#( this has been finished for like two months.... >>;; digging through my drafts. i did make additional edits though )

[houseflyy]

The Treasure Trove

Getting a strawberry snack has its obstacles.

1.7k words.

Prev. / Next.

—

Within the cylindrical glass jar atop the kitchen table were the seed-speckled fruits that had a tightened grip on Melody’s eyes: strawberries. Over a dozen of them were smushed tightly inside, marinating in their juices, and they glistened against the evening sun's orange hues.

From the nearby windowsill, the little fly salivated. She would have dashed to the jar if it were open the instant she found it. But instead, she had to wait, huddled beneath her acorn cap, for when a human would appear and give her an opening. She sat unmoving, her gaze unwavering, refusing to glance anywhere else should the strawberries somehow disappear. And she hummed delightedly as her mind moved to imagine herself surrounded by the berries, slurping up their sweet juices until she felt she would burst and then doze off in their embrace with a full tummy.

A human came into the room, and Melody shot back into focus. The girl leaned her arms down on the countertop with a phone in one hand, and with the other, she reached to take the top off the jar and grab a berry, lifting it to herself to take a bite. All the while, her eyes glued to the phone’s screen, wavering up and down slightly as she scrolled with a finger.

Now was Melody’s chance. 

She bounced up and off the windowsill and across the kitchen, staying closer to the floor to keep away from any wandering eyes. Then she popped over the counter’s edge and straight to the open jar, landing on the smooth surface of the highest-most strawberry. She hopped further down about them to set herself right above where the juices collected. Dipping her claws carefully in, she gathered a huge droplet. And, reaching it to her awaiting mouth—

“EW!” 

The girl’s voice erupted around her. Melody tossed the droplet in alarm and shot upward to escape, but she collided with the lid of the jar and scrambled to land safely back on her claws upon a strawberry. She looked up despairingly. The human had shut her in. She was too late!

“Oh, gross,” the girl said, holding the jar close to her face and retching at the sight of the fly. “They’ve all got diseases in ’em. Or eggs! Gross!” Quickly she carried the jar outside, where a large green trashcan stood on the street. The girl flipped open the lid and opened the jar upside down to dump the strawberries out. Melody fell in along with them. She revved up her wings and jumped off the berry she clung to, shooting to the opening of the can, and the force of the lid slamming shut just behind her blasted her away into a nearby patch of grass. Meanwhile, the girl overlooked the escapee and returned to the house, complaining.

Beneath the tall blades of grass, Melody scanned her surroundings to assure herself the human had gone before checking herself over for any wounds—bent wings, torn membranes, and arms or legs signaling pain. Once she knew every part of herself was all right, she returned to the can and settled on the lid, near where the handle was indented for humans to open it. Melody harrumphed. There wasn’t any way she could open the can on her own and return to the strawberries that, contrary to the human’s belief, she had hardly gotten to even touch. She would have to wait again. Maybe until it was time for the garbage-collecting humans to arrive or when other humans from the house would come out to put in more waste...

“I saw what you did!”

The croaking voice and flapping whirl of black wings sent her panicking into the air. A raven landed on the lid, and he chuckled after finding where she went: buzzing in a disjointed pattern to throw him off. But eventually, she calmed to a cautious hover, recognizing that he remained where he was. His interest in her didn’t come from wanting to snatch her up. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered to speak to her.

“I saw what you did,” the giant bird repeated, “and I’m impressed. A whole bundle of berries—you’ve created a treasure trove!” He tapped a foot against the lid. “You did the daring deed,” he continued. “Now I do the rest!” Before Melody could reply, the raven surged back into the air, and she shot downward to avoid being caught in his path. Long after he disappeared to some other part of the neighborhood, his words lingered in her mind to the point of having to land on the can and think them over. A treasure trove for who? And what did he intend to do? The answers, she assumed, would arrive once he returned. She sat and waited.

The raven, accompanied by three others like himself, was obscured by the fast-approaching night sky. Melody knew they were coming not by the sight of them but by their commotion: harsh voices layered over one another in eager conversation. If she stayed put atop the lid, they could trample her, or worse. She crawled down beneath the upper rim of the can that extruded out from the body enough for her to wedge herself into.

The new ravens landed on the ground while the one who had spoken to her perched on the can lid. “Let’s see, let’s see,” he began as he stepped about. Every thud of his footsteps reverberated through her. Then, the entire bin shook, and she yelped as the raven grabbed onto the handle with his beak and tried furiously to pull the lid open. He flapped his wings for momentum but only barely lifted the lid before tumbling to the ground. 

Around him, the other ravens laughed. “All of us must try,” one of them said, then Melody felt the can shake again. Four ravens pulling up the handle was enough to pull the lid up and tilt the can over entirely. It thumped to its side, spilling its contents, and the ravens cawed and scattered in the air in a mix of surprise and triumph. Meanwhile, Melody stayed put, only coming out of hiding once the can was still, and she could smell what made it so valuable: Among the rank scents of discarded foods and garbage bags, the sugary bundle of strawberries lay distinctly at the top.

“I told you,” the first raven said as they all landed among the litter, “the treasure trove I made! Right here!” Melody gaped incredulously at him. The other ravens cheered, “So perceptive!” “So brave!” And they began attacking the berries, taking up chunks at a time with their beaks while chattering away.

Melody could only stand to stare for a short moment before entering the feast, buzzing circles around the first raven. “Hello,” she called. “Excuse me! You said that I made the treasure trove, didn’t you? Can’t I have some too?” The raven only acknowledged her by flapping his wings, brushing her away without a word. 

Melody caught herself in the air a short distance away and whimpered. Trying to get so much as a crumb of strawberry would be too dangerous among the sharp, falling spires that were the ravens’ beaks. It felt like a lost cause; the strawberries belonged to their stomachs now. She stared dejectedly in the direction of the house. There would be other foods in there. And, this time, she would try not to make herself so obvious.

As she flew back toward the windowsill she had sat upon and past the front of the house, something caught her attention: Near the front door, a small light gleamed. It was a camera, capturing the sight and sound of the ravens feasting away. But as far as she could tell, there wasn’t any response from within the house. An idea sparked in her mind, and she changed her trajectory to head to the door.

The cameras at the doors of many homes were also attached to the doorbell. Melody alighted on the button and tried her hardest to push her weight against it and trigger the ringing bells that told humans to open the door, but no such thing came. It reminded her, defeatedly, that she wasn’t big enough to use it. 

She set herself to think. There had to be another way for her to be strong without being a human’s size. She remembered the impact of the closing lid that shot her downward, past the grass, and to the ground. There was no force like that around to push her again, but if she could find it in herself to push her body that hard, would she be able to press it then?

Melody brushed her wings in preparation. She wasn’t entirely sure that her speed would be enough, but she was willing to try. As she flew back several yards away from the doorbell, she envisioned the remnants of strawberries, unattended, waiting for her to dive into them. Then, she made a wide loop, and with her senses fixated on the direction of the button, she flapped her wings at a rapid pace. Faster and faster, she urged herself on, and instantly, her cap and head struck the button. Bells rang from a muffled distance, and she hurtled downward.

The girl who had attempted to snack on the strawberries earlier answered the door and didn’t spot the unconscious fly on the ground. Instead, she caught the ravens in the act of eating from the garbage out of the collapsed can, and she groaned and ran out with her arms waving. Immediately, the ravens took to the air and fled.

A moment later, Melody awakened. Within her cap, she slowly patted her head and examined her body. Her head ached a little, and her mind couldn’t shake the ringing noise, but no part of her was hurt. She shot over to the yard. The ravens were gone, and in their place, the human packed all the trash back into the can and gagged after seeing the strawberries again and shook them to the ground.

Melody flew straightaway to where the strawberries were discarded among the grass and gasped excitedly upon her arrival. Most were eaten up; the remaining pieces and chunks weren’t many for a bird. But the leftovers were more than enough for her feast. She jumped from piece to piece, slurped away at each one, and dropped into her cap when she was done with a contented sigh and a full tummy. Caution left her, failing to tell her of the lone raven who circled high above and then flew elsewhere.

—

[tobysbliss]

lee!Charlie ler!Alastor with 5 (“Sorry, was I tickling you?”) please?

YES YES YES YE SYEESHFJFJSJFJSHR AAAAHAHHHHHHHRHEHHFJFJSJFJSHFHDJ

they’re literally my favs rn. i see father daughter dynamic when i see them and NOBDOY EVER LISTENS TO ME WHEN I SAY IT🤬🤬🤬

here is a friendly reminder that this is a STRICTLY SFW & PLATONIC FIC!!! and it is NOT to be viewed otherwise!

this has been in my drafts for months.

Alastor had grown quite.. accustomed, as he would say it, to the ‘wayward souls’ in the Hazbin Hotel.

But he found himself bonding with Charlie more than anyone.

She’s a nice girl to be around, he must admit.

..So now Alastor has found himself sitting on the edge of Charlie’s bed, Charlie on the floor infront of him, and him tying Charlie’s hair into her signature 3-sectioned ponytail as she rambled to him about new ideas for the hotel.

“���And since we’ve kind of practiced apologizing, you know, with you and Sir Pentious, I was thinking we do a lesson on forgiveness!” Charlie turned her head a little to check that Alastor was listening.

“What a wonderful idea, my dear!” Alastor exclaimed. “And I can assure you, Charlie, I am listening to your little rambles, no need to continuously check! You turning around, it may mess up the way this will look.”

“Oh, right! Sorry,” Charlie chuckled lightly and turned back around.

Alastor brushed his fingers through Charlies hair as he sectioned it, not paying too much attention as to what he was doing; He has done Charlie’s hair countless of times now, it was like muscle memory. He didn’t feel a need to pay attention.

The sound of a small squeak and Charlie jolting her head forward is what made Alastor suddenly feel he needed to pay attention.

“Are you alright, my dear? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Alastor leaned forward to get a better look at Charlie’s face as he let go of her hair.

“No, no, it’s okay, Al. Your finger just kinda brushed my neck, it didn’t hurt.” Charlie turned and gave Alastor a reassuring smile, Alastor raised a brow.

“Sorry, was I tickling you?” The deer smiled, almost chuckling as he saw Charlie’s smile just barely falter.

“Only a little!” She quickly reassured, “It’s okay, I promise.”

Alastor hummed. “Well, again, I do apologize. It won’t happen again, dear.” His tone was too genuine for Charlie not to believe, and Alastor then continued with her hair.

Foolish of Charlie, really, to believe the known manipulator.

After a few moments, Alastor, now intentionally, dragged a few fingers along the back of her neck.. then acted like nothing happened.

“Hehey! Alastor!?” Charlie flinched and turned to face Alastor. Alastor smiled.

“Yes, my dear?” The Radio Demon tilted his head with mock-confusion.

“Nothing.. Anyways, so I was thinking we….” Charlie continued her rambling, brushing off Alastor’s action as another accident.

With Charlie being oblivious to her surroundings, Alastor took it upon himself to summon two of his tendrils and slowly, quietly, bring them to poke Charlie’s sides before they disappeared. Charlie squeaked and jolted back against Alastor’s leg.

“Alastor! Okay, that was definitely on purpose!” The princess turned around and pointed an accusing finger at Alastor.

“Well, I do apologize, dear. However, you cannot expect me not to tickle you upon finding out you possess such sensitivity!” The deer chimed, deciding that finishing Charlie’s hair can wait. In the moment, this was more important.

“Wait, Al? Alastor, no. NonononOHOHO!” Charlie squealed as she was suddenly lifted into Alastor’s lap, ten fingers gently yet firmly digging into her sides to make her shriek with laughter.

“My, my, what a discovery! And an adorable one at that; I can’t believe you’ve kept this hidden for so long!” Alastor smiled politely, as if he wasn’t causing the princess of Hell to squeal and laugh at his mercy. He brought a hand up to her ribs, his fingers vibrating against the spaces between each bone. He couldn’t help but quietly chuckle along, Charlie’s laughter was truly contagious and he did find the situation quite amusing.

“AHALASTOR! Ihihit tihickles!” Charlie’s eyes squeezed tightly shut as she endured the ‘torture.’ However, Alastor couldn’t help but notice that the princess wasn’t exactly trying to stop him.

“Well, I believe that is the point in tickling you, dear! It’s supposed to tickle!” Alastor beamed. “You know, Charlie, I seem to have noticed something with you.”

Charlie would have raised an eyebrow in confusion had she not been being tickled silly. “Whahat!?”

“You’re not exactly trying to stop me, now are you?”

Well, shit.

“Do you like this, dear?” Alastor queried, his ears perked in expectance for a quiet response. He slowed the tickling, beginning to gently trace shapes on Charlie’s sides so she can muster up something to say with little-to-no struggle.

“Mahaybe..?” The Princess could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. She didn’t have to look at Alastor to know how he was looking at her.

“Aww, how adorable! Well, now I have to continue!” Alastor was quick to start scribbling his claws across Charlie’s stomach, eliciting a squeal and loud, happy laughter from the princess.

“Alastohohor! NohOHO!” Charlie squirmed in Alastor’s lap, keeping her face hidden in her hands.

“Oh, let me see that smile, darling! You’re never fully dressed without a smile~!” Alastor grinned, and used one hand to hold both of Charlie’s hands away from her face. He made sure to hold on gently, so that she could move away if she really wanted to.

“Thihis is cheheheating!” Charlie whined as her hands were held away, but she let it happen. Alastor’s smile was fond, before suddenly becoming mischevious as he blew a quick raspberry on the crook of the princess’s neck. He cackled with her, humoring himself.

Eventually, Charlie did pull away from Alastor, and he stopped as soon as she did. She lied next to him, a blushing mess of soft giggling. Alastor rubbed her back to soothe her, and she appreciated the gesture. The two sat in silence for a few moments as Charlie recollected herself.

And Charlie was the one who broke the silence.

“Thank you, Al,” The princess mumbled against the matress. “I- I needed that.”

Alastor hummed. “You’re welcome, darling. Now, would you like me to continue with your hair?”

“…I think I’ll just keep it down today.”

[gabzlovesu]

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘

╰ ft. kaeya alberich !

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS even before i took my break from writing. and i've proofread this fic damn near 100 times but wasn't sure about posting it. i'm so sorry lol. after this i swear i'll post fics for new characters!

warnings: fem!reader, oral (fem! receiving), angsty sex, kaeya struggling to use his big boy words and tell reader how he feels (bc canon kaeya is >>> fanon kaeya, like bffr)...

word count: 1.2k

☆ PLEASE READ MY RULES/BYF BEFORE INTERACTING ! MINORS DNI ! ☆

Your thumb glides along his lip, studying the fine lines and savoring the warmth that radiates through your fingertip. Your gaze remained fixed on his lips longer than it should have, fearing that once you kissed him — once your lips met and sealed off the world around you — that he too would vanish and become nothing more than a figment of your imagination. And when you finally kissed, it was slow, every movement exaggerated to make this moment last a tad bit longer. 

That’s how things usually go whenever you dared to let love trespass the cracked and ragged walls surrounding your heart. The forbidden feeling crept in, and he crept out, going off on his own and leaving you behind with no one to share the extra space. 

So you hold on, fisting the hair above the nape of his neck and the white fabric of his shirt as you deepened the kiss, all while eliciting a deep, guttural moan from him. It was your favorite sound. The vocalization of his unspoken desire laced with something more… a bit of feral nature. His fingers dig into your hips as he pulls you closer on his lap, letting you feel what you do to him through the many layers of clothing between the two of you.

He never said those three measly words that you desperately wanted to hear, but it wasn’t like he dangled them over your head and strung you along either… they just lingered at the back of this throat where they taunted his tongue, wanting to be muttered into the crook of your neck as he held you.

Like a fool, you gave in to him completely as you’ve done countless times before, letting him fill the space between your legs the same way he occupied every inch of your mind. You didn’t stop him. You wanted him to invade your thoughts, your thighs, and every other part of you. You wanted to feel everything he couldn’t say.

“Kaeya…” Your voice trails off, as you get lost in the blue of his eyes. But you didn’t need to finish, not when you gave that lovesick look that you always did before you professed your love. And although he would never admit it, guilt welled up within him every single time. He was guilty about the fact that he couldn’t bring himself to reciprocate such a simple statement. Or maybe he was guilty about the fact that you loved him instead of someone better, someone that didn’t hide their emotions and ration out their love.

Tonight was different. Something urged him deep inside.

“It’s my turn to say it,” he says, cutting you off. Kaeya leads your hand to his mouth so that he can press a kiss into your palm before continuing. “I love you. I am so deeply in love with you Y/N that I don’t know what to do with myself. And I need you to know. ” 

He loves you. 

Kaeya loves you. 

Maybe you heard that wrong, so you just stare at him with uncertainty.

Silence.

Both of you freeze in place and the air stifles with a bit of awkward tension. You fix your mouth to say something but this time, you’re the one who is struggling to force words to come out, to provide a response. As much as he wanted you to give one, he doesn’t wait any longer. Instead, he starts littering your body with kisses like he was trying to prove his confession. 

The lower he crept down your body, the more your back arched off of the satin sheet, offering more of yourself to him as he worked his way to your hot core. Only when his mouth met your aching bud did you melt and mesh with the sheets, drowning in the smooth ocean of grey as you struggled to stay afloat in the sea of arousal.

You could’ve sworn he was mouthing the words into your cunt over and over as he devoured you, and they traveled up from your quivering lips straight to your heart where they were etched permanently — words you would never forget. They were all you focused on as he continued to make love to you. Even when he slowly sank into your heat, rocking his hips and whispering more words into your ear to accompany each thrust, but they were irrelevant words that paled in comparison to “I love you”. 

The night ended too soon as your bodies continued to tangle. And some time during your coition, the sheets were ripped from the bed so you resorted to cuddling into this toned body as a heat source. He didn’t mind, his finger idly drawing shapes into your bare back as you counted his heartbeats that thundered in his chest.

It didn’t matter how much you flushed your body against him though. There was still a small possibility that he would be gone by dawn’s first light, leaving as swiftly and quietly as the night had set…and maybe you were okay with that. You didn’t expect for him to stick around, to see that coy smile when you woke in the morning, especially not after what he said tonight. The calvary captain would probably drown himself in work and pretend you didn’t exist for a few days so he could mull over his feelings with a bottle of liquor and get his head straight. But you were okay with that — it was normal.

The cold, empty space next to you in the morning was enough to convince you. Your heart cracking a little more, letting the love start to leak without anyone to catch it. Part of you did expect him to stay, just for once. 

At least he had the decency to drape his fur-lined cape over your naked form, the white fur tickled your nose and caused you to wake from your slumber. You slowly climb off the bed, wrapping the cape around yourself as you take in the mess on the floor: your clothes scattered around, pillows thrown about, and the sheets lay jumbled at the foot of the bed. A sigh escapes your lips and then your eyes look to the billowing curtains, realizing that the balcony doors were open to the morning breeze. 

What you found behind the curtains was shocking, bringing goosebumps to your skin along with the crisp Mondstat air. There was Kaeya, standing at the rail glowing in the golden hue of the morning sun as it peaked out from behind the horizon. He was ethereal.

If Khaenri’ah did have a god, you imagined it would be fashioned after him.

 It didn’t take long for him to notice your presence, and while he did hesitate at first — gauging your feelings about last night — he eventually slinked over to you. He let his arms fall in place around you, second nature it seemed, before locking lips. 

It was a goodbye kiss since he had to report to headquarters soon, but it was also a promise to return later. You could tell from the way he extended the deep kiss, usually it was a quick peck and he was gone. This time he pulled you in and french kissed you until his lungs burned for air. 

With a stroke of his thumb across your lip while admiring your eyes, mimicking you from last night, he departed silently out the door. You stood there with a stupid grin plastered on your face as you held the cape tight and ran your fingers over the exact spot his thumb grazed moments prior.

TAGLIST FORM

tags: @hungrynessforfics @rinhoes @indiecursor @protectpancakes @fight-me-bitch @nneedynymph @po3ticb3auty @haitani-plague  @festive @apollostears @thenerdyrebel @4ngrysgf @daichisbunnybaby @urwifey2 @picayunne @kookieflvr @woahhajime @syomi @chrolloderulo @kutosznn @takemichiluvr @sweeneyblue1 @tyga-lily @jeanslove @getoswhore @thicksimpx @sakurashell @38riku @hyeque @wiserebelpartypie @sleepy3 @yuujilove @imperatorkhaleesi @sukunas-left-nut-sack @lawscorazon @sailewhoremoon @chaoticevilbakugo @xxrwzy @wh0reforlevi @nekoriots @yeagerfushiguro @chaotic-fangirl-blog @sftbunny-blog @dukina @momoewn @thithesandofferings @justdevine @hyeque @chittakii @breyspage

[many-but-one]

This is a poem written by Dorian nearly couple years ago now. He never ended up posting it because he intended to post the audio with it but we never finished captioning the audio. Going through our drafts, we found it. Since we’re on a poetry sharing kick tonight, I’ll post it now. This poem should probably be updated eventually since Dori knows more now, but we will keep it as-is for now.

Written by Dori:

I want to note that this poem is HEAVILY inspired by a slam poem by Patrick Roche. He came up with the idea of moving backwards in the timeline, which I felt was just...genius. Especially in the realm of DID, where if you know at the first age you have DID, you know it will only get progressively worse. And in my case, things do get worse, but then you get to see the real things that were believed back then. I discussed this poem with several parts in our system, not only asking for their help, but also asking if it was okay for me to share.

Lastly, here are the trigger warnings. This poem is HEAVY. It is graphic, it alludes and blatantly states some very disturbing things. I am tired of being silent.

TW: Alcohol, CSA, adulthood/teen SA, intense religious imagery, blasphemy, unalive attempt, drugs/pills, medical/hospital/doctors, self harm, domestic violence, parents, violence in general, car crashes, AFAB menstruation, neglect, death of a family member, a lot of cursing, BIG mentions of grooming from the POV of the child, brief mentions of abortions.

Haha. The gods really put every single TW they could think of in my life huh. Realizing that my entire life is essentially a trigger warning is 😅 Oof.

Anyway, here is the poem. Read with caution.

24 years and counting.

24, going on 25. I wake up each morning not knowing who I am and this is normal now. I have realized that this will be my normal forever, or at least until I process the layers upon layers of trauma, hidden underneath layers and layers of amnesia that I slowly peel back like onion skins, each layer getting more and more terrifying, more and more worrisome. The deeper I dig into this hole of unknown the harder my heart beats, and I realize my heart beats like a war drum. I have always been at war, with myself, with this body of mine. Of ours. 

Mid 24, I come to terms with a diagnosis called DID. I start to learn more about the different versions of myself, where they all intersect, where it melds together and where it stands apart. I think I know everything but 24 going on 25 version of me laughs at how naive I am. Perhaps 25 year old me will laugh at 24 going on 25 me. Maybe I’ll realize the depths of the hell I crawled out of called childhood was worse than I know even now. I don’t look forward to it. 

Early 24, I got married this year, my wife married three of me, three of me love her dearly. Things feel right and good again, I feel like I am on a happy path. My brain makes about as much sense at it always has, but at least I somewhat understand the pieces of the puzzle I’ve been given. Or at least, so I thought. 

23, this year is a blur, the only thing that stands out is that I quit my job I’ve had for five years. I loved that job. I quit that job because one of my past abusers walked in with no warning, and the sirens in my head went off like there was a nuclear bomb incoming. I still tell myself he didn’t see me but I know I’m lying to myself. I quit that very day and I realized that he still has control over me to this very day, 17 years after the trauma ended.

22, Two months before I am set to graduate college with my degree I get the diagnosis that changes my life. Not that my life is any different afterwards, at least not yet, so I try to continue forward regardless. How badly I wish to return to this moment and take my own face in my hands and look myself deep in the eyes and tell the 22 year old me that they have a storm coming. I think I already know, despite not really knowing, because I find myself getting drunk after work almost every night. I hide the bottles from my fiancée. I don’t want her to think I am my father.

21, I am old enough to drink! I barely drink. Every time I drink and it tastes too much like alcohol I am reminded of my father’s breath. I...don't know why. I stick to fruity drinks that taste good so that I can stop feeling things. Maybe I really am my father’s daughter. 

20, I finally start making friends in college, which is strange. Some people talk to me and I’ve never met them before, but they act like we’ve been friends since forever. Sometimes I attend lectures and I don’t remember what they are about. Sometimes I ask questions and I can hear my voice speaking and feel my mouth moving and I don’t know what I am saying. This is normal. The competent version of me sometimes does stuff when I get overwhelmed, that’s normal. That’s always happened! Everyone does that, right?

19, I wake up on the floor of my mother’s bathroom one afternoon, I smell my own stench I have been rotting in, I peek my eyes open and see pill bottles all around me, but no pills to be seen. The burn of bile on my throat and in my mouth makes me gag. I look in the toilet and see the pills. I won’t remember this moment until I am 24. I will learn it was not me that tried to kill themselves. I will also learn it was not me that saved me.

18, I have my first of many mental hospital stays. The doctors watch me stare at the other kids in the ward, nearly catatonic. They said they’d never seen a patient that never smiled. “Most kids get out of here within a couple of days!” They assured my mother and I. Two weeks later and I am still rotting on the plastic bedsheets. I lie and tell them I’m okay but I am not okay, I just want to live a life that involves shoelaces and doesn’t have nurses yelling at me to brush my teeth. I go back to school like nothing happened and almost all of my friends are gone. They never really cared.

18, pre-mental hospital, I am dating a boy that I don’t love. I am dating him because that’s what girls do even though I am not a girl. He is my best friend and it just seemed right. I really only dated him because sometimes I felt like I really loved him, but most of the time his lips on mine and his hands on my waist felt wrong. Something in my head feels like it’s buzzing like a beehive every time I go to his apartment. It’s almost like a spidey sense, except I ignore it and when I find myself back home, I don’t remember anything that happened at his house, nor how I ended up back home. I don’t think about it too hard. 

17, My dad punched a wall again. He screamed until I cried again. I can’t do this anymore, I can’t do this anymore. I hurt myself with sharp objects because it feels like that’s what I’m supposed to do. I never feel the pain, I only ever clean up the mess. I try to make myself as ugly as possible. To me(?) it makes sense. Obviously, if I am hideous, people will leave me alone. They won’t hurt me anymore, right? ...right? 

17, suddenly an angry version of myself appears and I realize I am SICK and TIRED of mistreatment. I fight back, I fight back with teeth and claws and words that are even sharper than both of those combined. I don’t remember these times very well. I certainly don’t remember the time this angry version of me YANKED the largest knife out of the butcher block and threatened the very man who ruined my life with it. I LOVE this version of myself. She’s intensity, with veins full of gasoline, ready and waiting for someone to ignite her. She bares her teeth in a grin and laughs, she says “I dare you, set me aflame, I will burn you with me.” Thanks, Alice. 

16, I nearly crash my car while I’m zoned out. Haha! I always zone out. Sometimes I zone out so hard that I forget big chunks of time, but everyone does that! 

15, my friend shows me his self harm scars and is trying to gain sympathy but I have none to give. I wonder if maybe doing the same will help me learn to have sympathy. Thus starts an addiction to pain that lasts for nearly a decade. 

14, I don’t remember this year very well but someone does. 

13, I started my period and I was told that I’m just a late bloomer. Everyone always said I was a late bloomer since forever. I didn’t hit my growth spurt until I was 14 either, and I didn’t stop wetting the bed until I was 9. Weird, but I didn’t put that much thought into it.

12, I wrote a detailed story that I no longer have a single copy of that talks about the structure of my inner world. Traces of the DID that I can actually remember. I don’t remember most of this year because I wasn’t the one who lived it.

11, My dad is neglecting me to party with his girlfriend. The one who lives some of next year lives this year too. Too much going on for fragile little me, someone stronger has to deal with this mess. She does. 

10, My brother died this year and this is the exact moment I stopped caring about God. Everything he ever gave to me he took away. I won’t understand the heaviness of such a statement for another decade and a half. This is when my depression started and when I lost my faith in humanity. I thought I gained it back for a while but I never did. I also stopped crying. Nobody heard me anyway. Someone in my head did it for me.

9, I don’t remember this year and I don’t want to.

8, I don’t remember this year and I don’t want to.

7, I am remembering this year and I don’t want to.

7, I am remembering this year and I don’t want to. 

7, I am remembering this year and I don’t want to.

7, I am remembering this year and it is the year that I well and truly shattered, the year I learned of the depravity of men, the year I learned that I was just holes to fuck, an actress in a sick film, a faerie, a demon, a screaming little cunt, and that’s all I would ever be seen as. This is the year I learned why I liked demons more than angels, and why God was my enemy. This is the year I realized for real that I was alone in this cruel fucking world and no amount of crying or talking or begging will ever make them hear me. They smile and laugh. They smile and laugh. They smile and laugh. :) 

6, late stages, My Sunday school teacher is so nice to me! He has a fun secret that only him and I share! I love him, he takes good care of me. He makes me feel good and special inside. I think deep down…I know it’s not okay. But I can’t help it. Actually, I am really scared because I see the way he looks at me and I feel queasy. I know this is wrong but I am scared he’ll hurt me if I say no. He said that God will tell him if I tell anyone what he does, and if God knows I am bad then I will go to hell. I don’t want to go to hell!! I’ll do whatever you say! I promise. I’m a good little girl. I’m an angel! 

6, early stages, my mommy and daddy broke up. They are fighting in court for me, and I don’t really know what that means. Mommy said the church is helping dad pay for good lawyers so she probably won’t get custody of me. I don’t know what that means. Mommy says daddy is bad and evil. Daddy says mommy is bad and evil. I don’t know who is telling the truth. Or maybe they both are. Or maybe I am the bad and evil one?

5, My dad visits me every night and calls me his little angel. :) I am his sweet angel! His breath smells funny though. And his fingers hurt me a lot, and I don’t like the way he tastes. But he said since I am a good angel it’s okay, so he must be right. 

4, Daddy and mommy fight a lot, my daddy has bottles in his hands a lot. He breaks them a lot. He hits mommy a lot. I am scared so I go hide. I am a being of terror. 

3, I am a toddler but there’s a version of me that remembers that he started existing at this age. He did everything he could to protect me. Even though he didn’t really know why. Thank you, Deimos.

2,

1,

0. I am just a twinkle in my mother’s eye, she’s just a teen and she’s scared out of her mind. This baby is saving her life, though. She didn’t want to keep going but now she has to. If only she knew that 25 years from now this baby would be a shattered and broken mess of themself, because of things desperately out of their control. They were just a baby. You failed them. They all failed them. They all failed US. Too bad you were a Christian. Maybe instead we could have been aborted. Or, rather, maybe we wouldn’t have step foot in that fucking church in the first place.

[thechaoscryptid]

🌿 ⇢ give some advice on writer's block and low creativity

(ask me writer questions!)

I love this question! I have many thoughts on this and I'll try to make them coherent lmao. I'm pulling out my writing books for this too because in Gentle Writing Advice (pg. 199), Chuck Wendig pretty well summarizes my thoughts:

And therein lies the secret: Writer's block isn't all that bad. Because, if you really think about it, writer's block is sometimes like a warning light letting you know something is off. It is a tremor in the spider's web, or an ill wind blowing. It's doing us a service, as bad as it might feel. Think of writer's block as the voice of your intestinal flora, the choir of hypersentient bacteria in your gut that provides the insight of instinct. You can ignore them and push on - that's okay, too, as long as you fix in edit - and there's also nothing to say our instincts are uinversally correct. [...] My process in this regard needn't be your process: certainly there's value to mashing the accelerator and driving that machine as fast as you can till the thing either gets you over the finish line or explodes in a fiery ball before tumbling down a plot hole big enough to swallow Central Park. You can always fix it in subsequent drafts. The point stands, though, that writer's block isn't necessarily all bad. There's gold in them thar hills. The question is whether or not you can dig for it.

I think writer's block is unfairly maligned. That's my hot take on it. We should spend less time boohooing the fact we're blocked and more time figuring out why it's happening.

Throughout the above book, Wendig talks a lot about the writing process and how your life outside of writing relates to it, and there's also a great section that basically boils down to "block or breakdown," in which he posits that some of what writers consider "creative block" is actually something more serious (mental or physical illness, weird/wrong environment, etc).

Writer's block is my sign to check in with myself on both a writing and personal level to ask what's gone sideways. Sometimes I can push through it with an extra coffee and a little effort. More often, it's my sign to rest, chill out, cool my jets. Take a break for once.

In the same vein, low creativity!

AWFUL thing to experience. Terrible! The worst! There are fewer things I hate more than the times my creative well has turned to sludge and writing is a fucking slog.

And, like writer's block, realizing my well is running dry is a signal for me to stop, step back, and reassess.

I've actually been struggling really hard with both block and being creatively dry for like, four months now. I've been writing fuck all except 100 words of BG3 fic at a time on work breaks, and it's been rough.

What I have been doing?

Reading. A lot of reading, and analyzing style/structure/characterization to figure out what new elements I might be able to incorporate to a new creative project. I've been reading fantasy, sci-fi, classics, writing books, other nonfiction, books on myths - I'm really chewing through titles 😅

Resting. Not forcing myself to sit down and work on projects. I've actually avoided working on writing projects even on days I feel like I can or want to write.

Other creatively involved work. I've been cooking and baking more, as well as doing a lot of zine admin work. Shit that involves creative projects but doesn't necessarily involve creativity. I looooove creative-adjacent work for low creativity times!

Redoing old work. I'm talking like, rewriting and editing 5+ year old work from the ground up. You already have the raw material, and this is an easy, low-pressure way to get back in the saddle OR just keep those writing muscles limber (but also, you canNOT beat yourself up about "oh I was so bad how did anyone ever like this" that's not allowed).

Not putting pressure on myself to perform. This is a huge cause of creativity issues for me, ngl. But over the past two years or so, I've really been working hard at just allowing myself to create at my own pace. I feel, especially in fandom, people feel obligated to churn out content as quick as they can lest they get ignored and forgotten; learning to break out of that "gotta go fast" mentality has done WONDERS for not draining me as quickly, even if it still feels shitty to see more popular writers dropping a new 15k fic every week.

Slowly but surely, my creative well is refilling. My blocks are becoming fewer and farther between and when they do hit, I'm better prepared to know if it's something I can push through and fix later OR if it's something I really do need to sit back and consider.

So yeah!

I guess TL;DR my advice is basically (though easier said than done, I will admit):

Know thyself and thy limits

Step back, get your head clear, and assess

Do non-writing creative work that sparks joy

Remove yourself from the comparison game

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

Sworn Protections

Based on this artwork I reblogged a while ago by @asparklethatisblue - hope it's alright that I wrote this for it OP!

I went digging around in my old docs the other day to try to find something that I could use to get through this rough patch with my writing. I found this draft that I'd abandoned this past winter because I didn't like the way I was going with it, but all it took was deleting like. Two paragraphs to figure it out, so I finished it up, edited it, and here we are!

Please have some canon-verse Nieyao reconciliation (with whump, my favorite)

[AO3] [Masterpost]

-/-

Jin Guangyao has his instructions.

They are clear, well-planned, and sensible. They are entirely possible to follow to the letter. He is unlikely to ever forget them, or even for them to fade into the background commentary of his ceaseless thinking. Planning. Plotting.

He is a dutiful son.

He is a dutiful son.

He is loyal. He is filial. He is careful. He is discreet.

He is also despised. Abused. Exhausted. 

“Jin Guangyao?” Nie Mingjue barks, brows a harsh line of disapproval, hair down and loose around his broad shoulders, still wavy from his braids. Jin Guangyao looks up, up, up at him, backlit by the lanterns in his office despite the late hour, and he sees it the moment Nie Mingjue understands what he’s looking at. “A-Yao!” He says next, that forbidden name on his lips, and despite knowing that he’s delivering himself to death’s door, Jin Guangyao can do nothing but sway forward to collapse into arms that are most likely no safer than the hell he’s left behind (but he has to try).

“Chifeng-Zun,” he mumbles through swollen, bloodied lips, burning with splits and bites from knuckles, from his teeth. “I want to come home.”

The last thing he hears before he loses his blood-slippery grip on his consciousness is Nie Mingjue barking, “Someone go get the doctor!!” in the way he used to shout across entire battlefields.

——

“How badly off is he, Da-ge?” Nie Huaisang murmurs near at hand. Jin Guangyao doesn’t stir, gives no indication at all that he’s awake, that he’s listening. Nie Mingjue will never drop his guard around him again, of that much he’s certain, but perhaps while seemingly deeply unconscious he’ll at least be civil.

“Nearly died,” Nie Mingjue grunts, his frown perfectly audible. “I don’t know what did it to him, but I didn’t think he went out on nighthunts, and there hasn’t been a Jin hunting party near here in months anyway.”

Ah Nie Mingjue. So willfully obtuse when he wants to be.

“You think this is from a nighthunt?” Nie Huaisang asks, and if Jin Guangyao were weaker he might consider cracking a smile at the deep disbelief in his tone. 

“I don’t know. Won’t know until he wakes up and tells us, not that he’ll ever tell us the truth anyway. Better to just get him patched up and send him on his way again as quickly as possible.”

Ah. Jin Guangyao isn’t exactly surprised to learn that the rejection still burns hot and shameful in his chest, but he’s certainly dismayed by the realization anyway. 

He stays still as Nie Huaisang drifts closer on near-silent feet, and then there’s the whisper of cloth against cloth and a gentle touch on his temple, a knuckle smoothing some flyaway hairs back from his face. “I don’t think it happened on a nighthunt,” Nie Huaisang confesses, and it takes a shocking amount of willpower not to lean into his soft touch like a cat. No one’s touched him softly, familiarly in so long, he’s nearly forgotten how it feels. “I think it was his family.”

“That’s a very bold accusation to make, Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue counters immediately, as anyone would. It’s a delicate issue, after all. Jin Guangyao has been recognized, legitimized. He is his household’s problem to deal with now, any outside criticism or intervention would be highly controversial at best, disastrous at worst. And all because he’s too weak to handle any more broken bones, any more backhanded slaps that leave his cheek stinging for days, any more delicate little carvings with his father’s favorite paring knife into hidden patches of his skin to remind him who owns him. 

“It’s only bold because no one dares go against Jin Guangshan to say it,” Nie Huaisang retorts with more spine than he usually ever shows around his brother. “A lot of these bruises are days or weeks old, Da-ge! And look at these scars-“

“Close his robe!” Nie Mingjue snaps. “Have some decency, Huaisang, he isn’t one of your drawing models.”

“Da-ge did you even look at him?” Nie Huaisang demands, gaining steam. “There are words carved into his skin! What standard beast or ghoul do you know of that would do that?”

“Who’s to say he didn’t do that to himself?” Nie Mingjue retorts. “We won’t know anything for sure until he wakes up, and as soon as he starts lying we’ll know he’s recovered enough to be shipped back to Jin Guangshan. End of story. Now get out of here, I’ll have someone let you know when he wakes up and he’s ready for visitors.”

Nie Huaisang lingers for an extra moment or two, still petting his hair, and then he withdraws with a sigh. He stops long enough at the door to say a soft, “I’m disappointed in you, Da-ge,” that shocks Jin Guangyao down to his core, but Nie Mingjue doesn’t audibly react so he has no idea how he takes it.

All he can do is lie there and desperately wish for unconsciousness or perhaps a true coma to claim him again and protect him from Nie Mingjue’s desire to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

Silence descends again save for Jin Guangyao’s steady breathing and the occasional rustle of fabric from where Nie Mingjue is seated a polite distance away. Were the circumstances different, Jim Guangyao would be flattered that a Sect Leader apparently has time to spare being his nursemaid. As it is, however, he’s finding it hard not to feel like a prisoner being kept under the strictest watch imaginable.

Though even with the threat of Nie Mingjue so close at hand, Jin Guangyao still manages to fall asleep again. No matter his faults, Nie Mingjue has such a staunch belief in justice and right and wrong - Jin Guangyao is reasonably sure that hurting someone who is unconscious and defenseless would be unacceptable to him no matter how badly he wishes to get rid of him. It’s more than can be said for his father’s spies in Jinlintai, so he sleeps.

And he sleeps.

He wakes when the doctor comes to check his bandages and give him a dose of restorative medicine. He isn’t sure if Nie Mingjue is in the room or not when he does so, and he’s asleep again before the doctor leaves his line of sight clear enough to know. He hasn’t been hurt yet, at least, so he sleeps some more and hopes that his luck will hold. 

Eventually, though, he has to wake. He opens his eyes to stare up at the ceiling overhead, and he blinks slowly, owlishly, feeling sluggish and ungainly even without attempting to move. He blinks a few more times and then flinches when a hand suddenly enters his vision, the movement setting his whole body throbbing though he refuses to show that particular weakness. He would have been dead long before now if he were the type to shrink from a bit of pain.

“Hold still,” Nie Mingjue grouses from far too close at hand. “I’m checking your temperature.”

Jin Guangyao goes obediently still and tries valiantly not to think about the fact that the last person to touch his cheek was Madam Jin, and that she had done so to slap him so hard he’d worried his eye or his teeth would become dislodged. He’d worn the bruises from her heavy gold rings for a week and a half. No one had said a word.

Nie Mingjue rests the backs of his knuckles against his cheek and Jin Guangyao averts his gaze automatically, unwilling to look at Nie Mingjue and see precisely how unhappy he is to be touching him again, after all this time. 

“Give me your wrist,” he demands next and Jin Guangyao obediently holds one hand out towards him for Nie Mingjue to press his fingertips just a little too hard into the divot between his tendons. His fingers twitch without his conscious permission, and he forces his hand to go completely lax.

“Thank you for ensuring I was given medical aid,” Jin Guangyao finally manages to rasp, usual honey-smooth voice roughened by who knows how long without anything to wet his throat. “I apologize for appearing unannounced-“

“Shut up,” Nie Mingjue barks and Jin Guangyao obliges. That’s always been the best course of action where Nie Mingjue is concerned, and now is certainly not the time to try to push his luck any further than he already has. Nie Mingjue finally releases his wrist and Jin Guangyao can’t quite resist the urge to pull his sleeve down as far as it can go, hoping to hide…well, he supposes there’s nothing really specific to hide except any part of himself that he can. Nie Mingjue presses a full cup of water into his upturned palm a moment later, and Jin Guangyao murmurs a quiet, “Thank you,” as he raises it to his lips to sip at politely. He wants to down the whole thing in one gulp. He wants to demand more, or perhaps take the entire jug of water off the table and drink straight from it. He wants to be impolite. He wants to be greedy.

He sips at it demurely until it’s gone, and Nie Mingjue wordlessly takes it from him to fill again, to press it back into his waiting hand to let him keep drinking.

“I’ve sent a letter to Lanling,” Nie Mingjue announces into the silence and Jin Guangyao feels himself go first pale and then green, the blood draining from his face and nausea roiling thick and viscous in his stomach. 

“My father will be pleased to see me returned safely,” he manages to choke. A lie. A damning lie that he can’t stop himself from telling, as if it might make returning there anything less than a genuine death sentence. Perhaps it’s not a lie after all - he doesn’t doubt that Jin Guangshan would like to finish what he started.

“A Jin disciple came looking for you, so I sent him back with a letter to Jin Guangshan telling him that I haven’t seen you.”

Jin Guangyao whips his head around to look at Nie Mingjue straight on - his wide eyes wetter than they should probably be - and he hunts for any sign at all that he’s lying.

Except Nie Mingjue doesn’t lie. Detests it and anyone who does it. But is apparently willing to do so to Jin Guangshan to..protect…him. “You-“ There’s no good way to finish that sentence. Jin Guangyao stares for a moment longer before he drops the empty cup to the bed and leans forward to bury his face in his hands, unwilling to let Nie Mingjue see more emotion crossing his features, lest he think it’s some new way to manipulate him. 

Nie Mingjue gives him a few moments of silence before he breaks it again with a blunt, “Who carved ‘bastard’ on your chest?”

Jin Guangyao drops one hand from his face to clutch his robe tighter around himself, fingers gripping hard enough to wrinkle the thin silk but he doesn’t care. If Nie Mingjue had seen that much of him then how much more had he seen? How thoroughly does he understand that Jin Guangyao has been tortured by his entire family since he arrived in Jinlintai?

“Who burned your arms?” Nie Mingjue asks next, voice still harsh. “Who broke your ribs? Who knocked your teeth loose? Why didn’t you say something?!”

“What is there to say?” Jin Guangyao asks rather than list the culprits for his most visible injuries. “I am the unwanted, inconvenient, but ultimately useful bastard son of the most powerful man in the cultivation world. He legitimized me, gave me a place when none was left. He and his proper family can do what they please with me in their own house.”

Ahh that came out far too bitter, he can taste it the second the words leave his lips. He lays down again and turns his head to face Nie Mingjue, who looks like he’s (unsuccessfully) trying to hold back a fresh outburst. Jin Guangyao counts slowly to five in his head, and then -

“I gave you a place!” Nie Mingjue erupts, and there it is, the anger he’s been waiting for. “You worked for it, you earned it, and you just turned your back on everything I gave you for, what? Petty revenge?!”

Jin Guangyao can think of a dozen ways to defend himself without even trying, but he knows that not a single one of them will satisfy this image of him that Nie Mingjue insists on deluding himself with. So instead, he simply studies his hands in his lap and says nothing, fingers clenched tightly around the imagined circumference of Jin Guangshan’s neck.

Nie Mingjue makes a noise in the back of his throat that can only be disgust and jerks to his feet. He slams the door shut on his way out, and despite expecting it Jin Guangyao still can’t help but flinch. He stays there for a long time, just staring at his hands and trying to make sense of what will happen from now on. It’s highly unlikely at this point that he’ll be allowed to stay, that much is painfully obvious. But if he returns to Jinlintai now the abuses will only worsen, and he knows he can survive many things that would destroy those less than him, but..he can’t survive all of Jinlintai actively plotting his murder, sanctioned by the most powerful man in the world. He’ll have to disappear again, slip off the face of the earth and eke out a moderately comfortable life doing something menial before he can find anything in the Great Sects again. If he can. It’s everything he’d hoped to avoid, but one doesn’t survive as long as he has without knowing when to cut his losses and start over. 

“A-Yao?” Nie Huaisang calls softly from the doorway a few hours later. Meng Yao forces his eyes and his head to lift and he has to blink and clear his eyes when he catches sight of the deep concern etched in Nie Huaisang’s handsome face, so much like his brother’s. He musters up one of his usual smiles, though today it makes his cheeks tremble and his lips don’t fit into the proper shape at all.

“Hello Huaisang,” he greets with a little wave for him to come inside. He doesn’t, he lingers at the door staring at him with wide eyes. Ah. Of course. Nie Mingjue had probably forbidden him from coming any closer. “What is it? I'm sorry Nie-Zongzhu left here angry - I hope he is directing it appropriately?”

“He’s in the training yard,” Nie Huaisang supplies, and Jin Guangyao barely refrains from rolling his eyes. It’s honestly the worst response to anger that Nie Mingjue could have, going out to train with Baxia who will only stoke that anger higher and hotter until they’re both burning each other alive with it. But his gentle attempts to express his concern before his banishment once he’d learned the secret of the Nie sabers had fallen on deaf ears, and he certainly doesn’t have a leg to stand on now. There’s nothing he can do.

“Would you like to come in? I apologize there isn’t anything to eat or drink I could offer you-“

“Stop,” Nie Huaisang practically begs and Jin Guangyao blinks in surprise. 

“Huaisang?”

“Stop trying to act like everything is normal. Nothing about this is normal. I’m sending for Er-ge okay? He’ll know how to fix it.”

“Huaisang, wait -“

He’s gone in an instant, hurried footsteps echoing down the hall, and Jin Guangyao closes his eyes against the fresh wave of nausea that unfurls in his stomach at the thought of Lan Xichen seeing him like this. Lan Xichen, who believes the best of everybody. Who enjoys his delusions that the world is ultimately kind and fair, that it rewards hard work appropriately. Who will worry because of something Jin Guangyao has done. No, such a crime is absolutely unacceptable.

He does some quick calculations to determine how long he has before Lan Xichen arrives, and he decides there’s no time to waste. Even should he be delayed by sect business before he can leave, Lan Xichen travels quickly, and Jin Guangyao needs to be far away before he arrives. Accommodating for the fact that he will no doubt be forced to move slowly, and the speed at which Nie Huaisang’s messenger birds from Gusu are capable of flying, he must leave sooner rather than later.

Thus decided, Jin Guangyao forces himself to action. He pushes the covers off with some effort and stands slowly, carefully. He’s aware of his own limitations after a beating, and though he’s never been physically beaten quite so badly as this, it’s certainly been close to it. The stone stairs of Jinlintai are many and unforgiving, after all. 

He dresses carefully in his own robes, which have thankfully been laundered though he can still see faint traces of blood in a few spots. It’s no matter - he’ll have to shed the Jin colors as soon as possible to avoid suspicion or capture anyway. It’s just to get him out of the Unclean Realm and on his way to…well, elsewhere at least. He’ll figure out exactly where once he’s out and thinking clearly enough to execute any of his numerous escape plans.

The hallway is mercifully empty when he reaches it, but he’s moving even more slowly than he had anticipated. He leans heavily on the wall for support as he goes, one agonizing step at a time, and it’s only the thought of causing Lan Xichen distress that keeps him putting one foot in front of the other.

He has to get away. He can’t be found like this, can’t be seen. If they see, they’ll pounce. If he’s weak, he’s easy prey, and he hasn’t made it this far in the world only to be picked off like a lame deer. He keeps going, fuelled by a self-preservation instinct too deeply ingrained to be fully articulated. The halls are still empty when he turns a corner, and so he drags himself towards the next, consciousness trying valiantly to slip through his fingers with each step.

“Guangyao?” a too-familiar voice calls from behind him, and he doesn’t try to turn around. He won’t be able to stay upright if he does - the hallway is already tilting dangerously to the side as it is - and he can’t afford to slow down anyway. He’s already so slow - Nie Mingjue catches up with him in seconds. Jin Guangyao pays him no mind, instead continuing on his way one trembling, shuffling step at a time. He’s no match for Nie Mingjue should he try to actually detain him, but so long as the man keeps his hands to himself Jin Guangyao thinks he’ll be able to make it out.

Maybe.

His vision dims further and his knees buckle, and all he can think is, Well. Maybe not.

——

“Why did you come here?” Nie Mingjue asks, voice low. Jin Guangyao isn’t sure who he’s talking to - perhaps Lan Xichen has arrived. Perhaps Nie Huaisang didn’t tell his brother he was sending for him. Perhaps Jin Guangyao has failed again, and he’ll upset Lan Xichen with his very presence that has always seemed to be welcomed before. He doesn’t want to think about it.

“Meng Yao,” Nie Mingjue says next, still low and soft, and in the traitorous depths of his stupid heart, Jin Guangyao thrills to hear his mother’s name on someone’s lips. ���Jin Guangyao’ is an image, a persona. He was Meng Yao for so long. He was Meng Yao when Nie Mingjue took him in, and when he drove him back out. He was Meng Yao when Lan Xichen held him at night in an attic room in a brothel on the run from the Wens, the two of them huddling together first out of necessity and then out of desire. He was Meng Yao at Wen Ruohan’s right hand, and Meng Yao when his father finally looked at him again and acknowledged his existence, his attention a double-edged blade pressed to his neck.

‘Jin Guangyao’ is a slap in the face, doubly so considering it’s so close to what he’s longed for his entire life. ‘Meng Yao’ is the core of him, that young boy with a mother who loved him and a future stuffed full of her dreams for him that all seemed so attainable when laid out for him before he went to sleep each night.

“Meng Yao, why here? Why did you come here, of all places?”

“Coming home,” Jin Guangyao mumbles deliriously, words clumsy on his tongue. “Nowhere else is home.”

“This isn’t your home either.” Nie Mingjue’s voice is harsh and ragged at the edges, distinctly frayed. Jin Guangyao doesn’t regret the pain he’s causing his sworn brother. Nie Mingjue has hurt him plenty, after all, and this particular agony is his own making. “Not anymore.”

“I was leaving,” Jin Guangyao protests. He wants to open his eyes but he can’t find them. He turns his head away from where he thinks Nie Mingjue is sitting vigil at his bedside. “Throw me out again to die if I can’t ever call this place home again.” Jin Guangyao finally finds his eyes just in time to open them and see the wrecked expression on Nie Mingjue’s ever-so-expressive face. “One of the strokes for ‘bastard’ on my chest is the scar from the blow I took for you. My father found that funny,” he says to drive the knife in harder. He can practically feel Nie Mingjue’s ribs grinding under his hands, skin turning wet and slick with blood as he gasps for a breath through his drowning lung. Nie Mingjue watches him with wide-eyed disgust.

“I’m tired,” Jin Guangyao announces - a simple declaration that would leave him an easy target in Jinlintai. Exhaustion is for the weak. He only grows tired because his core isn’t strong enough to support the demands of his work. He’s a humiliation to the Jin name. He must work harder, longer, and smarter to avoid the shame of his birth. To avoid another trip down the long, long stairs of his father’s tower. 

Here, in Qinghe, Nie Mingjue simply watches him close his eyes and Jin Guangyao knows nothing else until morning. 

—

“Jin Guangshan is looking everywhere for you.”

Jin Guangyao grits his teeth against the panic such a declaration instantly sends rocking through him. Once, he would have been thrilled to hear that his father noticed his absence, was expending resources to find him. He’d believed it for a long time as a boy, had thought himself wanted but simply too small for someone so important to find, even with an entire army and unimaginable wealth at his disposal. 

“Da-ge keeps sending the Jin disciples away, but he won’t be able to scare them off forever,” Nie Huaisang continues as he finishes painting a branch on his fan. He blows on it for a moment to help the ink dry quicker. “So I guess it’s time to figure out if you’re staying or going, so we can know what we’re going to do.”

“That decision is entirely up to your brother.” What a fool Jin Guangyao had once been, he thinks, to have believed a man like Jin Guangshan would ever take an interest in him as anything other than a pawn, to be used and disposed of at the best and earliest opportunity.

“Eh? But-!”

“He is still the Sect Leader and commander of Bujing Shi,” Jin Guangyao continues, flat and emotionless. He already knows what the answer will be, and being upset about it will change nothing. “It’s his decision what to do with me.” My life has always belonged to him, whether I wanted to admit it or not, he doesn’t say, but it sits heavily in his chest, on the back of his tongue anyway.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Nie Mingjue barks from the doorway. Jin Guangyao barely manages not to flinch at the unexpected intrusion. “Go back home. I don’t have time to keep fighting off Jin Guangshan like this, and you’re nearly healed up anyway, it’s been a week and a half. Just go.”

Jin Guangyao can feel the blood draining from his face even as he paints on a smile and nods to show he’s heard.

Get out of my sight, he hears in the easy dismissal. Go die somewhere I won’t have to watch.

For the first time in his life, Jin Guangyao wonders if dying might actually be better in the long run. He’s asked twice to die by Nie Mingjue’s hand, and both times he’s been denied, but relief had always followed the disappointment before. He won’t ask a third time now, for the first powerful man to see his worth to be the only one with the privilege of taking it all away from him. He’ll just do as he asks and go back to his death at another’s hands.

“San-ge, no!” Nie Huaisang protests through tears. Jin Guangyao turns a sad smile on him, of the same sort he’d worn the first time he’d been forced from the Unclean Realm. It doesn’t sit right on his lips and his vision is swimming with unshed tears, and it’s a distinct relief when Nie Mingjue drags his little brother from the room.

His hands tremble as he dresses once again into the clothes he’d arrived in, set neatly aside for him after his escape attempt. He does his best to tie all his layers in such a way that the blood stains aren’t quite so obvious. He sits at the dressing table near the window and slowly braids the top sections of his hair. He twists them all together into a pile at the back of his head and has to close his eyes against his reflection in the mirror. He wishes desperately that he could go back to the days he’d spent working under Nie Mingjue, before the path he’d taken had led him so far away and yet so painfully close to everything Meng Shi had dreamt for him.

It’s no use wishing for the past. He takes a deep breath in and lowers his gaze to his hat resting in front of him on the table. Getting dressed again in his Jin gold is a methodical process, mechanical enough that he doesn’t really have to think about anything that’s coming next. It’s easier to categorize how he feels - there’s still a pull in his ribs when he raises his arms, and by the time he’d finished braiding his hair his arms had been trembling with fatigue. He still feels a little woozy if he moves too quickly, though the bedrest and regular meals have done a lot to help reduce even his usual baseline of dizziness that can strike him at odd moments.

But now, with only his seneschal’s hat left on the table in front of him, he can’t ignore it any longer. He’s going back to Jinlintai, and Jin Guangshan is going to kill him. He has plans to kill Jin Guangshan, of course - of course - but they won’t be ready for some time yet; it’ll be far too suspicious now, especially with Nie Mingjue still watching him so closely. He doesn’t want to kill Nie Mingjue, not really, but he can’t deny that it’ll be so much easier to achieve his goals once his sworn brother gives into the inevitable. Everyone knows that Nie Sect Leaders die criminally young, even in times of peace, and Nie Mingjue has not had a peaceful life. Hell, they’d met out on the front. Jin Guangyao knows that his orders from Jin Guangshan are only intended to hasten the process that’s already begun, not to murder a man who would otherwise live on well into old age.

But he doesn’t want to, and it’s taking him so long to devise a way to accomplish it that he knows Jin Guangshan suspects as much. And because he’s failed - because he’s run away, because he’s lost face for the Jin Sect, because he’s compromised Jin Guangshan’s position at the top of the world - he won’t be worth keeping. He fights down the choking desire to hide in a cupboard like a child and pray that Nie Mingjue’s anger will pass and he’ll…forget about Jin Guangyao long enough for him to just. Stay.

Jin Guangyao covers his braids with the gauze hat and gets up without taking a final glance at himself in the mirror, unwilling to see himself in his father’s uniform. He leaves without fanfare. It only takes him a moment to orient himself within the labyrinthine interior of the Unclean Realm, and another to decide which route to take to the gates.

The people he passes react to his presence in their own ways, some people hurrying on with their business after a quick glance or maybe a double take. Some stop in their tracks to watch him go. No one who sees him says a word to him, derisive or otherwise, and so he passes through the fortress that used to be his home without pausing.

“Do you know why I agreed to swear brotherhood with you?”

Nie Mingjue is standing alone in front of the closed and barred gates, the only person in the receiving courtyard that sits just inside the walls. Jin Guangyao stops a safe distance away and subtly checks for Baxia on Nie Mingjue’s back, but he seems unarmed. 

“I have been under the assumption that Er-ge insisted on it in an attempt to force us to repair our relationship.”

“I know that’s what he wants, but that’s not why I agreed.”

“Alright. Why, then?”

“I wanted to help you.”

That…is very far from anything else Jin Guangyao might have anticipated.

“Help me.” 

Nie Mingjue nods and if it were anyone else in the world Jin Guangyao would think it could be some sort of joke. A cruel one, perhaps, or a bad one, but a joke nonetheless. But Nie Mingjue’s sense of humor is buried under so many layers of duty and righteousness that it’s nearly impossible to find. There’s no way that he would be making a joke now of all times, especially not about something that seems to, weirdly, tie into his too-rigid sense of morality.

“I didn’t think it would mean this,” Nie Mingjue allows when Jin Guangyao is still too floored to even begin to try figuring out how to ask what he needs to know. “I thought it would be like…Never mind. It’s not, so it doesn’t matter. But I can still do something like what I intended much more easily if you’re here and not in Lanling.”

Something dangerous and fragile floods Jin Guangyao’s entire body with a burst of anxious energy, his hands and knees trembling with it, the cruel exhilaration of relief extended at the final hopeless moment.

“What did you intend?”

“It’s - you’ve lost your way! And I refuse to accept the idea that you’ve been lying to me the entire time I’ve known you, no one can lie so consistently, not even you. I can help bring you back.”

Jin Guangyao has to blink a few times as he tries to parse through whatever it is Nie Mingjue is too worked up to say outright. Of course with Nie Mingjue - between the two of them, specifically, with their fraught history - there’s only one thing this can truly be about. 

Damn this man and his morals! Jin Guangyao fights down a flash of anger that burns hot through his chest. Nie Mingjue doesn’t understand a single fucking thing about why he’s done the things that he’s done, he has all the privilege of rank and birth and strength on his side - he doesn’t understand, and it’s remarkably unlikely that he ever will. This is a man who can cut down massive swathes of human life on a battlefield without batting an eye, and yet Jin Guangyao kills a mere handful of men and somehow he’s the one who needs help finding the righteous path again?!

Still. Anything is better than returning to Jin Guangshan. If Nie Mingjue wants to lecture him then he can. If Nie Mingjue wants to force him to study treatises on the sanctity of human life then he will gladly do so (and take extensive notes with which to shame Nie Mingjue into admitting his own wrongdoings as well). Jin Guangyao is a man who can, if nothing else, make decisions quickly when backed into a corner, and compared with previous experiences in his life at least this time there’s at least one solution on offer that isn’t utter misery or outright dangerous.

“What are you proposing, Da-ge? By your own admission, you cannot continue lying to my father as to my whereabouts, but if my presence here is made public knowledge I can guarantee there will be consequences.”

Nie Mingjue sighs gustily and Jin Guangyao privately thinks he’s nothing much more than a warhorse. A giant, muscular, blustering thing all built and trained for killing but not much else. He has all the elegance of one as well, beautiful when at a standstill but in practice simply too much brute force to ever be completely graceful. During the war, Nie Mingjue’s favorite horse used to sigh just like that, gusty and fully-bodied, anytime someone other than Nie Mingjue attempted to saddle him. Naturally he keeps the comparison to himself.

“You have brought me nothing but trouble,” Nie Mingjue mutters just loudly enough for him to hear. Then, at a more normal volume, “Why were you leaving, before? When I found you? Did Jin Guangshan plant spies you needed to speak with?”

Jin Guangyao smiles a brittle thing through the urge to roll his eyes at Nie Mingjue’s paranoia. “Nie Huaisang said he was going to contact Er-ge about my…situation, and my presence here. I did not wish to be here when he arrives, if he arrives, as I cannot bear the thought of upsetting him. I thought perhaps if I began traveling immediately I would..be able to escape and find somewhere to hide from everyone who is looking for me.”

“And yet when you came here you weren’t worried about upsetting me?”

There’s an entire book’s worth of ways to answer that question. He could say that he knows his very existence upsets him, so what difference does it make? He could cry that Nie Mingjue hurt him first, disappointed him first, that none of this would have happened at all if he’d just tried to see things from Jin Guangyao’s perspective. He could remind him, quietly, intimately, that they’ve already seen each other at their best and at their worst, so why wouldn’t he run to Nie Mingjue when his life is on the line?

He could, but he won’t.

“No. I wasn’t.”

Nie Mingjue sighs again, long and slow through his nose, and Jin Guangyao wonders if their thoughts are on the same track. He approaches Jin Guangyao slowly, crossing the courtyard away from the closed gate, and by the time he’s in front of Jin Guangyao properly he looks…marginally calmer.

“Fine, follow me. Quickly, there’s not much time.”

Jin Guangyao doesn’t have time to respond - not that he’s sure how he would - before Nie Mingjue steps around him to stride back into the fortress proper. The corridor is quiet, but when they’re halfway down it a man steps out of one of the entrances to the throne room to intercept them.

Nie Mingjue instructs, “Gather up a team of ten of the most loyal senior cultivators and take them with you to the front gate. Tell the Jin delegation that you’re part of a search party we will send out to help them search for Jin Guangyao on the condition that they’ll leave us alone from now on no matter what they find - or don’t.”

The man - Jin Guangyao is fairly sure that he’s Nie Mingjue’s new right-hand - glances once at him half-hidden behind Nie Mingjue’s shoulder and then nods, expression unchanged.

“Wait -” Nie Mingjue turns to look down at him and Jin Guangyao meets his gaze levelly. “Give Zonghui your hat and your outer robe. He can plant them somewhere on the way to make it look like you died on the run.”

Jin Guangyao inhales sharply as the realization that this is actually happening slams home. Nie Mingjue is genuinely, truly going to lie for him. He’s going to ask his people to lie for him. He’s going to protect him. Let him come back. Despite knowing what’s waiting for him in Lanling, Jin Guangyao can’t help but find it…bittersweet. More bitter than sweet, if he’s honest. He’s done everything in his power to be worthy of his father’s favor, and all of it has come to this. Running away in fear, plotting his own (fake) death to escape his father’s vicious clutches, submitting himself to Nie Mingjue’s whims again instead of claiming the authority he deserves.

Jin Guangyao reaches up to loosen the tie of his hat with trembling fingers and finds he can’t meet either man’s eyes as he lifts the gauze free and reveals his hairstyle underneath. He ignores both of their quiet gasps as he stretches his hand out and bows ever so slightly to offer the hat to Nie Zonghui, a small part of him tearing loose and floating free when the man takes it from him without hesitation. That hat, more than anything else he can think of, is the symbol of his servitude to his father. Passing it over, relinquishing it for good, feels like it should happen at a more important moment than this, hurrying to hide so his father’s men can be led away, so he can be safe.

He unfastens the closure of his outer robe next and undoes the sash around his waist, shrugging out of the stiff golden silk to hand that over as well, the blood stains on it faint enough from being laundered that Nie Zonghui will likely have to find some way to stain it afresh to make their story plausible. His hands linger on the fabric for just a moment too long, fingers clenched in the embroidered peony on the chest placket. 

In the end, the symbol and everything it represents has brought him nothing but pain.

He releases it with a huff and steps back with another little bow, his eyes still trained on the floor.

“Leave quickly, don’t let them find anything for five days at least,” Nie Mingjue tells him after a moment of silence. “If you see Huaisang send him to my rooms, and tell him to bring a spare set of robes.”

“Yes, Zongzhu.” Nie Zonghui whisks the hat and outer robe into a qiankun pouch and then he’s off. Jin Guangyao turns to watch his retreat until he rounds the corner out of sight, Jin Guangyao’s life in his hands.

“We’ll have to change your name again,” Nie Mingjue says. He continues on in the direction they’d been going before, and Jin Guangyao follows in his wake feeling dazed and unsteady. “Do you want to go back to Meng Yao?”

“Are you intending to hide me forever? My father will see me eventually,” Jin Guangyao can’t help but protest. “There’s more to faking a death than bloodying my clothes in the wilderness and changing my name!”

“If you don’t want to be Meng Yao again I can come up with something for you,” Nie Mingjue continues as if he hadn’t heard him at all. “How about Nie Ziyao?”

Jin Guangyao stops in his tracks. 

“What?”

Nie Mingjue stops as well, sighs, turns back to him with a look of grim determination on his face as he approaches.

“I don’t trust you. I won’t. But I swore an oath of brotherhood to help you and protect you. I can’t do that if you’re dead in Jinlintai. You still wear your inner family braids-” Jin Guangyao reaches up quickly to pat at the same configuration of braids he’d worn so long ago when he’d been under Nie Mingjue’s command. He hadn’t realized even then that they were inner family braids, he’d just thought they were…tradition. “You have to stay in my sight if I’m going to help you, but I can’t have you in a visible position like you used to have because like you said, Jin Guangshan or someone else who shouldn’t see you inevitably will. So - a cousin? A second cousin? It doesn’t matter. You’ll be logged in the registers as a family member who’s come to stay here and train. The rest…we’ll figure it out. So - new name?”

Nie Mingjue doesn’t look particularly happy about the arrangement, but Jin Guangyao can also spot the stubborn set to his jaw, the determination in his eyes to follow through on this utterly insane decision he’s made. And maybe it’s because Nie Mingjue looks far less than thrilled about it that, after a moment more of thought, Jin Guangyao nods and releases some of the tension he’s been holding in his shoulders.

“Yes, alright. If you’re certain.”

Nie Mingjue just grunts in response and continues on his way down the corridor towards the next courtyard, and Jin Guangyao follows after him on numb legs. He lets Nie Huaisang bully him into a set of his robes when they arrive in Nie Mingjue’s quarters. He stares at himself in the mirror, swathed in deep Nie gray shot through with glimmering silver, and he stares at the silver beads Nie Huaisang threaded into his braids, and he can’t help but think in a small corner of his mind that it all suits him far better than Jin gold ever did.

[sunsents]

The Cardigan - F.W 18+

My first ever post and it's a goddamn smut one shot. This has been in my Wattpad drafts for way too long (wrote it three-four months ago), it's not the best, and I'm not proud of the writing but et eez what et eez. I really wan't to start publishing my work and gotta start somewhere. Also the smut is shitty, and the dirty talk is just goddamn vile. Also I'm a horny mf.

Summary ---> "Is that mine? You look better in it than me, that's for sure." An intimate night with Fred after you guys find the house all to yourselves. This is just pure filth, like scroll if you wan't plot. 🌚

Pairing: fred weasley/fem!reader

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: smut / overstim if u squint / cursing / thigh tiding / dirty talk / fred being a horny little shit / an attempt at innuendos / hand-job / cum play (?) / like one ass slap

Rating: 18+

DON'T REPOST MY WORK

The bathroom at the Weasley's were quite cramped, but you didn't care. Your shower was more than satisfactory, the wavering smell of Mrs. Weasley cooking downstairs mixing with the wonderful scent of Fred's shampoo. The hot water loosened all your fatigued muscles - those extra hours out on the field playing Quidditch was worth it - your muscles were taut, flexing wonderfully whenever you lifted your arm to rinse off the products in your hair.

When you opened the door of the bathroom, clouds of hot air escaping and surrounding the small corridor, you were surprised to hear no footsteps, loud chattering of your friends and the usual plates clinking in the kitchen. You figured going downstair naked wouldn't be a good idea, and entered Ginny's room.

The disheveled bedroom was empty, and you looked out the window to the vast garden and wheat fields that got darker with the hot summer night approaching. There was no sign of anyone and you were starting to get anxious. Maybe it was because of the unusual silence - the Weasley household always had some kind of chaos happening - nevertheless, you quickly slipped on some satin shorts and a soft, white knit sweater to keep the evening breezes at bay. After swiftly drying your hair with a towel - you were letting it air dry, Cosmopolitan said Cindy Crawford did it - you applied whatever product was routine for your body and left the room.

Your magical radio was playing a soft jazz from the den and immediate relief washed over you when you stepped downstairs. The creams and perfumes that stuck to your skin wafted around the air and filled the rooms with delicious essences, and your soft socks slipped and slid across the wooden floor to the kitchen as you pushed yourself with ease. You quickly caught yourself with a chair and laughed, being alone wasn't so bad, you figured you could find ways to entertain yourself.

Until, a low chuckle from the den caused you to yelp and almost fall on your ass, merlin forbid. You couldn't bear another injury after George two left feet Weasley accidentally kicked you on the shin while playing Quidditch.

Speaking of Weasley, Fred Weasley was sprawled out on the couch, wearing only his boxers and a long, loosely knitted cardigan sitting on his exposed skin. You felt your mouth water, his head was lazily thrown back, exposing his curved neck and Adam's apple, his freckles more noticeable than ever. He was staring at you, his lips tugging a smile and enjoying the show you put on. Humiliation, is what it was. You were sliding around floorings like Madame Maxine on ice.

Your blood suddenly felt on like liquid fire, and you opened the cupboards to get yourself a glass of water. "Aguamenti," you casted, and from the corner of your eye you saw Fred's gaze set on your exposed legs, trailing up to your ass that was slightly exposed from the length of your shorts. They rode up more when you stood on your toes to place the cup back on the shelf after chugging the liquid down and muttering a cleaning spell.

"Is that mine?" you cleared your throat, finishing up in the kitchen and walking over to one of the rocking chairs. You didn't know why Fred was sitting around practically naked - you didn't question because he was Fred Weasley and you were tired. You weren't complaining etiher.

"Yeah," Fred said breathlessly. "It's surprisingly comfortable."

"You look better than me in it, that's for sure." You chuckled darkly, eyeing his provocative muscles. The hickeys you had left from a few days ago were slightly healed, soft reds trailing his nape and they weren't helping the growing desire between your legs. "Where is everyone?" you asked.

Fred quickly noticed your poorly hidden lustful stares and moved the cardigan away with a sly smirk, revealing more of his abs and flexed thighs. "They went out to Diagon Ally, won't be back until ten." he said. You nodded then took a deep, shaky breath and picked up a magazine from the coffee table. You settled in your mind that maybe looking through the new season Versace bikinis would calm your lust.

Fred let out a long, erotic sigh, allowing a soft groan to escape his lips along the way. Your hand twitched, you were still oblivious to his intentions and crossed your legs for some friction. "Hey ____," Fred called out, and you hummed in response, not looking up from your magazine. You seemed to have read the same line five times now. "I think there's something in my eye, can you blow on it."

Your eyes went wide, Fred was vulgar. This was no surprise to you after dating him for almost two years, but saying something so shamelessly, no hesitation still made your heart stutter. Your imagination was running wild now, you pictured every single thing you wished to do to him at this moment, in those clothes. You quickly put your magazine down, more of slapped it on the table. "Sure, yeah." you said in a shaky voice, then stood up and walked over to him.

Fred's arms were wide on the couch, and one of them pulled your hand down when he was able to reach you. Your heart stopped for a moment, you felt herself land harshly on his thigh and the impact on your core caused a groan from the back of your throat to slip out.

Fred was rather enjoying himself, his head lazily leaning back on the pillow as he rubbed your thighs up and down, digging the pads of his fingers into your skin and causing an embarrassingly load of your juices to flow to your newly worn panties.

You readjusted yourself so the heat between your legs weren't in direct contact with his thigh. You scooted closer and had to bite back a moan when Fred jerked his leg up and applied pressure on your clit. You were trying your best not to show his effect on you, "Which eye." you hissed through gritted teeth, still pursuing his obvious lie.

Fred's shit eating grin only grew wider, and he took your hand and placed it right on his crotch. He was hard beneath his boxers, swelling bigger the second and you were fighting the urge to palm his cock. You shot him a warning look to which he playfully frowned, then gestured to his right eye. You leaned in closer, maybe he really did have something in his eye.

Fred's breathing was heavy, fanning over your lips as you tried to take a closer look. Your inspection was cut short when he gripped your waist, riding up your sweater to touch you directly. You gasped and straightened up at his rough hands kneading around your stomach. Chills were racing down your spine, you didn't want to give in just yet, just for teasing purposes, but Fred was making it unbelievable hard with his tousled hair and hooded eyes boring into yours.

Your panties felt soaked and you hoped he wouldn't notice, but when Fred gripped your shorts and pulled them down, his eyes fell on the wet fabric that was stuck to your entrance. You were painfully aware of how aroused you were, and your heated cheeks weren't helping with your embarrassment.

Fred licked his lips - his expression lust crazed - then he gripped one of your legs and guided it around his thighs, making you straddle him. He held both of your thighs and pulled you in closer, and when your knee touched his boner, it caused him to groan lowly and attempt to close the small gap between your two bodies.

You marveled at the idea of being any more closer to him, the aching on your lower abdomen making you grind yourself on his thigh, whimpering at the much needed friction. The scene looked erotic to you, Fred's finger had slithered down to your panties and moved them to the side to expose all of you, flushed and swollen. He gripped your waist again and started rocking your body on his thigh, "Ride my thigh baby, wan't you to get off on me," he said huskily, "Slow and good~"

You didn't know what else to do other than nod as much agreeable a nod could get. Fred started guiding your hips at a slow pace, not letting you fasten it once. He tutted when you tried for the second time, "Stop being impatient my love." he crooned, straightening himself up to finally meet your lips.

But you barely responded.

You were slack-jawed, your clit swollen painfully, your hips swiveling to get more contact. Pathetic really, is what it was. Fred said few words of filth and here you were, panting and rutting, thanking whoever up there to have the opportunity to ride Fred's obscenely attractive thigh. A thigh shouldn't be this attractive you thought, his skin warm and comfortable, generous muscles teasingly helping you get off. Emphasis on teasingly, he wouldn't let you have anything that easily. It was heaven and hell all at once.

Fred was sensually tracing the outline of your mouth with his tongue all the while, then dipped down and feathered kisses on your jaw that was just as slow as his pace. "Fuck, you're so filthy for this. Who knew this is all it took?" he groaned.

"You have such a responsive cunt babe, I can do whatever I want and you just lose it. Fuck-"

You were growing more frustrated the second and Fred was getting rather talkative, he ran his nose down your collarbones, sucking the supple skin into his mouth and leaving crimson marks. "Freddie please - just, mmmh!" you cried out a strangled moan, you had finally gotten what you wanted. You knew Fred could never resist the nickname, and in such a tone too.

He had started to rub your clit, his other arm wrapping around the small of your back protectively. He groaned against your neck, sending shockwaves of pleasure trailing from your marked neck all down to your feet. But Fred wasn't stupid, he had caught on rather soon and chuckled.

"Bad girl." he mocked, then gave you a light smack on your ass, causing you to yelp and jump. You landed harshly on Fred's thigh again and the moan you let out was almost painful. You clutched onto his hair as he gripped your waist and continued to rock you on his thigh.

You let him guide your movement, your juices easily allowing you to slide yourself back and forth on him, and whenever Fred would pull you forward he would apply pressure on your clit by gripping your waist tighter and pushing you down. He fastened his pace with every grind, and every huff of air you let out when your hips would come in contact. "Oh fucking hell - yes," Fred heaved, your knee must've been grazing against his cock just right because he was letting out soft groans and curse words every other second, his hefty length visible behind the fabric.

You couldn't resist, he had such an attractive dick even after seeing it so many times. You started rubbing him from the outside of his boxers, digging the pads of your fingertips into his shaft whenever you could. Fred's head rested between the slope of your breasts, and his hips bucked up at your touch, rutting desperately into your fisted hand, causing you to loudly moan out when his thigh pressed on your swollen bud.

He was barely jutting your hips at this point, barely able to focus on your pleasure from the amount he was getting. Cocky attitude gone as soon as you touched him, you made him melt under your palm. "I love you so fucking much - ohhh...holy shit, keep rubbing me like that." he moaned against your skin, the intense vibrations making you shudder.

You started to move by yourself, quickly and desperately, your juices glazing the skin and soaking up your panties that was making it harder for you both. But it felt too good to stop and remove it, the heat in your core was growing and you closed your eyes to focus on the man that was letting out hot breaths between the valley of your breasts. His hand started playing with your nipple, squeezing it between his forefinger and thumb as the other gripped your waist and rocked you faster.

Your movement was getting sloppy, legs trembling and jerking whenever pressure was applied to your clit. You were whining the name of your lover, your voice almost pornographic. "Cum my love - fuck yes, cum all over me. Make a mess of me." Fred's hand left your nipple and guided your hips faster, the other pulling down on your thighs as you threw your head back. Fred started circling your clit to speed up your fast approaching release, but it wasn't even needed.

With a final, high pitched squeal, your vision went black, stars dancing around your lids. Your body shuddered violently, and you came hard all over his thigh. "You look so beautiful I-" Fred barely managed to let out before you gripped down his boxers and let his erection swing out. You wrapped your hand around the head and watched in amusement as pre-cum leaked out when you squeezed.

"What? Gonna milk me dry baby?" Fred chuckled darkly, his free hand running through his tousled hair while the other gripped and kneaded the side of your waist.

"I was hoping to do more than that, but for now..." you licked a long stripe up the base of his neck to the back of his ear, and bit. All the while, your hand started working around his painfully hard cock.  Fred was almost heaving now, unlike you who just recently came down from your mind blowing orgasm.

"I-...please, I wan't-" Fred gulped, and in the very rare moments he didn't know what to say. You started pumping his cock, the moment you squeezed him tighter he was coming.

"Fuck fuck fuck - ____!" Fred released all over your hand, his dick twitching beneath your fingers as he leaned his body on yours and let out strangled moans against your neck. You licked your fingers clean, then gently lifted Fred's chin. His eyes were slanted in a deep post-orgasmic daze, and you started to give him slow, wet kisses. "Look how good you taste." you whispered, swirling your tongue around his as he groaned into your mouth.

You were obsessed with how mesmerizing Fred looked. When he came, when he cried out whatever filthy thing came to mind, that blissful glow he had after orgasming. You wanted to repeat those moments over and over again, come with him yourself and touch yourself to his noises. And his taste, you could never get enough of it.

[clarissalance]

Who has the upper hand?

Pairing: Kaeya x G/N!Reader, mention of Varka and Diluc.

Warning: Slight swearing, Kaeya is a lil shit, reader being stubborn and scheming, immense tension

Summary: You’re so terrible at swordsmanship that you can’t withstand 2 strikes from Kaeya or, are you? 

Word count: 3k5

Disclaimer: What is written in here is based on my imagination, nothing from this fic should be taken seriously. Most of the fact I put in this fic does not follow the lore of the game so it should only be taken as a grain of salt. For example: section 8 in Knight of Favonius codebook.

A/N: I struggle so much when I wrote this piece. This was suppose to be angstier but I tone down a little bit (because Kaeya was very OOC in my draft, I think he’s still a bit OOC in this fic but I tried my best ;-;, pls don’t bite me.) 

How did author write a 50k+ oneshot? I can’t write something more than 5k properly ;-; Anyhow, please enjoy this fic. I’m going to have a good rest for 2 weeks before release a comeback. Please shower Kaeya and our new MC with a lot of loves!!!! 

As a strategist of the knight of Favonius, you don't usually have enough time to finish the towers of reports, the never-ending meetings and dealing with cheap tricks Fatui diplomats. Often, you have to skip your daily sword training session, which results in a rather miserable situation. The whole practice ground is staring holes at your defeated posture. You are sitting on the hard soil ground, and the Calvary captain is towering you, his sharp blade just a few inches away from your throat. 

It is not a strange scene for any knights to lose a spar against the Calvary captain, he should be one with the best swordsmanship after Grand Master, and maybe Acting-Grand Master, too. However, as knight, they can usually withstand him at least more than 2 blows. 

Whispers and talks start to circulate around as soon as you stepped your foot in the training ground. It’s very uncommon to see people from that department wandering around this area. The strategy department is famous inside the Knight of Favonius to be the weakling-cunning-mouthy-jerks, who always find excuses after excuses to skip the monthly knight evaluation. 

So, who gives them the right to be exempt from the test? Of course, it’s from the ultimate high chief of strategy department. Rumours say before the strategy chief works for the Favonius knight, the man was once a legendary attorney. That person can flip words from black to white, turns the defendant from guilty to innocent.  With a profound convincing skillset coming from the chief, persuading the Grand Master Varka is easy as a piece of cake. The whole department of 10 people is easily off-hook for 3 years, never participate in the monthly evaluation before the man suddenly dropped the bomb 2 days ago.  

“ I’m tired from coming with excuses to cover for your lazy asses.” The man waved his hand, his eyes staring outside the window. His nails scratching the messy shaved chin.“ Varka seems to get used to navigating my thoughts-”

“Maybe time is wearing away your skill-” At the corner, someone accidentally blurted out, and the whole table gave him a sharp look. Did he have a death wish or something? If so, everyone here can happily dig him a hole, free charge for the coffin.

The chief cleared his voice again, blue eyes melancholy drifted to the table. “So, you guys have tried your best on this monthly evaluation. I hope to see you all again next month.” 

The meeting was dismissed afterwards, and everything spiralled into chaos. The whole department hasn’t touched anything aside from the parchment papers and the quills in the last 3 years. How are they going to master the swordman-ship in 2 weeks? 

But, the worst thing is,

Your well-respected, talented, and tactful chief has run away. 

The next morning, you received the news that a foxy old man is on a business trip to Fontaine with the Grand Master. The expedition is 2 weeks long.

You should have known what he meant when the deceitful man ambiguously ended his sentence like that. Nothing goes well when the chief said:  ‘Farewell, my comrades’. 

 For the last 2 days, you have been starting to familiarize yourself again with how to hold a sword and how to swing the sword. 

As you trail along with the long-forgotten memories, trying to look through the familiar feeling when swinging the sword, you hear footsteps coming in your direction. It is familiar, with the way the person is walking, the beat, the sudden burst of noise in the air, you can only conclude it’s the Calvary Captain. The practice ground seems livelier as soon as the man steps inside, people rushing to his side to give their greetings. Maybe today is one of his practice days.

 “ Never thought I would see you here.” The young man calls out, successfully jostle you up from your thoughts. You give him a complex look and turn away, focusing on the tattered dummies. Your wrist is screaming in protest, legs wobbling. You remember those golden days when you were young when you were flexible, and your bones didn't crack as much. Oh, where the golden days have gone? 

“What do I own the honour of seeing you here, captain?” You fold your arm defensively, voice monotonously. Kaeya despites the most when you start talking in an emotionless tone. Oh, how you love riling him up in the middle of the practice ground! 

“ I come here for my weekly practice, but-” He shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “ look like the rumour about the abolishment of special permission for the strategy department is true.” 

So he has heard the rumours. You roll your eyes, face blanks. You know Kaeya has his own way to obtain his information, but you never thought it’d be this fast. Words don’t easily leak from the strategy department. 

“What do you need? Make it short, so I can practice for the upcoming evaluation.” Tired of his long introduction, you ask him directly. If you are going to ignore him any longer, the man will continue poking you. 

Starting an argument only wastes your time, and asserting dominance in the middle of the training ground won’t boost your ego. You’re a strategist, your weapons are detailed plans and sharp word, not sword and bow. Showing off your strength in front of those ruthless knights don't improve your relationship with them. 

“ Straight the point eh?” You give him an impatiently look, tempting to ignore him again before he flashes you a smug grin. “How bout sparing with me?”  

The whole training ground falls in silence, and you direct at the captain a confusing look. Is he serious? No one in the knight except the Grand Master can go against him, not to mention someone who hasn’t touched a sword for three years. 

“I can help you with your training, and you can help with mine” Kaeya speaks with utmost confidence that you almost nod and agree. That man is really deceitful, he knows how well your skill has gone dull, yet he still wants to practice with you? What is this man plotting?  

“ Do you realize how absurd your offer is? ” You give him a complicated gaze, voice unwavering. Everyone takes in a deep breath, tension crackling. It's not everyday scenery you often encounter. A heated argument between the mischievous cavalry captain and the tactful strategist. Nosy people gather around the pair, internally hoping for the war the breaks out. 

“ You know well that I can’t properly block your first strike.” Light-hearted, you joke, but there is no hint of amusement in your voice. Sharpe eyes glaring at the blue figure, you notice the man remains unfazed. 

" Shouldn't you choose a more competent opponent?" 

The sound whispers and talking about the reasons why Kaeya picked such an easy opponent start to circulate, and you can’t help to curl your lips up. Within a  few seconds, you have effortlessly turned the gossiping direction toward your desired path. Flashing Kaeya a victorious grin, you tap your foot impatiently, waiting for his reaction.

You should have worked at PR damage control or marketing instead! The diplomat would have been fine too! At least, you wouldn’t need to practice swordman-ship.

As you mulling on your terrible choice of career, a chill runs down your spine. Tilting up, Kaeya is beaming sweetly at you, the frost slowly creeping up and nipping your shoes. Look like you just pressed the wrong button. 

The man narrows his eyes, and you gulp nervously, avoiding his calculating gaze. Kaeya chuckles, his voice laced with worry, wavering and hurtful. 

“I just want to help you improve as fast as possible. The test is coming in two weeks isn't it?” 

The whole table has turned, and people start to say how considerate and thoughtful the cavalry captain is. The crowd starts to criticize you and tell you to be more grateful and stop suspicious of his unconditional help. Oh, you wish he wasting it on you, many knights in this training ground would love getting advice and improvements from him. 

Applause for our dear Calvary captain, smoothly seeking empathy from the crowd and turning the favour back to him. No wonder how fast he climbed up the rank. 

Bantering and arguing with a person like him is meaningless, so you accept his offer and drag your sword toward his direction. Let finish this within 2 strikes. 

Moving to the centre of the field, both of you face each other, his eyes scanning you sceptically. What is this man plotting again? Bowing, you finally give him a warning look before standing at your ready position. Kaeya holds his sword, analyzing your starting posture. 

As soon as the whistle blows, you charge at the man, opening the spar with a direct hit. Kaeya quickly raises his word up to block the first blow, the sound of steel clashing loudly. He then forcefully diverts the sword to the left, a classic way to counter the strike. 

Knowing your limited strength against him, you take a step back and swiftly angle the blade downward, aiming for a weak spot at his waist. This move would create a noticeable weakness on your right, and only the idiot doesn't use this as his advantage to disarm you. 

You’re right, he uses the loophole you planned, successfully disarm you within 2 strikes. The sword slips from your hand clanging loudly behind as your foot slips and fall on the ground. 

His sharp blade is just a few inches away from your neck. The calvary captain wears a solemn look, his cerulean eyes imbued with irritation. Seems like he figures out you purposefully planed to end the match in 2 strikes. 

Quickly raising your hand in defeat, you shoot him a taunting grin. The referee declares Kaeya is the winner, and people start to clap and cheer loudly, but overall no one is surprised. As the match end, audiences start to disperse, return back to their tasks. 

Kaeya put his sword away and offers you his hand. You stare idly at the gloved hand a moment before putting yours on. The man effortlessly pulls you up, your body flush against his. With Kaeya so close to you, your first reaction is to push the man away, but his firm grip says otherwise. He inches closer, dark blue locks brush your cheek, tall figure towering you intimidating. 

“Why end it so early?” He leans down and whispers, your body tenses up visibly. “Surely, you could handle more than 2 strikes of mine.” The young man in blue hums, his voice sultry. 

“ What are you saying? I haven’t touched the sword more than 3 years.” You remind him, hands pushing his chest away, trying to create some distance. The man doesn’t budge an inch. 

“Your strikes doesn’t say so. The first strike was not bad.” Noticing your effort to push him away, Kaeya stands straight, heels dig into the ground. His lips curl up at the helplessness flashing in your eyes. He loves seeing you struggle, seeing how anxiety and desperation rising in your sparkling orbs. “I think you could at least have a decent fight with me.”  

“ Quit spouting non-sense Kaeya, let me go. We are in public.” You let out an annoyed hiss, punching his toned chest. He still wears the uniform improperly like that, the exposed tan chest can be under many layers. Sometimes you don't even know the reason why doesn't he just button the shirt up properly. Finger grazing at the bared skin on his chest, you turn your head away, cheeks heat up. 

The man loves seeing you squirming in his trap, and you’re not going to let him see that. Anything, but satisfying his masochist hobby. 

“You don’t like skin-ship?” The man fakes a gasp, his orb sparkles with mirth. “But you were being touchy with your friend. Why can't we be a bit touchy? ”  His tone suggestively, the tall man snickers at your blushing mess. Out of everything, why would he mention that? You give him stinky eyes, brows furrow deeply.  

“I’m not touchy with you.” You deny dreadfully. Archon, how long have you wasted your time here with this slithering serpent? 

Kaeya arms wrap tightly around you, your body moulds perfectly into his embrace. You hate how perfectly you fit into his hug like this, but you can’t deny how warm he is, despite the fact he wields cryo. 

“ When will you let me go?” Your voice starts to grow weak, dragging slightly in discomfort.  Kaeya curiously looks down, noticing your pouting. Sensing his gaze, you turn your head away but his fingers have quickly grabbed your cheek, forcing you to look at his deep blue eye.  

“Give me a kiss, then I'd let you go.” His voice serious, but what he just said is not. You look at the cryo wielder horrendously, mouth gaping. His face is composed and relax, like what he just ask is like asking about the weather, asking about your health, not for a kiss. Is he being serious? What in the world did he just ask? A kiss? Excuse me, a what? 

“You...you are not being serious.” You wriggle your way out, escaping from his fingers, but his embrace tightens, caging you inside. Damn it, Kaeya. He’s messing with you. 

When you flash him a furious look, the man shrugs nonchalantly, his cerulean lock fluttering gently in the wind. Suddenly, you have an urge to wipe off that calm demeanour. He can’t be serious. Why does he have to go all the way to annoy the shit out of you? 

The smug grin hanging on his face, the mischief in his blue eyes, the arching brows, everything about him screams a flirt, yet you feel so mesmerized. Blinking a few times, you have to constantly remind yourself this man is not trustworthy. From the attitude to the way he looks at you, to the way he acts around you. Nothing from his action is truthful. Like Diluc’s warning, you can only believe half of his word and action. 

“ Of course I’m being serious.” His voice solemn, but you can see the amusement in his eyes. If he doesn’t like you, why would he spend so much effort bothering you this much? What reaction is he expecting from you?  

“ I really like you, Y/N” Kaeya confesses cheerfully, and you can faintly hear a few gasps around. Not this again...

Archon, you’re going to die early at this rate. You just want to practice for the upcoming evaluation, not becoming a hot topic for all Mondstadt citizen to gossip about. 

And this man too, how can he easily slip out those words when you just heard him flirting with another woman the other day?  You already told him numerous times that you’re not interested in dating him, or anyone right now! 

Hung your head down in exhaustion, you tap his shoulder, mumbling quietly. “ Fine, fine.” You finally open your mouth, too exhausted and bothered by his stubbornness. He only wants a kiss, and you won’t hurt giving him one. Just a kiss then you can get back to your practice.  

“Just don’t confess your love to me in a crowd like this again.” Before closing the deal, you weakly add a bargain, nudging him.  

The calvary captain looks surprised, his eye widens little, not expecting you to agree. Normally, it takes another argument or two before you comply with his request. Kaeya timidly raises his gloved hand to your face, gently caresses your cheek. This time, you lean into his touch, nuzzling your face into his palm, eyes glimmering softly. Despite a cryo wielder, his hand is surprisingly warm. 

The man in blue curiously peeks at you, he feels like a feather tickling the itchy spot. Are you plotting an escape route? Since when did you become so obedient? He has never seen the soft fur under the spiky façade you set up to face with the world, but strangely, he likes this version of you more. 

Noticing his relaxed stance, you carefully gently wrap your fingers around his wrist while keeping eye contact with him. Kaeya eye widens, startles at your sudden touching. Trying your best to not break the unspoken connection, you bring his hand away from your cheek. In those cerulean eyes, you see a hint of disappointment, but it quickly dissolves. Slowly, you draw closer toward the hand hanging in the air, lips fluttering on the smooth skin on his wrist. 

The calvary captain instinctively moves back, trying to escape from your sudden contact. Ironic, he is the one who innates the hug and demands a kiss from you. Tightening your grip, you press your wet lips on the exposed part of his wrist dedicatedly while maintaining eye contact with him, eyes drown with submission.

Kaeya stares at you in awe, maybe not expecting the passionate look in your eyes. His azure eye fills with mischief, now replaces with confusion and hesitation. You notice how his ears have dusted with pink despite the winds blowing in the practice ground. The man avoids your eyes, flustering. 

Whispers and gasps start to remind you of the crushing reality, so you let his hand down while grinning cheekily at the cryo wielder. Poking and breaking Kaeya meticulously façade is always something you want to try. The man is a living devil, so it’s extremely unusual to see him losing his composure. 

Sneakily, you untangle his other arm wrapping around your waist, plotting an escape route. 

However, Barbatos doesn’t let you slip away that easily. Quickly regaining his composure, Kaeya snakes his hand around your hip again, tightening his hold. Unlike the first time, the sneaky bastard lifts you up and has the audacity to throw your body on his shoulder, carry you like a sack. 

“ Yah! What are you doing?” You exclaim, fluster at his sudden antic. Kicking and punching on his shoulder, you try as many as you can, but somehow, Kaeya manages to dodge all of them.   

“ You said you will let me go when I give you a kiss!” The crowd uproars, stares and gossips poke pointedly at your back. You don’t want to hear those comments from those knights again. They're not going to let this live down, aren't they? Bury your face in the Kaeya's furry collar, you let out a frustrating sigh, punching his shoulder as hard as you can. 

“ You give me a kiss on my wrist. That doesn’t count.” Kaeya nonchalantly strides away from the practice ground, unfazed by your attempt to escape. This man is a beast, how can he not budge an inch with all of your kickings on his shoulder? 

“ You didn’t specify the place. A kiss is a kiss!” You emphasize, and you can feel his shoulder shaking. Is he laughing? “You didn’t keep your promise.” Fuels by the rising anger, you kick your leg aggressively, struggling to free yourself from the iron-clad grip. This time, his strong arm wraps around your calves like a chain.  

As soon as you raise your head up, the familiar pathway hits your memories. Shit, he is heading toward the headquarter, likely to his office. You can’t let anyone in there see you in this state. Punching his back profusely, you shot back. 

“Not fulfilling the contract is breaking the Knight of Favonius's code of cond-.” Before you can finish your sentence, the man smacks your calves loudly, successfully shutting your mouth. Speechless by his sudden punishment, you let out a disbelief breath.    

“ There are no such a section states about fulfilling contract inside the code of conduct, so stop making the rule up.” Kaeya smugly grins, and you can already picture his blue eyes glinting with mischief, the signature shit-eating grin on his handsome face.

" There is, it's in section eight-" Before you can finish your sentence, Kaeya cuts in, waving his hand dismissively. 

" Section eight is about interaction with your co-worker, there is none about keeping contracts." The calvary captain humming, trying to recalling the content of the book. Speechless by the detailed memories of his, you can only close your mouth, quietly waiting for him to drop you down. If you stay still on his shoulder, will he let you go? 

" You know, not everyone reads and memories the knight of Favonius handbook, you are just unlucky that I know the book by heart." Seeing you deflate weakly on his shoulder, Kaeya lets out a chuckle, patting your head comforting.       

Before heading inside the HQ, the man doesn't drop your down but leans in closely, his whisper tickling your ear. “But at least I had fun seeing you squirming in my grasp.” 

And then it hits you, the bastard purposely falls for of your antic. 

[archduchessofnowhere]

“He won't get me”: some of the rejected suitors of Archduchess Elisabeth Marie

I am in a good mood so I decided to finish up this post that I had on my drafts since months ago, when I read the memoirs of Archduchess Erzsi's English governess. While I thought the memoirs itself were kinda dull I did find very interesting tidbits of information. Today I'll talk about two of her (alleged) suitors.

Erzsi, being the granddaughter of the Emperor and the only child of the late Crown Prince was considered a candidate for many princes, like her cousin Albert, future king of the Belgians. Other one was Prince Eitel Friedrich of Prussia, the second son of Emperor Wilhelm II.

After the review there was a grand gala dinner at the Hofburg, and I went with the Archduchess to watch the Royalties from the musicians' gallery over the banqueting hall. The table was gorgeous with gold plate, and I find I wrote my mother, in an account of the banquet : “Our dear Emperor has a splendid appetite. The German Emperor, who sees everything, noticed our Archduchess up in the gallery and asked who she was. Upon being told, he asked our Emperor that she might come down after dinner and be presented. She is certainly growing remarkably pretty.”

Evidently Emperor Wilhelm II. found her so, as later he sent his second son to visit the Austrian Court with the intention of making a matrimonial alliance between him and the Archduchess. But he counted without the Archduchess, for when she saw the youth, she exclaimed : “Marry that boy! Never!” and forthwith retired to bed, from whence she refused to emerge until His Imperial Highness had shaken the dust of the Austrian Court from his Royal shoes, and taken his departure.

The girl seemed to had a flavor for drama. The governess doesn't talk about this potential marriage again, but I was a still curious so I made a quick search to see if I could dig something more about the subject and I stumbled with this news article from 4 June 1890 published in The Toronto Daily Mail:

THE AUSTRIAN CROWN.

London Truth says:—The information given in a St. Petersburg paper about the possibility of the German Emperor's second son, Prince Eitel, being raised to the imperial throne of Austria is not wholly unfounded. But the condition would be marriage with the Archduchess Eizabeth. She is his senior, but the difference is not great enough to be disparity when both reach years of discretion (...) Both the Emperor and Empress of Austria hate to the degree of loathing the Archduchess Stephanie, who is as good (or bad) as excluded from their presence. “No more unnappy couple exist,” says to me a circus friend of the Empress, from whom she hides no grief. But their misery would be far deeper if he Archduchess Stephanie were to shine forth again as coming Empress through a marriage with the feeble-brained heir-presumptive to the throne. Such a marriage would probably secure the succession to a child of Stephanie. Were Elizabeth declared heiress, as Maria Theresa was, with the support of William II., with the understanding that she was to marry his son, and were, by this arrangement, the sons of the Archduke Charles Louis to be cut out, Francis Joseph and the Empress Elizabeth would die happy.

First of all, the age gap between Eitel and Erzsi was... two months. In his favor. So already we can tell this article doesn't have the best sources. However it also tells us that at least the rumor of this union existed even years before the governess started working at court.

While there was speculation about the succesion after Rudolf's death, and his daughter's name came forward, there never seemed to have been a serious effort of naming her heiress (there was however an attempt to remarry Stephanie to archduke Franz Ferdinand... actual crackshipping); Franz Josef, always the traditionalist, preferred to name as heir the nephew he barely standed that to bend the succesion laws in favor of the girl that was his favorite grandchild. So this engagement seems to be more wishful thinking for people that hoped for the unification of Germany and Austria rather than a serious plan; perhaps Wilhelm did thought his son had a chance with the archduchess, but I doubt that Franz Josef would've liked to give his empire to the Germans in a silver plate. In any case, Erzsi's reaction to the prince ended this project before it even begun.

The other potential bridegroom only gets marginally mentioned in a letter from the governess to a friend of hers. The Governess doesn't date this letter but given the context it is from early May of 1898:

The Archduchess wishes me to assure you she is not fianceed with the King of Spain. Her expression is: “He won't get me;” and I don't think he will.

He didn't got her.

Again a very quick search made me came across with several news articles published in January/February 1898 that announced the engagement of the fifteen-years-old Erzsi with the twelve-years-old King Alfonso XIII of Spain. And again, this really seem to be nothing but rumors. I know nothing about Alfonso but I doubt there was any serious attempt to get him a bride while he was still a literal child; by the time he had reached majority, Erzsi was already married.

And that is all I have for today on this subject; If anyone has any information (specially if it's from better sources that memoirs published almost two decades after the events happened and gossipy news articles) about this potential unions please tell me!

[15-dogs]

hey lover |s.r.|

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: spencer wants to ask you on a date but his fear of rejection causes him to write you a letter. however, he’s made the miniscule and idiotic mistake of forgetting to sign it. (fluff, mutual pining, and miscommunication!!)

warnings: very light swearing, description of murders/crime scenes (criminal minds level gore/description), food mention

guide: (Y/N) = your name, (Y/L/N) = your last name, (Y/N/N) = your nickname, italics = letter

word count: 3.2K

a/n: asjkdfhkj this is my first spencer fic i hope it turned out ok!!

***

It seemed like a good idea at first. Derek’s ideas always seem good at first. Spencer wasn’t sure why he trusted things would work out without error. Yet there he was, letter in hand and eyes wide at the stupid, miniscule mistake he made while you awaited his answer.

***

You had just begun working at the BAU no more than 3 months ago as the new communications liaison, replacing JJ while she was absent on maternity leave. You were quickly integrated into the carefully woven quilt that was the BAU and, in turn, you had built some very close relationships with your coworkers. 

However, there was one person who you had grown extraordinarily fond of: Spencer Reid. You didn’t want to admit how smitten you were with the doctor, seeing as you were only working at the BAU for so long, but it was an indisputable fact you had fallen for him.

Unbeknownst to you, Spencer felt the exact same way. Your courageous and selfless demeanor struck him as something he hadn’t seen in anyone in quite some time. Not to mention how incredibly beautiful you were. Spencer knew it was impossible for anyone to be perfect but, when you made him feel the way he did, he began to question his thinking.

Spencer was quite terrible at hiding his feelings, finding himself staring at you a second too long when you walked to your office in the morning or bringing you extra breakfast and coffee because the store just happened to have an extra muffin they wanted to get rid of. It was so obvious yet you couldn’t pick it up for the life of you and Spencer really thought he was flirting to the fullest extent of his ability.

One morning you were running late. You had yet to arrive but you called Hotch to let him know you’d be at the office in no more than 30 minutes because the train was down for the time being. You also had texted Spencer, asking him if he wanted something at the small coffee shop around the corner while you waited. So as Spencer gave you his order with one hand, he downed the coffees he had made for you and himself in the other.

“Whoa, kid,” Morgan chuckled, prying the cup from his hand, “slow down. Your toothpick-body can’t take all that caffeine.”

Spencer swatted at Derek in an attempt to get the cup back only to see him lift it to his lips. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Morgan started with mock innocence, “was this for a certain communications liaison that a certain doctor has a crush on?”

Spencer rolled his eyes but felt the back of his neck heat up. “I don’t have a crush on her.” He made his way back to his desk, ignoring Morgan’s eyes boring into him.

“Oh, really? That’s a shame,” he could practically hear the teasing grin in Morgan’s words, “because she likes you.”

Spencer went rigid. He spun slowly on his heel until he saw Morgan’s smirking face, feeling his stomach drop again. He couldn’t believe he fell for that. Spencer retreated to his desk with Derek chasing after him.

“Kid, kid, listen! I know you like her! I was just-”

“Be quiet!” hissed Spencer, his cheeks now coated in a healthy flush.

However, Morgan wasn’t quiet enough. Emily perked up from her desk, rolling her chair over to join the conversation. “What are we talking about?”

Spencer tensed his hands and shook his head, turning to face his work again when Morgan explained, “How pretty boy’s got it bad for (Y/L/N) and won’t do a damn thing about it.”

“What?!” Spencer whipped around, his jaw slack from panic. Morgan and Emily were cackling to themselves at his shock, not even bothering to silence themselves.

“Reid,” Emily began, clutching her stomach from laughter, “it’s okay, I know you like her-”

“What?!”

Spencer’s increasing panic only furthered the pair to laugh even harder. Was he that easy to read? Did everyone know how he felt towards you? Dread began to set into his stomach at the thought of you knowing. His overthinking mind started to wander, assuming you knew how he felt and had led him on to get free breakfast every morning. He quickly scolded himself for thinking that— he’d been hurt too many times before, making that line of thinking second nature. But you weren’t someone who wanted to see people hurt; you were too kind, too caring to do that to anyone.

“Why don’t you just ask her out?” Emily asked. “She obviously likes you, too.”

Spencer’s eyes lit up for a second at the thought of you feeling the same but he caught himself. A moment too late, however. Emily and Morgan teased him, batting their lashes and making kissy faces at him, leading to Spencer throwing his head in hands to hide from their stares.

The two were no later interrupted as Hotch called Emily up to his office to go over a report she had put in, leaving Spencer and Morgan alone. Derek nudged Spencer’s leg, Spencer frowning at him as he met his eyes.

“Listen, kid, Prentiss was right. Why don’t you ask her out?”

If what Derek and Emily had said was true, why couldn’t he? He imagined himself walking up to you and asking you on a date, his heart fluttering at the thought. His fantasy soon turned sour as you snorted at his question, shaking your head vigorously and pushing him out of your office.

“I don’t think I could look her in the eyes if she rejects me.” Spencer’s voice was no more than a whisper as he announced his realization.

Morgan laid a hand on his shoulder, the other reaching around Spencer’s desk to hand him a piece of paper and a pen. “Then we’re going to do this the old fashioned way. Women love it when they get love letters, so write her one.” Spencer’s eyes bulged at Morgan’s words. “Love might be a bit strong, I get it, but you get the sentiment, right? Write her a letter about why you like her, ask her out at the end of the letter, and then slip it under her door.”

Spencer nodded slowly before shooing Morgan away, already hunched over the first draft of the letter. He worked it over and over again, feeling like each copy wasn’t good enough for you until he saw his phone buzz. It was a text from you. You were heading up. Spencer panicked, folding his latest draft and slipping it under the door to your office before settling back at his desk.

You waddled in from the elevators, attempting to balance a carry-out tray of coffees and a bag of croissants in one hand and your work bag in the other. Spencer jumped up from his seat, relieving you of the items belonging to him in an instant.

“Thank you so much, Spence. I was seconds away from dropping my breakfast.” You shouldered him gently in place of a grateful gesture. He nodded, ducking his head in hopes you hadn’t noticed the blush creeping up his cheeks.

Before Spencer could say anything, your phone rang. Sending him an apologetic smile, you managed to slip it out of your pocket and place it on your shoulder, shrugging it up to your ear as you answered. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

Spencer watched you walk off towards your office, taking a short sip from the coffee he definitely didn’t need. You stepped in and flicked the lights on with your elbow before tossing your bag onto your desk, freeing a hand to hold your cell phone. You took another step in before stumbling, your shoes caught on a loose paper by your door.

It was go time.

Spencer hurried back to his desk and pretended he wasn’t looking at you, even though it was extremely obvious he was. You set your breakfast on your desk and bent over to pick up the note, skimming it as you spoke. Your head snapped up and you turned to face the window that exposed the bullpen, Spencer ducking his head down and innocently reading the newspaper on his desk. He chanced a look up only to see you frown and hurriedly shut the blinds.

Spencer thought he was going to be sick. He paled and ran his hands over his face before digging the heel of his palms into his temples, massaging them roughly. You looked upset— disgusted. Why did he think you’d ever like him?

Before he could indulge in his own pity party, you stormed out of your office with a large file in hand. You raised it in the air to gather the attention of the team as you announced, “We have a case!”

The team scurried in after you, everyone finding their places in the conference room as you clicked on your presentation. The pictures of two young couples appeared on the screen as you passed the files around.

“Four victims from Atlantic City have been found dead in their homes.” You clicked to the crime scene photos, wincing at the sight. “The husbands’ C.O.D. being a slice through the carotid and the wives’ a shot through the head execution style. The husbands have also had their...hands removed.”

Hotch looked up from the file, brows furrowed. “This all happened in the span of 3 days so we need to be vigilant. He could be planning his next attack right now. Wheels up in 20.”

***

On the plane ride to New Jersey, the team had finished being briefed by Garcia’s intel quicker than usual and were left to ponder their own thoughts. You sat off by yourself at a table in the back of the jet, opening your bag to sneak out the letter left at your office earlier. You scanned the words and frowned again before being hit with a genius idea.

You stood from your seat and settled next to Spencer on the couch. Oddly, he went rigid at your presence, sitting up straight and avoiding eye contact. You shook it off and continued on with your plan.

“Spence, hey, can I ask you something?” you whispered.

Spencer’s mouth went dry. He knew what you were going to ask about. What else could you be asking about? “S-sure.”

“You’re the guy who’s good at identifying handwriting, right? Like matching it and stuff?”

His eyes flickered up, mouth opening and closing a few times before he settled on a nod. His mind swarmed with questions but none of them came out. He decided it might be best if he were silent, anyway.

“Great. Then can you help me out with” —you pulled the letter from your bag and handed it to Spencer— “this? I think I might have a secret admirer or something. Whoever it was either wanted to stay anonymous on purpose or forgot to sign their name. Either way, could you help me out?”

And that’s when Spencer started to blame Morgan for his terrible idea. Well, it wasn’t exactly his fault but Spencer couldn’t take the blame for something so embarrassing. There his letter was, his handwriting, his words, his admission, and he forgot to sign his name.

Spencer debated the logistics of admitting to his error; he wouldn’t have you pining over a mystery man, but then again he would be asking you out in real time. The whole point of the letter writing was to not see your face and if he told you he wrote it you could reject him straight to his face. He couldn’t deal with the thought of that. So Spencer, fear consuming him, shoved the letter back in your hands with a nonchalant shrug.

“Sorry, (Y/N/N), I don’t recognize the handwriting.”

“Oh,” you muttered, standing up. “That’s okay. Thanks for looking.”

And as you returned to your seat on the other end of the plane, a pit formed in your stomach. You were no profiler but you hoped you could have read Spencer better, seeing if he let on any signs the letter was his, that he liked you. But at that moment you had to push it aside. There was work to be done.

***

After a few days in the case, the team had a breakthrough. They had discovered all the women had been drugged and used a bargaining chip to lead the men back to their homes before getting killed. The unsub had been targeting wealthy couples at casinos and the only way the team could catch him is if he was drawn out of hiding. The whole explanation was a long winded way of Hotch telling you you needed to go undercover as Spencer’s wife.

You begged him to let Emily take your place but Hotch assured she would be better as a lone guest to cover your perimeter. Frowning, you explained you didn’t have any undercover experience but Hotch assured you you’d be fine, that the unsub would fall easily for your charade because of your close identification with the victim pool.

So there you were, in your hotel room sitting in a dress you didn’t care for with a wire far too uncomfortable running up the length of your sleeve. Your body thrummed with nerves so, in an attempt to calm down, you reached for the letter and reread it, practically having it memorized by now.

(Y/N),

I don’t normally do these sorts of things but you deserve these sorts of things— nice things. You deserve the best things. You deserve the things that make you happy, that make you smile, that make you laugh. You deserve all of that and more.

I’ve only known you for some time but I can safely say I’ve completely fallen for you. To be entirely honest, I don’t know how everyone here hasn’t as well. You have this gorgeous smile that makes everyone light up around you. Not to mention your laugh; it’s harmonic and encapsulating, like good music you never want to turn off.

I like you. A lot. And I know you’re too good for me but I can’t help but try. I get scared because people might see right through us— through me— and you’ll realize it, too, that you’re too good for me. 

But now isn’t the time to worry about the future (even though I may have a tendency to do so). I’m sorry for not being the best at words. And I’m sorry for not being able to say this to your face but I like you, (Y/N), and I want to go on a date with you.

You were sure you had the confidence to spur forward with the night.

You left your room, ready to knock on Spencer’s door when you heard hushed whispers coming from inside. From the sound of it, Spencer was trying to opt out of the night while Hotch was trying to convince him to stay.

“You’re the only one on this team that can play some convincing poker, Reid-”

“That’s not the point!” Spencer huffed. “It’s...it’s (Y/N). People might see right through us— through me— and they’ll realize she’s too good for me. They won’t buy it. Not when she looks like herself and I look like, well, me.”

Something about his words hung around in your head. It was disquieting. His words weren’t true, of course. He was everything you could’ve wanted and the sheer fact he didn’t see himself that way broke your heart. But it wasn’t just that, there was something else. Something hidden in his words triggering a memory in you.

You were pulled from your thoughts as Spencer and Hotch walked out of Spencer’s room, giving you curt smiles before leaving towards the undercover van outside.

***

Fortunately, the night went as planned. The unsub was apprehended and you managed to stay cool undercover. Mostly cool. Your head was up in the air for a bit as you tried to recall what exactly Spencer had said that reminded you of something. Spencer had to focus you back in a few times but didn’t think anything of your lack of focus. Or, at least, he didn’t say it.

The jet couldn’t leave until the next morning so the team was stuck overnight at the trashy little motel the bureau had paid for. You tossed and turned in your bed, unease settling in your stomach. You decided it might be best for you to read the letter again, seeing as how it brought you such comfort earlier. But the second you scanned the words, the realization hit you squarely in the face.

Disregarding the late hour and the fact you were in pajamas, you ran out of your room and up to Spencer’s knocking on the door with haste. Spencer also seemed to be awake, answering just as quickly as you knocked.

“(Y/N)?” His voice was gravelly and low, like he had been in and out of sleep. You bit back a grin at the adorable pajamas he wore: plaid flannel bottoms and a t-shirt reading “I LOVE LAS VEGAS!” in bright gold lettering. Spencer tracked your eyes roving over his body before clearing his throat to get your attention again. “What’re you doing up at 3:00-”

“I know you wrote the letter.”

You didn’t mean to blurt it out but you just...did. Spencer coughed awkwardly and avoided your stare, shaking his head.

“I don’t...I don’t know what you’re…”

“Spence,” you began, taking his hand in yours, “I overheard you and Hotch talking earlier, about how people would see right through us. It’s the same thing in the letter— nearly identical.”

Spencer, positive he was completely red in the face, muttered, “Must’ve been a coincidence.”

“But it wasn’t, because I know you, Spencer.” You sucked in a sharp breath, your heart pounding in your chest. “Because I like you, Spencer.”

Spencer cocked his head, a smile tugging at his lips like he didn’t want to believe what you said. “You...you like me?”

You took a step towards the doctor, locking your hands around the back of his neck with a chuckle. “Yeah, Spencer, I like you.”

Spencer reached a careful hand up, brushing your hair out of your eyes and running his knuckles down your cheek with an adoring smile before connecting your lips. The kiss was soft and unsure but worth exploring. As you began to deepen it, you heard a door click open from behind you.

“Nice pajamas, you two,” Rossi teased. Spencer glared at him over your shoulder for disrupting what was the most perfect kiss he ever had. Rossi chuckled, holding his hands up in defense. “I saw nothing!”

Rossi slipped back into his room, laughing to himself about the interruption. You tucked your head against Spencer’s chest, feeling him place a soft kiss against the top of your head while his arms looped around your back, pulling you impossibly tighter towards him.

“You know,” he began, his chest rumbling against your ear in the most comforting way, “I’m beginning to think I should be writing you more letters.”

“A few more couldn’t hurt.”

[hstyleshoney]

hey! could u maybe write something where h notices Y/N is distant after he comes back from tour? like she doesn’t feel stable in the relationship anymore bc he’s always away or something like that but he doesn’t want to break up. lmao this is weirdly specific but I really hope u get over your writers block <3

This has been in my drafts for a couple months now. Finally had time to finish it. Sorry it took so long. Hope you like It! <3 

WC: 5.3K // angst, fluff 

April.

Harry is tired.

He’s only been back in London for two days but he is completely drained. Mentally and physically. All he wants to do is snuggle down on the sofa with his girl and relax. He wants to hold her as close to him as humanly possible; feel her warmth and her smooth skin against his. He wants to spend all night just giggling away at nothing in particular with her because they’re both just so happy to be around one another again and whisper sweet nothings to her all night to let her know how much he missed her and loves her.

He has 21 days home before the next part of his tour kicks off - in Australia. He wants to make the most out of their time together before he has to leave again.

But something is wrong.

She is distant. She’s not letting him hold her, she hardly smiles when she sees him and she’s being off. It’s weird. Harry doesn’t like it.

He noticed it the second he arrived at her flat Monday night. She didn’t come running when he walked through the door. She didn’t talk non-stop for hours like she usually did when they had spent an excessive amount of time apart. She didn’t dig through his suitcase to get a look at all his latest purchases of clothes just because she loved fashion and got excited about all the designer items he owned. It was odd.

They didn’t even have sex.

Harry told himself it was probably just because it was late when he arrived and she was probably just tired. She’d be fine in the morning.

But she is still being as off with him as she was on Monday night, despite the fact that he has been back home in London for a couple days now. Harry doesn’t know what to do. Usually being back home with her brings him comfort and lets him relax after weeks on the road. Now it only has the opposite effect. It’s disheartening. He doesn’t understand it.

On Friday night they go out for dinner with a couple of friends of his. Harry hopes it will lift her spirits but she stays quiet for most of the evening. She is gloomy, not her usual self, and the twinkle in her eyes is missing. It’s awkward and when James shoots him a questioning look from across the table Harry knows that everyone has noticed that something is wrong.

Harry feels sick.

He is worried. Stressed. Anxious. Maybe even a tiny bit angry.

And he is afraid to ask her about it because he has a bad feeling about the whole thing. His gut is telling him that her lack of affection is because of him. He knows he has to ask her about it, but he is holding off for as long as he possibly can. Because asking her about why she is being distant makes it real and he is not ready for her to confirm his suspicions. He is still holding onto the small hope that her mood is because of something that happened at work or with her friends.

But she usually tells him everything and now she hasn’t said anything.

So the only explanation Harry can think of is that he is the reason for her low mood.

And he is not ready to hear it.

He knows her though. He knows she hates upsetting or disappointing others and will avoid it at all costs, even if it means neglecting her own thoughts and feelings until she’s too overwhelmed by it all. She has the kindest heart he has ever met; she is perhaps too kind for her own good.

Which is why he knows he has to ask her and get her to open up about whatever is going on in her head. For her sake but also for his own.  

The car ride back to his house after their dinner is, unsurprisingly, quiet and somewhat tense. Harry wants to ask her right there and then why she is being so off, but he also knows he won’t be able to focus on the road if he does. He can hardly focus enough as it is. So he stays quiet and glances over at her whenever he gets the chance, and his heart sinks from how sad she looks.

She doesn’t look at him once though and only rests her head against the window as she watches the other cars around them, picking at the skin around her nails; a sign Harry has learned means that she is either stressed or upset... or both.

Once they make it to his house reality kind of hits him like a ton of bricks and he is one hundred percent sure her mood is because of him now and he is anxious to find out the reason why that is and fearful of where the conversation might lead. What if he loses her? He is not sure his heart can take it.

But she lets him put a hand on her back as they walk into the house and it’s nice to have her close again, she smells so good, and he has to stop himself from falling into her. He wants to wrap his arms around her and never let go.

“I’m gonna go get ready for bed,” she tells him quietly when they get inside, avoiding eye contact, and swiftly disappears up the stairs before he gets the chance to ask her about anything. Harry almost calls her name to stop her but decides to give her a couple of minutes before he approaches her about the elephant in the room.

Also, he needs some time to get his own head together and prepare for whatever might be thrown his way. As scared as he might be there is also a frustration building up inside him from her shutting him out. He had been gone for almost three months and they hadn’t been able to see each other as much as they would’ve liked to. He had been looking forward to just coming home to her and getting a couple of weeks with her before continuing his tour.

There is a lump in his throat as he makes his way up the stairs. His palms are sweaty. His head is spinning. And he realises, for the first time in his life, that he is absolutely terrified about the possibility of losing someone. Her. He has been in love before. He has gone through break-ups. But none of them have made him feel like this. It’s like someone is suffocating him.

And the break-up hasn’t even happened yet. He doesn’t even know if it will happen. He just knows that the girl who has his whole heart in his hands is being distant and won’t talk to him after weeks apart. It’s not a good sign.

She is still in the bathroom when he comes upstairs. The door is open and he takes a few seconds to just watch her, leaning against the doorframe with a fond look on his face. He can’t take his eyes off her. Her hair is pushed back by her pink fuzzy headband and her face is free from all the makeup she had previously worn. She is beautiful, he thinks and closes his eyes for a second to savor the small moment.

It’s just so familiar. He has seen her get ready for bed a hundred times before and he never gets tired of it. It’s the simplest thing but it makes him feel home.

She feels like home.

And then she spots him by the door and a small squeal escapes her lips which brings him back. “Bloody hell Harry” she breathes out and puts a hand over her chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he replies and shoots her a weak smile.

“I’m almost done, just give me a couple minutes and then the bathroom is all yours” she says and picks up one of her many skin care products to continue her routine. She speaks fast and avoids his gaze. Harry clears his throat awkwardly.

“Actually,” he starts. “I was wondering if we could talk?”  

She freezes for a brief moment and Harry almost feels bad. Silence falls over them again and it’s all the confirmation he needs to know that whatever is going on has something to do with him. Harry is almost certain she’s going to tell him she’s too tired to talk or come up with another excuse, but eventually she nods.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” he nods as well and tries to give her another small smile to ease the tension between them but it’s useless. The knot in his stomach weighs him down too much. “I’ll let you finish and you can just come find me, yeah?”

Harry waits for her in the bedroom. He sits down on the bed before standing up almost just as fast. Then he sits back down again. His throat feels dry and his heart is beating so hard inside his chest it feels like it might burst. He’s trying to come up with what to say to her but as soon as she walks in his mind goes completely blank. He wants to believe that he is wrong, that it’s just a big misunderstanding, but her sad eyes make it hard.

She looks so soft and small as she takes a seat next to him and Harry has to fight the urge to just pull her into his arms. It’s strange and he doesn’t understand why she is being so distant. Everything was fine between them before he left for his tour and as far as he knows nothing happened while he was away.

“Have I done something wrong?” he begins.

She sighs and looks down at her hands, still doing her best to avoid eye contact.

“I’m sorry H,” she says and her voice cracks a little at the end. Harry feels sick again. “I know I've been acting weird. Distant. I’m sorry.”

“Will you please look at me?” he begs because he can’t stand her shutting him out like she is. It’s never happened before. So when she looks up at him with tears in her eyes both relief and pangs of agony washes over him. It kills him; fills him with worry. Harry doesn’t know how he is going to get through this. This wasn’t how he had planned his return home. Far from. “What’s going on?”

“I love you,” she tells him and swallows thickly.

Harry nods and tries to stop his head from spinning so much.

“And I love you.”

“I... I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

There it is. He knew it was coming but hearing the words come out of her mouth is a punch to the face. He doesn’t know how to respond to it. Silence falls between them just as heavy raindrops start to fall against the windowsill outside.

“Okay,” is all he can say.

“I just - I hate missing my best friend every single day.” A tear rolls down her cheek and she’s quick to wipe it away, taking a shaky breath. “I feel very alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Harry says and reaches out to take her soft hands into his, holding them tight. She gives him a sad smile and laces her fingers with his. He never wants to let go.

“I know,” she replies softly. “But it feels like I am. I come home to an empty flat, have dinner on my own and watch some stupid reality show to kill time. I can’t even call you whenever I want to because you’re on stage or busy with something else. I feel like I’m just constantly waiting for you. It feels impossible for us to build a life together.”

Harry wants to tell her it’ll change. That it’ll get better. That he’ll be better. But it’s a promise he can’t make because he’s leaving again, soon. He still has shows to do in Australia, North- and South America. He still has a tour to do - and hopefully more tours in the future as well.

And he loves his job. It’s his dream. He is so grateful for everything he gets to do.

But he has never hated his job as much as he does in that moment right there, and he hates himself for that too.

“I’m here now,” he says weakly and tightens his fingers around hers.

“Yeah, I know,” she croaks and when she cups his cheek in the hand he’s not holding Harry can’t stop himself from leaning into her touch. “But you’re leaving again, what happens then? We’ve been in the same time zone and country now for three months and barely had the chance to talk - what happens when you’re on the other side of the world?”

“I’ll make time for you. I promise,” Harry tells her and blinks away his own tears that are threatening to fall.

“But you won’t be here,” she replies sadly and pulls away from him. Harry feels cold as soon as her hands leave his. He wants to scream but there is no air in his lungs. He’s losing her and he doesn't know what to do or say to stop it. He’s helpless.

And when a strangled sob escapes her he thinks his heart might shatter into a million pieces. It’s the worst sound he has ever heard and it kills him knowing it’s because of him. “I hate this,” she cries. “I’m so sorry Harry. I’m being so fucking selfish.”

“Stop,” he huffs and angles his body so he can move himself closer to her. Desperate to fix whatever is happening between them before it’s too late.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles and bows her head, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t want to make you feel bad because I know how much you love what you do and I would never ask you to stop. I love watching you on stage, it’s my favorite thing in the world... but I just- I just don’t know if I’m happy like this. I don’t like the person I become when you’re away.”  

“What can I do?” Harry begs even though he knows there’s not a lot he can do right now. “I’m not losing you.” He takes her hands into his again, running his thumb over her knuckles. “I love you.”

“I love you too Harry, so much.” Her voice trembles as she speaks and Harry feels his whole stomach drop as the next few words fall from her lips. He’s sure he is going to pass out. “Sometimes love isn’t enough though, is it?”

“What are you saying?” he whispers as he tightens his hold on her hands. She looks up at him, her glossy eyes meeting his green ones, and Harry can no longer hold back his own tears.

“I don’t know yet,” she admits, her voice low and thick. Harry tries to think of something to say that will change her mind but his head is swirling with a million different things all at once. He can’t think straight. He only knows he refuses to lose her. He won’t lose her. So he tells her that again.

“I’m not losing you.”

That night they fall asleep on different sides of the bed with their backs facing each other and Harry might just break.

.

May 19th.

Harry Styles ❤️ 11:34 AM We just landed in Australia. I wish you were here. I love you. xxx

.

May 31st.

Harry Styles ❤️ 5:47 PM Last show is done. I’ll be home on Tuesday. Let’s talk then. xxx

.

June.  

She is tired.

The last three weeks have been brutal. Or, actually, the whole month has been brutal. Ever since she told Harry about her insecurities regarding their relationship she felt like her whole life had just fallen apart. She couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Nothing.

She went to work and when the day was over she went straight home and watched every episode she could find of ‘The Great British Bake Off’ to numb her mind. Her co-workers express their worry when they see her come to work with the same outfit for the fourth day in a row, greasy hair and big dark circles under her eyes. They tell her to take a few days off.

But she doesn’t.

Because she needs work as a distraction. She can’t just sit at home and think about everything that happened between her and Harry before he left for Australia. The morning after their talk they hardly said a word to each other and she could see that he was hurt. It killed her knowing it was because of her.

It was just that the European tour had been harder on her than she ever could've imagined. Other than the London shows she had only been able to go to the one in Manchester and the one in Paris, but that was it. She couldn’t get more time off to go see him and whenever she finished work at the end of a long day and had time to call him he was already on stage or about to be.

They hardly spoke and it made her sad. The reality of how different their lives were slapped her hard in the face that first leg of his tour. So hard she couldn’t bring herself to be happy when he came back home to London, because she knew he was leaving again.

She figured that maybe she just needed some time to get used to having him around again and that things would go back to how they usually were after a day or so. They didn’t. Instead all she could think about was the fact that he was leaving again and how every hour that passed was an hour of their time together that was gone.

She had been stupid to think he wouldn’t notice.

When he asked her to talk she knew that she would no longer be able to keep things to herself. It all just came crashing down.

She hasn’t seen Harry in almost a month now and her whole body is aching for his touch again. At the same time, she knows she has no one but herself to blame for her heartache.

She loves him. She loves him so fucking much.

She just doesn’t know if she can handle the distance. She doesn’t know if she can handle only speaking to him through text messages because of the time difference and/or because their schedules don't add up. She doesn’t know if she can handle all the rumors circulating on social media whenever he has been seen with someone she doesn’t recognize. She’s become jealous and she doesn’t like it.  

But she loves him.

She knows in her heart that he is The one.

And maybe that’s why she is so fucking terrified of him leaving, because what if he never comes back to her?

She’s not sure she’s going to be able to handle it.

So when she told him she wasn’t sure if she could be with him anymore she did it so she could leave first, but then he looked at her like she had just crushed his entire soul. After spending every night for the last couple weeks replaying the moment over and over again in her head she realises she won’t ever be able to leave him. She doesn’t want to.

And now he is coming back again, after spending two weeks back home in Holmes Chapel with his family to clear his head and two weeks down under in Australia doing what he loves most, and she is still terrified.  Because he might show up and tell her he’s had enough of her games and leave with her heart.

She takes that Tuesday off from work and cleans her entire flat, anxiously waiting for Harry to show up. He texted her earlier to let her know he would arrive in London by noon and would be coming over, to which she only replied an ‘okay’ because she was overthinking and didn’t know what else to say.

They never officially said the words “we are over” so she has no idea if they were still together or broken up, and she didn’t want to say something that could be misinterpreted in any way.

Then she gets another text from him asking her if she could come over to him instead because he is too jet lagged and wants to just go home and have a shower. And she convinces herself it’s only an excuse from him. An excuse to get her to come over and get all her stuff she has left laying around his house the last year, so he can remove any traces of her ever being in his life.

She still tells him she’ll be there in an hour.

That hour ends up being one of the worst hours of her life. She’s an anxious mess as she tries to get ready and ends up spilling her coffee all over her shirt and the freshly mopped floor. Her favorite cup with a small dachshund painted on it, the one Harry got her after their first date when she told she was obsessed with dachshunds, falls to the floor and breaks in half. She has a mini breakdown over it all.

She’s also about two seconds away from running over an old lady by the crossroads leading up to Harry’s house.

Then when she arrives at Harry’s house she has forgotten the code to get through his gate. She has another breakdown thinking he has changed it because he doesn’t want her to know what it is anymore.

Turns out she only missed a number.

Before she knows she is knocking on his door and just stands there waiting for him to come let her in. Normally she wouldn’t knock and just waltz right in but it didn’t feel right this time. She isn’t sure if she is even allowed to anymore.

So she waits.

When Harry finally opens the door and she is face to face with him again she feels like she might actually collapse. He looks tired, eyes puffy and cheeks rosy, but he still smiles when he sees her. And even though he has his grey hoodie up she can still see the little hair clip on top of his head that’s holding back his damp curls from falling in his face.

“Hi,” she breathes out and clasps her hands together in front of her because she doesn’t know what else to do. Her heart is beating painfully hard inside her chest.

“Hi,” Harry says and takes a step forward as if he is about to pull her into a hug, but he stops himself and takes a step back again. They stand in silence for what feels like an eternity, just taking each other in, before Harry clears his throat and opens the door a little wider for her.  “Come in.”

As she passes him she catches a whiff of his perfume and it’s so familiar and calming that she forgets for  a moment that they’ve been in a downward spiral for the last month.

But she is quickly reminded of the situation when Harry awkwardly leads her to the lounge and they sit down on opposite ends of the sofa. Her fingers tremble a little as she pushes a couple strands of hair behind her ear. The room is quiet and cold. The whole house smells like detergent and soap, it always did when he hadn’t been home for a while, and she hates it.

“So, um, how was Australia?” she asks, keeping her eyes on the bright colorful painting that hangs on the wall above Harry’s head and avoiding his green ones that are staring her down. She’s positive he can hear how fast her heart is beating.

“It was alright,” Harry answers and tilts his head forward a little, brows drawn together, as he tries to get her to focus on him rather than the painting behind him.

“Good,” she mumbles and takes a shaky breath, still avoiding his eyes. Harry sighs deeply and she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. This isn’t like them. Far from. She wants to crawl into his arms; wants to feel the comfort and safety he always brings her when he holds her. Her whole body is screaming for his touch again, but her head stops her - what if he didn’t want to hold her anymore?

“We can’t go on like this,” he tells her then and her blood instantly runs cold.

This is it.

Harry is going to tell her he can’t be with her anymore and it’s her own fault. She pushed him away.

“Okay,” she whispers. Tears are already welling up in her eyes and she is quick to blink them away before they fall. But her vision is still blurry. Her throat feels tight and dry. The room is closing on her and she has to wipe her clammy hands on her pants to make sure she’s still in her own body. A huge part of her wants to run, although she is not too sure her legs will carry her. This is what she gets for pushing him away though she supposes.

“I need to know if you’re leaving or not.”

She snaps her head in his direction as soon as the words come out of his mouth.

“What?”

She’s not sure she’s heard him right.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Harry continues and a small curl falls out of his little hair clip as he shakes his head. “I need answers from you. These past few weeks - I can’t...  I need to know where we stand. I need to know if I’ve lost you.”

She blinks.

“Harry, I-“ She can't find her words. She had been so sure that he was going to tell her he was leaving her, that he was tired of her selfishness and wanted nothing more to do with her. Now her whole body is frozen as her mind tries to catch up with what Harry just told her. He looks worn out, sad, and she feels so incredibly stupid. Guilty. This mess is all her fault. “No.”

Harry inhales sharply through his nose and gives her a short nod.

“Alright.” His lips are pressed together, jaw tense, as he averts his gaze to something other than her face, refusing to look at her any longer.

“No Harry, I mean, you haven’t,” she is quick to say when she realises he had misunderstood her words. Her head is spinning. There is so much she needs to say but she doesn’t even know where to start. “You haven’t lost me. I didn’t think- I thought you were leaving me.”

“What?”

And just like that it’s all just too much. The last couple weeks washes over her as soon Harry looks at her again and she notices how glossy his eyes are. She’s overwhelmed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry H,” she cries and hides her face in her hands, finally letting her tears spill over and run hot down her cheeks. “I’ve been so fucking stupid.”

She lets a sob rip from her throat and buries her face deeper into her hands, wishing she could just disappear. Guilt is eating away at her conscience knowing that Harry had walked around thinking she was leaving him while having to go out on stage and put on a good show for thousands of fans. She should’ve talked to him before he left. She should’ve replied to his texts. She feels like the worst fucking person in the entire world.

“Heey, noo, don’t cry.” Harry moves over to crouch down in front of her. His touch burns through the thick denim of her jeans when he puts his arms down on either side of her on the sofa, his thumbs rubbing small circles on her thighs. “Talk to me, Love.”

“I’m so stupid,” she repeats.

“You’re not,” Harry says softly and gently pushes some of her hair away from her face, tapping her fingers lightly to get her to get her to remove her hands from her face and look at him again. When she peeks at him through her fingers she’s met by his small dimple. He takes the opportunity to carefully pry her hands away completely and holds them in his own. “There we go,” he murmurs. “S’just me. You can talk to me.”

“I’m scared,” she admits and runs her fingers over his rings. Harry frowns but doesn’t say anything, just lets her take her time to gather her scattered mind. It’s hard though when he is finally so close again and all she can think about is how good he smells and how familiar and soothing it is to have his hand in hers again. “I don’t know - I guess I just worry that you’ll get tired of me or feel like I’m just holding you back or that you’ll meet someone much more exciting than me while you’re away. I’m terrified that you’re going to wake up one day and realise I’m just some loser who lives a boring life that you actually have no interest of being a part of...  And I don’t think my heart could take it.” Her voice cracks with the last part.

Harry holds her hand a little tighter in his.

“I don’t think my heart could take it either,” he tells her.

And even though he is right in front of her, holding her hands in his, she can’t stop the feeling of hopelessness coming over her again. She doesn’t want to lose him. Refuses to be the one who leaves.

But he is going away again soon and she doesn’t know what she is supposed to do when he does. The issues of her feeling alone and insecure are still going to be there, and what happens then? Is she going to put them both through another tortures couple weeks again, where neither of them know where they stand? She can’t do that to him.

“Do you think we can make it work?” she asks him and presses her lips together to stop herself from letting another sob escape her.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully and swallows hard. “But isn’t that part of it? Not knowing. Life is far too short to worry about what might happen in the future. There is alway going to be some bad and some good. The only thing I know for certain right here, right now, is that I love you and that I want to be with you. I don’t want anyone else.”

“Neither do I.”

Harry smiles.

“Okay then,” he says softly and moves himself a little closer to her. “Maybe we can just leave it like that then? And we’ll just figure it out as we go.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.”

There's a moment of silence and she wants to stay in that moment forever. Just the two of them. It’s all she wants. Always. To just be with him.

And when Harry stands up and simultaneously pulls her with him she falls into his arms. His body is so warm against hers and as he grabs her chin and tilts her head back so he can press his soft lips to hers she knows that things will work out between them. 

She loves him too much to not at least fight for it.

It will by no means be easy and she knows that when he leaves again in a couple weeks that he is going to take a piece of her heart with him.

But she also knows that she has a piece of his heart with her at all times, and that knowledge fills the small void inside her chest for many years to come.

.

Let me know what you think! <3 

[mvttsvn]

Useless [pt1]

Modern college!au

toxic Eren x gn!reader

warnings: angst, explicit themes, dubcon, embarrassment, manipulation, degradation, OOC, cussing, and typos

authors note: this has been sittin in my drafts for months I just haven’t had the motivation to finish. there will be a part 2 with smut I just wanted to get this out first.

part 2

Eren liked to think he was a pretty simple guy. He’d meet someone, use them for his benefit, lead them on till he didn’t need them anymore, then disappear. A sick trick that he used to manipulate all kinds of people. Life really can be easy with the right looks and a smooth voice. He and only ever got what he needed. He understands how selfish it is. But gotten him this far, so what would be the point in changing. 

Unfortunately, you had been one of the unlucky few to get caught up in his schemes. Let’s be honest it wasn’t a surprise, you knew of him before. A few of your friends pinned over him for being the cute nicotine-addicted guy who couldn’t care less about World Literature 1-2. But you believed each and everyone of of his sweet little promises. “No you’re so special, I think I’m gonna keep you around for a long time sweetheart.” Deception dripping from his lips as he gave you a sinful grin.

You should’ve known...

It’s been a few months now since Eren blocked and deleted your number for his phone, the last time you spoke was when he texted you to thank you for helping him pass his English final. You replied with asking if he wanted to get lunch the following day only to be left with your text never going through. That motherfucker. Of course you were angry, mostly at yourself though. You tried not to sulk about it yet every time you’d go out you’d dress up a little then you would usually just in case you’d see him. And luckily he wasn’t in any of your classes this semester either so it would be easier to forget him.

At this point you haven’t thought of Eren in weeks, you’ve focused yourself in uni and started taking assignments and things more seriously. That was until one of Eren’s roommates unknowingly took a seat next to you in your intro to ethics course.

You’ve been to Eren’s apartment a multitude of times. You knew who his roommates were, even after having a few conversations in the late morning with them after you would spend the night. Armin, who was too engrossed from whatever was on his phone plopped his books right next to you and took a seat not sparing you a glance. Once you professor started speaking he locked his phone slipping it into his pocket and glance around the room. Once he looked at you his blue eye widened and he sorta whispered “oh hey! y/n didn’t know you were in here”

You shrugged and gave a polite smile while turning back to look at the front of the room to stare through one of the windows above the projector screen. It’s not like you hated Armin, he was very kind and never judged you when you’d take the walk of shame in the morning through Eren’s kitchen, it’s just you know that this interaction would eventually lead back to him and that made you nervous.

A week or two passed and Armin continued to sit next you, you supposed it was more comfortable for him because it didn’t look like he knew anyone else in this class, neither did you. Nor were you complaining he’d give you notes and lend you his book when you would forget. Not much conversation would happen between you either, a simple hello and other small talk would occur nothing more. A very professional relationship.

Yet when your professor assigned a partner projects you and Armin both looked at each other like :| and silently agreed to work together. It was just easier that way. The assignment wasn’t due for another 2 weeks so you had confidence that you wouldn’t have to grind at the end of the this week to do it. Until Armin caught your arm as you were leaving.

“Hey sorry to ask but would it be ok if we could work on this after school? I have a lot of stuff due this week and I’m in a bit of a time crunch.” He shyly laughed hoping you weren’t busy.

You held in a sigh “Uhh sure, can I meet you at 5 tho..I have a thing-”.

“Yeah! That’d be fine, my place?”

You kinda really didn’t want to go to his place, “yea!”

You both continued listening to your teacher’s lecture while your mind was elsewhere, you didn’t have anything after school you just wanted to go home for a bit and prepare for who you may or may not see at Eren’s Armins apartment. By the end of the day you raced home, flopping onto your bed, this was a bad idea, why didn’t you just ask for him to meet at the library or something?? This situation could’ve been a whole lot simpler if you just offered your place instead. Hell you don’t have any unconventional roommates you sleep with him so it’s just unfair. At 4:45 you gather your things and drove over to Armin’s apartment. You knocked on the door, your nerves going haywire.

You’re greeted by Armin he smiled and opened the door for you letting you walk inside. You took a glance to the side and luckily Eren’s familiar beat up tennis shoes weren’t by the door. At least you could relax for a little while, hopefully he wouldn’t come home till you were gone.

Jean was sitting on the couch watching some action movie at a low volume with Connie who was fast asleep curled up with a throw pillow. The lights in the living room were dim with the curtains on the windows shut. Yet you could still see from the light in the kitchen that shone from above the counter. Jean gave you a nod, “welcome back” he half whispered as he tipped his drink at you. You smiled and waved and made your way into Armin’s room. You sat at the edge of his desk in a borrowed kitchen chair, as he joined you sitting in his computer chair in front of his desktop. He left his door slightly ajar letting you see right through into the kitchen and front door, which made you slightly on edge. Armin started going over the project, opening a document, and reading through a few paragraphs. You tried your best you to concentrate but you were too paranoid. Every so often a loud noise from Jean’s movie on the tv would make you whip your head towards the door. About an hour in you and Armin had crunched through about a few paragraphs and of your project, to Armin’s mistake you guys definitely weren’t going to finish tonight. Hopefully the next time you’d offer your place instead.

After another 30 minutes you and Armin gave up, eventually you guys made your way back into the living room. You went to the door to gather your things until Jean and Connie basically begged you to stay and watch another movie with them. You didn’t want to, you knew if you stayed any longer the possibility of Eren coming home would increase. But when Connie got up from the couch and handed you a drink, you gave in. As you sat down you began slightly regretting your decision. Why were you staying? You and Armin were finished you can go home.

You asked yourself this when you heard keys jangle outside the door and the click of the lock. It’s roughly pushed open and Eren moves into the room, swiftly locking it behind him. “Hey man” Jean calls, you immediately tense next to Armin and fix a stare at the tv. You’re too aware of your surroundings right now to know what happening but you need a distraction. You can see his movement in your peripheral, Eren saunters in to the dark living room to stand by the opposite of the end of the couch from you. when he spots you,  you can feel his blazing stare in your skull, he laughs out a scoff and the room goes silent, except for the low murmur of the tv. 

The air is tense and awkward and everybody can see your apprehension. your heart it beating in your ears and you can feel you palms starting to sweat. The sounds of the tv are immediately drowned out when Eren breathes our your name. “What the hell are you doing here?” He grips the arm of the couch and places his left hand on his hip. You slowly turn your head to look him in the eyes when Armin speaks up trying to lighten the situation “We had a project for sadis’ class” 

Your eyes dart between Eren and Armin when Eren snides, “hmm...well it doesn’t look like your working on it” 

“hey layoff man” Jean gives him a side eye. “Yeah we finished just a few minutes ago.” Armin adds. 

“It was just a question” Eren shrugs. You can believe him, he such a fucking asshole, you’re staring at him in disbelief when he meets your eyes again he laughs “what did you miss me or somethin?” His grin is sickening, you feel the embarrassment hot on your face yet what can you do in the situation? If you leave you’ll destroy your pride and yet if you stay what if you give in to him again?

Your frozen in your seat you nails digging shapes into you palms as you clench them together. You feel the stare of everyone one in the room and it makes you want to cry. He tilts his head “can’t you speak? what wrong?” the malice in his voice makes your ears burn. You want to scream, you want to run, but he slowly walks right in front of you and holds out his hand. “C’mon”

You can leave at any moment, the door is only a few feet away yet you cautiously place your palm into his as he hauls you up from your seat. No one says anything as you guys leave the room, what a complicated situation this is huh? 

As he opens his door you try to glace back at the others yet he roughly pulls your arm though and slams his bedroom door. You hope they don’t blame you too much for going with him. You stand in the middle of a very familiar room, one you’ve visited many times yet you’re too scared too move from the spot you currently occupy. He turns to face you locking the door behind him and takes a few steps forward. You look at the floor as you begin speaking “Eren I-” 

“ohhhh so you can talk?” 

“yes’ you puff. 

He fits his hand under your chin proceeding to squish your cheeks to face him. “I don’t like you hanging out with them when I’m not around” his hot breath fan your face and you widen your eyes. The audacity. “What do you mean, were not even together anymo-” you voice smothered by his grip. 

He tips his head back and see concern in his eyes, its almost like he was hurt by your words, “Yes we are” his eyebrows scrunched together. You go to spit out another sentence when his hand moves to cover you entire mouth, he brings face to your ear, “You wound me y/n, how could you think that? I thought you loved me?” Why does he sounds so genuine? Your mind is fuzzy with confusion, of course he’s lying, you would never in a million years utter those words to him during the short time you were together. Yet the pain in his voice and the grip on your jaw is making you dizzy, his hot breath on your ear and neck are causing goosebumps to raise on your skin.

 Your smaller hand goes to grip his forearm that's holding your face. He moved to look into your eyes. The dim light from the lamp in the far corner of the room casts a shadow upon his face, yet his deep green eyes seem to glow. He slowly moves his hand away placing it on your shoulder as his free hand moves to your hip. You want to yell at him, ask his why he’s doing this to you, but you place your palm softly onto his chest and drop your head in shame, “I’m sorry..i..I didn’t know” you whispered.

His warm hand goes to caress your cheek and moves into your hair lightly pulling to make you face him. “It’s ok babe, you just have to make it up to me” his chest rumbles underneath your hands as you eye widen. “You can do that, right?” You slowly nod your head and bunch his t-shirt under your fingers. He places a soft kiss on your forehead and lead you towards his bed in the corner of the room. He takes a seat on his dark blue comforter and your stand in front of him. Your hands lightly holding onto his index fingers as he carefully rocks them back and forth.  You take another look at his face and see the artificial softness slowly fade away into something dark, and conspiring.

“On your knees babe” his voice sounding rougher than before. You begin another protest but he takes his warm palms and encircles your waist to urge you down. You slowly fall to your knees, your hands on his thighs while digging your nails into his rough jeans. Your mind slowly starts to unfog and start realizing what your doing. Your shame and regret tug at your heart and you feel the tears begin to prick your eyes. You look up at Eren and see the distain in his eyes. He hums and caresses you shoulder. You wept into your chest as you feel the air being stolen from your lungs Eren moves his calloused hand to your throat and tugs to make you look him in the eyes.

Why did you have to be so damn proud?

[author-a-holmes]

Monthly Update - August 2022

This updates a little later in the month that I usually like, but we're on the final day of August and I wanted to keep you all in the loop on the things that are happening right now.

Are we all ready for this update? Oh good! Let's dig in…

Since my last update…

I gave a brief update on the progress of Changeling at the beginning of August, but the last time I did a proper update was the middle of July.

I was neck deep in Camp Nanowrimo, and the UK was in fighting through a record breaking heatwave.

I'm pleased to say I survived the weather (just) and that Changeling's first draft was completed! I got a huge majority of the words down in July, a nice 72k, and finished up the final five or six chapters during the first 11 days of August.

Since then I've been alternating between Changeling Edits, and the first few chapters of it's sequel, Darkling...

Both are going well. August has been a slower month than I hoped for in terms of writing and editing, but I've still been making fairly steady forward progress, and that's what counts.

Also since my last update, I've finally got my newsletter up and running. If you're reading this update on my website, I'm sure you've noticed the new banners telling you about the free prequel story available, exclusively, to my newsletter subscribers called 'Whatever Happened To Madeline Hail?'.

Moving forward I'll also be making sneak peeks and behind the scenes updates exclusive to my newsletter subscribers, and any future pieces of flash fiction will also be exclusive.

If this isn't enough to entice you to sign up, I'll also be showing my covers to my subscribers before anyone else, and asking for Arc readers through my newsletter before searching publically, and in the future Newsletter subscribers will hear about any sales, discounts, or offers on my future books.

There's loads of reasons to sign up, and you can do so by clicking on any of the banners or the sign up form on my website.

Plan for the coming month…

I'd like to make substantial progress on book two. My deadline for a completed first draft is Halloween, but I'm a little behind where I'd like to be right now, so if I can make some strong headway in September, I'll be happier going into October.

I'd also like to get my self edits on Changeling completed in September so that I can contact my editor in October to see when she's free.

Right now, the process for Changeling is very; X has to happen before Y can happen, which needs to happen before Z. I need to finish the self edits, then I can contact my editor, then I'll know when I can afford my ISBN's, which I need before contacting my cover designer.

It's very exciting though, and the first step is the self edits. I've done four chapters already, and it's taking me about 2-3 hours per chapter, so I've got a lot to get through.

Because I've got a lot to do with Writing and Editing, I don't really want to commit to another Arc to review right now, but if I find I have a couple of days where I need a break, I might pick up an Advanced Reader Copy from Booksprout, or a new service I found called Voracious Readers.

And that's all for August! I hope everyone has a lovely September, and I'll see you in another couple of weeks for a progress update.

Sign up for my newsletter if you'd like to see a sneak peek of Darkling during my next update!

Much love to you all,

Ari x

[katnissmellarkkk]

I *DEMAND* part 3 of shattered pearl. I repeat. I *DEMAND*.

Hahahahaha omg. Well, I decided to legitimately dig through the archives of my writing drafts and found chapter three of the Peeta-Wasn’t-Hijacked fic. It’s been given like 1,000 different names on different sites. I’ve never loved any of them. And I don’t really think this is my best writing ngl. But I also figure ... why be so stingy, ya know? If I have an incomplete draft, that I probably won’t finish, why not post a little bit? Especially since I literally left everyone and their brother who were reading this fic on a cliffy for over a year.

With that said.... I wrote this part like ... 15 months ago? 14 ? 13 ? Something like that. And I haven’t edited it since so ... yeah! Here’s a small chunk of chapter three! 🥳🥳🥳 Hope it’s better than I remember it being!

But it’s lacking something and it’s only then I realize, what I’m searching for inside Gale’s mouth, is the spark that only Peeta’s ever ignited in me. I keep waiting in vain for the warmth that started in my stomach and then rose up and exploded in my chest, for the craving that no matter what I couldn’t manage to satisfy, for the thrilling, almost hysterical, tingly feeling, to overcome me and leave me lightheaded in a completely foreign way. A way that couldn’t be attributed to lack of oxygen.

But it never does. I pull back and wipe my mouth carelessly on my arm and sigh, already sensing Gale’s demeanor taking a nose dive at my lackluster reaction.

I’m not disappointed when I look to see his expression. His eyes are frustrated, his mouth is downturned, his eyebrows are pinched together. And I feel as bad as I knew I would. Because no matter what, I’m hurting someone I deeply care for.

But how I feel upon seeing Gale’s face isn’t even comparable to the amount of remorse that fills me, that overtakes my entire being, when I see Peeta standing in the doorway, having watched our entire exchange.

/

I yelled his name as he disappeared down the hall. I tried to rip out all the needles and wires connecting me to the machines and the stiff, sterilized bed but Gale used all his strength to push me down flat. I was overpowered and exhausted and my left side was screaming mercilessly, and I don’t even know what pain was the bruised lung and what pain was my hurt ribs and what pain was my heart violently smashing into the pit of my stomach.

All I know is that if I had been able to reach Peeta before he evaporated, I have no clue what I would have said to him.

What I could have said to make it alright.

Gale tried to talk to me again after that but I entirely tuned him out, no longer caring if I wounded his feelings, or anyone else's for that matter.

It seems like no matter what I do, no matter how careful or cautious or preemptive I try to be, someone still got hurt in the end.

I wish I could just shut out the world, like I did during those first few weeks in Thirteen. Hide inside closets when I had a flashback. Shove myself into a minuscule crawl space with every nightmare. Refuse to speak to anyone who wasn't Gale or my family. Only eat when my mother nearly forced me. Show no remorse for how rude or how clinically insane I came across.

But now there was an agreement in place, an agreement I made to protect the victors—namely the one who just disappeared down the hall on me—and the people who had no voice on their own. The people who’s only chance was a half-crazed, shell-shocked, battle worn seventeen year old girl, who was just gunned down on national television.

Even if I wanted to retreat to some safe haven inside my head—if such a thing even existed for me—like Annie Cresta, I knew it could never happen.

For me, that wasn’t an option. If I don’t fulfill my duties to Coin, Peeta, Johanna, Annie and probably countless more people will suffer. The districts would undoubtably suffer. Gale would suffer. My mother and Prim would suffer.

I was proven right when later that same night Plutarch came to visit me again. I'd been lying on my side to avoid having to see Gale, who was still soldered to my bedside. My good side was thankfully opposite his seat.

When the Gamemaker spoke I thought I would be forced back to work. Forced to head back to the rebels and engage in their plans.

And I was resigned to it, well aware all along that I wouldn't be given the luxury of time to grieve the hurt I just caused Peeta. Or even the pain I knew I was inflicting upon Gale. The constant seesaw my heart was bouncing up and down on.

I was endlessly thankful that I was still pumped with morphling when Plutarch said that I was needed in Coin's office, because it heavily suppressed any real emotion I had brewing deep inside.

Morphling can cause you to let down your guard sometimes, make you say or do things you wouldn't otherwise or allow things to happen you'd ordinarily have the sense to stop. But it also causes all your severe emotions, all your heightened feelings, to dull as well. And for that, in light of everything that had just transpired, I was eternally grateful for.

When the doctor had removed all the needles from my arm, and I had been given a robe to go over my hospital gown—which, shockingly, was even uglier and thinner and itchier than the gowns they gave in the Capitol hospitals—Gale escorts me down the halls, through the corridors and to President Coin’s office.

I don’t speak to him the entire time. Looking at him makes my stomach churn with remorse and regret, though I’m not even sure who those feelings are directed towards. I’m not even sure how to articulate the way I feel right now.

And, as much as I try to force him out of my mind—as much as I do my best to rip him out from wherever he crawled beneath my skin and flooded into my veins—I inexplicably miss Peeta.

In more ways than I even know how to decipher. Even inside my own head.

I thought that feeling of longing would have ebbed away once he was rescued from Snow and his twisted mansion, but even knowing he’s safe here in Thirteen, I still crave his presence next to me.

I still want him next to me almost all the time.

It’s at least partially attributable to the fact that for so long, it was me and Peeta against the world. He has been my partner in this whirlwind rollercoaster since the first games and, even when I feel like every single aspect that could potentially go wrong has, sometimes it seems like I couldn’t have gotten luckier with who was chosen that fateful reaping to stand by my side the entire horrific ride.

I wipe my eyes as inconspicuously as I can but Gale sees and almost instinctively puts his hand on my shoulder. And proves he knows me better than I give him credit for. “I’ll talk to him, Katniss.”

“Don’t,” I immediately hiss. “You’ll just make it worse, Gale. He-he,” I struggle with explaining what I want to say and I curse my best friend for even addressing my moment of weakness because now I have to go talk to Coin, looking like an unstable mess—with a near bullet wound—and I blurt out the very first thing I can think of. “He doesn’t even know you, okay? You’ll just-“

There’s no malice in Gale’s voice as he softly replies, “Well, he was fine when I went and saw him before you woke up.”

I stop now, dead in my tracks. “You saw him? After I was shot?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, I felt like should check on him. I know...” He pauses and looks upwards and I recognize, once again, this whole thing isn’t easy for him either. “I know he means a lot to you. And I heard what happened when he saw you go down. So I went and checked in on him...” He stops again before shrugging nonchalantly. “He was calmer by the time I saw him. He was nice. He’s always been nice.” At that Gale rolls his eyes. “Too nice. Probably why Snow wanted to hurt him.”

I start walking again, moving ahead of him a few paces. “You’re not helping,” I state, my voice a monotone.

“I’ll talk to him,” Gale offers again, running to catch up.

“Please don’t, okay? Just let it be. I don’t even know if he’ll speak to me, I don’t want to have to worry about what you’ll say to him.”

I vigorously shake off his hand on my shoulder when he tries to comfort me again, and feel him root into place as I make the rest of the way to Coin’s office.

And I wonder if I hurt him now too.

I wonder if I managed to completely annihilate them both from me in one night.

/

Much to my surprise and, to be completely honest, my utter disappointment, Coin doesn’t want me to head back out and fight for the rebellion. She doesn’t want me to even film more propos.

Plutarch does, but his ideas now are pretty frivolous and have more to do with him being still stuck in the fantasy of putting on a good show and less to do with fighting for the good of the country.

Coin simply says, “You did your job, Miss Everdeen. You united the districts,” in her calm, disingenuous—completely unsettling—tone.

And argument I put up is met with a simple shake of the head and a pursing of her lips. All indisputable rejections, her cold, blank eyes telling me wordlessly that in no way could I sway her once her mind was made up.

Still doesn’t stop me from trying though.

“I want to help the rebels,” I plead, looking to Boggs behind Coin’s chair, his face still stoic but his eyes giving me a look that isn’t altogether dismissive.

That was something. It was more than I was getting from either Coin or Plutarch.

Coin though brushes off my words and cuts me down infuriatingly quick with a single sentence. “Plutarch wanted to see Peeta earlier, talk about some propos. But when he sent for him, one of the doctors working with Peeta said he wasn’t having a good day.”

Her tone is smooth and pleasant enough but there was an undercurrent to her words that she knew I would hear. “Do you know how Peeta is? I would have thought with your waking up this morning, he’d be in better shape than he was but if you two aren’t getting-“

“Me and Peeta are fine,” I snap, not liking whatever she’s implying.

She nods, slowly at me, choosing her next sentiment carefully. “Well, let’s hope so. We need both of you now to remain the faces of this revolution. And I wouldn’t want you to do anything rash because of... problems between you and your... between you and Peeta.”

I’m shaking my head, feigning certainty, before she even finishes. “That’s not why I want to help the rebels,” I insist firmly.

“Irregardless, Miss Everdeen, we don’t have a job for you. You aren’t qualified to go into the fight and we no longer need your propos to unite the districts. Your job is done. Thank you for your help.”

And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I’m being definitively dismissed now. Indefinitely.

I don’t make any effort to keep my cool, instead choosing to storm out of the room, slamming the door cacophonously behind me and wonder why I let that woman get to me so much. Why her words and implications slice me open like a knife.

Why no matter how much I try, I just can’t like her.

Something about her rubs me the wrong way and, once again, I wish Peeta was here with me in the room, because he of all people could understand what about Coin felt off and strange and so familiar.

I curse myself again, as I suddenly miss him even more than before.

Unable to force myself to put my focus elsewhere—especially now that Gale is surely angry too—I change directions and head towards the recovery room.

I don’t even knock before entering. I push the door open, only to find him sitting on top of his bed, a sketchbook in hand, a lot more tranquil than I pictured.

He looks up as I enter—and then, simultaneously freeze in the doorway, like the coward I truly am inside. Before he can speak though, I blurt out, “I know you’re mad about me kissing Gale and I don’t know how much you saw or heard, but it wasn’t... it wasn’t exactly...” I stop because once again, I’m unprepared and out of my element and have no rhyme or reason in what I’m trying to say. I don’t know the right thing to say. I never know the right thing to say.

Maybe if I did, I wouldn’t screw always everything up. “It wasn’t,” I finally force myself to continue, off his patient and somewhat bewildered glance. “It wasn’t what I wanted... I didn’t want it to happen. I don’t, I don’t even know what-“

He finally puts me out of my misery now. “Katniss,” he speaks my name along with a sigh. I watch carefully, feeling a lump build in my throat, as his blonde brows furrow over his baby blues.

He shakes his head, slow and calm. Far more reasonable than I ever anticipated. “I’m not mad at you, Katniss,” he promises, with all the genuineness in the world.

I bite my lip, befuddled by his words. “But... where have you been then?” Why did you leave me? A small voice in the back of my mind demands.

He shrugs, his gaze falling down to his bed now. His demeanor is almost embarrassed, I realize with a start.

“I wanted to give you and Gale space. I’ve been practically mauling you since you woke up so I thought-“

“But I didn’t want you to leave,” I abruptly burst out, unable to shove the words down any longer.

A pang of embarrassment shoots through me though, for the pathetic crack, evident in my tone. And I mentally berate myself.

Not for the embarrassment. For the pathetic crack itself.

And for the fact that somehow I’m the frenzied one here and Peeta is the voice of reason.

Which used to be our norm but after everything that’s transpired, I would have thought things would be reversed by now.

He just stares at me for a long moment, carefully considering his next words.

Finally, he opens his arms slowly and utters, “Come here,” in a tender murmur and I practically fly into his arms before I can second guess the offer.

I feel my injured side screaming as I curl up like a ribbon in his arms, but I surpress the wince to the best of my ability and instead bury my face in his shoulder, breathing in his sweet scent like a mad girl.

He softly presses his lips to my messy locks, carefully massaging the back of my head soothingly. “I’m sorry I ran away,” he whispers, barely loud enough for even me to hear. “I was just embarrassed. I know—I’ve always known deep down—that it’s not right for me to constantly hold you to the things you said in the games. Or to project my own feelings onto you.”

“You didn’t,” I refute venomously, my brows knitting together.

“Katniss, I know you and Gale have had something between you for a long time.”

“Gale was just a friend until me and you came back from our first games. Maybe he wanted to be more even before, I don’t know, but I never felt anything romantic for him. I swear.”

“You don’t have to defend your feelings to me,” he states softly.

“I know, it’s just...” I sigh, moving to sit upright across his thighs. “No matter what I do, it’s wrong. If I say I’m confused, you’re both hurting. If I say I want to kiss you or sleep with you or just be with you, I’m leading you on because I can’t-I can’t make any promises about my feelings right now, because I don’t even know up from down anymore. And if I say I do or don’t want to kiss Gale or be around him or hunt with him still, I’m hurting him or giving him the wrong idea or telling him the wrong things, and it all gets confused and there’s an entire rebellion that I’m the face of, and now I don’t even know if I’m a part of that, but Snow and his followers all hate me still so I know family still won’t be safe until this is all over. And you. You and Johanna and Annie went through the ringer over me. And Gale gets upset whenever he sees us together—it hurts him to see us—but I can’t always seperate you two from one another and I just-I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Peeta lets me rant the whole entire spiel out, his hand slowly moving in circles to rub my back, from the top of my spine down to my backside. “Katniss,” he whispers once I’m done. “You don’t have to defend yourself to me. I get it. You’re under immense pressure. The last thing I want to do is make things harder on you.”

“You’re not,” I say, shaking my head insistently. “You’re not making anything worse, Peeta. It’s-it’s not you.”

“Okay,” he concedes and unconsciously wraps me up tighter in his arms. “Just relax, okay? Relax and breathe.”

I quiver and quake against him. “I don’t think I can.”

I barely realize I’m crying until Peeta leans down to kiss my tearstained cheek softly. “Katniss, it’s okay. I’m not mad. And Gale shouldn’t be. If he is, then that’s on him. The rebellion isn’t just your responsibility. Do not let them put all that weight on your shoulders. I know they already have but it’s not all your responsibility. And no one is going to let anything happen to your mom or sister.” He pushes my hair away from my forehead, pressing his lips there for a long moment. “Or you. I promise I will not let anything else happen to you.”

I swallow hard as he rests his forehead against my temple. I squeeze my eyes shut in hopes that it will make my head stop spinning somehow. Deep breaths to center myself fail miserably and in the end, I feel my bruised ribs and lung disagree with the movement and ache worse than before.

Peeta feels me cringing against him in pain and remains careful as he shifts, reaching for something off his bedside table.

I’m in too much pain to react as pushes off my robe and tugs my hospital gown down in order to slide against my skin, his hand holding it firmly to my side.

The icy temperature brings some sort of relief to me almost instantly, and I let out an audible sigh of relief, feeling my rigid body relax even a minuscule amount for the first time.

“I don’t blame you for having feelings for Gale,” Peeta murmurs, drawing my attention back to our conversation and away from my painful left side. “And if you want to be with him, I won’t hold it against you. I’m not going to lie, I’d be ... sad but... it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t still be your friend. It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t still be at jere for you however you needed me. There’s no ultimatums here, Katniss. I’m still here for you, even if you’d rather be with Gale.”

I pause for a long moment, absorbing his words. He’d be willing to be my friend, even if I hurt him? Even if I chose someone else over him? Even after everything we went through, even after all the ways he’d been abused because Snow could see how much I care for him? How much I need him. He’s still willing to put it all aside and be there for me, no strings attached.

And I try not to compare but my brain draws the conclusion almost involuntarily, and I can’t stop myself from realizing that, in the same position, Gale would likely not be telling me the same thing.

I burrow my face deeper in his shoulder, shutting my eyes in exhaustion.

Peeta catches me off-guard, moving my hair aside to kiss my neck, eliciting a flare of heat in the place where his lips brush my skin, and I may not know exactly how I feel, but I know in that moment exactly what I want right now.

“The only person I want to be with tonight is you,” I whisper honestly, looking up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to somehow understand an emotion I don’t know how to admit. “The only person I want right now is you, Peeta.”

[rosy-cheekx]

Hypothetically

 @aspecarchivesweek Day One: Wish

I wish to make you happy.

Jonathan Sims/Georgie Barker

This was it. Jon fiddles with the pale green collar of his shirt; eyes focused resolutely on the version of himself in the mirror that hung on the wardrobe in his student flat. Tonight’s the night I’m going to ask Georgie to…

He shakes his head to himself, wincing at the end of that sentence. He knows what he’s going to do tonight, what he wants to do tonight, what difference does vocalizing it make, even if it’s just to himself?

Glancing down at his watch, Jon chews his lip. He was meeting Georgie at the bar in thirty minutes. The bar was ten minutes away…He should probably leave now, right? In case he needed to find them seats or use the loo or if the walk ended up taking longer than the dozens of times he’s been there before? He doesn’t want to be late, that would just make everything worse-

Huh. He’s pacing. Jon forces himself to stop and stands in the middle of his bedroom, wrapping his hands around his sides, thumbs digging into his back, feeling his diaphragm push his ribs out and in as he breathes, focusing on the solid movement of his body. Why am I so nervous? His therapist had talked to him, years back, about identifying sources of his anxiety. He hates that it works, hates that it means confronting his own brain and acknowledging his faults.

Is it the bar? No. This bar, The Addison, is one of the few pubs Jon actually enjoys. It’s always got a bit of a draft so even in the busiest nights it never feels like the heat of the room is inescapable. Jon’s not the biggest fan of beer, per se, but he can knock back a pint with the best of them, so long as he has something in his stomach first, and the pretzels and beer cheese The Addison makes are his favorite. The thought of them make his stomach growl.

Is it Georgie? No. He has a lot of strong feelings for Georgie, feels comfortable being himself around her. He drops his stuffy academic persona and can be his regular, less-stuffy-but-still-academic self, the one who speaks to her flatmate’s cat in a higher-pitched voice but still with proper Queen’s English, because “they deserve to be treated with respect, don’t you Madame?” She cares about him, too, he knows that, and he’s enjoyed their months as friends and the past few weeks they’ve been a couple.

As a couple…He feels a twinge of anxiety in his chest that makes him flap his hands instinctively, a quick stim to ward off the impending doom building in his belly. Ah. Found it. He and Georgie have only gone on a few dates: a coffeeshop on a Saturday morning, and a movie night in Georgie’s flat, an evening which had been planned to be a movie marathon of Georgie’s favorite bad horror movies, the B and C rated films that were truly just a vehicle for half-naked women sprinting down alleyways and gratuitous fake blood effects. Any excuse for them to laugh over popcorn and predict the plot points, except Jon had fallen asleep partway through the second movie and had woken up the next morning on Georgie’s couch, a worn fleece blanket over his slumped form. But this? This was a proper night-time date, involving alcohol and a walk home and, Jon was sure, a “mind if I come in?” and it would be different because it wasn’t a friend he was talking to, it was his girlfriend and there were expectations and he was a virgin and didn’t want to disappoint her because he knows Georgie is experienced and she deserves to have a good time and it’s his responsibility as a boyfriend to do that, even if he’s terrified because he hasn’t before—

Woah. Jon takes a deep breath. That was a lot. He did a full Sims, as Georgie would say, letting things snowball in his head until he explodes. He closes his eyes, wringing his hands again, just a gentle flutter at his sides. It’ll be fine. She’ll understand. She has up to now. Georgie has understood his weird studying habits, his deep aversion to spiders, his need to be early everywhere, his sudden shutdowns and stimming habits and how he loves to be held and touched. She can certainly handle him being a nervous virgin.

Jon slips a condom in his wallet and then, hesitating, tears off two more and throws them in. In case he messes up the first time. Checking his watch, he sees its quarter to eight. If he leaves now he’ll only be five minutes early. Perfect.

--

The Addison is a healthy dose of busy on a Thursday night in late autumn, the hum of conversation and music floating over Jon is just the right amount of chaos for him to reach equilibrium, feeling enthused by his nervous energy. He’s sitting at the bartop, spinning the cap to his beer bottle, watching it whirl, whirl, whirl, clattering on the stained wood and spinning all the while. It’s entrancing.

Georgie is speaking to him now. She smiles warmly at him and feels his stomach flip. God, she’s gorgeous when she smiles. Her hair’s in braids this month, pink and orange weaved tightly together, contrasting with the tight black turtleneck dress she wears. He catches himself staring at her profile, the planes of her face animated as she tells him a story about her professor and his alleged vow to fail her this semester. His face is warm. See, he soothes himself, you are attracted to her. You’re just nervous.

“Jon. Jon?” Georgie’s eyebrow is quirked up and she’s smirking at him, like she’s caught him in a lie. “Everything alright? You’re staring.” Jon feels another rush of blood to his cheeks, prickling at how exposed he feels to have been caught up in his thoughts about her.

“Oh-uh, yeah,” he nods, hesitating before reforming his own features into a smile. “I-I was just thinking. Well. How nice you look tonight.” Georgie isn’t immune to compliments, he knows this for certain, and its reaffirmed as she ducks her own head briefly, smile shifting from teasing to soft.

“O-Oh. Thank you, Jon.” She sips her drink, preferring something a little harder than Jon’s beer, usually a vodka cranberry she can nurse throughout a night or throw back when she needs a little something more in her bloodstream, fogging her mind. “You look really nice too, you know. Your green shirt is my favorite.” She gestures to the button up and he nods absently, glancing down at it. When he looks up, her face is close to his, hand weaving into the curls by his ear. He sighs and leans into the touch, feeling a shiver run through him when they kiss. He tastes the cranberry on her lips, vodka on her tongue, her liquid courage enthusing him as well as her (not that she needs any excuse to be bold, really), and makes a choice.

When they pull away for air, he grins wildly at her, the face he makes when he knows he’s about to a very Not-Sims thing. When the bartender makes his rounds again, a pale man in a black button-down, Jon orders his own ruby-red drink. Georgie’s eyebrows meet her hairline as he does so, folding her hands together. “Who are you and what have you done with Jonathan Sims?” The chuckle behind her voice balances the sternness of her words. He just grins at her and takes a sip of his newly-acquired vodka and cranberry juice, the dry flavors curling on his tongue and making his head feel light and warm after even half the glass.  

-

Jon is drunk. It doesn’t take a genius to see that. He knows he’s a lightweight and even the divine soft pretzels he’s been munching on since his arrival can only handle so much. He’s finished his second hard drink on top of the beer and is feeling properly light and airy. Like a cake, he giggles to himself. He’s having fun, chatting with Georgie about life and cats and uni and their plans for the future. Jon’s entertaining a couple of options, a few research jobs in London, and Georgie is poking his side, making him laugh as she teases him about his studying skills being useful for something more than exams.

“At least I have studying skills!” He says, pushing her off his side, linking their fingers together to inhibit her from poking him again. “You can’t ride my coattails forever, you know.”

“I won’t have to! It came in today.”

“What did?” His thoughts are clouded, edges of anxiety smoothed over into something more ignorable.

“My microphone! So I can start my podcast about spooky shit, remember?” Georgie squeezes his hand and finishes her own drink, far along as Jon in liquid consumed but not nearly as affected as he is. “I’m going to uncover the world’s mysteries and teach my faithful audience about the supernatural. I’ve got the title nailed down, too.” With her free hand she paints a banner in the air. “What the Ghost. ‘Cause it’s like ‘what the fuck’ and I can talk about all sorts of weird shit.” Georgie swears a lot, and more when she’s tipsy.

“Can I see it?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think them through. “The-the microphone, can I see it?”

Her eyes widen and she nods, “Oh, yeah of course! I haven’t been able to test it out yet, so maybe you can help me.”

Jon insists on paying. So does Georgie. They resign to splitting it, each vowing to pay next time and knowing they will never outsmart each other.

-

Jon doesn’t realize how drunk he is until he’s walking the five minutes to Georgie’s flat. Tucked into her side, the air is cool around his face, the wind an icy hand cupping his cheek. Everything feels smeary, liquid, warm. Hands in the pocket of the peacoat he knows he bought for the aesthetic and not to keep him warm, he fingers his wallet, feels the circular outline inside, and feels…nothing. Good. He can do this.

He’s always loved Georgie’s flat. It is warm, all orange and yellow lamplight, houseplants, and a cosy cluttered look. Her roommate exists only in residuals, the sneakers she leaves by the door and the dishes she does at odd hours more proof she exists than anything like conversation. Jon respects that. Georgie’s room is a lot like the rest of the flat, which means it’s a lot like Georgie herself. Warm, dark, soft, and scattered, with hidden elements of cat hair no matter how many times she cleans. Jon throws his coat over his desk chair and collapses onto her bed, reveling in how her pillows feel under his back. He takes a moment to greet the weird smile-faced stain on her ceiling before sitting up, watching Georgie fold herself next to him and open a carboard box, taking out a chunky black microphone with a USB cable. She brandishes it like a sword, before angling it to her face.

“This is BBC 4 with breaking news,” she intones into the microphone, putting on a crisp RP accent and lowering her voice an octave. “Ghosts and ghouls have been discovered at King’s College, Oxford, residing as university professors. News anchor Jonathan Sims has the story. Sims?”

Jon presses back his giggles and leans into the character, accent already pretty close to the posh voice she puts on. “There’s been an error, actually. They’ve been the students all along. Journalism student Porgie Parker has been found out to have been a ghost. These discoveries were made after her boyfriend, English Literature student…Bonathan Bims, realized she had never picked up a textbook because she couldn’t! Her hands went right through them!” By the time he’s gotten to the word textbook, Georgie has pounced on him, microphone forgotten as she wrestles him to the bed, alternating between poking and tickling him until he lets the bit trail off, voice a mix of giggles and pleas for her to stop.

When she lets off, Jon abruptly realizes the intimacy of their position. She’s straddling him, her hands pinning his wrists to the plush pillow behind his head. They’re both breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and smiling.

Jon isn’t sure who started the kiss, but it doesn’t really matter. His arms are wrapped around Georgie’s neck and her hands are cupping his face, cool to the touch, nails lightly scratching his jawline. The bed is soft and Georgie is warm, pressing in from all sides, and it feels good. This he likes.

She kisses along his jawline and he feels heart rate pickup, flexing his hands (when did he curl them into fists?) as she presses against his neck. He wishes vaguely she’d put her hands back in his hair, he likes that soft feeling of pressure on his scalp. The smile on the ceiling is smirking at him now, the curve of the water stain looking more vicious than it had earlier.

Her hands are on his chest, she’s unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands feel too cold now, the shiver running through him one of anxiety, not desire, and Jon is sitting up before he knows what he’s doing. Fuck. Georgie, the saint, backs off him and kneels beside him on the bed. Jon’s hands flit to the undone buttons, fingertips circling them, suddenly unsure what to do.

“Are you okay, Jon?” Georgie’s voice is softer, eyes searching his face as she wedges her hands underneath her knees. He watches her wrists, the swing of her braids as she cocks her head, anything to avoid her eyes.

“I-” he gestures to her vaguely. “Y-You know I haven’t before, right?”

“Oh. Oh.” Georgie nods, understanding maybe a little better than he expected. “No offense, but I kinda figured, Jon. Not in a bad way!” She backpedals. “I just figured, you know, there’s no rush.”

“I mean, there’s a little of a rush,” he admonishes under his breath. At her hum of confusion: “You know, the whole-” he gestures again, as if he could pluck the word from the air. “-third date…thing.”

“Jon,” Georgie sighs his name, voice soft and so patient, a voice he doesn’t think he’s heard used anywhere else. “There’s no rule saying what we have to do when. Or how. Or ever, for that matter. It’s no one’s business what we do except ours.” She reaches out a hand, waiting for a slight nod, before taking his thin hands in her own. “Is that why you drank more than usual today?”

Jon nods, feeling a sag of relief spread throughout his body. “I just- I want to make you happy.”

“You do make me happy, you twit. That’s why we’re friends and it’s why I’m dating you.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t need sex to be happy. Is it fun? Yes. But not necessary.”

Jon frowns, chewing on his lip and eyeing the window of her bedroom, tracing the rectangle with his eyes over and over again. “I-hmm.” Georgie watches him search for words; she knows how he ticks well enough to know they’re coming if she waits. “What if, hypothetically, I never had sex with you? Ever.”

“Well,” she gave his hands a light squeeze. “Hypothetically, I’d be totally okay with it, though I’d ask if you were asexual and make sure we had appropriate boundaries.”

“Huh?” The word draws him back to her face, the deep brown eyes that search his own. “Asexual. Like, no sex?” She nods, again, ever-patient. “Huh. Asexual.” He drops the pretense. “Maybe.”

Asexual. The word felt good as he rolled it around in his mouth. He traced the letters with his fingertips in cursive against his thigh as Georgie let go of him, rolling off her bed to pull on sweatpants and a t shirt instead of the dress she was wearing 

“Let’s look into it, if you want. Together.” Georgie grins at him now, rye and warm. “I will have to ask you if want hypothetical crisps, because I’m hypothetically fucking starving.”

[antipodeanpineapplelump]

Dear Starshot, I recently saw your latest artwork for #Shisui Uchiha and the Lost Treasure of Asura and I am DYING to learn more about this AU. If you're comfortable sharing, is there anything you can disclose about it?? Is this related to the ItaShi Indiana Jones AU you mentioned before?!!?!?!?!!

Hi Birk, thank you so much for dropping by with this ask! Are you really voluntarily asking me to talk about my current obsession and fanfic baby though? Because I warn you, you may live to regret that!!!

"Shisui Uchiha and the Lost Treasure of Asura" is now the official title of my ItaShi Indiana Jones AU. I realise it’s been over a year since I first mentioned it, and it’s still a WIP! Pretty sure that says absolutely nothing good about the speed of my writing, but a lot about how busy my life outside of fandom is. Anyhow, it’s definitely one of those AUs that’s got away on me. I was planning one story initially, but now it’s kind of turned into three (plus a cracky oneshot), and this is just the first.

I’ve planned nine chapters total so far, but the bane of my life is currently number four. It’s sitting at 16,000 words and counting. Succinct writing? I’ve certainly never heard of it… So anyway, I kind of hit a wall there and decided to take a little break to come back with fresh eyes. That’s how I ended up working on the art instead. But I’d say I’m probably about halfway through the first draft (47,000-ish words).

I recently shared the opening scene and my draft cover artwork here. Ummm… what else can I tell you? Madara is the main bad guy, and he’s definitely a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Shisui is an agent of disaster and chaos. Itachi is really… not. So their initial interactions go about as well as you could expect.

All the main characters have extensive back stories. I’m pretty sure you’re already familiar with my Machiavellian worldbuilding tendencies from reading Red Dawn, so it goes without saying I have just as many notes and plans, and as much fleshed out worldbuilding for this story too. And it will take a long time for all of that to be revealed! But the overarching theme is probably found family, which is different to anything I’ve done before.

At this risk of revealing too much, or boring you to tears, I’ll finish with another sneak peek, this time from Itachi’s POV:

When Itachi wakes, there’s nothing to suggest his day is going to be anything but routine.

He gets up at dawn as per usual, eating breakfast at the dining table alone, legs tucked beneath him on a comfortable zabuton. The solitude at this hour of day is something he prefers. It’s the only time the family home is quiet anymore—lacking the cold disapproval of his father’s increasingly judgemental lectures, the anger of his younger brother’s rebellion, or the resigned acquiescence of his mother.

By now, Fugaku should have left for work, and it’s still too early for Sasuke to be awake, given how late he’s been staying out at night. Either to irritate their father, or just avoid him entirely, he’s taken to frequenting the clubs and bars in Osaka. Mostly, he comes home. Some nights, he doesn’t.

More often than not, even when he is home his door is closed, the thumping bass line of some song or another seeping out from beneath it. Likely because he knows this angers their father even more than the leather jackets and spiked punk-rock hair style he now sports.

Part of Itachi has been glad to discover his brother possesses more of a spine than he ever has. But at the same time, Sasuke’s rejection of every last one of their father’s rules has only brought more unwanted scrutiny to Itachi’s far more minor transgressions. It’s as though, having decided his younger child is a lost cause, Fugaku now wants to be absolutely certain his eldest son and heir to the Uchiha family fortune is beyond reproach. To smother him with expectations until he emerges, a diamond from beneath the pressure.

But unbeknownst to Fugaku, Itachi has one flaw he can’t change. And it means that, no matter what, he’ll always be a failure in his father’s eyes.

Sighing, he swallows a mouthful of rice and fish, washing it down with the sweetened barley tea he favours. Pulling this month’s edition of Modern Archaeology across the table, he inspects its glossy cover and promptly chokes on his drink.

The face that smiles up from the page stokes a knot of hot irritation in his gut. Furiously, he skips to the article, skim-reading the text, despite the fact he knows it will only annoy him further.

"An up-and-coming star in the field of archaeology, particularly specialising in South-American cultures, Shisui Uchiha is an increasingly well-known fixture of the San Diego research scene. Curiously for someone so entrenched in the study of history, he is famously reticent when it comes to his own. ‘I did spend my early years in Japan,’ he confirms when pressed. ‘But I haven’t been back in a long time. The United States is my home now.’ Asked about his connection to the famous Uchiha family, he merely winks enigmatically. ‘Never heard of them,’ he says, before asking if we’d like a one-on-one tour of the dig site.

Equally at home in dusty ruins as surfing the palm-lined SoCal beaches, or scaling the cliffs of his native Joshua Tree National Park, he nonetheless shines in group settings too. At the party we attend that evening, to celebrate the opening of a new Aztec exhibit at the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City, he easily charms the crowd, finishing the night with at least half a dozen new admirers. It’s not hard to see why they like him. A conversation with Shisui is exercise in passion and obscure historical knowledge. Even so, much like the dig sites he frequents, it’s hard to say just how much of what he presents to the world runs more than surface-deep.

His motto in life? ‘Fall seven times, stand up eight,’ Shisui says with a charismatic smile. Where did he learn it? Chuckling, he brushes us off. ‘The school of hard knocks.’

Love him or hate him, one thing is certain—we haven’t seen the last of Shisui Uchiha’s brand of archaeology.”

Hate him, Itachi thinks, sipping his tea viciously enough to scald his tongue and immediately regretting it. Definitely hate. Hate how he’s reckless, impulsive, irresponsible, and doesn’t seem to take a single thing seriously. Hate that it looks like he’s never had to work hard for anything a day in his life—people only too happy to hand him whatever he wants on a silver platter, charmed by a pretty smile. Hate the fact that, despite their shared family name, he’s free to do whatever he likes. Hate the way people flock to him, falling into his orbit—and by all accounts, bed—like it’s somehow inevitable. And hate, most of all, that there’s a small part of Itachi which understands why.

Because hate or love him—and it’s definitely hate—there’s no denying that Shisui Uchiha is, objectively, a very attractive man.

Coming back to his senses and realising he’s been leaning over the magazine, frowning so hard his forehead hurts, Itachi straightens, closing his eyes and massaging the knot of tension out from between his eyebrows.

“Itachi—”

The tension sinks in even deeper. He opens his eyes. “Father.”

Fugaku takes in magazine, then his son, and Itachi really hopes his cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. It’s stupid, but merely knowing he feels the way he does about the man on the page makes him fear being caught. As though his father might somehow divine his deepest darkest secret, just by looking. Truthfully, Itachi sometimes wonders if he might not already know, or at least suspect. But if he does, it’s clearly a truth he’s chosen not to acknowledge.

“I take it you’re prepared for our meeting this evening?” Fugaku asks, grim as ever.

Attempting a composed sip of his tea, Itachi nods. “Yes. Of course.”

Mouth a hard, unyielding line, Fugaku makes some indiscernible noise of disapproval, sweeping an appraising glance over Itachi. “Well, I suppose it’s too much to hope that anything can be done about your hair between then and now. But they’re a modern family. New money. Perhaps it won’t matter so much.”

Fingers tightening into the flesh of his thigh, Itachi has to remind himself to breathe. “I will do my best to make a good impression,” he says, inclining his head towards his father, penitence for his innumerable shortcomings—not least of all the choice to grow his hair out. It’s a small act of rebellion compared to Sasuke’s effort, but one his father seems determined to curtail as promptly as possible.

Poker face easing ever so slightly, Fugaku’s brows trend downwards, though their slant is still severe. “I know. You are my son, after all. And it is high time you were married with a family of your own. Perhaps then you will see the value in giving up these frivolous academic pursuits, and taking your rightful place at the head of the family business.”

He might as well build a box and stuff Itachi into it. Mold him to fit his own vision of the future. But Itachi has long since learnt that what he wishes he could have from life, and what he can have, are two very different things. So, just like his infrequent clandestine trips to the less desirable areas of Osaka’s nightlife, this too, he realises he will have to sacrifice. Duty before self.

“Yes Father, I’m certain you’re right,” he says, bowing once more as Fugaku leaves for work, closing the front door behind him with a click that reeks of finality.

As his footsteps crunch away on the gravel path outside, Itachi can’t help clenching his fists, until long after his knuckles turn white.

Theoretically, it’s a good match. From a family of good standing, his potential bride is quiet and well spoken—the perfect future housewife and mother. Their marriage would kill two birds with one stone, giving her father the son he never had, and Itachi—and therefore by extension Fugaku—control of their biggest competitor’s business.

All it requires is for Itachi spend the rest of his life pretending to be something he’s not.

The weight of it burns tight in his throat, threatening to break free on a rising tide of bile. He longs to cast off his gilded shackles, take a leaf from Sasuke’s book and do something completely crazy.

With a sigh, he rises from the table, collecting his dishes and depositing them circumspectly into the sink. Another day of work awaits.