#// ill start writing again tomorrow !!!

[a-gay-bloodmage]

Day 14: You Know a Good Deal About Girls, Right?

(Josephine Montilyet x Semiha Silva-Adaar, Thom Rainier & Semiha Silva-Adaar)

It seems that Semiha Silva-Adaar has never been good with girls. As a Qunari raised amongst humans, she never got the chance to learn. When she comes to Blackwall for advice, he does his best to build her courage. There’s only one monster in that barn, and it’s not her.

Written for the @loveofdragonage event!

Read on Archive of Our Own Here!

[silveredsticks]

x

[necroromantics]

Its nearly 4am and Im half asleep but yall should send in asks/requests for whatever shit for Creepypasta characters (preferably the more popular ones) or like character dynamics or Tobin or Tali (OCs) I need something to write about so bad Im scratching at the walls. But Im only gonna write in the perspective of my AU and I wont write x reader or for others OCs

[crows-of-buckets]

Man I really need to write down all my dragon age OC lore because it just keeps getting more convoluted and complex but. I am lazy. And do not feel like doing it <//3

[newtness532]

6.500 words and if you add all the labels from the images and tables that has to be at least 7000 which is nearly half so if you really think about it we're basically done 🤡

[jaeyleo]

LOCKS OR KEYS: PART 9

YOU CHOSE: KEYS: TAKE THE CAR AND ESCAPE

Your choices leave your character lost. He has no choice but to succumb to the will of his captor.

CWS: non human whumper, whumper is also caretaker, captive whumpee, failed escape attempt, sick whumpee, brainwashing, torture, dehumanization, delirious whumpee, suicidal ideation, force feeding alcohol, hallucinations and delusions of bugs crawling on and into whumpee’s body, hypnosis. let me know if i should add more!

Masterlist.

Tag list (lmk if you’d like to be added or removed, my apologies for forgetting about it the last handful of parts): @skid-row-seymour @welcome-to-the-whumpfest @the9645archives

sorry this one is kinda long, but i felt like y’all deserved a bigger part for waiting so long to hear from this series :cryface:

. . .

The keys hang on the wall, the car sits outside. It’s time to go.

In one swift motion, Chase sheds the blanket off his shoulders and snatches up the keys. He strides outside the house, making easy and confident steps down the porch. Getting in the car is easy, starting it is easy, driving is easy. For once, he isn’t afraid.

The puppet opens his eyes. Now that he’s pictured his half assed plan, he can begin the attempt.

He sheds the blanket onto the couch, feeling a rush of cold air hit his skin. For a second he pulls it back, but ultimately elects to fold it and leave it on the couch. Maybe Pseudo won’t be as angry with him if he doesn’t leave a mess. Maybe he’s just stalling.

Once finished, he begins his steps towards the keys. They’re clumsy and painful, causing him to fall into the arm of the couch before he even leaves the living room. He manages to get to the keys, and with a trembling hand, he plucks them from the wall.

He feels nauseous.

Is he really doing this?

He could turn back at any moment, and Pseudo would never know. He wouldn’t question it, because Chase would still be in bed when he got home, and the keys would still be on the wall. He could turn back. He could be safe.

But instead he opens the door, against everything inside him. He can hear his inner “Pink voice” crying inside his head, “bad idea, bad idea, bad bad bad idea!”

But he is ignored, and Chase finds himself in the driver’s seat of the car.

It takes him a few minutes to muster the courage to start it, and then a few more just to remember how. His whole body shakes in cold and fear, and he feels like he could vomit at any given second. His nervousness cracks him down to his core, splitting through every cell and piece of tissue there is to have inside a human. Once the car rumbles to life, he adjusts the mirror, and sees Pseudo in the back seat.

“Fuck!!”

Chase whips around to look at him, but finds the car empty.

The relief, the fear, the sickness, the fighting Pink and Chase, God, he can’t take it. He can’t tell if what he saw was real or fake, if he’s just hallucinating or if Pseudo’s onto him and is just toying with him. But he’s come this far, and what he can’t take even more than the situation he’s in now, is staying another day here in Denmark. He wants to go home.

Chase puts the car in drive, and starts his terrifying journey.

. . .

If starting the car was difficult, driving should be its own category of horrendous.

He’s completely forgotten how. For the first ten or so minutes he either goes too fast or too slow. He almost drives off the side of the road into the wooded areas, (which he absolutely scratches the car), and at one point, he nearly crashes when trying to turn too fast on a curve. As time passes, the sun falls farther and farther beneath the trees, to which Chase panics when trying to find the switch for the headlights. He considers pulling over for a while just to cry about it all, but he gets the hang of most of it. He gets the hang of most of it, and he drives just fine for a while, despite having no idea where he’s going.

As Chase drives and drives, he starts seeing a house in the distance. Pseudo’s house.

Did he drive in a circle?

The roads don’t curve like that, do they?

Chase speeds up, terrified to be met with this fate so soon. He hopes he’s hallucinating again.

The same woods and lake and curves meet him again. He tries harder this time around to make sure he’s careful, taking different turns as not to end up in the same place. This cant be for nothing.

The same stretch of time seems to pass for Chase, though he can’t say for sure as Pseudo’s clock is stuck at 10:05. It all feels like the same terrifying drag to him either way.

Eventually, even with his precautions, he’s met with the house again.

He speeds up once more, gripping the steering wheel as tight as he can. He tries the same plan again, taking different roads or even going straight through the woods wherever the car can fit. At this point, he’d try anything to go home.

But once again, the house appears in his view.

Tears blur his vision as he tries again. He pleads to get free, more afraid of the punishment than anything at this point. If Pseudo isn’t on to his escape, then his lack of driving skills are going to be his downfall.

Again, the house appears, and again, he tries to drive.

He cries as he keeps the car going. It’s hard to see as it is, but he might need to pull over if his emotions keep getting the best of him like this.

The next time he gets back to he house, he sees Pseudo standing there, watching him. His hands are in his pockets and he doesn’t look upset, although Chase knows better than to assume. He knows he’s been caught, and that driving would be useless now. But he cant stop, this cant be for nothing.

He drives around again, and Pseudo stays put. Their dance continues, Chase driving, Pseudo waiting, until enough turns have happened that the puppet accepts his defeat. On the last drive, the car comes to a stop, but his tears don’t.

Pseudo approaches, opening the door and tilting his head at the doll. Chase has yet to stop crying.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” says Pseudo.

The puppet covers his face, smashing tears into his fingertips. He feels like Pink. Or maybe wants to be Pink. Pseudo is nicer to Pink.

“You know what happens now, don’t you, dolly?”

Chase feels sicker and sicker. He covers his mouth just in case.

“I asked you a question, Chase.”

The name names his skin crawl. Pseudo doesn’t call him that anymore, not unless he’s in serious trouble.

“Yes,” Chase whimpers. He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks up at his captor, hoping to reason with him. “Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t- I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just scared and-“

Pseudo puts a finger to his lips. “Hush. You know where you’re supposed to go. I’ll be in there later.”

“But-“

Pseudo smacks Chase on the mouth, and the puppet shuts up. He leans in close to his doll, making sure their eyes meet and the attention is captured.

“Hush.”

He then unbuckles the seatbelt that ties Chase down, and takes the keys from the ignition.

“Put these back on your way in.”

The monster drops the keys in his puppet’s hand, and leaves him to follow his commands. But Chase is paralyzed.

He stares down at the keys in his hand, shaking like a leaf about to fall from a tree. He pictures the cellar, he pictures the garden, he pictures the car, the vague idea of children he forgets the names of. He pictures the stupidity of his decision, and how much easier his life would be had he just stayed in bed to sleep like he was told.

But there’s no point in picturing.

Chase stands up and shuts the door. With each step he takes he feels knives digging into his feet, roots trying to plant themselves in the ground to make him stay away from his punishment. He starts losing his breath from the panic, and while his hands go numb, he simultaneously crumbles to the ground. The keys find a home in the grass, and Chase’s mouth begins to salivate from the need to vomit.

He covers his mouth, trying to take deep breaths and prevent a mess. He can’t stop shaking, can’t stop crying, can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen to him.

It takes him a few minutes to gather his strength again. Soon enough, he’s entering the house to place the keys back where he found them, and heading out the back door.

He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks at the cellar. Why, why, why did he have to be so stupid? Why can’t he just listen?

With trembling hands and closed eyes, he opens the doors for his consequences.

. . .

Pseudo takes a long time to come downstairs.

Chase isn’t sure if he’s just letting the tension build, or if his punishment is being locked in here for an unknown amount of time. God knows he’s spent long enough down here, weeks at a time, and every memory makes him more and more afraid of what’s to come. He tries not to focus on that part. Instead, he drags his hands against the wall for balance while he paces.

And paces, and paces, and paces

and paces and paces

and paces.

He paces until his feet ache from the weight of his bones. Until he has to cover his face and kneel on the ground, considering ending his life before Pseudo can come down to start the pain. But that thought leaves his mind as light drips heavy down the steps, and Chase becomes a lightening bolt to sit in the chair he’s supposed to.

His eyes lock on the drain below him. There are still stains on the concrete from his own blood, but more recently, from the man who was planted in the garden. Chase shivers as he pushes the thought from his mind.

Pseudo comes down the stairs with his eyes trained on the chair, pleased to see the seat taken. His stride is easy and comfortable, but there’s some kind of itch in his fingers that twitches as he gathers tools onto his little cart. He takes his time to think about his supplies, and what is or isn’t chosen. Chase steals a glance, but turns away when he sees a stun gun thud onto the surface.

“I don’t know why you do this to yourself,” says Pseudo, still focused on his task. “It’s like you enjoy being punished, I don’t know. Or maybe you’re just dumber than I thought.”

He places a few other tools on the cart, but Chase keeps himself blind to what’s there. Once finished, he rolls the cart closer to his prey, and stands in front of him to speak.

“Which one is it, Chase?”

The puppet frowns, shaking his head. “I-“

A hard smack to the face cuts him off. Chase goes reeling to the side of the chair, but is yanked back by his hair. The man cries out in pain, leaning as far into Pseudo’s grip as he can to avoid extra pain.

“If you speak again without permission, I’ll sew your mouth shut. Am I understood?”

Chase nods.

Satisfied, the monster lets go, and the puppet’s hands come up to soothe the pain in his cheek and scalp. The relief is short lived, however, as Pseudo grabs his wrists to strap them to the arms of the chair with thin metal wire. It digs trenches into his skin, so he tries not to squirm.

His ankles are met with the same restraints, and he clamps his jaw down as hard as he can to avoid pleading. His eyes unconsciously drift to the tool cart and he catches the sight of a Sjambok, which he can already feel the sting of. He closes his eyes and keeps his head down, but Pseudo doesn’t like that.

“Look up. Look at the cart.”

The puppet chews on his tongue and obeys. His eyes scan over what he sees, and the pit in his stomach doesn’t stop growing.

The Sjambok. The stun gun. Gardening scissors. Barded wire. Needle and thread. A small jar of table salt. Shards from the plate he broke. Whiskey. A nail-gun.

Chase’s breath picks up as he scans the cart. Tears sting his eyes, and he chews and chews into his tongue. His head swims with the anticipation and anxiety of it all, heart thumping like a bird’s inside his chest. Once he’s gathered the sight of what will be used, he turns back to his captor to see him staring like a stalking, hungry dog.

“What do you think, trouble- maker? Was it worth it?”

The man shakes his head. He feels pathetic and afraid. He only wishes he could go back in time to stop himself from being so stupid.

Pseudo nods in response.

“Good. I’ll tell you what though, doll. Once I use a tool, I’ll put it away. But everything will be used. Got it?”

Chase’s eyes glance to the stun gun. He nods his head, feeling sick all over again.

“Good. How about you pick first then? Since you like making stupid decisions so much.”

He rolls the cart closer to Chase so he can get a better view of it, and perhaps to point with his eyes what he wants. But Chase shakes his head, a hum of fear crawling up his throat against his will.

“Hey, come now. You want to make choices, so make one. Pick something.”

The man brings his head back up to meet Pseudo’s gaze. He pleads with his eyes, with his frown. He doesn’t want to. Don’t make me, please?

Pseudo tilts his head, waiting.

“Pick.”

Chase blinks tears from his eyes and turns back to his options. He points with his eyes, and says what he wants in his head, just in case Pseudo is listening.

Whiskey.

Pseudo points at the stun gun. “This?”

Chase shakes his head. No, no, whiskey. He moves forward slightly to stare harder at the bottle.

“This?”

The gardening scissors.

Chase shakes his head again, pleading, pleading, chewing on his tongue. Whiskey!

Pseudo lands on the whiskey, and Chase nods and relishes in his relief.

“Alright...”

Pseudo opens the bottle, and presents it to Chase’s mouth. “Drink.”

The puppet obeys, drinking swig after swig after swig, until its spilling over his mouth and down his chin. He starts coughing and spitting it up, but Pseudo keeps it trained on his lips. He begins to feel like he’s drowning in the alcohol before it’s pulled away, and Chase’s throat is left to burn like a hungry fire while he coughs out the poison.

“Catch your breath… it wasn’t that bad.”

It takes him a few minutes of back patting and condescending encouragements to finally settle down. He tries breathing through his mouth to calm the burning in his throat, but Pseudo takes it as an excuse to pour more poison into his body.

The same motions repeat, and the bottle is halfway gone by the time Pseudo pulls it away again. But the cap goes back on, and just as Pseudo promised, its put on the bottom shelf of the cart.

“That was an easy one… so I think I’ll pick next.”

He picks up the nail- gun, and places it to Chase’s shin.

The puppet sits up, and the wire that holds him down digs into his skin. With eyes wide and breath fast, he shakes his head, clamping down his jaw to keep himself from speaking up. His tongue endures more abuse from his teeth.

“Which leg pressed the gas?”

Chase shakes his head again, tears falling down his face as the fear takes over him. Please, please, no. He shrivels into himself like a raisin, and the wire once again digs deeper and deeper into his flesh.

“Which leg, dolly? Point with your eyes.”

The doll sobs a little harder, shaking his head.

“No? Maybe I’ll just hit both, then…”

His eyes shoot open to stare at his right leg, tears blurring his vision. At this Pseudo chuckles, tilting his head and keeping his eyes on the doll’s face.

“I’m just messing with you,” he smiles. “But it would’ve been very interesting had you pointed at your left.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, a nail goes shooting through Chase’s tibia. It digs down as deep as it can get, cracking the bone with the force.

He screams as loud as he can muster. His already burned throat doesn’t do well with the strain, but its even worse when another nail goes shooting through just below the first one. He can’t stop himself from crying about it.

The nail- gun drops into the bottom shelf, and Pseudo calls his puppet back to focus. He coos at him, tapping his face, until Chase gets the hint.

“It’s your turn, puppet.”

The doll looks at his leg. His pants are soaked with blood and alcohol, but he cant see the nails from this angle. Perhaps thats a good thing.

He turns back to the cart, and makes his choice.

Salt.

Pseudo points at the Sjambok. Chase shakes his head.

Pseudo points at the gardening scissors. Chase shakes his head, leaning closer to the salt.

He points at the stun gun. Chase loses his breath, and leans even closer.

Salt!

“Mh, I’m just not sure what you’re saying. I suppose I’ll pick..”

Pseudo picks up the glass shards, and starts shoving them one by one into Chase’s thigh. He uses the last one to give his doll’s cheek a little cut, and tosses it into the cart. The remaining shards stay planted in flesh like sprouting seeds. It hurts, but it feels like a break compared to what he just felt.

Next, Pseudo picks up the Sjambok, and stands up.

“Lean forward.”

Chase groans, shivering. He feels dizzier and dizzier, and the world feels harder to navigate. Is he getting drunk already?

“Don’t make me ask again, dolly. You don’t want this to hit your face, do you?”

The doll succumbs and does as he’s told. Once he’s in position, Pseudo waits to watch his puppet just breathe. His chest rises and falls fervently in his lap, just barely grazing the glass. After enough tension builds to make Chase whimper, he strikes his back hard.

A large slice of blood erupts from the source, and the doll screams into his knees. Another three strikes are given, and the Sjambok is tossed to the floor.

Chase sobs like a child. He can’t get enough air in his lungs, and the tears seem to be never ending. Everything already aches, and there’s still so much to do. He feels dizzy and faint, unsure if its the blood loss or the alcohol, or both. But before he can get his bearings again, the wounds on his back sting bad enough for him to wail all over again.

Salt, salt, salt, like trails of snow, poured into his open wounds. Pseudo holds the back of his neck to keep him in place.

“Stop!” Chase weeps, squirming and crying like it’ll do something useful. “Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry!! Please stop!”

Pseudo clicks his tongue three times, finishing the last row and putting the salt away.

“You just can’t get enough of this, can you, sweetheart?”

Chase sits up once free, writhing in pain. He sways as the alcohol takes over the remaining of his control, and the pain takes its place close behind. He can’t press his back to the chair, but cant lean forward, either. Everything hurts. He’s too dizzy, he feels drunk already. His wrists ache and look as red as his crying face does.

Pseudo plucks the needle and thread from the cart.

“Quiet, dolly, or this will hurt a lot more than you’d like it to.”

“Nonono, please, please!” he weeps. “I wont do it again, I won’t ever do it again, I’ll do everything you say, I’m s— ah!!”

Pseudo smacks Chase on the mouth hard enough to shove his back into the chair.

“Enough. You’re being awfully stupid..”

The needle comes up from his bottom lip first, snaking its way to the top lip. Row after row, sob after sob, every sound that comes out of Chase’s mouth becomes muffled. Blood drips down his chin to follow the paths that the alcohol took beforehand. The salty tears sting the cut on his cheek, and whatever wound from the stitches that they can get into.

The gardening scissors cut the remaining thread, and both tools are tossed to the bottom of the cart. At least his fingers wont have the same fate as Richie’s.

The next tool that’s chosen is barbed wire. Pseudo uses it to wrap around Chase’s torso and arms, making sure to roll up any clothing so the razors meet his skin instead of fabric. Then, the stun gun finds his hand.

Chase’s head swims. He shakes his head, his cries becoming weaker but more afraid by the second. He’d take anything over the stun gun. Even the nail- gun. The sensory hell that comes from electricity is simply too much for him to take right now.

“Readyyyy?” Pseudo sings. “You’re almost done.”

But Chase isn’t, nor will he ever be, ready for the stun gun. He shakes his head again, a pathetic sob bubbling up from his throat. He sinks deeper into the chair, regretting everything he’s done within the last two days. He wants to wake up in the attic with the sun on his face and be confused about what’s happening again. He wants to be hypnotized and treated like a doll, to be coddled and loved and doted upon for whatever fucked up reason Pseudo has for doing it. He wants to be Pink, he wants to be Pink, he wants to be Pink.

Pseudo aims at Chase’s shoulder, and shoots.

His entire body tenses up from the electricity. What little control he had before has now left him, and he is left to scream and endure for 10 seconds.

15.

20.

Chase opens his eyes to see Pseudo standing over him. He can’t breathe, he cant see, the world swims and twists in his eyes. The room spins and there are fire ants crawling across his entire body, with burrows dug deep into his flesh. He looks down at himself, seeing bugs crawling all across his skin.

“Mmm- mmmm!!!”

Chase writhes and hollers like his life depends on it. There are bugs on his skin!! He can feel them burrowing into his flesh, into his shin, his wrists, his torso, his mouth, his thigh!!!!! They’re everywhere!!!

He screams and screams and screams as they take over his whole body, making a home inside every space they can. Pseudo grabs hold of his doll’s face, forcing his eye contact and attention.

“Settle down,” he commands. “You’re alright. Deep breaths, Pink. Deep breaths.”

He keeps squirming and fighting, keeps sobbing and sinking deeper into the chair as the bugs eat him up like candy. But Pseudo comes soothing, and kind, and Chase feels heavier and heavier until the whole world feels too far away to focus. But Pseudo is there, and Pseudo is helpful. Pseudo gets the bugs away.

“You’re okay, Pink. Listen to me now, deep breaths. You’re all done.”

All done? All done?

Pink shivers. He remembers what he did, how stupid and dangerous that was. He can’t believe he’d do such a thing, especially when an angel like Pseudo is here to take care of him. What’s wrong with him?

Pink whines as he’s set free from his restraints. As all the barbed wire is peeled from his body and the glass shards are plucked out one by one. He sighs, especially thankful, when he’s able to take a breath through his mouth as the thread is cut away. He has no choice but to lean into Pseudo when scooped up into his arms, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wants to be good now, and he’ll promise that once he’s allowed to speak again.

“You’re alright, Pink. I’ve got you back now, hm? You’re alright.”

Pink whines once more, feeling overwhelmed with the urge to fall asleep.

. . .

Oh, his head hurts.

Where is Pseudo?

Pink opens his eyes to find himself alone in his room. His body feels heavy and beaten, and everything hurts. Upon seeing the sun shine through the window, he is overcome with a wave of nausea so strong that he has to lean over his bed. When he tries to sit up, however, the pain in his back and ribs is enough to make him cry out. The nausea gets worse until he gags, covering his eyes and mouth and pretending Pseudo is there to coach him through it. Once it passes, he opens his eyes, half expecting to see Pseudo already there and waiting.

The puppet groans, observing his empty room. He wants to call out for Pseudo, but closes his mouth upon remembering he’s not supposed to speak. He wishes he could ask for some water, or a hug.

Instead he asks for attention by knocking on the wall. Everything in his body hurts, so standing up to make noise doesn’t feel like a safe option for him. He just hopes that Pseudo notices soon, whether that’s through annoyance or wanting to be by his puppet. He can’t take much longer without seeing his angel.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, says Pinks room.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.

The knocks are eventually returned at the door, and Pink hears a key turn into the lock. The door opens, and Pink smiles dopey and adoring.

“Ps-“ he starts, before covering his mouth. He wants to say sorry, but then he’d have to say sorry for saying sorry, and then sorry for saying sorry for saying sorry. So he just clamps his jaw shut, and prays that Pseudo forgives him for his near mistake.

“My Pink,” Pseudo croons. The key is concealed inside his pocket, and he makes his way towards his doll. “Do you feel sick this morning?”

Pink nods, sighing and relaxing when Pseudo comes to sit beside him. As if that weren’t enough, Pseudo runs a hand through Pink’s hair, and the doll leans as far into his touch as possible. He wants moments like these to last forever.

“Poor thing… but you’ll be good now, won’t you? No more slip ups like yesterday.”

Pink’s face burns in embarrassment. He can’t believe what he did; the regret consumes him. He shakes his head, holding Pseudo’s hand and kissing his palm to show his devotion.

Pseudo smiles and runs his hand through Pink’s hair, and the puppet basks in the attention. He can’t get enough of it. He isn’t sure why he ever tried to leave in the first place. Stupid, stupid puppet.

“That’s precious.. but, I have to make sure you’re being honest, don’t I?”

Pink nods. That makes sense, and he’ll do anything to prove himself.

“Good. Because if you’re good..”

He runs a hand through Pink’s hair, and a thumb across his cheek bone. The puppet melts.

“Then I’ll bring you back home, and I’ll spoil you rotten.”

Pink smiles. This time, he blushes from contentment. From adoration.

“But if you’re bad, if you show me you want to escape again, I’ll make sure you end up alone. No one will take care of you.”

Pink frowns, afraid. He points at Pseudo, and shakes his head. Not even you?

“You’ll be alone, Pink. Out of your head,” he pets Pink’s hair again, “and all alone. Do you understand?”

Yes. Pink nods.

“Good. Then I should see you soon, dolly. Don’t fret about it when you get there, hm? Nothing to be afraid of if you’re a good puppet.”

Pink wants to ask where he’s going, but is left to wonder until it happens.

[steelycunt]

FINAL MIDBLOCK ESSAY DONE!! I AM FREE!!

[alex-just-vibing]

grah my head feels like it might explode

[justinefrischmanngf]

i hate knowing exactly what i need to do but being unable to do it :(

[firebuug]

idk why I've been working on the field observation report due like 4 days after the other instead of the one due directly after I get back to florida

[fairstival]

I saw you mentioned you’ve been working on an au? Is there a master post?

Its @everlastingorbit and is what prompted the vent mostly. It's still very early in development (started like a 2 months ago total). I started writing chapter one tonight and finished my first ever work last week i think?

That's here

[selfnss]

[slightly-ace]

In a mood right now, so I figured it’s about time I shared some of my writing on here lmao. Excerpts and summary under the cut. 

Cal Kestis was a mystery to you, even after knowing him for five years on Bracca. The pieces start to fall into place when you're woken up to an emergency broadcast, demanding anyone with information on jedi fugitive Cal Kestis to come forward with it.

OR

An exploration of the dynamics between a character who only knew Cal on Bracca, and the consequences that come after he leaves.

~~~~~

“Nice job,” you chuckled, playfully bumping your shoulder against his. He responded by draping an arm around your shoulder, squeezing slightly before letting go. 

“I can’t take all the credit,” he responded, turning his gaze to you. “I wouldn’t have been able to do it without my amazing mentor.” 

You rolled your eyes, scoffing. “You’re a dork, you know.” 

He only chuckled, bumping you with his elbow before switching off the skeleton. 

“You’re the one who decided to keep me around.” 

You chuckled again, shaking your head as a response because he technically had a point. You pretty much had to force your friendship onto him when he first showed up. He was smaller then, both physically and metaphorically. He was quieter and kept to himself to the point no one even knew his name. That isn’t to say that he’s not secretive now, he’s just a little more open, especially when it came to you. 

“Don’t act like you don’t appreciate me, Kestis.” You rolled your eyes, taking a quick glance at the sky. It was lighter, and you knew that you would have to show up to the scrap heaps soon.

~~~~~

He stuttered, catching your gaze for the first time since he started rambling. Your eyes were wide, surprise and fear mixing in your irises. You were scared, plain and simple. You were afraid of letting Cal go, letting him leave, but you were also afraid of joining him. You were afraid that you would join him and things would be different. That you had both changed to the point where your previous relationship was now unattainable. You were afraid of letting go of the version of Cal that lived in your head. The one that woke you up at unreasonable hours in the morning to take a look at his droid or watch the sunrise or stand out in the rain, just taking everything in. The one that loved ponchos even though you made fun of him for it, the one that made jokes about you doing a bang-up job as a mentor and laughed when you called him a dork and grinned because you still adored him for it. 

You were afraid of losing the Cal Kestis that existed in the little moments on Bracca, and you hated yourself for it. 

[dvchvnde]

when the earth starts spinning backwards

EXCERPT: GEORGIAN ERA AU. ARRANGED MARRIAGE. AGE GAP.

You've been told for most of your life that the measure of a woman's worth laid in the pedigree of her potential suitors.

And maybe that's why—on the eve of your birthday—the pool of your of esteem dwindles to a mere maudlin tear at the bottom of a weather-worn bucket. One swiped up by the trembling finger of your desperate father as he shakes his hand (and within it, the crumpled dowry he had expected to part with on the dawn of your eighteenth year inside his household) at the only man who seems keen to take the heavy burden from his white-knuckled fist.

A man named John Price.

Captain, they say, of the King's Army. Someone who led them to victory on several fronts before being called home year ago when his second wife had passed, marking him a widower with two children. A powerful man on the battlefield, unshakeable in his tenants and faith. A warrior. As fearsome as a wild bear, and hungry for flesh as one, too.

And it's this facet of his character that is given before much else, including the formidable temper that nervously follows when all points of fascinating esteem run dry.

His rage is as legendary as his exploits under the King.

And you're to marry him tomorrow.

A quick, decisive arrangement that brokered no room for negotiations, and likely couldn't since you're well past respectable marrying age and have been already ushered, quietly, into the encompassing title of a spinster. A blemish on your mutable reputation.

But despite the desperate lengths your father had gone to tuck away money for a dowery on the eve of your birth, it had been for naught. Everyone knows the debts your name carries, and any man stupid enough to take you on a bride would only inherit the devastating black hole of your crumbling finances.

Untouchable, it had seemed. Or so those were the whispers late at night.

It's unfathomable a man of his esteem would stoop so low in the social hierarchy for a wife, but from the stilted, haggard conversations you've pried upon, he's in need of a mother to his grieving children. The abysmal state of your family name doesn't matter much when all he needs is a nanny for his children and a pretty thing to warm his bed.

And, they offered begrudgingly, you are rather pretty.

Just much more suited to be the mistress of a Duke rather than a wife of significance to an important advisor to the King.

Envy, you realise, and this pitiless thing called social standing, leaves you very little room to weep over the ill-made match with a stern, ferocious man two decades your senior and twice widowed with three children desperate for comfort you have no idea how to give.

Then again, respectability is more important than comfort, isn't it? And perhaps this is for the best considering your second, and only, option is to agree to warm the bed of a Duke (or several) when he's away from his wife. Who would want to marry the daughter of a penniless estate drowning in so much debt, it's a wonder your father got to keep his flimsy title when the collectors started breathing down his neck, after all? When the jewels were stripped from your neck, the curtains, your clothes and pawned for recompense for a financial loss that happened when you were hardly old enough to feed yourself?

Such is life, you suppose.

And maybe you're giving too much credence to the feverish whispers about your soon-to-be bridegroom.

Two wives—both gifted to him from the kings pool of consorts—who died under strange, mysterious circumstances aside, he might be the polar opposite to the surly beast they make him out to be. One with a temper so formidable, enemies of the country write to air out their grievances after crossing paths with the savage Captain on the battlefield, lamenting the brutal nature of his warfare practises.

It might not be the cage you've been told it will be. Instead of squandering your youth under the thumb of a man so animalistic, they claimed he was birthed by a bear, it could be the escape you've been yearning for.

And perhaps—as silly as the notion is for women of your station—even love.

It's a thought that blots the unease inside your chest. A bandaid over uncertainty even though it's such a silly, silly thing because just what is love to a man thrice wed? Indignity, surely, to stoop so low as to pledge his heart to someone two decades younger than he when an heir has already been secured. Nuptials tied twice before. An old hat at this farce.

What room is left inside of him for a destitute bride with little more than a brooch to your name, and a contemptible debt that will surely ruin any burgeoning matrimony when he doles out whatever sum he agreed to when taking you on as a—

A nanny, maybe.

Pretty thing to warm his bed.

It'll be fine, you think, knuckles bulging from under the thin skin of your fist; so long as there is harmony between you and this man.

That's really all you can ask for, and even that seems overmuch.

He stands across from a man you don't recognise, dressed in a handsome black waistcoat and black breeches. The bristles of his beard—the sight of which gives your mother a terrible start when she sees the unkempt ruggedness of his appearance—brushes against the silk of his white cravat when he angles his chin in defiance at something the man says, arms folded over his broad chest, looking mutinous.

It's not the stance of a man eagerly awaiting his bride but of someone making idle, impatient chatter until the festivities begin.

But—

You can't deny he makes quite a striking spectacle.

His legs are thicker than all of the men in the room, breeches pasted tightly against his skin showing off the beastly appearance they whisper about. More bear than man. And you see it now when he moves. Arms barely contained inside the confines of a thick waistcoat, bulging at the seams. Flexing.

His hair is dark brown. His beard a seamless match to the umbre hue. It peppers along the span of his face, cut clean below the tip of his nose. Bedraggled comes to mind as you take him in. Then—

Wild.

His eyes flash. He rocks forward on the tips of his toes until his nose is a breath away from the man who stands opposite of him, swallowed up in the untenable bulk that threatens to collapse upon him like an unsturdy house. Heaving. The buttons along his jacket stretch taut around every ragged breath he takes, whining under the strain.

He's a beast.

A bear ripped from the wilds and shoved to ill-fitting finery; told to behave.

It's breathtaking, really. All that raw power forced into the shape of a man, one that buzzes with a frenetic energy around the edges as if the potency of it is too much for mortal flesh to carry. Crackling through the air like a whip. His snarling rejoinder clashing against the stained glass mosaic of Mary and Joseph readying their inn for the arrival of baby Jesus, the echo trembling through your bones.

You hadn't realised they were quite so hollow until his growl bounced inside them like a stone tossed into an empty bucket.

Beside you, your mother makes an impatient, contemptuous sound. That, too, echoes, and you smother a wince by burying your hands in the plentiful lace gathering at your thighs. Clinging to the old silks as the men blink from their churlish debate, turning towards the sound.

His gaze is purposeful. He doesn't linger. Doesn't meander. It slashes across the chest of the man standing in front of him like a clutched dagger, stabbing into the thin-lipped frown your mother wears more comfortably than finery with a slight tick of his brow. Settles there just for a moment. Taking her measure. Her worth.

And then it rolls over to you.

Dutiful bride to be.

Standing on fawnlike legs and drenched in a fine sheen of sweat under the swelter of dusty velvet no one expected to ever see the light of day, and jaundiced lace—the one thing your mother was able to convince the debt collectors was worth less than the meagre loaf of bread sitting on the dining room table.

A pittance.

And it's a dismal thing, really. The way he looks at you. Brows pinched. Puckering in displeasure. It's little less than a sneer, and even that feels like a kindness. A blessing.

But you suppose if a woman is fit to lay with the king, then she must be a thing of beauty. That must be the level of esteem he's used to. Lavishness. Sylphlike, pretty things the king is wont to imbibe himself on—a never-ending search for a faerie, or so the rumours go.

But these lissome beauties, the King's hand-offs, birthed this man's children—and rather quickly, you'd heard. Almost scandalously so. But had declared himself the father—at the hurried acceptance of the King—and the matter brought to the church in whispers had been silenced.

You can't help but wonder how you compare in his eyes.

It makes you so acutely aware of every inch of your body that it all starts to sting. Burn. From the way the shoulder of your grown doesn't quite sit tight—having been altered and hemmed over the years to account for your growth; a dress made at the fourteen under the assumption you'd be married away immediately. Extra fabric added at seventeen with illustrious care. There was still hope, you know. And each delicate stitch reflects that. But the ones that follow—twenty, twenty-three, twenty-five—are looser. Less attention was paid to the seam. The project was just that: an obligation. A duty.

Hope ended with the addition scrap of off-colour silk on your eighteenth birthday.

And with such hawkish, keen eyes, you know he must see it.

They dip along the curve of your throat, following a taut, intense line of oceanblue down the drape of it. Puddling at the base where a tear in the lace sits against your neck. Folded into itself because there simply wasn't enough time to mend it properly. A blemish.

Beneath the thick bed of wry, burnt umbre curls, his jaw clenches tight, muscles budging at the sides.

The intensity of endless blue is too much for you to wade through—his stare, the weight of his regard, a crushing thing—and you dip your chin in silent supplication, staring at the floorboards in a shameful display of cowardice to avoid the heat in those eyes. A searing fury hot enough to scald you from this far away.

He doesn't want you.

On the alter, John clenches his fist tight against his thighs as he devours the little bride too frightened to meet his eye, and wonders how much longer this nonsense will take before he can finally sink his cock inside of you—

[icysab]

more niki boyfie hcs — falling for you edition!

requested here!

wc: <350 i think

a/n: this is a little different than my standard boyfie hcs but i wanted to try something new, so let me know your opinion in comments, reblogs, asks, etc. of this format !!

a/n no. 2: idc what anyone says riki is a DORKY, RIZZLESS LOSER SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD BOY AND I WILL WRITE HIM AS SUCH.

- bro was CAPTIVATED by your smile

- that was literally the first thing he noticed about you— how your smile lit up the room he was in

- you were one of jungwon’s friends and so he introduced you to all the members

- and when i tell you niki’s heart STOPPED when he saw you

- but niki is loyal to his bros!! so he swallowed the lump in his throat so jungwon didn’t kill him

- (jungwon, in fact, introduced you to the members because you mentioned that niki was cute. he would not have cared one bit.)

- only realizes he’s staring after sunoo nudges him with his elbow

- literally stuttering trying to introduce himself

- “i, uh, my name is- uh- riki”

- (failed) attempts at acting aloof fly out the window when you repeat his name back and smile

- the second you leave jake and sunghoon RELENTLESSLY tease the poor guy

- and he gets so defensive too, like he wasn’t acting like a lost puppy dog

- before jakehoon can strip niki of too much of his pride though, won tells them to knock it off

- after scolding the two goofballs (scary leader) won decides to tell niki

- “you know, i don’t care if you go for her”

- poor riki is not following

- “??”

- “she thinks you’re cute too, and besides, you’d make a good match”

- he malfunctions

- “no nono why would you think that!! HAHA- wait. she thinks i’m cute??”

- he’s all red and blushy

- at this point jakehoon are CACKLING at poor riki

- won explains that you thought riki was cute too and that’s why he introduced you two, but he didn’t expect him to be such a nervous wreck around you

- riki is shocked 😮

- after MUCH coaxing from the members, won finally gets riki to text your number

- riki’s leg won’t stop bouncing with nerves as he types out a message

- “hey, this is riki from earlier. i just wanted to say that your shirt was cool”

- all the members facepalm at his attempts at playing it cool

- you respond almost instantly, to riki’s surprise

- “hi riki!! thank you, + i thought your outfit was cool too :D”

- before he can breathe a sigh of relief that your text was super nice and simple, he sees the typing bubble pop up again

- “did you ask won for my number? hah you must have wanted an excuse to talk to me again ”

- he freezes again

- HOW DID YOU SEE RIGHT THROUGH HIM??

- he’s about to deny, deny, deny, but won stops him

- “dude, just tell her the truth. did you already forget that she thinks you’re cute too?”

- riki’s brows furrow in thought at that, but before he can even begin to construe a cool, smooth response, jake rips the phone out of his hands

- RIKI SCREAMS SO LOUD THE ENTIRE DORM REVERBERATES while jake books it to the bathroom to lock himself in

- after a minute, he walks out with riki’s phone and the most devilish smirk on his lips

- before jake can do anything else, riki snatches the phone back and apprehensively starts to read the damage jake had done

- “lol you caught me. if you want, we could get to know each other better over some ice cream tmr? it’ll be my treat”

- “woah, that was smoother than i expected. ill see you tmr riki :)”

- riki is dumbfounded. did jake actually just score him a date with YOU?? there’s no way this worked

- “thank me later,” jake teases

- he is so in shock that he doesn’t even have the capacity to kill jake. tomorrow, a date (???) with you? he can die a happy man.

- to be continued…. ?

[gyrlliar]

Stress Relief

(short fic; stressed bf x male reader)

(note: hey...hhaaha, hi guys im back but my finals are still happening tmrw, i promizse ill write mure shit, this fic is actual stress relief rn)

Jaeyun groaned as he just realized he didn't review the topics for the finals tomorrow. He looked up at the ticking clock on the wall, 'tick, tick, tick' the clock softly sounded around the empty room. His hands gripped on his desk as he groans once more.

Not from stress, but from you, sucking and slobbering on his meaty cock. It twitched in your mouth frantically, almost signalling everytime that Jaeyun was stressed. You caressed and held his hand everytime you felt it twitch in your throat.

You licked at the base of his cock, the stress making him slightly overstimulated. He bucked his hips into your mouth harshly, cussing out a string of cusses and random topics about anatomy from his lips.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, he threw his head back in pleasure and in frustration. "That's right baby, keep sucking..." He grunted out, his hand hot at the back of your neck as he read his notes on neuroanatomy.

You moaned on his cock, the vibrations from your lewd sounds made his cock spill out more pre-cum. He choked out a groan from his throat, and then finally, for once, he looked down at you and smirked at your watery doe eyes.

"Good boy...you learn so well." Jaeyun praised and cooed at you lovingly, you happily sucked more on his throbbing cock as you hear the praises.

The twitching stopped and his cock was now being plunged somehow deeper in your throat as he started to use you like the toy you are.

He groaned loudly, feeling his high come near, his veiny hands gripped on your hair like a vice.

"Good boy...! I'm gonna cum." He spat out, you sucked harder, almost like you were trying to suck out his cum AND his stress. He smiled at you adoringly at your adorable happy expression.

He finally came inside your warm mouth, the stress in his brows melting away as he relaxed. Your hands were still holding his, he squeezed your hand gently.

His toned chest heaved up and down, he chuckled when you lapped up the remaining cum that was still dribbling from out of his cock. Jaeyun's warm hand ruffled your hair.

"Thank you baby. You really helped me relieve some stress." You both giggled, your eyes shining at each other with love and support.

'Ping!' A notification caught Jaeyun's attention, he picked up his phone and looked at it with hatred as if it had just insulted his boyfriend. Jaeyun's free hand rubbed his temples slowly, his cock twitched up again.

You gulped, he looked down at you. "...I have more topics to memorize, baby..." He said with a strained chuckle. "You don't have to- mm?" He deeply groaned out the last part as you started to suck on his cock like your life depended on it.

Jaeyun sighed shakily, he opened the new documents that his professor had sent. His face paled slightly when he saw that it was 112 pages long. He looked down at you with a stressed look in his eyed and his thick cock twitching frantically.

"We're gonna be here all night."

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(im so gay)