshaupt is receiving fewer and fewer recruits. This combination will eventually have the effect of the order facing extinction. And outside the Anderfels, the Right of Conscription means less than nothing now. The world has grown complacent in a world without the Blight, even though the recent one has only been twenty years ago. And the Anderfels doesn’t have a large enough population to feed the ranks on its own.

By using this abnormally large darkspawn horde, letting it consume villagers and Wardens alike, the First Warden hoped to convince the nobility to encourage greater recruitment again. It can’t be a coincidence that the Calling has been manifesting increasingly more frequent now.

But Thorne has been a thorn in this plan’s side and ensured that the First Warden’s plan backfired spectacularly.

Shocked, we turn to Janos and ask him if he was aware of this. Yes, he was. In Death, Sacrifice. In War, Victory. And the war isn’t over as long as Razikale and Lusacan still slumber beneath the surface.

Caronel has been stripped off his rank as Warden-Commander of the Anderfels and Evka and Antoine will be assigned to very far-away duties for the foreseeable future. Thorne, however, as the instigator of this chaos, is to be tried for disobedience and treason.

This is where we can lash out, accusing the First Warden of having lost his way. We can also add that Lavendel’s villagers wouldn’t have died anyway as the Emissary wanted to collect them. When we tell the Wardens of what we saw beneath the surface, the First Warden, as we would assume, does not believe us, assuming we’re using this as a convenient excuse to paint ourselves in a more heroic image. Janos, however, knows us, so he isn’t so sure.

At this point, Varric chimes in and argues against trial and imprisonment, stating it as just a waste of effort. Instead, he offers to take Thorne away for a matter of great importance. The First Warden objects, stating that Weisshaupt’s affairs are to remain its own. Janos, however, in a change of tone, takes Varric’s side. Whatever Thorne’s reasonings are, one can’t deny that we are a true Warden. NO matter the disobedience, we fought against the Blight and won. There will be other opportunities to gather more recruits, but we do not deserve a trial for doing what we joined the order for.

The First Warden eventually relents. Remember, he is still a Grey Warden, with Thedas’ best interest at heart. Him doing this whole Lavendel thing was him acting out of desperation to keep the order alive in the long run. The morality is incredibly questionable, he’s definitely an asshole, but he is not heartless. Rather than putting us in chains, the First Warden suspends us from all Weisshaupt duties and instead tasks us with travelling the lands, searching for new recruits until further notice. Dismissed.

Leaving Lavendel

When the First Warden leaves, Janos makes an attempt at conversing with us, apologising for sending us into death. We can be either understanding, or angry, or just hurt. Despite our rough exterior, we are hurt because Janos was the one who saved us from another execution in the first place. Janos definitely feels bad about it, but orders were orders. Yeah…orders were orders, we respond.

Varric approaches us and confesses that he’s not here by accident. He’s looking for someone among the Wardens to accompany him on a very special mission of the utmost importance. He heard from some of his contacts that Lavendel would have fitting candidates. And he is certain he just found the one. What exactly are we doing, now that we’re stuck with him? Varric promises to reveal everything in good time. Now, he would very much like to get out of this place. We can either go immediately or have some final conversations. Being the completionists we are, we of course choose the latter.

We can talk to Evka and Antoine and just be glad that we’re all still alive, despite being given rather shitty jobs now. Well, that’s a no on the promotion for now, right? But we’re confident we’ll see each other sooner rather than later.

Caronel honestly doesn’t even care about his demotion. He’s just glad he survived and is now able to return to Valya. But if he were still Warden-Commander, he would make us Senior Warden in a heartbeat. Sometimes, one simply has to defy orders.

We can talk to Mila, who excitedly announces that her father has taken Janos’ offer to be Weisshaupt’s new blacksmith, given that the fortress desperately needs one again.

The Wardens who were under our command during the battle look up to us in awe and call us a hero and inspiration, no matter what the First Warden says. They actually pretty much despise him now as he was so willing to just let them die.

Once all of this is done, we head to Varric and and half-enthusiastically announce our readiness to depart. Varric smiles and welcomes us to the team. What team? Oh, we’ll see. But he recommends us going by another name for the foreseeable future as the First Warden might just be petty enough to make our life more difficult by telling foreign Wardens or members of the nobility about our streak of disobedience and conspiracy theories. Well, that’s easy enough, we say, back in the Dornen, the others used to call us “Rook” for that one time we headed straight in and brought down a very well-connected Hossberg nobleman. “The strongest piece on the chessboard,” Varric chuckles. “I like it.”

Now going by Rook once again, we head off with Varric. As Lavendel is nearly out of sight, we turn around and look at the gathered Wardens one last time. This…is not how we pictured leaving the order one day. But no, we haven’t left it. We’re just…taking a vacation. With a heavy heart, we turn back to Varric and follow him into the unknown.

And that’s it for this one! Now we have our Grey Warden Rook origin story. It’s a lot, I know, but the Wardens have a lot of material to work with. And the whole plot surrounding the Emissary will make sense later, I promise.

Next time we shall be heading off into Arlathan Forest to draft a potential Veil Jumper origin story! Stay tuned!

Rewriting Veilguard Part 4 - The Veil Jumpers

[ravenclaw-jojo]

If They Made You a Mixtape Pt. 1

Fandom: LaDS Pairings: Sylus x afab!reader, Xavier x afab!reader, Caleb x afab!reader* 

Tags: Established relationship, fluff, possessive/obsessive love, may contain myth spoilers. 

A/N: Honestly, I don’t even know what this is anymore, I just hope you enjoy it <3 This is part 1, the rest of the leads will slowly be released*. If anyone has requests for a particular song and lead, my inbox is open!

=𝑿𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆r= 🌟

The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus - Your Guardian Angel

Seasons are changing, and waves are crashing and Stars are falling all for us–

You had to admit, Xavier was a master at creating a cozy space. Even if it didn’t take him much to fall asleep – the man did perfect the art of sleeping and standing – the carefully picked out decor for on your balcony showed thoughtful planning. He’d taken time to remove the existing table and chairs replacing them with fluffy blankets and pillows. As if the existing fairy lights weren’t enough mood lighting, Xavier conjured three more soft, glowy balls of light from his evol. His eyes brightened when you appeared with a plate of your favorite snacks, two bottles of chilled tea tucked against your body. 

“There’s brownies on the counter. I didn’t cut them yet so you’re going to have to-...Xavier…” You half-giggled, half-yelped in exasperation, doing an acrobatic maneuver so you wouldn’t end up with snacks all over the blankets and pillows.

“It smells great. But you should be sitting here with me. You’re going to miss the meteor shower.” He said patiently, taking the bottles from you.   Streaks of light across the sky grabbed your attention, Xavier’s smile deepening when you made yourself comfortable on the balcony floor beside him.  “Hey.” Xavier murmurs after a few minutes, capturing your attention. His eyes gently widened with surprise seeing the way your face lit up. “Thank you.” Your eyebrows furrowed in question, “Why are you thanking me silly?” 

He shrugged, reaching out so his palm could gently caress your cheek. “For being you.” With a soft tilt of your head he brushed his lips against yours. 

Days grow longer and nights grow shorter I can show you I'll be the one

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

=𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔= 🐦‍⬛

Edwin McCain - I’ll Be (Note: This features memories of Dragon!Sylus myth - may contain spoilers)

And rain falls angry on the tin roof As we lie awake in my bed

He thought he was dreaming. The first time he saw you in that clingy dress, it wasn’t just the sliver of leg you showed off that triggered the flashback in his mind’s eye but the pure determination he read in the rings of  your irises. Your lips were pursed in a straight line. Clearly you were on a mission and you weren’t going to take no for an answer. 

“Did you just put in a bid on that protocore?” You questioned. His heart thumped painfully, an old wound opening all over again. “Oh?” He ran critical crimson eyes over you, drinking in the way you held yourself – poised and full of bravado. It didn’t help that you had to look up at him, height difference still noticeable despite how you wore heels for the occasion. 

“And if I did…” He purred with the ghost of a smirk. “-is that an interest to you?” He asked, maintaining a neutral tone. You cocked your head, surprised by his reply – you’d expected him to be much ruder, arrogant and disdainful even, yet the crimson eyes that appraised you were only filled with a wide curiosity and something…unfamiliar…like, caution? 

Your eyes narrowed, “I’m not here to play games. There is information I need-...” This time it was Sylus’ turn to cock an eyebrow, “Hasn’t anyone thought you not to reveal all your cards at the beginning of a game, kitten?” Your smile froze, why was he looking at you in such a familiar manner? Have you two met before? But if you had, there wouldn’t have been a possibility of you forgetting that moonlight-kissed hair, or those piercing, intelligent eyes of his. 

“I’m not.” You interjected, a blush creeping over your face as you realized too late.  It was just another tactic to get you to admit your real agenda. His laughter is deep, a rumble that is simultaneously captivating and soothing. You try to discreetly shake your head but Sylus’ lips are curved into a cryptic smirk. For a split second, it seemed like you remembered…as if the threads of history were starting to connect. 

Just as quickly it glimmered in your expression, it disappeared and Sylus’ chest felt like the old wound had indeed reopened. Unconsciously, his fingers drift over his chest, forcing himself to regain control of his scattered thoughts. “Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind allowing me the enjoyment of your company for the rest of the evening? I believe we have some very…enlightening topics to discuss.” 

The chin tilt, the half-lidded way he looked at you as if he was appraising an old friend instead of some random woman that had approached him during an auction for black market protocores. Warmth spreads through the entirety of your body, and you find yourself nodding, accepting his extended palm, “Sure.” His quiet smile struck a familiar chord in you but you couldn’t seem to find the connection in your memories.

And you're my survival, you're my livin' proof My love is alive and not dead

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢ 

=𝒞𝒶𝓁ℯ𝒷= 🍎

The Calling - Wherever You Will Go

If I could, then I would I'll go wherever you will go

“What do you mean you’re joining the Hunters Association?” Caleb’s fingers tightened on his phone. 

“Jiejie, please, this is hardly the first time I’ve mentioned it.” You answered smoothly, eyeing your cuticles. He was on speaker phone, his holographic face showing caller ID hovered over the phone-base on your desk. Acetone and nail polish was thick in the air while you continued to paint your nails. Sitting in your room, you’d just received the thick acceptance envelope, Grandma already pottering around in the kitchen happy to fulfill your request of making your favorite home-cooked meal as a celebration.  

“I didn’t think you were serious about it.” He muttered.

You chuckled, glancing at the holograph knowing he couldn’t see your expressions. It didn’t stop him from picturing the smirk on your face or the crinkle in your eyebrows. What you didn’t tell him was how you’d chosen this specific shade because it reminded you of the purple of his eyes. 

“Seems more like a you problem, than mine. I told you about it and you assumed I was joking. You know what they say about assuming and ‘ass’-” You chuckled when he cuts you off. 

“Alright, alright, cut it out. So when are you…” He paused, his fingers toying with the apple charm of his dog tag. “-when are you leaving?” 

“Next week. Monday is my first day of reporting.” 

“That soon huh? Well I guess I’ll have to find time to visit you and Gran so you can have my braised chicken wings before you trade delicious home cooked meals for whatever you can attempt on your own.” His tone carried that lighthearted tease that you’ve spent most of your childhood hearing. “I’ll have you know I’m an expert at pressing the buttons on the microwave for the perfect ratio of noodle doneness to soup temperature.” You retorted.

“I wish you hadn’t said that pip-squeak. I’m going to have to schedule more drop-ins to Linkon if you’re going to survive living on your own.” Caleb’s laughter is like a warm weighted blanket over your soul, making you wonder if you’d chosen this specific shade of purple nail polish to keep Caleb close to you. 

Way up high or down low I'll go wherever you will go   

🙤 · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · 🙦

ravenclaw-jojo™️2025 writing | No copying, plagiarizing or translations without expressed permission.

[daechwitatamic]

Of Ruin: Chapter 13 | KTH

(banner by @itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕

//

Section Warnings: language, kissing, we are jumping straight into smut lol, nip stim, clit stim, dry humping, fingering, oral (f. receiving), uhhhh fang play? lolol pls do not perceive me, penetrative sex, love confessions during sex oops lol, biting/feeding during sex but its consensual on all parts, kind of sort of subspacey at the end with help from vampire venom, taehyung pov for a minute, drinking and drunkenness, hurt feelings wc: 6k

“You must have been terrified.”

“No. Not once I knew it was you.”

To emphasize this, you loop one arm around the back of his neck, drawing him closer, kissing him harder. Everything you’ve been holding back seems to burst from you - his faith in you, your trust in him, the love you’ve been tucking away, all of it. You kiss him feverishly, trying to translate every bit of it into the way you press against him, open for him.

He licks into your mouth and you groan quietly, wanting more, more of him, more of his mouth, more of his hands, just more. He responds to your sound with a pleased grunt of his own, and he slides one large hand around your waist, pressing against your lower back, pressing your hips harder against his own.

You slide your tongue against his and he brings his hand up your back and wrap his hand firmly around the back of your neck to keep you close. You let out a tiny whine, letting your hands wander up his chest over the thin cloth of the shirt he wears. You pass your hands over his shoulders, down his back, holding tight as your head spins - from the kiss, or from the events (and blood loss) of last night, you aren’t sure.

You murmur his name when the kiss breaks, and he responds by capturing your lips again, sweetly, then pulling back to look down at you.

“What is it?” he murmurs, voice as deep as the ocean.

You strain upwards, trying to find his mouth again, your right hand gathering the material of his shirt’s hem and bunching it in your fist. You slide your other hand into the gap you’ve made, practically gasping with delight as your palm slides along his cool, bare skin for the first time. He shivers beneath your touch, then reaches between his shoulder blades to grab the neck of his shirt. You let go of the hem, allowing him to tug it off and over his head before he bends to kiss you more.

Pleased, you press your mouth to his gladly, letting your hands explore up and down his ribs, over his pecs, down his stomach, around to his back, feeling him move and respond beneath each touch. You can feel him beneath you, responding to each kiss and every caress, and you tighten the grip of your thighs on either side of his own, as if holding on tighter can urge him even closer.

“So warm,” he murmurs against your mouth, letting out a quick sigh as one of your hands works to memorize the slope of his jaw.

You still want more. You use both hands and card your fingers through his hair, curling them to hold his roots, and pull lightly. He moans into your open mouth, the sound so pretty it makes your toes curl. You do it again, pressing your hips against his as you do, trying to egg him on.

He’s behaving too much, keeping his hands on your waist, your hair, not daring to toe the line even as you leap over it. You don’t want him to behave.

“I want to feel you,” you breathe, pressing your forehead to his as you both take a second to catch your breath. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice; he finds the hem of your shirt and pulls. You lift your arms so he can slide it over your head. His eyes follow the path of newly bared skin - up over your stomach, your chest, your face, up to your arms.

You reach back to unclasp your bra, tossing it away, but Taehyung isn’t watching. His eyes have instead caught on the scabby marks on your upper arm, and then on the inside of each wrist. He reaches for your right arm, pulls it closer, examining the place where his very first bite had pierced you.

“Did it hurt?” he asks sorrowfully, brushing a thumb lightly over the reddened skin around the bite.

“No,” you say, but it isn’t quite true, so you try again. “I mean, yes, but after a few seconds it was…”

“What?” he whispers, even as he pulls your wrist towards his mouth, brushes the healing bite with his lips. Your breath stills in your throat, but he only kisses the spot, waiting for your answer.

“Once the venom hit,” you admit, a little embarrassed, “it felt… kind of good, actually. Like being a little drunk.”

He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “That’s how it feels when we drink,” he tells you. “The want, the thirst, it’s lessened… but it also gives a sort of high. It’s addicting - you’re addicting.”

He punctuates this thought by pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the fang-marks on your wrist, as you think that he must be mistaken - between the two of you, it’s him that’s addicting: powerful and beautiful, thrilling and dangerous.

He moves to kiss you again, licking against your lips until you open for him again, hands skimming along your now-bare sides, thumbs coming dangerously close to your chest before sliding back down. You shiver, grinding down into him, making an encouraging sound low in your throat.

He finally slides a hand where you want it, caressing and gently kneading your breast, letting his thumb circle the sensitive nipple before flicking over the top of it as it hardens beneath his touch. You keen, the sensations tingling and magical, pressing harder into his touch.

He abandons your chest and slides his hand down your arm, still kissing you languidly, deeply. His fingers rest against your wrist, and the wound starts to tingle. You recognize the sensation and realize he’s healing you as he kisses you, fixing each broken spot he finds, undoing the damage he’d wreaked on your body the night before.

He does the same to the wounds on your upper arm and the opposite wrist, then goes back to exploring what sounds he can pull from you as he lowers his mouth to your breast. He hums happily as he kisses, licks, and nips his way around the full bottom of one before making his way back up to your nipple, taking it between his lips and flicking his tongue against it repeatedly. You feel your eyes roll back, your core clenching in response to the feeling of him.

“God, Taehyung, please,” you beg. You don’t even know what you’re begging for - more, just more.

At your plea, he pulls himself back up and kisses you so hard that your head spins. He slides a hand, behaving no more, down your stomach and around your waist, gripping you tightly as he pulls you tight against his trapped cock, which is solid beneath you, begging for attention. You gasp, hips jerking with the sudden friction, breaking the kiss.

He releases your waist and his hands travel around to grab full handfuls of your ass, fingers tightening there as his lips work their way down your jaw and towards your throat. You groan in pleasure and excitement, feeling yourself getting wetter at an alarming rate.

“Smell fucking amazing,” he murmurs, lips against your throat, and you feel your whole body heat at the words. He holds you, mouth pressed to the flushed skin of your throat, pressing closed-mouth kisses to it as his fingers slip beneath your waistband, sliding down the bare skin of your ass and seeking the heat and wetness between your legs.

He toys with you, teasing your hole from behind, sliding easily through the slickness waiting for him. He doesn’t enter you, as you’re still pressed too tightly against him, rocking against his clothed length. Even still, you whine at the sensation of his fingers exploring what parts of you they can.

He growls, and you shiver. He lifts you in one easy motion, pulling his hand from inside your leggings to settle you down onto your back. He presses his long body alongside yours and slips his hand beneath your waistband - properly, from the front this time. He runs his fingers through the arousal he finds only once before plunging two fingers into you just as his mouth finds the tender place his fangs had pierced into your neck the night before. You moan so loudly it echoes through the room, the sound long and tortured as your body adjusts to the stretch of his digits and as the tender wound on your neck tingles at the pressure of his lips and tongue as he kisses and licks over the healing punctures.

“God,” you breathe, rocking against his fingers, trying to work them deeper. You can hear them squelching, and that should be embarrassing, but you can’t care. Not when he’s pulling his sticky fingers out of your leggings and rolling back over top of you, pressing his still-clothed length against your mound, his mouth firmly attached to the marks on your neck, tongue caressing the spots as if he could convince just a bit more blood out of them.

He ruts against you mindlessly, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, seeming to be fully focused on your neck, like he’s forgotten about relieving his aching cock when faced with the promise of your fresh blood. His hands are splayed and pressing into the mattress on either side of you, holding himself up just above you.

He slides his mouth from the wound to the unblemished skin just slightly to the left, sucking deeply, no doubt pulling more blood to gather below the surface of your skin. A growl reverberates through him, but you feel no fear; he’s not the beast now, he’s yours - yours. You know he won’t hurt you.

He brings up a hand to caress your jaw. “Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, barely removing his lips from your neck enough to enunciate.

You close your eyes, sighing, letting every sensation wash over you. I want to be yours, you think, just the same as you are mine.

“You,” you say, only part of the truth.

His mouth finds yours again, his taste slightly coppery, and then he’s pulling at your waistband. You hurry to assist, lifting your hips up and using both hands to push the material over your ass and down your legs, kicking both leggings and underwear to the side as quickly as you can.

“You, too,” you say petulantly, and he smiles against your lips.

He lifts up to untie his own trousers. When he’s free of them, you expect him to settle himself back as he was, but he surprises you by scooting down the bed and gripping your thighs firmly, pressing them apart, opening you reverently. You shiver as the room’s cool air, and his hungry gaze, find your exposed core.

“Taehyung,” you keen, not sure if you’re urging him on or questioning him away.

He tears his eyes away from your glistening pussy, gaze rising to find yours, hungry. His pupils are so blown out that for a second you jolt with alarm, thinking you’re seeing the black Infracti eyes of the beast.

“Can I?” he asks, and you’re reminded of last night, the way he asked before each bite, the way that despite instinct and thirst driving him to bring his mouth to each spot, he still waited for permission.

“Yes,” you breathe, head falling back against the mattress, as if you’re physically incapable of watching as he grips your thighs again and pulls himself closer, burying his face in your heat and licking his first stripe from bottom to top.

You let your breath out between gritted teeth as he does this again and again, tongue dipping in, stretching your entrance for only a second before sliding up to pass firmly over your clit before retracting altogether. It’s a slow, dizzying torture, and you find yourself shaking slightly each time he repeats the series of motions.

Eyes screwed shut, fingers digging into the blankets beneath you, you suck in a breath and try to relax, try to open your legs wider for him, even as the tremors roll through your lower body gently, building up to something fiery and explosive.

He stops his repetitive torture, flattening his tongue and rubbing firmly over and around your clit, the onslaught so intense that your hips jerk and twitch away until he reaches up and holds them still with firm fingertips. You whine and moan as he works you, powerless to shift away from the onslaught of his tongue and lips. He groans when you do, his dulcet voice weaving with your own wordless pleas, his hips undulating slowly against the bed beneath him as he feasts.

You breathe his name, needing reprieve, needing more, needing to unclench and inhale, the sound morphing into a low moan. He seems to hear your unarticulated request, pulling off and moving to press kisses to the insides of your thighs, the juncture, your spasming entrance as you gasp for breath.

Then, his mouth moves, tongue slipping along your outer lips. The sensation changes, alarm bells sounding in your head several beats before your buzzy brain can process why. It’s sharp, and your breath rattles to a stop, muscles tensing in anticipation, as Taehyung slides the tip of his left fang up one side of you, pressing it just hard enough against you that you can feel the sting even when he’s moved on to a higher place.

“T-Tae,” you gulp, pulse thudding even harder than it was before, desperately aware of how close he is to biting you. He growls again, then licks over where his fang had trailed, soothing, before moving to the other side. Gently, slowly, he lets the tip of his sharp tooth press against you, and weaves a line from bottom to top with it. Your breaths come shallow - you’re afraid to move, lest you accidentally pierce yourself on him.

“You’re so, so good,” he groans, and you don’t know if he means for staying still, for letting him play, or if he’s talking about your taste, not your behavior. You whimper, still nervous - but the fear is exciting. He centers his mouth and places a chaste kiss over your clit, causing you to jerk under his hands again.

“Taehyung,” you whine, a plea and a complaint all at once. “Please.”

He heeds your tone, releasing you after one more kiss to the spot he’d been torturing. “Please what?” he asks, teasing, starting to climb back up your body, mouth working its way up the plane of your stomach, past your ribs, over your breasts, up your throat, and then kissing you again, heady and impassioned.

You’re shaky from the adrenaline released by his toying with you; you pull him close, his chest flush against yours, trying to find comfort in his solidness, hands clinging to his biceps as they flex above you. You can feel his cock, hard and heavy, brushing your inner thigh, and you shift, trying to get it closer to where you want it.

He growls when he feels himself slide easily up your slit, grinding frantically against you until he’s slicked up, too, then letting his head snag on your entrance.

His eyes find yours, asking the question that he doesn’t vocalize.

You answer wordlessly, too, lifting up to take the first inch of him, letting out a strangled sound as he follows your lead and pushes through your heat until his hips are flush with yours again.

You stay locked like this for just a moment, and you look up at him with adoration as your body adjusts, stretching to accommodate him.

“God,” he breathes above you, starting to move minutely, just barely shifting. “You’re so -.”

He doesn’t finish the thought, dipping his head down to kiss you again. He shelters you between his arms, his black hair swinging above you, casting his face in shadow, and he begins fucking into you in earnest.

You move with him, hands roaming his arms and back, hooking one leg around the backs of his thighs to draw him even closer. He feels amazing dragging away from your walls and slamming back in, feels amazing kissing you so deeply you could drown in it, feels amazing stroking your face with gentle hands that promise to honor you.

As you move together, each delicious slide causing your core to tighten and grip at him, it builds - fuller and more powerful until it’s crashing over you: the need to tell him.

“I love you,” you breathe. “I should have said it before.”

He rolls you easily in response to this, one arm tight around your back as he maneuvers you so you sit astride him, his cock managing to sink even deeper into you from this angle. You moan, eyes slipping closed, missing it as he reaches for your upper body, trying to pull you down into some semblance of an embrace, even as he fucks you steadily, not faltering for a second.

He kisses you sloppily, arms locking you against his chest, cock sliding in and out of you at a steady pace. One of his hands slides up your back and rests across your throat; you shiver at the contact, and then you feel the familiar tingling. He’s healing your neck, where he drank from you last night.

When he releases you, hands settling on your hips and helping to lift you up and pull you down, you sit back up, looking down at him. He looks so good spread out beneath you that it makes your core clench, which makes his hands on your hips tighten and a low grumble reverberate from his chest.

He squirms and sits upright, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss as soon as he’s close enough, huffing against your mouth happily when he gets what he wants. He tugs you down on his cock and you keen, whining deep in your throat as his tip kisses your cervix until he lets up.

“Fuck,” you manage, gasping for a new breath as the pain-pleasure ebbs. You’re close, you realize, as he kisses his way down the column of your throat, teeth grazing in places and then tongue soothing the scrapes. You rock against him, your hard nipples brushing his chest, your hands finding his hair again, and you know exactly what you want to push you over the edge.

“Taehyung,” you say, lips so close to his ear that you can see him shudder from the tickle, “I want…”

He spears you particularly hard, grunting, and you lose the thought for a second, letting your forehead drop to his shoulder.

“Want what?” he asks, breathless, fingers splayed over your waist. He watches the place where your bodies meet, distracted by the sight of his cock emerging from within you, shiny and sticky.

“Drink from me,” you beg, not lifting your head, not wanting to see his reaction.

“No,” he says, not looking up, not stopping his fluid strokes into your tight heat. “It’s too dangerous, especially like this - I might not be able to stop.”

“If you can control yourself through the curse, you can control yourself now,” you argue, swiveling against him a little, relishing the feel of how deeply he’s touching you. “Please. It wasn’t you last night - I want it to be you.”

It’s not quite the whole of what you mean; if you weren’t split open by his cock right now maybe you could explain better than it felt like you’d been intimate with him without his presence, that you wanted a chance to share that intimacy with him, now, now that you’d told him how you feel about him.

But he seems to understand. His strokes slow but don’t stop as he tips your head up with the knuckle of his pointer finger, looking deep into your eyes as if looking for the right answer within them.

“Please,” you say, and you watch him break.

He pushes himself deep within you, then presses his face to the side of your neck he hadn’t touched yet. You rock against him, feeling his hard length push against each sensitive spot, colors exploding behind your eyelids as you move.

“Please,” you whimper again, because the anticipation is worse than the pain will be, and you want him.

He can’t resist, not with you begging, and he presses his fangs to your sweaty skin, then pierces you swiftly. The pain overtakes you, worse than you remember from the night before. You cry out loudly, eyes squeezing shut, fingernails raking down his shoulder blades, your whole body squirming and fighting instinctually to get away. He holds you tightly, and all your squirming does is push him deeper inside you, all those spots lighting up behind your eyelids again, causing your cry of pain to trail into a loud moan.

The venom hits you as Taehyung starts pounding into you faster than he has this whole time, his arms tight around your back, fangs still lodged in your throat, a growl ripping through him as your blood hits his tongue and your body tightens and twitches around his length.

The floating high hits you as your body reacts to his new, breakneck pace and you let out a mindless wail as you pulse and squeeze around him in rhythmic waves. It lasts and lasts, and you think you might trip straight into a second orgasm as he holds you even tighter, removes his mouth from your neck long enough to gasp your name as he pumps his release deep inside you.

After, he holds you still, hands petting your hair, smoothing down your back, until your heartbeat calms under his hands. Then, he lowers you to lay down side by side.

You float, aware of only snippets of sensation - the pulsing between your legs taking ages to settle, aftershocks causing the muscles in your legs to tense and release. Your heartbeat slows. The well of blood to the wound in your neck, Taehyung’s gentle tongue still pressed to the spot, taking what your body willingly gives but not pulling from it.

Slowly, you come back to yourself.

“How do you feel?” he asks, perhaps a bit apprehensively.

“I need to eat, shower, and sleep, in that order,” you murmur, eyelids heavy. “But otherwise… I can’t complain.”

In the end, his guards keep the corridors clear as he carries you back to his rooms. It’s a bit embarrassing, you think, but you’re way too weak to walk there, so there’s no arguing the point. He orders a full breakfast spread from the kitchens, sends Satuel to your rooms to get you something comfortable to wear, and runs a hot bath in a tub so deep you’d honestly call it a small swimming pool.

When your stomach is full and your body clean, you burrow under the blankets in his ridiculously opulent bed, body thrumming with happiness and oxytocin and all those other happy chemicals that come after good sex and good food.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Taehyung murmurs as his fingers trace patterns over your shoulder. He lays beside you, on top of the blankets, waiting for you to be claimed by sleep. “I got a whole night of sleep last night. My first in months.”

You hum, stretching, halfway to sleep already. “I think you have other things to thank me for,” you tease, the words falling heavily from your lips as you’re pulled under.

You feel his hand, gentle on your throat, drawing near the bite mark he’d made this morning, the one he’d made as himself, at your request.

“No,” you say strongly, suddenly awake. “Don’t heal that one.”

He balks. “People will know.”

“Good,” you say firmly. “Let them know I’m yours.”

Let them know you’re mine, you think, and then you only know sleep.

—

Taehyung watches you sleep for longer than he’d admit to anyone. He watches your face, calm and smooth in sleep. He thinks of how he has to bite back smiles when you get fired up about something, your eyes narrowing and mouth tightening.

He thinks of the look of quiet determination you get when you’re casting, when you’re working with the magic that naturally lives within you.

For all of history, Infracti and venefici have lived together, helped each other. Long ago, the heir to Infracticus’s throne would be purposely matched with the venefici’s strongest magician - the Highest. Venefici would leave their homes, live and practice with the other magic-wielders, train and compete to be the best, to be given the honored title. It’s been hundreds of thousands of years since the days of those arranged unions, but Taehyung’s had that custom in his head for weeks now.

It makes him feel fated, like you were brought to him on purpose, his natural other half. The Highest to his hunter. The Priestess to his Blood-letter. His venefici, his witch, his bringer of humanity, his to protect.

Like in another lifetime, it would have always been you and him. 

Loathe as he is to admit his father could be right about anything… he was right about you. You’re powerful, beautiful. You’re brave, surprisingly funny. Taehyung sees a lot of himself in you - in your bravado, in the way your words don’t always seem to match what you want to say, in the way you only find peace when you’re faced with the sea.

He loves you. He loves you, and he thinks you could be amazing here - thinks you’d be an amazing queen, thinks you could be happy in his palace by the ocean’s side.

But you had a whole life before, that you’d left on hold to come here and fix him. If he loves you, he thinks, then the right thing to do is to let you go back to that life. It isn’t right to keep you here, away from your family, away from your studies and your job, just because he wants you to. It isn’t fair to ask you to give up what you worked so hard for.

It is with these thoughts in mind that he presses a feather light kiss to your unfurrowed brow and makes his way out of his bedchamber into his main rooms, closing the door quietly behind him to let you sleep.

—

When you wake, you’re alone. You worry for a split second, then you hear his voice floating from further in his wing, and you relax.

You rouse yourself slowly, savoring the chance to take your time, to be alone with your thoughts in the comfiest bed you’ve ever experienced. A quick look around the room alights your attention on a bundle at the end of the bed; someone left clothes for you.

You do your best to make yourself presentable, and then follow the sound of voices and laughter into Taehyung’s main rooms.

You’re greeted with a sight you’ve never seen before: the group of young Infracti men seem to be having fun, just hanging out. Taehyung is lounging on one of the couches, ankles crossed and arms folded behind his head. Jimin is perched on the arm of the couch, currently doubled over in laughter so strong that he wheezes and clutches at Taehyung’s shin desperately. You also recognize the round-eyed Infracti who had attended the strategy meeting in the pub not that long ago - Jungkook. The other two you’ve never seen before, but they appraise you with interest as you step into the room.

Taehyung lights up like a Christmas tree when he spots you, sitting up so abruptly that he almost knocks Jimin from the couch.

He crows your name, and then calls to you, “Come! Make merry with me!”

You step forward with trepidation, looking around at the others for an explanation.

“His Majesty has been imbibing,” Jimin explains, straightening himself up. “But, yes, you should join us. Your time here has been very serious, and we’re determined to have a pleasant night now that the business is handled.”

“Business?” you echo, still making your way into the room by degrees. It does not escape you that if these Infracti are drunk, it may put you in a bit more danger than normal.

“You just missed Seokjin,” Taehyung explains, the words a bit loose. He waves a hand towards the door as if to indicate which way Seokjin left. “We were discussing matters of state.”

“While drunk?” you can’t help but ask.

Taehyung lets out one cold laugh, and then holds up an arm, making a space for your body to fill. As you make your way over, he muses, “Yes, it makes it less painful to stare the cold, hard future in the face that way.”

“That’s a bit grim,” Jimin remarks from behind you as you settle next to Taehyung’s torso, seated on the edge of the couch’s cushion.

“Justice is grim,” Taehyung declares dramatically, and you press your lips together, trying not to giggle. Then, he adds, “Especially when it’s coming for your own family. Or yourself.”

He flops back against the arm of the couch, reaches around you for his goblet. You can smell the wine as it passes by you.

“Do you want some?” Jimin has the presence of mind to ask, but you shake your head.

“Better not,” you say. “Is it even safe for me to be here right now, while he’s…?”

Taehyung sputters loudly in indignation. “What,” he demands, “you think I can control myself while I’m cursed but not when I’m inebra - ineba - ineeny - drunk?”

Your eyes widen in mirth, and you hiss at Jimin, “What did you do to him?”

Jimin laughs, shaking his head. “His Majesty did this to himself, I’m afraid. I think he’s been stressed.”

“Come on, little witch,” Jungkook says, playfully taunting, black eyes glinting. “Are you afraid? I thought you put people through walls.”

You eye him flatly. “I don’t want to mess up Maiesti’s pretty face,” you deadpan.

This gets a smile out of the others in the room. Beside you, Taehyung pats at his face thoughtfully but says nothing.

“You should all go,” he finally says, the words slow and lazy, head lolling back on the arm of the couch. “Come, now, begone.” He literally waves a hand at them as if they’re nothing but gnats.

“He’s brattier when you’re around,” Jimin tells you petulantly, as he rises. You start to follow, but Taehyung’s inhuman grip finds your wrist and tugs you back.

“Not you,” he murmurs, and there’s a hint of growl to it. A shudder rolls through you.

The others make their way past you, saying their goodbyes, and Taehyung tugs you by the wrist so that you fall over top of him, chest to chest. You think he’s going to pick up where you’d left off this morning, but instead he wraps his arms around your back and buries his face somewhere near your clavicle, eyes closed.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs.

You smile, feeling a rush of affection. “You’re cute,” you counter.

You feel his lips pout against your skin. “I’m not cute. ’M scary.”

“Sometimes you’re scary,” you agree lightly. “But not right now.”

He lets out an unhappy hum. “You’re scary sometimes,” he muses. He unburies himself, lets his head flop back to the arm of the couch. His eyes are still closed. “You’d be the best queen because everyone would be scared shitless of you.”

He’s let slip similar thoughts before, but never in a setting where you could sit with the words, consider the weight of them.

“I can’t tell if you mean that,” you admit, “or if you’re just…” Getting ahead of yourself, you finish the thought silently.

“Why wouldn’t I mean it?” he argues. He lets his arm drop over his face, his eyes hiding in the crook of his elbow. “I agreed when my father told me to court you, didn’t I? Wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t think…”

He mumbles the rest of this sentence into his arm, and you don’t try to catch it. You’re stunned, knocked breathless.

“Wait,” you say, the word dropping from you like a stone. “What?”

“Mm,” he says, like this is an answer, nodding his head minutely. “My parents were intrigued by your magical quotient. I, on the other hand, was intrigued by your-”

You’re barely hearing him. “Wait,” you interrupt, the word the only one you can grasp. “You… they asked you to court me because of my magic? And you… you… agreed?”

“Well, yes,” Taehyung huffs, frustrated. “I had to, or he wouldn’t have -”

“So,” you interrupt again, head spinning, “how much of it was… for his sake?”

Taehyung removes his arm from his face and looks at you in confusion, brows furrowing, lips pouting.

“Were you faking it?” you demand, feeling yourself spiraling but unable to stop it. “Was I just… a means to an end? An asset for the bloodline?”

He winces, which is enough of an answer for you. You push away from him, and he’s too slow in his drunken state to catch you in time. You stand, backing away.

“I have to go,” you say hollowly, already looking at the door.

“No,” he says, desperately, sitting up and reaching a hand towards you. Your heart breaks another degree; part of you wants to go back to his embrace and tell him never mind, you aren’t fighting, everything is okay. You force yourself to back away, making your way around the couch.

He watches you go, mouth turned down and a hand following your path. “My love,” he breathes, “please don’t.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head, half to yourself, half to remind yourself not to give in. “No, I need to. I need to think. You should… drink some water and get some sleep… or whatever it is your people do to avoid a hangover.”

You open the door and slip through, but you’re weak. You’re weak, and you look back over your shoulder, and so as the door closes you get one last view of Prince Taehyung, watching you go, his eyes now a deep, fathomless black.

—

You move in a daze. Namjoon is closed in his own room when you reach your rooms, so there’s no one to stop you as you toss a few essentials into a small bag, no one to witness it when you tell Satuel that if she doesn’t take you to the Ostium then you’ll walk there yourself.

“His Majesty will be very displeased,” she points out as you walk.

“His Majesty has a long, long life ahead of him during which he can get over it,” you bite back.

The Infracti working the Ostiums - both the one in Infracticus and the one above, in your city - nod politely at you as you pass through, checking your identification, but don’t say much.

In fact, no one speaks to you again until after you’ve climbed a familiar, worn set of stairs, pushed open a squeaky office door.

Dr. Kim stares at you like you’re a ghost, an apparition drifting up through his carpeting.

“You,” he says, eyes wide with disbelief, “are not supposed to be here.”

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LA LA LA BYEEEE!!!!!!!!!

[onegayastronaut]

Heartbeat of Love

Requested by anon: Can you write Maya x Carina x reader where reader has some cardiac problems? Thank you so much!!!

Words: 1924

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was something you had grown used to. It had become a strange, unwelcome companion over the past few weeks, a reminder of the fragility of your own heart. But today, the beeping was drowned out by the sound of laughter and soft whispers, the warmth of love replacing the sterile loneliness of the hospital room.

Maya and Carina had taken it upon themselves to ensure that you never felt alone, not for a single moment. The two women had practically moved into your hospital room, setting up a mini-home with warm blankets, your favorite scented candles (which the nurses had begrudgingly allowed), and a playlist filled with songs that reminded them of you. They had turned an otherwise dreary hospital stay into something almost comforting.

“Amore, you should eat something,” Carina murmured, sitting on the edge of your bed, her fingers brushing the hair from your face.

Maya, ever the overachiever, immediately held up a spoonful of soup. “She’s right. You need your strength. Doctor’s orders.”

You huffed, looking at both of them with a tired smile. “Doctor’s orders? I think that only applies when it’s an actual doctor giving them.” You glanced pointedly at Maya.

Carina smirked. “Lucky for you, I am an actual doctor.” She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before giving Maya a teasing look. “But she’s very cute when she tries to play one.”

Maya pouted dramatically. “Excuse you, I am very medically knowledgeable. Firefighters have to be.”

You giggled, taking the spoon from Maya and sipping at the soup to appease them both. “I don’t doubt it, babe. But I also know you’re just looking for an excuse to boss me around.”

Maya smirked. “You know me so well.”

Carina let out a soft laugh and wrapped an arm around your shoulder, careful of the IV line in your arm. “And we both know that you are the most stubborn of us all, so let’s not pretend otherwise.”

It was true. You had resisted being admitted to the hospital for as long as possible, despite the growing concerns about your worsening symptoms. It wasn’t until one particularly bad episode—one that had left you dizzy, gasping, and clutching your chest—that Maya had scooped you up and driven you straight to the hospital. Carina had met you both there, already throwing on her attending badge and demanding the best care for you.

Now, a week into your stay, you were tired of the sterile walls, tired of the beeping machines, and most of all, tired of worrying them. You could see the exhaustion in their eyes, the way they never left your side for too long, the way they whispered worriedly when they thought you were asleep.

You reached out, intertwining your fingers with theirs. “I’m going to be okay,” you whispered. “I promise.”

Maya exhaled slowly, squeezing your hand. “You have no idea how much I want to believe that.”

Carina nodded, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “We just… we need you to be okay, baby.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “I know. And I will be. Because I have you both.”

The three of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, the sounds of the hospital fading into the background as you simply existed together. Maya traced patterns along your arm, while Carina pressed light kisses along your temple. Their love was a tangible thing, a steady heartbeat in a world of uncertainty.

After a moment, Maya sat up straighter. “Okay, enough heavy stuff. Let’s do something fun.”

Carina raised an eyebrow. “Fun? In a hospital?”

Maya grinned. “Absolutely. I brought cards.”

You groaned. “Please don’t say Uno.”

Maya gasped in mock offense. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because you’re a menace when you play Uno,” you teased.

Carina laughed. “It’s true. She once made Jack cry during a game at the station.”

Maya shrugged, completely unapologetic. “Weak.”

You giggled, shaking your head. “Alright, fine. But I swear, if you hit me with a Draw Four when I’m already dealing with a heart condition, I’m breaking up with you.”

Carina smirked. “Oh, I would pay to see that.”

Maya pouted dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You gave her an innocent smile, but before you could say anything else, Carina leaned in and whispered, “I’ll help you.”

Maya groaned as you and Carina burst into laughter, and for the first time in weeks, your heart felt light. No matter what lay ahead, you knew one thing for sure—you were surrounded by love, and that was the best medicine of all.

Returning home was a relief, but it also came with its own challenges. Maya and Carina were overly protective, hovering over you at every opportunity. If you so much as shifted on the couch, one of them was there, adjusting pillows or offering water.

“Babe, I love you both, but I’m not made of glass,” you huffed as Maya tucked a blanket around you for the third time that morning.

Maya crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “You had heart surgery two weeks ago. Humor me.”

Carina sighed, setting down a bowl of fresh fruit. “Maya, maybe we should let her breathe?”

Maya sighed but relented, sitting beside you. “Fine. But you have to promise to tell us if you feel even a little bit off.”

You smiled, leaning into her. “I promise.”

Carina sat on your other side, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And no trying to do too much too soon.”

Days passed with quiet moments of love—Maya carrying you to bed when exhaustion won, Carina massaging your back when the pain made sleep difficult, and both of them showering you in affection.

One night, as the three of you lay in bed, Maya traced circles on your wrist. “I was so scared,” she admitted softly. “When I saw you collapse, I thought—” She swallowed hard.

Carina squeezed her hand. “We both did.”

You kissed their hands, your voice steady. “But I’m here. Because of you two.”

Maya exhaled, then pulled you into her arms, Carina wrapping around both of you. “Forever,” she murmured as Carina leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead.

The following weeks were filled with slow healing, laughter, and the occasional frustration of being forced to rest. But through it all, Maya and Carina remained your anchor, making sure you never felt like a burden. From cozy movie nights to Carina cooking your favorite meals, their love surrounded you in every moment.

Maya had taken to being your self-appointed cheerleader, filling your days with lighthearted banter and dramatic reenactments of action movies just to see you laugh. Carina, on the other hand, had an almost supernatural ability to sense when you were overdoing it, her gentle but firm hands guiding you back to the couch with a warning glance.

One night, as you all cuddled on the couch, Carina looked at you with a mischievous grin. “When you’re better, we should take a trip. Just the three of us.”

Maya lit up. “Somewhere warm. Somewhere peaceful.”

You smiled. “That sounds perfect.”

The day finally arrived, and as you stepped off the plane, the warm embrace of the coastal breeze enveloped you. The rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore was a melody that instantly soothed your soul. Maya stretched her arms above her head, taking in the view of the crystal-clear ocean while Carina adjusted her sunhat, her smile radiant.

“This is exactly what we needed,” Maya declared, looping an arm around your shoulders.

Carina nodded. “And exactly what you needed, amore.”

The small villa you had rented was perfect—a charming hideaway nestled between lush greenery and a private beach. The open-air patio provided the perfect view of the horizon, where the sun dipped into the water, casting hues of pink and orange across the sky.

The days unfolded in a blissful haze. Mornings were slow and easy, with Carina preparing fresh fruit and warm pastries while Maya brewed coffee. You would sit together, enjoying the serenity, letting the sun kiss your skin. Afternoons were spent exploring nearby markets, taking dips in the ocean, and lounging on the beach with a book in hand.

Maya was relentless in her attempts to teach you how to surf, her enthusiasm infectious even when you tumbled into the waves more times than you could count. Carina, ever the responsible one, made sure to remind you to take breaks, keeping an eye on your energy levels without ever making you feel fragile.

Evenings were your favorite—watching the sun set while Maya and Carina prepared dinner together, stealing kisses as they worked. The nights stretched long, filled with laughter, whispered conversations under the stars, and the comfort of being wrapped in their arms.

One night, as you sat by the fire, Carina leaned in and murmured, “You’re glowing, amore.”

Maya grinned, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Told you this trip was a good idea.”

And as you listened to the ocean's gentle song, with the two people you loved most beside you, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would always have them—your anchor, your home, your heart.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of seagulls and the distant crashing of waves. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting golden patterns across the sheets. You turned to find Maya still fast asleep, her arm draped over Carina, who was just beginning to stir.

Not wanting to wake them, you slipped out of bed and stepped outside onto the patio. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, a vast, calming expanse. The salty air filled your lungs, and for the first time in a long while, you felt whole.

Maya joined you moments later, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind. “I know that look. You’re thinking about something.”

You smiled, leaning back against her. “Just taking it all in. It feels like a dream.”

“Then let’s make it last as long as we can,” she said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Carina appeared shortly after, a cup of coffee in hand. “Good morning.”

The rest of the trip continued in the same dreamy fashion. One afternoon, you rented a small boat and sailed along the coast, Maya at the helm, grinning like a child as she steered you through the glistening water. Carina pointed out hidden coves, and at one point, you all dove into the ocean, reveling in the cool embrace of the sea.

Another day, you stumbled upon a tiny, family-run restaurant tucked away from the usual tourist spots. The food was exquisite, and the owners welcomed you like old friends. Carina chatted animatedly with them in Italian, while Maya made it her mission to sample every dessert on the menu.

On the final night, the three of you took a walk along the beach, hand in hand. The stars shimmered above, the waves lapped at your feet, and for the first time in forever, you felt truly at peace.

Maya squeezed your hand. “I don’t want to go back.”

Carina sighed wistfully. “Neither do I.”

You smiled, squeezing both their hands. “Then let’s make a promise—we’ll do this again. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next month, but we will.”

And as the three of you stood there, wrapped in the magic of the moment, you knew it was a promise you’d all keep.

[girl4music]

ELLIE: “Please don’t try and talk me out of this.”

DINA: “Oh, you think that’s why I’m here?”

I knew they were going to do that with Dina.

That she’d be the one with all of the information and how to execute it. It just made sense for it to be her.

She’s the one enabling and encouraging Ellie but also making sure Ellie has her head on straight while at it.

Makes her far more dynamic than she was in the game where they just saddled her with a pregnancy and left her out of most of the main narrative because of it! 😤

I mean they may still do that but hopefully they’ll know how to integrate all THAT with the main narrative itself and not just play the “she’s too weak and fragile” card.

To use a Xena line: “I’m pregnant, not brain-damaged.”

I like Isabela’s Dina a lot more than the Dina in the game. She’s really complimenting Bella’s Ellie well.

It’s a different dynamic but it’s a dynamic that works given the writing and the portrayals are very different.

And Ellie,… my god that was a great speech. Talking about not asking them to risk their lives for revenge. Vengeance isn’t justice. She knew that. But she also knew that doing nothing isn’t justice either. That was the right thing to say and point to make. She really thought through that one even if she didn’t actually believe it herself. And only those closest to her knew she didn’t because Ellie is a mineshaft in gunpowder.

She’s ready to blow all the god damn time. She just doesn’t reveal all the hazards that will set her alight.

And only those closest to her know that and know what to look for when she’s in that much pain. Especially Joel because he’s seen her when she’s at her angriest, most desperate and volatile. She can lie or spin the truth to and with everyone else but him. But of course Joel isn’t there anymore to pick up on the signs of Ellie’s anguish.

So it’s up to Dina. If they’re doing this - if they’re going down this path - then they have to do it 100% right or…they die. It’s that simple and that serious and that real.

Man, I love vengeance stories! There’s just so much to learn because it’s all about the characters’ motivations.

And sure the game is great for that. It is. But I want to feel like I know these characters much more intimately and what they’re providing in the show at the moment is doing that well. Therefore, I’ll be far more invested.

I always said The Last Of Us would work better as a TV show than a game because the game cannot provide the scope necessary for knowing and learning all the characterization since you’re only following a certain character’s story and perspective. You can’t really do that in a TV show because you need the pieces to gel well and that requires screen-time for every character.

It’s a completely different structure with a TV show and I am quite amazed that it’s a gaming developer doing it.

Sure, he has help but it’s Neil’s vision and he is killing it!

Adaptation to a TV show is not fucking easy to do but I really like what they’ve decided to do with this one so far. I’m hoping they can continue with doing it this way because this makes it far more exciting than the game where it was just far too repetitive and just lacking in characterization depth for everyone not Ellie or Abby.

Especially Dina. Jesus. It’s SO GOOD to see THIS Dina!

Headstrong. Organized. Mindful. Loving.

A fucking anchor to Ellie’s wreckoning.

She’s the best character in this season already. In only 3 episodes in she’s managed to be far more worldly than the Dina in the game ever got to be in the whole story!

It’s better this way. It is SO MUCH better this way.

I can actually SHIP a WLW ship like this. ❤️

And I knew we’d get a similar scene to the weed scene.

I knew they would make up for the loss of it because it was anticipated far too much for them to not have it at all and it would have made many people very annoyed.

It’s just they had to shift things around to tell the story and the storytelling is just far more important to show. They have to prioritize that over the audiences’ desires. When you think like a showrunner - all the angles have to be covered when and where they will function best.

That’s why I’m so impressed by what they’ve done with the TV show. They’ve made sure it plays like a TV show.

And in a TV show, progression is the aim of the game👌

It’ll get to where you want it to be. Just be patient. 😚

I swear people today just do not value slow burn ships.

[maxsimagination]

𝗶'𝗺 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗵𝗶𝗺 - 𝗰.𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗿𝗱

summary: drunk guys can’t seem to take a hint when girls brush them off.

-> bit spicy near the end

𖦹 masterlist

𝗜𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗦 𝗔 𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗗𝗔𝗬 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧, and i was standing in caitlin's room getting ready. we were going out for drinks with some of the other arsenal girls; leah, alessia, katie, steph, lia and lotte. they had won the game they just played the day before so i thought that warranted a night out for drinks.

plus i hadn't been out with caitlin in a while. we were always balancing her career and training with mine, especially since she was a footballer and i was a physio.

i had just finished the light makeup that i could be bothered to put on and pulled two dresses out of the closet. i held them both up to my body trying to decide which one; there was a pale green, almost teal, dress with glitter that shone in the light and small silver chains as the straps, or a light blue slip dress that could be tightened at the back.

cait came out of the bathroom then, dressed in her black pants and white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the first two buttons left undone. she circled her arms around my waist from behind me, head leaning on the crook of my neck.

"i think the green one." i paused and held the two pieces to my body once more before hanging the blue one on back up and throwing the green one on the bed. "the green dress it is."

i turned around in her arms and she settled into my embrace. i pried myself away from cait's hold and starting slipping on the chosen garment. i pulled the straps up and cait was already moving my hair out of the way to zip the back up.

"thank you, caity." she pressed a kiss to my lips in response and i let out a light giggle and picked up the heels i'd chosen. i might regret it at the end of the night but for now it was worth the pain to look good. i grabbed my bag and sling it over my body, putting my phone, wallet keys and chapstick in there before i was ready.

"okay let's go."

we went out to the car, cait jumping in the drivers' seat. she had volunteered to stay sober so i could have a couple of drinks if i wanted to. it was a short drive to the bar we were meeting at and the other girls were already waiting out the front for us.

we both hopped out of the car and i gave each of them a hug. i hadn't seen leah or alessia since before the world cup when they were playing for england. the instant we entered the bar, there was people everywhere and music pumped through the building.

we grabbed a table in the corner and got settled. i volunteered to grab the first round and stood up to go to the bar when caitlin pulled my hand back and placed her card in my hand. "i can't use this cait, take it back."

i tried to give it back to her but she insisted.

"at least use it for the first round. i needa take care of my girl." i grinned down at her. "only the first round." she smiled and relented, sending me on my way. the bar was crowded but i found a seat and flagged down a bartender soon enough.

while i was waiting for the drinks, i was approached by a guy, he looked decent but i already knew how it was going to go. "hey, can i buy you a drink?" it started off okay, i politely declined. "no thankyou, i'm waiting on some already." he nodded and sat down on the stool next to me.

"what are you doing here?" he was blunt and straight to the point, i appreciated it and the lack of cringey pick up lines. "just on a night out with the girls." "could i get your number?" i knew it was coming and this was my favourite part of letting guys down. "no, i have a girlfriend."

a slight nod towards cait made him look over and he smiled back at me. "ah ok, apologies for overstepping." he collected his drink and gave a last smile before walking over to his group of friends. it was guys like him that i appreciated when i told them i was taken.

the bartender got all the drinks to me on a tray and i walked them back over to my table. cait had a hand on my thigh the second i was in the seat. "what did he want?" she spoke into my ear. "he asked for my number, but i told him i had a girlfriend. he was chill about it though." she nodded and rubbed her hand a little higher up my leg, slightly under the hem of my dress.

——

it had been about an hour and i was only on my second drink. alcohol had never been my thing and it didn't help that i was usually blackout after 7, minimum. the group decided it was my turn again so i stood up and this time cait came with me. we placed the order, me and cait both getting plain sprite.

we were waiting patiently when one of the previous guys' friends approached the bar next to us. he was clearly running on more alcohol than i was and i tried my best to ignore him. "can i get you a drink, pretty lady?"

i internally groaned, i didn't want to do this again. "no i'm good." my polite responses had left my body after the first guy, there was only so much i could take. "how about your number then?" he persisted and i tried to ignore him again.

"hey, i'm talkin' t'you. can i have your number?" "no." it was blunt, but this guy wouldn't leave it alone. thank goodness i had cait with me this time. she hadn't said anything but was watching if anything happened.

"why not?" there was a slur in the guys' words as he tried again. "because i have a girlfriend." he wasn't surprised at all when i said that, i figured his friend had already told him. cait bought our conjoined hands on top of the bar surface so the guy could clearly see. "it's fine, she can come too." he was slowly inching closer to me and i was getting uncomfortable.

"we aren't going with you. please leave us alone." it seemed that it was then that he got bold.

he placed his hand on my thigh and i jolted away from it. "don't touch me." cait was immediately on her feet and standing in front of me. "you need to leave us alone. now." her voice was stone cold and she was glaring at him, hard. if looks could kill, that guy would be dead.

apparently that wasn't enough for him to stop his advances, however and he tried one last time to ask me or us for our numbers. i had enough and stepped forward. "you just won't stop, will you? here's something you won't forget."

with that, i pulled my leg up and kneed him hard in the groin. he buckled onto the seat and let out a pained groan. i couldn't care less and grabbed cait's hand, grabbed the drinks that had probably been sitting there for a bit and stalked back to the table. the girls had been watching from their spot and they were grinning at me when i made it back.

"that was amazing, yn." i thanked them and we all sat back down but i wasn't happy anymore. i just wanted to go home.

cait could tell, "you wanna get out of here?" "please." so we stood up, and told the others that we were gonna head back. "just not feeling it anymore, sorry. you can have free range of the two sprites though." they were all happy then and started squabbling over who got the free drinks. me and cait went out to the car and drove home.

she had one hand on my knee and the other on the wheel, and slowly she slid it further up my leg. i was impatient and she was making me feel things so i grabbed her hand and placed it further towards my crotch and crossed my legs.

her hand was essentially stuck there. she wasn't complaining and had a smug look on her face. we finally got home and i couldn't open the door quick enough. once we were inside, cait kicked it closed and locked the door. she had me pressed up against the wall, hands above our heads.

"jump."

her voice had gone low and boy, was it hot. i followed and jumped up to wrap my legs around her waist. she pulled me back in for a kiss and somehow walked me to our bedroom.

"that guy couldn't do this, could he?"

i think it's safe to say that the guy definitely couldn't do what cait spent the rest of the night showing me.

[imraespace]

STREAMERS! ★ ˎˊ˗

..CHAPTER 5 || CHAPTER 6! || CHAPTER 7..

note: i wrote this when the second chapter for the jealously book came out so ignore the "new chapter" part.

(i like card captor sakura guys.)

────────────────────────────

"Zenitsu they are calling you a cheese head." You giggled at the tweet on your phone.

He mumbled something to himself then let out a soft sigh.

You five was already in the game, mostly interacting with the chat, mostly Muichiro fighting with that one fan. Seems like everyone was ready.

"Is everyone ready?" You asked as you created the lobby. In reply, you got a yes from everyone.

Their usernames appeared in the lobby as your cursor hover above the start game button.

You clicked it and the game began.

"Y/N.."

"Hm?" You replied.

Zenitsu had called out to you.

"Why did you chose Nightmare mode?"

.

.

.

"I did?"

.

.

"Oh well!"

The game had already started, no take backsies.

You five had watched the intro played, you running up to the person and then bam! You're in game.

"I want to quit already.." Zenitsu again, complained.

"Shut up and play the game." Muichiro told the boy as he began to walk.

We all followed behind him and then stopped when we noticed a light was passing by.

Well the "We" is Mui, Shinobu, Zenitsu and you, where is giyuu?

"Where is Giyuu.." You asked out loud.

"I don't know how to move my camera so I didn't move as yet." He said.

"Oh my god just move your mouse.." Shinobu mumbled, he did as she said and met up with us.

"Thank you." He told her. She simply mumbled a small 'Your welcome'.

Zenitsu already found out where the light was coming from!

"WHAT IS THAT?.." He screamed rather loudly in the mic.

"I NEED MY EARS.." You, too, screamed back.

I looked up to see a rather large thing. With glowing eyes looking back and forth.

"According to my gaming knowledge and skills, I guess we gotta move without getting in its sight!" You said and began to make your way behind some rocks and bushes.

Zenitsu though? He wasn't having the whole sneaking strategy. He ran with full force in a straight line, screaming as he took damage and surprisingly made it to the end, with a pinch of life left.

"Or you could just do that." You mumbled as the others followed what you did.

──────────────

You guys did it yippee!!

Another cutscene happened which was very much amazing and then.. a hand grabbed you and boom, new area!

You all just ran without any care in the world, tree branches from every direction was blocking the way as you ran but still, made it to the stairs and up into the building like structure.

"Maybe this isn't so bad.." Zenitsu said.

He finally calm down and was enjoying the game and you were proud of him!

"What's that noise?" Muichiro asked.

"It sounds like uh moist..?" Shinobu replied.

"No. It's something eating." Giyuu corrected her.

He was up by a window. You came up behind him and saw that there was some creature thing, eating another thing. Too much things is happening..

"Uhm what is that.." You asked.

"What is what." Zenitsu said. But found out as he made his way towards the window.

"Oh."

Muichiro sighed, you all was standing here for way too long and he got bored and decided to walk.

Oh how wrong he was!

"Where are you going Muichiro.. ITS MOVING TOWARDS YOU MUI!" Your words was too late, he stepped into the room and with speed it ran towards him and munch him up!

Everyone was silent until Shinobu spoke up.

"I guess we sneak around." She said as she crouched and began to make her way into the room.

Giyuu followed behind but stepped on some glass, causing the both of them to get eaten.

"Giyuu.. Please, go on your own time." She said as she went on and accidentally stepped on said glass.

"I hate this game." Was her last words.

Bur they forgot who they are playing with.. The best streamer of them all (you) got passed the first room, and the other and the other until the end.

And then you waited, with a proud smile on your face.

"Beat that losers."

"No."

"Don't care."

"Okay."

"Shut up."

They were obviously jealous as you can totally see.

──────────────

Skipping alot that happened because it wasn't important, you all are now behind the door of something, someone? It was amazing anyways!

Zenitsu opened the door to see something that looked like a sack of flesh. It looked like humpty dumpty in your eyes!

"Uh what the fuck is that." Muichiro thought out loud.

"No swearing boy." You told him.

Zenitsu, being the sensible one, walked back out the room, you all did. Leaving Giyuu in it though! Shinobu closed the door.

"Where did you all go?"

"We're right here what do you mean?" She answered back, clearly trying to hide her giggles.

"No I'm not dumb."

"Are you sure?"

"..."

You burst right back into the room and went up to talk to "Nuppeppo" because they were taking too long. and bad talking your new best friend(Nuppeppo).

But no! Nuppeppo had an attitude.

"I know for a FACT that this sack is not calling me an ugly creature."

"But you are."

"Muichiro shut up."

um im not writing an hour long of gameplay haha!

.

.

.

You all was playing for 2 hours straight so far, alot of screaming, crying, arguing, and cooking?

The cooking wasn't Muichiro's favorite part.

"Why the HELL does this ugly ass demon want ME to cook for HIM.. and in the end ISN'T SATISFIED?" Clearly Muichiro had the most fun out of the rest.

Oh not to mention when you all played hide and seek with the demon child!

Definitely Zenitsu's favorite part.

Zenitsu was quite happy when he found her the first time. and then..

"IT WASN'T HER? SHE SCREAMED IN MY FACE I WANT TO LEAVE THIS GAME."

Sadly he mostly found her, and her mother mostly found him.

And lastly..

"Is this slenderman? Why are we finding pages.." You complained.

The long, tall, slender, disgusting creature(the mother) appeared infront of you scaring the life out of you.

"I WANNA END THIS GAME."

"No we're almost finished."

Muichiro's wise words kept you going! What a nice friend.

But in the end you all did it! Never touching roblox for the rest of the day.

Yippee!

STREAMERS!

EXTRA:

TAGLIST: @deezy12299 @s0uldarling @cherryblossomly @boogiemansbitch @delusional-mushroom @ashlovelys (OPEN)

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

Chapter 11: Alive and Kicking

[Also Available on AO3]

Shadow Dance Masterlist

Summary: Rory and Ghost race to save Price from the crashed helicopter

Warnings/Tags: Minors DNI, swearing, character with trauma, established relationship, military inaccuracies, includes some in-game dialogue, references to previous fics (All Along the Watchtower), angst, fluff, domestic fluff flashback, flirting, kissing

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC - 3rd person POV (Rory Sinclair)

Word count: 4K

A/N: the further continuation of Rory's story, this follows and expands upon the COD: MW2 reboot canon. Told from Rory's POV.

A very, very self-indulgent chapter this time around. I dont get the chance to write a lot about Rory and Price's domestic life and I wanted to borrow a bit from real life. Hope you enjoy!

tagging: @taciturntraveller and @voltac

Rory could always easily imagine a different life for herself with John. A life without the bloodshed. A life without the constant violence. She was always right on the edge of living it, a fleeting moment of a few weeks of reprieve before taking part in another mission that rabbit holed into the madness of a wartorn wonderland. Living in the untouched safety of their bubble of domesticity, a quiet peace they had made for themselves, their biggest worry had been what color to paint the powder room. 

On a particularly wet Sunday, mid-morning, in late September, they stood in the paint aisle of the local hardware store surrounded by an array of sample chips in every shade and tone imaginable, and somehow she had managed to bypass them all, gravitating to one bleak little corner. 

“Fuckin’ hell, love,” John gruffs, arms crossed over his chest in his favorite sheepskin lined denim jacket, beanie tucked over his ears, looking down his nose at the paint chips she holds like a fan. “Tha’s three different versions o’ white.” 

“Shut up,” she laughs and shakes her head, the damp ends dripping down the back of her neck. “They’re lace, linen, and cream.”

He meets her giggle with a straight face and a lifted brow. “They’re bloody white. Need your ‘ead checked if you think there’s some sort o’ difference between these and the color of the ‘landlord white’ walls back at the flat, my girl.” Arm curling around her back, his wide, warm hand drifts down to rest on the back pocket of her jeans furthest from him. Giving her hip a squeeze, he presses her tight against his side and his thumb starts to rub circles into her as he shifts his weight on his feet. 

The umbrella she carries drips a steady stream of rainwater onto the linoleum floor, a small puddle forming at the blunt plastic tip. One to join the many others dotted throughout the shop, blockaded by yellow ‘Caution: floor slippery when wet’ signs as the sound of a mop being dragged in the same constrained fashion as Pac-man joined in with the quiet chorus of The Verve’s Bitter Sweet Symphony that played over the store’s speakers.

“Oh, I am sorry I wasn’t looking for something garish in the room where guests do their business. Pardon me.” Her words are lathered in sarcasm as she animatedly waves the cards in her hand. 

“Didn’t say garish, did I?” Giving her a dangerous glance from under his brow, he reaches out and grabs the first card from the wall that takes his fancy. “What about this one?”

Her brow cocks at the sight and her lips curl into a little sneer, one that makes her nose scrunch up with distaste. “Forest green? In a toilet?” she asks skeptically. “Love, it’s a small space. You don’t put dark colors in there, it’ll only make it feel smaller.”

“It’s a bloody cloakroom, Ror,” he grumbled, his mouth scrunching up under the bristles of his mustache. “It’s not supposed to feel like the Ritz-Carlton, it’s where someone takes a piss and moves on.”

Rolling her eyes, she takes the card from his hand decidedly and tucks it back into the sleeve on the wall. “It’s too dark. I told you to just leave this with me.”

Truth be told, she was used to making the decisions to the design of the townhouse. It had been her home before John had arrived on the scene, her first purchase after she turned twenty-one and her trust fund (including the money from the sale of her mother’s house in Canada) was finally made available to her. She had paid for all of the renovations herself, picked out the furniture and lighting. That home was her baby and it was hard not to be the one to have final approval on all the changes. It was like letting a little piece of herself go, handing over more control to her dear Captain.

“And I told you I wanted to make some decisions around the place,” he says, tugging her into him a little tighter. “Still feel like a guest in our ‘ome sometimes.”

“Oh piss off, now you’re just taking the mickey.”

“Am not.” Shoving his hand into the pocket of his coat, he jutted out his square jaw, and stretched out his lower back.

Placing her hand on his chest, she uses the other to sweep across the wall of samples like she’s Vanna White. ��Fine, if choosing the toilet color is of such great import to you, go ahead. You have my blessing to freely choose.”

His eyes narrow as he looks down at her, leaning back slightly to keep her in his full view as he bobs on his heels. “This is a test.”

The quiet chuckle that bubbled out of her was one she could hardly contain, looking taken aback by his sudden wariness of the task. “Classic coming from you of all people.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“I am not dignifying that question with an answer.” She juts an accusing finger up at him, and pokes the underside of his chin, her nail poking into the stubbled skin. “You know damn well.”

Grumbling in response, he reaches out and grabs another sample card to try and change the subject. “And this one?”

“You want lavender?”

“’S grey.”

“It’s not. It’s bloody purple.”

“Now you’re taking the piss.”

Laughing, she reaches into her purse on her shoulder and digs out her mobile. Doing a quick search on her phone, fingers tapping away on the screen, she pulls up a picture of a dress and gives him a cocky grin. “Is it white and gold, or black and blue?”

“What’re you on about?” Peering at her phone screen, he gives it a quick glance before answering, “Tha’s white an’ gold,” stating it without a second look, absolutely sure of his decision.

“It’s not.” She locks her phone and slips it back in her bag. “It’s blue and black.”

“Proves nothin’,” he says with a sharp nod of his head, directed by his tightly clenched jaw.

Giggling at his reaction, her dimples emerge and her eyes shine. Even in a moment where he’s clearly proven wrong, Captain John Price has to believe he’s right. 

His face immediately softens, hard eyes turning crystalline as he regards her warmly, his scrunched lips curving into a gentle half grin. “Christ, I'll never get enough of that laugh, y’ know tha’?” 

She hums and she meets his gaze, curling into him and wrapping her arms around his, her hand finding the rough palm she has come to know so well, intertwining her fingers with his. “I'm aware.”

John lifts their conjoined hands, hers dwarfed in comparison, and he brings her slender wrist to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the flesh. Warm breath ghosting over her, his mustache tickles against the raised veins, smiling as the smell of her perfume fills his nostrils. Fills him. Refusing to let her go quite yet, he places another kiss to the center of her palm, lingering for a moment against the softness of her.

“What was that for?” she murmurs. 

“Don’t need a reason. Not with you, love.”

Her face warms and without a shadow of a doubt her cheeks turn rosy as she glances away and turns her attention back to the wall of samples. It’s the least she can do to try and hide the fact that she’s blushing profusely, thankful that he hasn’t mentioned it considering that would only make things worse. 

“What about this?” she offers, slipping another card free from the spot on the wall.

He appraises it with the same resolute focus he carries while facing down the next target, assessing for weaknesses, compensating for strengths. “Green… green’s good,” he says with a shrug.

Of course he refers to it as just “green”. It could more accurately be described as a soft sage. A cool grey-green meant to evoke the quiet calm of a pastoral scene subdued by morning mist.

“Yeah, you approve?” She says with a hopeful grin. He bloody well should, he's never taken any issue with her design choices before.

“I’ll even paint it on the walls for ya,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss the side of her head, nose pressed to the soft strands of her hair. 

“You do spoil me,” she croons.

“Better than paying some other git to come in, eh? Make the job take longer than it should, miss spots, overcharge.” A slow, easy smirk like a drawl curls his lips. “I’m not lettin’ some bastard do a runner with your money, sweetheart. Besides, could put on a real show for ya like when I fixed the kitchen sink.” He lowers his voice, waggling his brows enticingly, winking suggestively. “Jeans hung low. When it gets too hot, i'll ‘ave t’ take off m’ shirt. Shake my arse f'ya when I get up the ladder.”

Squealing with laughter, she uses her hands to cover her mouth, catching the attention of a passing employee as she wipes the tears forming at the corner of her eyes. “Stop,” she whines without any real intent behind it. Her cheeks flush red and she buries her face in his arm before meeting the placid depths of his blue irises. “I need a painter, not a bloody Chippendales dancer.”

He smiles wider, cheeky and boyish as his eyes crinkle at the corners taking in her joy.

“You’re fuckin’ adorable, darlin’, y’know tha’? Blushin’ like a bloody school girl when I tease ya.” 

He pulls her into his embrace and her umbrella is quickly forgotten, left to limply drain on the floor while the sample chip dangles in her grip, hanging loosely from her fingers as her arms coil around his neck. It wasn't often they enjoyed a public display of affection, but the empty back corner offered a safe haven free from prying eyes as they kissed and he took the opportunity to firmly grab the cheeks of her arse in his hands. 

….................

When painting day arrives, John treats it with the same professionalism as an op. Laying down tarps, painters tape along the crown moldings to stop drips, washing the walls clean and waiting until they are dry. Laying out his tools making sure they are all easily accessible, including some spare rags for cleaning up messes. He doesn’t miss a thing when it comes to that extra bit of effort to make the finished product perfect. He's precise, exacting. With him the details always matter and there’s no slouching allowed. 

She rests in the doorway, watching him work – knelt down, knees cracking, back held stiff and straight, he pops open the lid of the can with a flathead screwdriver and stirs it with a stick bringing the base and pigment together. A gentle smile graces her lips as she recognizes the movement all too well as the same careful circles he uses when he makes her tea, properly mixing in the milk and honey until they are perfectly combined. She's come to enjoy the cuppa he makes more than her own.

His gaze flicks up, noticing her figure reclining against the doorframe, and his eyes crinkle as a smug grin draws weathered lines of a hard life of fighting into his face. “Enjoyin’ the show, are ya?”

“Chose to do this shirtless, eh?” She remarks as she places a mug of steaming black coffee for him down on the sink countertop.

“I'm a simple man, love. If I can put a smile on tha’ face o’ yours, I'm over the moon.”

“And you think being shirtless'll do that, yeah?”

“Don't deny it doesn't.”

“Thank you, love,” she whispers quietly, genuine in her gratefulness. 

He rises to stand, roller in hand, his jeans sitting below his soft belly, the trail of his adonis belt visible. Purposely flexing his chest, his pecs jump as he squeezes his impressive biceps for her.

Groaning, she rolls her eyes, unable to keep them from roaming over him. “Shut up you daft prick and get to work.” Curling her hand into the denim of his waistband, she tugs him towards her and he all too happily accepts her advances, ducking his head down so she can reach his lips. But she bypasses them entirely, opting instead to kiss the freckle on his nose. 

He's always been like this, quick to fix things around the house when he can, when it's within his expertise – and when it's not, she's caught him with many a how-to video on his phone. Never complains about chores, earns his keep. He's always been a provider, even as a teen with his mum, taking care of things at home while she worked two jobs. Sometimes she wonders if deep down there is a part of him that believes he has to pay back her kindness, the way she enjoys spoiling him, indulging him in the life of luxury he didn't know before. Perhaps they both have things they are insecure about, even after all this time together.

When she turns to leave, his chuckle carries down the hall after her, following her tail. On her six. He’s always there. The solid support that keeps her moving, keeps her marching forward, doesn’t leave her questioning the choices she’s made. 

Her father once asked her ‘Why him?’ and she couldn't give a straight answer, especially when so many of the reasons they were together were in redacted mission files. But the simplest answer was the culmination of protection, patience, praise, personality, and philosophy he provided, that they shared. How many other people would she meet that she could show her real face to? How many others could stomach the things she'd done and not recoil at the thought of violence committed by her hands? But these were of course things she could never tell her father, even if they were the subject of quiet whispers during a midnight conversation in bed with John.

She chose him. That's all that mattered. He was the one she would always choose, for better or worse.

Pulled back into the reality of a downed helicopter in the middle of a firefight against Shadow Company, the shouts of her team were muffled in her ears by the tinnitus ringing in the extended, soul-crushing beep of a flatline. The sound of life support finally being cut loose. Letting go. The overwhelming sense of dread nearly brought her to her knees with pulse-pounding terror at the thought of facing her greatest fear alone. Abandoned. It was like being struck by a lorry, her body crushing inward, a bruised and beaten heart struggling to pump in proper time as she reconciled with having the life of someone she loved being stolen from her once more. 

Gritting her teeth, she tried to force herself to breathe through the sudden anxiety that tried to cripple her, but her mind refused to be reasoned with. The wounds of grief were an improperly healed break – tender, quick to pain, felt bone deep. Raw. Time didn’t make things any easier, it just made a person forget until the fracture snapped and the ache could spill out. And spill it did. The torment of a stolen youth came flooding back, a life upheaved. The panic made for a perilous partner in life. Her hand gripping at her chest, fingers curling into the material of her shirt, she bent over at the waist and breathed deep. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. Begging for the state of calm she found looking down the scope or looking into eyes that she trusted with a multitude of secrets, of frightening truths. 

“John…” His name was a breath on the wind as she watched the tendrils of smoke blow away, fading into barely-there wisps. Fingers flinching, the nerves spasmed as a tremor stirred to life in her joints. Not like this. I can’t just fucking stand here, she snapped at herself. I won’t. He needs me.

Soap’s boot hadn’t even gotten over the wall before Rory was already turning back for the crash site. Single-minded in her purpose, her strides ate up the concrete, bee-lining straight for where the black smoke continued to churn up into the sky. She ran. Ran to the point where her chest began to ache. Sprinting until the anchor of her lungs in her ribcage slowly dragged her down. Each ragged, searing breath clawing up her throat, tearing its way out of her mouth as her legs pumped with a mind of their own. The old, lasting hurt seeping from her pores with each pounding of a boot on the ground.

Ghost stomped up behind her moments later, every long step of a comfortable jog equaling out to two of hers. Clutching his rifle tight as he followed her, he glanced at her but said nothing. 

“Shut up, I know,” she said hoarsely, running down a never-ending, nightmarish stretch of black asphalt. Her pace felt inadequate as she surged forward, seeing how easily he kept up with her despite each step taking the effort of trudging through knee-high snow.

“Didn’t say anythin’.”

“Fuck you. You never have to, Si.” Her lips curled with annoyance, licking the salt of sweat off her top lip. “Absolute bullshit, that is, by the way.”

“He's gonna be fine,” he assured her, but it did little to sway the stress, having heard the fear in his own voice earlier as the bird went down.

“Don't. Not a fucking word until I get a visual on him.”

Rounding the building, her eyes widened, staring at the burning crater where the helicopter crash landed. Both seeing and unseeing, frozen in disbelief. Shattered glass, broken metal, and flaming wreckage were spread out around the crash site. Jagged edges kissed by fire jutted out in all directions, the tail sitting alone and smoking several meters away. 

Please, love. Please answer.

She worried her lip, biting harshly into the flesh until it stung, peeling it away with her teeth as she headed straight for the cabin, digging frantically back on the carnage of metal. The scorching heat had little effect on her – burns meant little if it meant getting to the only man she pictured spending the rest of her life with.

“John, love, can you hear me?” she called out, bending back one of the broken blades with Ghost’s help. 

Every rapid beat of her heart was just for him, hoping that as long as it pumped like a fist was squeezing it in her chest then his would too. For the first time in her life, she prayed.

At the sight of the gloved hand punching through the cracked windscreen of the downed helicopter, she damn near felt her soul leave her body with a sense of elation. The will for him to persevere pushed her into action as she cleared glass away using the heel of her hand covered in kevlar.

The golden rays of the waning light of day beamed into the cavernous darkness of the wreck and she caught a glimpse of that stupid bloody skeleton mask sitting askew, curled halfway up his face, whiskers on show. Reaching in, fingers wrapped around nylon and acrylic, she carefully pulled the mask off, giving him a clear airway free of the stifling material. His eyes were smeared in black, sweat streaking through it as it crept into the lines of his crow's feet. Despite the situation, drenched in sweat and grease makeup, she thought he was the most handsome man on the planet. 

“There you are…” she breathed, brushing her hand through his hair.

The relief was unparalleled when two clear blue eyes blinked open. A slight haze to them as he tried to focus past the light filtering in, staring up at her as if she were an angel there to save him. Soft and hopeful and full of recognition.

“Sweetheart…” he rasped.

She leaned into the battered cabin and smiled. “Not supposed to call me that on the job, remember?”

He huffed out a rough laugh, the dimples hidden by scruff coming into view like the first stars in the evening sky. “Get me the fuck outta ‘ere.”

“My pleasure.”

Taking his hand, wrapping her fingers around the large mitt she could never fully grasp, she helped pull him out, dragging him forward as he crawled out from the wreckage. Ghost doing the same for the pilot.

A moment passed between them, their boots on the ground, where all they could do was stop and stare at one another in the dusky hues of the late afternoon as they caught their breath. Hair sweaty and mussed, chests heaving, their shadows stretched out across the ground, growing outward away from the chaos. He was alive, he was right there. It was a bloody miracle – if she believed in those. 

Cupping his cheeks in her hands, her thumbs brushed over the peaks dusted with freckles and lines, assessing the damage. Nothing more than a few marks and scratches, some burns, a little blood. The fear had all but subsided except for one quiet lingering whisper that continued to remind her they were lucky this time… third time's the charm… a shiver coursing down her spine in response.

John brought her hand to his lips, kissing the bare pads of her fingertips in silent thanks for racing to his side. His eyes tender as he gazed down at her, the steely vision of the soldier unintentionally gentled by the woman wrapped in the strong, protective grasp of his arm around her waist. Planting his paw on her lower back, pulling her body in towards his,  crushing her against him, he soaked into her the way a plant derived nourishment from the sun.

The breeze ruffled their hair, the heat of the fire meeting with that of the waning sun and that of his skin as his thumb wiped away the makeup that streaked down her cheek with a bead of sweat. The flames of the crashed bird continued to flicker and flare behind them, spitting up at the sky and fueled by the ravenous desire to expand. The audience, the mission to finish – in this moment, it didn't matter – not as his lips crashed into hers. Not as his mustache tickled her skin. Not as his beard rasped against her chin as he tilted her head just so. Not as the rumble from his chest vibrated through her. Ramped up on adrenaline and fear, they kissed one another like they would never see their partner again, cognizant of how close they came to that situation once more, albeit the roles reversed. They gripped roughly at whatever they could get their hands on, heated and desperate. All sense of professional propriety gone, forgotten. 

Fingers wrapped around the shoulder straps of his vest, Rory pulled him deeper into her embrace as his hand fisted at her hair, kissing themselves breathless on the battlefield.

Ghost glanced away from the couple, standing stiffly as he cleared his throat once, then again a little louder. “Glad to see you’re still standin’, Price.” 

At the grating of Simon's chuckle, the couple parted, brushing their hands over their uniforms, straightening themselves out. Lips kiss-swollen and red, Price wiped his hand over his mouth as Rory turned away sheepishly and raked a hand through her hair. It was hardly becoming for a Captain and a Lieutenant to be seen in such a light, but who was going to call them out when every member of the 141 already knew their not-so-well-kept secret.

Glaring at the smouldering wreckage, a scowl curled John's lip as the mask of the lover fell away to reveal the warrior below. “Ruined my bloody mid-flight cigar. Tha's reason enough t’ kill Graves.”

“Someone's clearly in need of nicotine,” Rory said, patting his chest just above the pocket where he kept his cigars. “And a strong drink. We'll have to get you patched up as well, of course.”

He gruffed and reached for his radio when Ghost’s crackled first.

“Soap to Ghost. I’m with Rudy. Graves is KIA. How’s Price?”

Ghost gave Price a fleeting glance, a visual once over, and his eyes crinkled slightly as he smirked below his mask. “Angry. Lost a good cigar in the crash…” Checking on the younger man beside him, who much like the Captain, only suffered a few scrapes and burns, he continued, “Pilot’s okay too. Out.”

“So,” Rory said, looking between her fellow soldiers. “Graves is dead… Shadow’s been cleared out, and if there are any stragglers they’ll be quick to surrender, I’m sure. Your orders, Captain?”

“The prisoner. The Colonel and Gaz have ‘er secured. Need to have a chat.” Price’s stare was locked with hers, the unspoken orders exchanged between them.

“And I suppose by the way you’re looking at me, you think I can help with that, eh?” Angling her head to the side, she gave him a little smirk knowing exactly what he expected of her.

“There’s nobody better.”

“Then lead the way.”

[nalooksthrough]

Pe-Az Canon Analysis

I think before I start making headcanons about the Pe-Az. I should do an analysis on what the show has already told and/or shown us. I'm writing it out because writing helps me form more structured thoughts.

Be warned this is a rather long post.

General

Going to start off with their ship. It's in the shape of a pod because 'peas in a pod' and all that, very goofy. It also glows a bright green leaving behind a small green trail when they travel. Speaking of travel, they don't move in a straight line, they pilot in a zig zag pattern.

They also fly their ship backwards which is a weird choice but okay you do you.

They refer to themselves as an intergalactic peace negotiating team called the Pe-Az. So yeah, Pe-Az isn't the name of their race, it's their team name. Their team consists of a Statistical Leader (top), an Optimism Captain (middle) and a member simply known as The Closer (bottom). Who remains mute until they exhausted all other options. Basically he's their trump card. They are also call each other brother so that's sweet. Siblings working in a intergalactic peace team together.

They say that they have been setting human disputes for centuries (with pictures to prove it) and they personally have helped with 293 negotiations before the events of "Peace of Pizza". And yet somehow out of 293 disrupts they never once came across a person whose lactose intolerant or has an allergy to dairy. In fact they don't even seem to know that it's a thing.

Now I'm not sure if they mean they as in the team or they as in they themselves have been helping settle human disputes over the centuries. The three of them could possibly be centuries old.

Also want to point out that fairies are only present in the 1950 burger fry treaty which makes me think that they have only just recently started to work with them.

They also seem to be overly confident in their belief that pizza is like the key to all negotiations, that it's the universal incentive and that everyone loves Pizza. Which okay sure, good luck trying that with the Yugopotamians.

They are so confident in this fact that they even made an on/off switch for it. Their technology must to insane if they create a device to turn the concept of pizza off (and remove Italy from existence) like that's scary man.

Also they just carry around different types of pizza with them in briefcases, which might just be disguised pizza boxes. Even for non-existing pizzas like ice-cream pizza. Wonder how many other types of pizza they have hidden away?

And I guess if they are being this non descript and vague about what a pizza is than it very well could be the universal incentive.

Their written language has a lot of arrows, lines and dots. Also that's a lot of repeating characters for such a short text. They must not have a big alphabet.

They have rules when it comes to their negotiations! The only one we know of so far is that if someone manages to out negotiate them, they have to go on their side. Even is they don't want to and it ends with the removal of all pizza in the world. They have no choice.

This isn't totally related to my analysis but think it's sweet that even though they are clearly uncomfortable. They were still willing to play video games with Dev or maybe it was just out fear. Dev was the first person to ever out negotiate them. The lactose intolerant child scares them.

Apparently they are monsters and eat their pizza crust first.

They also not only managed to sneak into the Galax institute completely undetected but also none of these parasciencist are even questioning their green colouring at all? What are they even doing there anyway? Are they trying to keep tabs on what the humans know about alien life?

Abilities

Going to start with the one they use the most. Their ability to Assimilate. They can seemly sprout humanoid forms from their sphere bodies and are relatively good at mimicking the human form with only minimal hiccups. And given they are intergalactic peace keepers this most likely extends to other non-human forms as well.

But they can't seem to change their colouration which you think would be a problem but no. No one seems to question them about it, no one even seems to even question where they came from or how they got here. Which makes me think they also have a way to mentally assimilate, not just physically.

I like how even in these forms, they will naturally assume their normal stack positions. They even do it in their proper order (Stat top, Opt middle, Close bottom). They can't help it!

The next ability I'm gonna talk about is their screen projection. Which they can not only use to display written text but also screenshots of what may be their memories but I'm not sure.

At first I thought it was just Opt who could do this. But Stat also does it, so it must be something they can all do.

Another ability which might not even be an ability is their ability to teleport objects. This might just be done with tech since they don't really do this often. But it also has a similar effect to when they display another ability that I will soon mention so I can't fully rule it out.

They can also seemly float/float objects but they can seemly only do this when they are in their true form. Their assimilated forms must take energy for them to keep up or something.

And finally their weirdest and most disturbing ability. The ability to turn living beings into pizza. Which brings to mind the horrifying question of "is this where they get all their pizza from?"

This also shows that while they promote peace, they are willing to use more forceful methods if pushed. So they're not fully pacifistic.

Hello? Sir? What are going to do with that pizza slice? 😥