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not-poignant · 2 months ago

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Stupid question, but I remembered seeing you mention having monthly minimum wordcounts on one of your previous posts and I wanted to ask if you're a professional writer? Because at first I was like "that sounds so stressful"* and then I realized that it makes a lot more sense if you're doing it for a living.

*Also acknowledging that people are different from each other and what is stressful for one person might be productive and useful for another.

I am a professional writer!

My original serials are my job, basically, and they're supported by generous folks at Patreon and Ream. That, in turn, allows me to do this in a more professional and focused way, vs. say just as a hobbyist who doesn't update for 9 months at a time. It also lets me share my works for free, in a fandom friendly manner, which lets me keep doing something I love in a way I love to do it, but in a way which is like...I guess more reliable than you'd necessarily be if you were only doing it for fun.

I can instead pledge high fidelity/loyalty to my main serials through thick and thin (hence my wild author's notes), which means folks following WIPs get to know they'll be finished, and I get to enjoy doing this for a living! It's hard, but it's a good hard. Except for taxes.

As for my monthly minimum, that actually started as a way to break out of the very ableist 'you should write every day' (as a professional writer) which is literally impossible for me and my chronic illnesses. I sometimes have big chunks of time where I can't write, sometimes weeks! And where it would be unhealthy for me to make myself.

(More about my writing process beneath the Read More!)

Alongside that, I have quite severe dyscalculia (think dyslexia but with numbers and directions and left and right lol) so I can't keep a 'running wordcount' because the numbers confuse me too much. Luckily, because my writing life is defined by chapters completed (and not novels), I count the wordcount of every finished chapter only. Unfinished chapters don't count! My growing wordcount per month grows only when that draft is finished (my drafts are clean, so chapters only tend to grow or shrink by about 100-150 words per edit, so give or take it all evens out).

It's not how any other author I know does it, but it works so well for me that I've been doing it for nearly a decade now.

I started the monthly minimum (which currently is 25k words per month) because I tend towards being a workaholic, and so my therapist and I established a minimum not as an unreachable goal that's hard to meet, but as an easy goal that's generally effortless for me to reach in good months, and average months, and even many bad ones. After I hit 25k words per month, if I crash, feel burnt out, feel awful, or life gets Life-y in a bad way, I have permission to stop writing. I can just stop. Everything else is gravy. (Though secretly I always want to hit 30-35k but shhh).

When I hit 50k words, I also have to stop immediately and take a mandatory 3-5 day break from writing even if I want to keep writing. Because I don't know it yet, but I'm probably exhausted on at least some level, lol.

I didn't hit 50k at all last year and there is at least one therapist who would be really proud of me about that even though I feel kind of guilty about it, lol.

Here's an example of my tracking:

You can see the chapters I've written, which dates I've written them. They're colour coded, so I can see at a glance if I'm writing enough of a story or not. And then on the far right is an addition of every month's wordcount.

April was so low because I took an intentional writing holiday (which I'll be doing again ideally in March this year). December was so low because December sucks.

And then I erase it all at the end of the year and start again. The blank whiteboard is actually very motivating to write that first chapter because I always feel like I haven't done anything until then.

This whiteboard is two feet away from where I write quite literally, and is never moved etc. so I have a yearly tracker basically that's extremely visible (super helpful to my ADHD brain, because if I put this in a spreadsheet I'll stop updating it after 3 weeks and then forget it exists). The colour coding gives me dopamine, so does adding chapters.

Also acknowledging that people are different from each other and what is stressful for one person might be productive and useful for another.

This is true! This is actually the least stressful way of doing things for me.

That being said, anon, it's still super stressful. Being a serial writer is one of the most stressful things you do, because you have constant and never-ending deadlines for years. Novelists can kind of escape this, in a way, because they can't release novels as often as I release chapters. But I have to be mentally switched on at least 8 times a month, re: putting work out there, making sure it's at least semi-polished, making sure I let everyone know, and tracking responses because obviously, unlike a novel, if you lose interest you can't just "skip ahead" you simply lose your readers. A lot of novelists couldn't live or work this way, a) because they couldn't write a hooky serial and b) because many realise that having to update all the time is really exhausting actually. There's a kind of social labour to updating a serial, and getting it Right every single time. One of my greatest fears that I have nightmares about

Serial writing is the most stressful kind of writing I've ever done (and I've done a few different kinds), I just happen to like the adrenaline rush of this kind of writing, and I happen to work well under a controlled level of stress! I know that, because I've been doing this for over 10 years, refining it, figuring out how to make it healthier (it was really unhealthy at first), getting better at it, figuring out my weak points (some of them are still weak points) etc. I actually think I'm pretty good at it now!

I'm also getting better at not thinking my entire career is over if I take 2 weeks off.

I went from being entirely dependent on a Disability Pension, and like, sometimes having to skip meals and doctor's appointments and even medication due to money issues (the Disability Pension is ironically not enough if you have mental health issues because our subsidised healthcare doesn't cover mental health adequately and Australia has no food stamps system), to being able to live a bit more freely and support my chronic health stuff a bit more because of writing this way!

For the first time ever through these stories I was able to afford a psychiatrist, and a few other things I really desperately have needed since I was a teenager. So being able to write like this, even when it's really hard and I'm really tired, feels still like a miracle to me. I've never been well or healthy enough to work a full-time job with typical 9-5 hours, and always kind of was stuck imagining a life where I'm just...never knowing how to afford certain things, to being in a position where I'm fairly confident I can get my meds every month, or pay for my dog's pet food, etc. It's really nice.

But yeah honestly serial writing is the most stressful form of serial writing there is as soon as you lock it in as a professional job where you must meet nearly 10 deadlines every month and you happen to have pretty intense ADHD so deadlines make you scream a little.

Sometimes what is extremely stressful and sometimes even distressing for someone is also extremely productive and rewarding for them too. We probably wouldn't have a lot of emergency surgeons if that were the bar for how we decide what we do!

#asks and answers #pia on writing #i've actually realised over 2024 that the schedule itself is *very stressful*#and introduced breaks from the schedule last year #vs. writing breaks #so March will be like a 'mid-season break' where i taper down the schedule so i'm really just fulfilling #patreon and ream rewards and that's it #but in exchange i should be more well-rested and hopefully means i can update more regularly #fingers crossed!#anyway writing is a weird job but serial writing + patreon/ream is like #a weirdly stable writing income #compared to the boom-bust that is novels #idk there's pros and cons to every kind of writing job

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years ago

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Civilian Asset 4.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Still far from home and far from well.

Master List / Prev Chapter

Warning: 18+ (fairly tame chapter, but stands for entire series)

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Tumblr is being weird with links, and I'm not sure how to fix it. Had an extremely rough month really working on a piece about school safety... enough said. And I've been sick. So. Ya'll mean the world, thank you for your continued support!

You’re drowning in a sea of hands.

They push and pull like ocean currents, and you’re as helpless in their merciless grip as a swimmer in a riptide, tumbling so deep you can’t remember which way is up. There’s air, but an arm around your neck presses on your trachea. Suffocating you. No matter how much you claw and wheeze, it only tightens, slow and inextricable. The worst kind of promise building in the pressure.

Thousands of strangers’ fingers paint you with intent, sweaty and slick. Each hand wants something. Maybe they’re working in chorus, or maybe each one is out for itself. It’s impossible to tell by the way they paw, snare, and grab at you. Whatever they want is inside. Deep in your belly or hiding in your spine, some key or secret blunt nails work to pry out. They won’t be satisfied until you’re swallowed, torn apart, and sorted into pieces.

The dark smells like old carpets, bird shit, and rust.

Waves of touch tug you in opposite directions, twisting your arm behind your back and your foot over your head. It’s chaos. And it hurts. But they’re all moving you, hauling you into a hell that sounds like war. You’ve never heard gunfire like this. Only three clean shots from a distant sniper rifle. But the cacophony ricochets with dozens of automatic weapons, and the hands scratch and dig into your skin, greedy for your fear as you sink into the echoes…

And wake with the gunfire still in your ears.

Sharp, jolting breaths lift your shoulder, punching through your chest with a salty aftertaste from the tears and mucus trickling down the back of your throat. Everything else locks in place. Your legs are too achy to move. Your eyelids stick open, drinking in shadows. Lying on your side, you not only hear but feel your pulse beating in your ears, and it takes several minutes of wading through too many confusing sensations before you know where you are and why everything’s stiff and sore.

The room is dark. Only a crack of light spills under the door. It’s proper country dark outside, too, pressing black against the window.

It’s raining.

No gunfire. No danger. It’s only precipitation battering against the glass. You are as safe as you can be, given the situation, and the men downstairs would be shouting and kicking in the door if something had gone wrong. Bullets would pierce the walls, shatter the window.

Even though you know it’s just the weather, you’re half convinced a dozen soldiers have opened fire on the room.

You try waiting it out.

Maybe it will stop or you’ll remember you aren’t afraid of the rain.

But it doesn’t, and you can’t bear it, so you get up and head for the glow behind the door. Hopefully the rain isn’t so loud downstairs.

The hall light bathes the space yellow in a way your shattered internal clock reads as daylight. Open doors to the bathroom and the second bedroom loom dark in contrast, like caves along a hiking trail, and the stairs will challenge you as much as a mountainside when you work up the nerve to descend. First you take time to wipe the salt track off your face with cool tap water. The pillow should keep those secrets. You don’t need to wear the evidence.

The adrenaline rush fucked off some time ago, and even after the nightmare you’re left with nothing but clinging paranoia. That doesn’t make you calm. Your anxiety feels like breath on the back of your neck, or eyes squinting through hidden peepholes, prickling over your skin with the assurance that something, somewhere is off, and you shouldn’t leave yourself exposed.

Logically, the men downstairs are no threat. Quite the opposite. You don’t feel logical. Your collection of hurts urge you to hide under a bed. In a closet. To stay out of sight as you lick your wounds.

The soldiers have your life in their hands, and that requires inordinate amounts of trust. There’s a gap you can’t cross. You’ve known them for a few hours. They killed people, and then they stopped your bleeding and sent you to bed. That’s too much and not enough for friendship.

You’re also, on a much shallower level, wildly aware that you’re the odd one out. The only woman. The only stranger. The only civilian.

It’s like standing in the cafeteria on the first day at a new school and wondering where the hell you’re supposed to sit.

Studiously avoiding your reflection, you leave the bathroom and begin your hike downstairs. Each step is a mile. You count them, congratulating yourself on your progress as you balance with your hand on the wall. In yesterday’s – today’s? – struggle, you used muscle groups you didn’t know you had and used known muscles in new and interesting ways they disapprove of. Everything is a little harder, and every step a little wobbly, and thankfully no one pops around the corner to see your tremorous pace.

Shadow creep over the lower steps where the hall light can’t quite reach, but a bright puddle spills out from the kitchen, and you follow it like a little moth.

Rain patters against the windows here, too, but the drumming on the roof doesn’t reach through the upper floor.

You’ll take it.

The kitchen opens around you as you step through, and your eyes flick up from your feet as a figure moves in your peripheral.

“You’re up.”

It’s the Scot. He’s divested himself of the tac vest, though a handgun peaks out from a holster under his jacket. It’s a good sign that he’s less armed than this morning, though. It gives you hope. A step towards de-escalation and a normal state of being where locked doors mean something and you get to sleep in your own bed.

The kitchen’s a little chilly, and your arms fold of their own volition. You stuff your hands out of sight, hiding your most obvious injury as you wince out a smile and try not to make things awkward.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t ask if you slept well. You appreciate it. Instead he fills the electric kettle and pops down the tab before even asking, “Tea?”

Since it’s already too late to say no, you nod, taking a seat at the table to spare your shaky fawn legs. “Thanks.”

The clock over the sink reads 9:07, so it hasn’t been dark for long. You’ve slept away the day, and now you have a long night of worry and stilted conversation ahead. What the fuck are you supposed to talk about with these people? Or are you supposed to converse with them at all beyond basic pleasantries?

Tea might make everything better, or the caffeine may make everything just a little worse. A warm drink does sound nice, though.

A heavy jacket still flush with body heat drops over your shoulders, and you freeze like a cat suddenly trapped under a blanket.

You feel your eyes go big and know you’ve made the moment weird as you peer up at the burly Scot. The fabric’s heavier than it looks, and it smells like the man. Something sweet hidden under whiskey and aftershave. The weighted warmth feels like security made cloth, and the comfort tangles with the acidic terror still hissing in your belly.

The man beams. Chortling, clearly delighted with himself, he rearranges the collar to sit right around your neck without pressing on the bruises.

“Dreich weather,” he says, stepping away to throw a tea bag in a chipped white mug. “Need to keep warm.”

Your fingers lift to the worn seems along the zip, pulling it just a little closer, like folding yourself into a cocoon. He’s given you a hug, you realize, without invading your personal space. It’s shockingly considerate, and you swim through treacle-thick thoughts for the right words of thanks, but they roll back down your throat before you can express yourself as you look back up to an eyeful of distraction.

Without the jacket the soldier’s a walking gun show, and you aren’t thinking about the weapon clipped to his belt. His snug, dun t-shirt showcases his broad shoulders and the sculpted trunks he calls arms without clinging to his tapered waist. His golden tan practically shines against the dull cloth and muted colors of the kitchen. Veiled muscles roll along his back as he reaches into an upper cabinet for a couple more mugs, and you flick your eyes down to the places the varnish has cracked off the table so he doesn’t catch you staring.

It's patently unfair that such an attractive man is paying so much attention to you when you’re too sick with shock and fear to do anything about it.

He slides the tea into your line of sight, and manage to mumble, “Thank you,” without imploding, exploding, or falling into a heap of embarrassed chunks.

“Ye’re welcome.”

He’s added sugar. Did you miss him asking how you took your tea? Doesn’t matter.

You only just notice the soft footsteps approaching from the open doorway leading to the living room before a shadow cuts through the yellow kitchen lights to your left. The captain nods down at you as he heads towards the half-steeped cups waiting by the sink, greeting his sergeant with a rumble. With cup in hand, he turns, propping a hip against the counter as he pulls you into a conversation.

“Was plannin’ on sending Gaz to check on you in another hour, make sure you were alright.” He speaks as he sips his tea, leaving his voice a little muffled, indirect in a way that suggests awareness of things better left half-acknowledged.

Taking your cue from the leader, you hide behind your mug.

“No need now.”

The tea’s very nice, actually. The warmth soothes your aching throat and pairs well with the gentle warmth of Soap’s jacket. A hug inside to complement the hug outside.

The captain lifts his eyebrows, pausing between sips. “And are you?”

Despite his careful tone, the question hits with a sharp edge, slicing between the plates of armor you assembled over the bathroom sink before braving the soldiers’ company. Are you alright? You flinch setting down your mug, and the drink sloshes up to the rim. Just shy of a spill.

Washed face of no, you must look awful. Your eyes always go red and puffy after too much crying, and you can’t banish every trace of your little breakdown, no matter how hard you try.

“I thought I’d spare us all the awkwardness of a bunch of soldiers trying to handle a crying woman.” Make it a joke. Make it light. Maybe it will float away and take those probing questions with it. You desperately need a distraction, something to pull the focus off your welfare and back to things these men are equipped to handle.

“What happens now?” you ask.

Soap scoffs into the third cup. “Try not to die.” The captain swats him over the head, grazing the mohawk, and the Scot chokes, spluttering tea out his nose as he hastily adds, “Of boredom.”

“Laswell called while you were asleep. She has things in hand. In another day or two she’ll have enough free resources to help us handle the cell here without drawing the wrong attention. Until then we sit tight.” He smiles with his eyes and the shape of his face. The mustache hides most of his mouth when he angles his head down to meet your eye, but there’s no mistaking his expression. “Keep you safe.”

He’s as bad as subordinate.

The military issue clothes reveal enough of his shape to spark your interest in any other situation, and he moves with confidence you’d like to reach out and taste. Those smiles of his don’t help.

As you sit stewing in your own flatfooted frustration, your stomach decides you haven’t done enough to humiliate yourself and kicks off with a growl.

You press a hand flat to your gut. Soap laughs as your face heats, and if you weren’t on the verge of starving you might’ve sprinted back up the stairs to hide in the room Gaz said is more or less yours.

“How long since you ate?” the captain asks.

Too long ago. This is a military man, though, and they like specifics. You think back, leaping from abduction to fleeing to the club lights and blood. “More than a day. Day and a half, I think.” That sounds right. The last meal you remember is lunch the day prior.

Huffing, the Scot turns back to the cabinets, rustling through a collection of tins and boxes. Nonperishables. Of course. A safehouse wouldn’t stock anything liable to spoil in the months or years between visits. At least you don’t see any MREs lurking in the depths. The past twenty-four hours have seen enough horrors.

Squinting at the expiration date on a can, Soap asks, “How do you feel about beans?”

#captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #141 x reader

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shyalia · 5 months ago

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Happy One Year Anniversary

to The Day the World Broke by @saladmix!!! She deserves all of the recognition for writing such an incredible and in-depth story, please go show her some love!!

To celebrate and show my immense appreciation, I spent the last two months working on an animatic for it. It's not perfect, but the vision is there and I'm honestly proud of myself for completing a major project like this. 100+ frames later (not all of them made the cut, unfortunately) it is finally complete just in time for the anniversary!

I'm about to ramble, I apologize in advance lol. Feel free to scroll down to the next blue text to see the animatic, please mind the spoiler and trigger warnings!

This fic is so important to me and holds a special place in my heart. I came across the first chapter the day it was posted, so early that it didn't even have any hits or kudos yet. The title and little description intrigued me so I clicked on it, and I'm so glad I gave it a chance because I was hooked from the first paragraph. Little did I know how much it would impact me that evening after raving about it to my best friend, during and after reading it. I'm not kidding when I say it has been on my mind every day for a full trip around the sun. Its AU is so unique that I haven't read anything like it before. The writing is beautiful, the storytelling is captivating, and the characterizations of the boys are so in-depth and relatable and a joy to read, the plot is insane and every chapter blows my mind... I could go on about it forever!!

I've read that first chapter more times than I can count, and the rest of it several times as well because even at 300k+ words, every single word is worth the time and energy. I'm always finding subtle details that are easily missed in earlier chapters that come up again later and I have a "WAIT HOLD UP" moment, like @saladmix is a genius I swear. When going back through chapters to locate details for my artwork to make it as accurate as I can, I always find myself getting lost reading because it just pulls me in, even though I already know what is about to happen... it's just that good.

Honestly, I can't get enough of this story, it means sooo much to me. It has inspired me to become a better artist, to have the courage to write my own stories, my enjoyment of reading has been rekindled, and most importantly, it brought friendship. @saladmix is such a kind person, she is so supportive and funny and a pleasure to talk to, I'm thankful to have her as a friend. Keep on being awesome, girl!!

Okay, I'll stop rambling and let y'all see this animatic that I worked so long on! xD

Please be forewarned that it contains spoilers up to and including chapter 23, so if you have not read that far and want to avoid spoilers, save this to watch at a later date!

TW for brief images of knives and guns, and for light sensitivity as some very bright frames come up. I apologize if you're sensitive to those types of things!

#tmnt fanfiction #tdtwb #tdtwb tmnt #the day the world broke tmnt fic #tmnt multiverse #alternate universe #ao3 fanfic #horror au #horror and suspense fic #tmnt fanfic fanart #tmnt fanfic animatic #tmnt leonardo #tmnt demon shredder #happy one year anniversary to this amazing fanfic #seriously go read this fic if you haven't already #please everyone go give this girl some love and go read her fic #this took 2 months to make

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sistersorrow · 4 months ago

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Back in July, I had a problem: I had finished Nona the Ninth and realised I had no idea when Alecto the Ninth would come out

I didn't feel like picking out a new novel to read every 10 days or so, so I decided I'd pick one very long book and hope it tided me over until a release date was given

So on the 19th of July 2024, I started reading Worm, and a bit over three months later, I read the final line of the final chapter on October 23rd

I have had many thoughts about this book while reading it, and since I haven't had access to the internet for the last two week, I've also had many thoughts after reading it, mainly thoughts where I was drafting this post (despite thinking about my draft for five days, now that I'm finally writing it, I can feel the whole thing fading from my mind)

TL;DR: I genuinely think the ending didn't happen

Yes, the whole "It was all a dream/purgatory" angle is very cliche, but it's a very common theory in the Worm fandom for a reason (one of those reasons being Wildbow jokingly saying Taylor's in purgatory)

For me, that reason is that Taylor is way too okay with the state of her life after Golden Morning

Throughout the book, Taylor has a consistent pattern of behaviour where she sees a problem or has a goal, decides on a means of realising that goal/fixing the problem, with anyone who attempts to get in her way being treated as part of the problem, allowing her to more easily justify using ever escalating acts of incredible violence to terrorise them into either helping her or getting out of her way

Taylor, by her own admission lives for conflict because for her things make the most sense when she has a very clear target to oppose and doesn't have to think past the near future because in the present the target is actively trying to kill her, and there are people who simply refuse to listen to her when she talks about ways to deal with the problem

Her, I dunno, ascension(?) to Khepri is just that pattern of behaviour taken to its logical extreme: the problems are Scion and people refusing to fight Scion or not working together, so she resolves the issue by resolving the issue of their free will and makes them fight in concert to bully Golden Space Jesus into killing himself

Despite the Speck arc being 174 pages of Taylor's brain being formatted by a fragment of an alien god as it remove any aspect of her personality that doesn't either facilitate acts of violence or think of new ways to commit acts of violence, Taylor has never been more herself than in that moment, hell, when she finishes scouring the multiverse for capes to turn into superpowered people puppets for her slave swarm and faces down the most powerful being to walk the earth as she realises she's beginning to forget where her mother's grave is, she stops to think about how nice it is that everyone is finally working together for once, just like she always wanted

The kind of person who does that to herself and others simply is not going to be able to adjust to civilian life, where she's going to continue to be exposed to the systemic failings that frustrated her into being Skitter in the first place only now without the tools or resources she used to effect change back on her Earth

At best, Interlude: End Taylor would be horribly depressed, and at worst feel like she's been placed in her own personal hell

For this reason, I genuinely think Contessa realised there was no coming back from what Taylor had become and decided to end her there, with the final interlude being a dying dream cooked up by her shard or something just before their connection was fatally severed, and honestly, I'm completely fine with that cause it feels like a natural conclusion for her arc, even if dream theories are always a bit contentious

#worm #wildbow #worm spoilers #taylor hebert #skitter #weaver #khepri #other details like it never being explained who healed her #and her dad suddenly being around despite him being absent and presumed dead up until that point #make me feel like this was something that was happening to help her make peace with herself in her final moments #anyway I really liked worm #likely won't read ward for a while though #decided to read a practical guide to evil first #been a surprisingly quick read #I finished book 1 in under three days

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fountainpenguin · 6 months ago

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So I was rereading your lore on witches in your riddledeep au and um.

Would this technically make Dev a witch??? lol. He also freebies a pizza across a digital title card that episode too.

😂 Y'know, it's funny you say that because for the past month, I've been wondering if anyone was going to ask me if Dale or Dev are witches. I don't know why I was wondering that, but it's been clinging to me. I couldn't think of a way to bring up "btw, they're not witches in my work" without it feeling weird.

My witch lore for context

Dale and Dev can specifically not be witches under my lore even if I wanted them to be, even if I were following a headcanon where the Dimmadomes get around the XYZ chromosome sterility through clones, because of something extremely specific that also exists in my lore that I cannot go back on.

Magic Colors

So, I have a whole magic system set up around the colors of magic. There are 6 possible colors in the OG series- 5 of which are represented on the Rainbow Bridge, 4 of which are represented on the Fairy Council, and 2 of which are extremely rare.

I gave the Fairy Elder (namedropped in "Timmy's Secret Wish") yellow robes, thus tying the Fairy Council together.

Each magic color has a meaning associated with the mood or thought pattern behind magic use. I drew my original inspiration from the colors Timmy's brain turns when Poof's controlling his body in "He Poofs, He Scores."

For those interested, my Colors of Magic post (From May 2016, but has screenshots) & my worldbuilding sideblog's post on magic colors (Cleaned-up lore with no pictures). Short version below:

Red is an extremely uncommon magic color, though we see it when Foop is fighting Cosmo and Wanda in "Playdate of Doom" and when Wanda jumpstarts Timmy's heart in "Yoo-Doo." It's the color I associate with life and death magic. So, y'know... Foop is very okay.

There's also indigo (used by Juandissimo in "Fairy Fairy Quite Contrary"), which I consider a subset of blue.

Green is also extremely rare. Notably, it's the color Foop's magic slowly starts to turn throughout "Scary Godcouple"- He started off with blue, but sours to green in one of the only appearances we see of green in the entire series.

But you know what commonplace color we don't see?

Orange.

In my lore, orange-haired magic users (both Fae and genies) are the equivalent of shiny Pokémon. Even two orange magic-users don't normally have orange offspring- They produce yellows and reds.

And the thing is... I've already set up Happy Peppy Gary to be the only orange witch in my lore. In fact, I have a WIP multi-chapter 'fic about Gary getting discovered by H.P. and Anti-Cosmo, who lose their minds when they realize what he is (Pink and Gray).

Shout-out to one of my favorite dialogue exchanges I've ever written, from H.P. trying to sus Gary out as genie-descended:

H.P. brought his hand up to fiddle with his glasses. "Okay. Completely random get-to-know-you question. By any chance, are you afraid of small spaces?" "Deathly. Why?"

And Dale is Gary's age - in the same city where the Pixies dropped Gary and Betty after taking them in - which means if he WAS an orange witch, he would've been clocked so hard, so fast. Also, since I'm going the route of H.P. being Dale's godfather, there's no way he wouldn't have noticed even though Dale was MIA for years.

Fun Fact! Gary and Juandissimo are "related!" Juandissimo was finger-snapped into existence by Gary's ancestor, Crimsona. He's arguably a great-great-great-great uncle (5 generations up from Gary). In Cloudlands AU, Gary's middle name is actually Juandissimo! That's because Juandissimo's been assigned to godparent to this family several times (We met Gary's dad and grandmother, Quincy and Eunice, in Baby, You're a Rich Man; Sanderson matches Eunice's name to Juandissimo's in Chapter 10 while looking through godkid files).

Anyway, I COULD have witch genes passed down through Dev's mom's side of the family (Leadlys in my headcanon), but that comes with its own issues: if Leadly had XYZ chromosomes, he can't have Hadley, and I'm not going back on that. I could make his wife a witch, but that STILL has issues.

In my 'fics I play Ed Leadly as a guy who's looking for magical creatures (hence him being willing to drop 17 million dollars on someone else's dog in "Dog Gone"). I have literally shown him onscreen holding a witch-detecting compass that points to Gary (in "Opportunity"). There is no way he would not have clocked his ex as a witch, sldkfj...

Closing Comments

Dale and Dev are some of the only characters in my universe who are absolutely confirmed to not be witches, despite how much I have actually wondered if it would be fun to portray them as such.

I don't have a lore reason for the visual gags in that episode- I sadly have to clock it up to random cartoon silliness akin to Jenkins exploding into pieces when Jasmine sings in "Fly" (or Hazel also falling apart or exploding when people expressed crushes on her in "Multiverse of Jenkins").

In my lore, I actually do have Gary set up to be able to pass his witch powers to people he kisses (Because I thought it would be funny if that's why Betty is taller in some scenes than others; yes, I am that pedantic and it makes Betty's "But I don't like you like that" line exponentially funnier), but I've established that only genie-descended witches can pass powers... That doesn't make sense for Dev in this episode either.

Technically all the fluids can pass magic, so a blood transfusion would make Dev "a permanent false witch" if I wanted to do that, but I'm not gonna bother when again, we have people exploding in this show as a gag. Cursed gags I cannot touch with lore 😔

If anyone else makes the Dimmadomes witches, I'd be totally down to read that. I think it would be extremely funny if Dale Dimm was also a witch despite sentencing Alden Bitterroot to 350+ years of clawing his way out of Dimmsdale's well for witch crimes, but my AUs have pretty firmly locked Dale and Dev out of that option.

Riddleverse Design Facts

Here's another fun fact for any new followers who don't know I do this: I draw witches with spirals in their hair! Pics under the cut due to length:

Crocker has his in the back and Kevin has his on top!

You could TOTALLY make an argument that Leadly's spiral is in his mustache

Also, it's a very good thing I do this- I joked in the past that Gary and Dev look eerily similar (even sharing lots of body language), so it's nice to have things like freckles and a hair spiral I can fall back on.

I'm VERY happy with my adult Dev design, but I definitely kept freckles and hair spirals away from him, haha. Sneak peek of him next to his mom:

Note- Spiral headcanon excludes H.P., who has a unique family cowlick I gave him before doing this for witches. Poof doesn't count either since he's under Fae Get Alphabet Hair rules:

Whistle and Anti-Whistle [Soren] (at the bottom) are some of my favorite designs... I can't get over his upside-down W hair sldkfj.

But Wanda and Anti-Wanda having completely different Ws is another favorite thing. I'm especially proud of Dusty's little D tuft.

I'm not sure why Smoky ended up with what looks like an F (unless it's a T since he was Talon before Talon was Talon), but I remember doing a lot of designs for him. Sometimes I don't commit to alphabet hair if letters are hard (Soren's top zigzag is meant to be an S, which is a very hard letter to incorporate, and I think I didn't want Smoky and Soren to have the same one). I've been wanting to redesign Smoky a bit, so I'll probably fix it then.

Goldie's is subtle and you can see it better in some drawings than others, but she has M hair because her full name is Marigold :)

I should probably re-add her middle tuft to her official sideblog art, whoops.

Also, if this is how someone is finding out Poof and Foop literally were designed with alphabet hair, I have wonderful news for you. Fun fact, the "Anti-Poof" storyboard portrays Foop with a square spiral instead! It was the final detail of his design.

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shai-manahan · 2 years ago

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Hollowed Minds Progress Update 8/13/23

Hi! I haven't been here for a while, I know, and I'm sorry for that! I've been going through a lot of changes lately -- new job and all that -- and have only finished moving today to another city :'))) I'd like to take a week for myself to set a proper pace and figure out a schedule that would work for my writing, so I'll probably post another progress update next week. For now, some progress below:

30k+ words usable content for the next update (usable meaning I had to cut a lot from what I wrote previously :(( and I might have to cut more from that depending on how it'll go.

Previous chapter edits - this includes making the passages more concise, the tension stronger, a lot more action-focused, and much easier to read and understand with strengthened dialogues.

There's a few changes I'm implementing with regards to the stats as well. It mostly goes like this as presented in the picture below 👀

Default means your Ripper starts that way from the beginning of the story, though you can still change this with your choices.

Fixed means you can immediately set that specific trait for Ripper and it stays that way for the rest of Book 1.

Fixed and variable just means you can set the initial trait but there'll still be a stat-style movement depending on your future choices.

Some of the terms I used for these opposed pairs are merely placeholders because I literally can't think of other words for some reason, but this system does open opportunities for comparisons and comments from other characters, so I'm eager to go through with that plan.

I know it's been several months since the last update, but rest assured that I'm doing my best!

Anyway, that's all for today, and see you next week 🥺if you have any suggestions/concerns about the current content HM has, my ask box is always open :'))))

#hollowed minds series #hollowed minds #interactive fiction #progress update #hollowed minds progress update #wip #writing #if wip #interactive novel #hollowed minds book one

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drkineildwicks · 27 days ago

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It's BH6 Month again

You know what that means: six pages a day from me and BH6 art too boot

Been doing 100 words a day on Live and Learn 2 and Edifice Coulee, adding Ghost's Reign to that list since Part I is done and I need to get Part II rolling

Also planning on seeing about adding a page to each of my BH6 fics this month, considering I have 33 dedicated docs and then a couple of collections, I can definitely do that with the 168 pages this month

Have a few one-shots I want to illustrate this month and post

Do want to say that despite working pretty regularly on Live and Learn 2 and sitting at 46 consecutive chapters, 201K+ words, and 481 pages (effectively now making this chonker bigger than the original)...it's likely not getting posted this year. Did get the "Something Fluffy" episode done and the rest a bit more outlined insofar as the bridge events, but I don't feel as if I'm any closer to finishing it than I was several months ago and I want this done before I start posting

Conversely, The Glowing Tide is coming along well with both Part II and Part III past, oh, 50% done, might add 100 words a day to that one too and angle for a May posting for that one

And I'm going to be out here challenging you all to do 100 words a day on your fics this month, I've been tracking and it's only like, three inches on a page in Word--you can do it, I believe in you <3

#bh6 #big hero 6 #big hero six #big hero 6 the series #big hero six the series #writing #bh6 month 2025 #also going to be rewatching the show some #gotta refresh some of the characters' wording in my head #and finally watch the hardlight episode #understand that after the bs disney pulled I never did finish watching season 2 #because for some reason I'm convinced that once I do that's it there is no more #I need fics people

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kyndredravenstories · 2 months ago

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Eyes of Infinity: Chapter 16

Hello, I have been posting my work on AO3 and recently decided to venture here to Tumblr. Please note: This story is 18+. No minors. Please read tags carefully. Link to AO3 below but I will also be posting the chapters here.

Pairing: Sylus/Female MC with some elements of Xavier/Female MC

Genre: Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Adventure, Smut, Porn with Big Plot and Big Feelings

Content Warning (For the entire fic): Explicit sexual content, spoilers and alterations to existing lore and cards/memories/tender moments/secret times, size kink, size difference, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, anal sex, fingering, all kinds of fingering, elements of consensual somno, dom!Sylus, jealousy, possessive!Sylus, Mephisto stalking, typical game violence, battle and combat

Summary: To love him meant stepping over the threshold and crossing into darkness. To be with him meant accepting the lure of the shadows. And to protect him from betrayal meant sacrifice. I knew not how, only that I would not let time sever our paths ever again.

Previous Chapters: Ch 1 / Ch 2 / Ch 3 / Ch 4 / Ch 5 / Ch 6 / Ch 7 / Ch 8 / Ch 9 / Ch 10 / Ch 11 / Ch 12 / Ch 13 / Ch 14 / Ch 15

They call me Kismet - the Destined One.

They say I am a Priestess to Araldir, the God of Souls.

I came into this world with magic running through my veins. It is a power than can grant a font of strength and vigor to anyone I touch. It is incredibly rare, only seen a handful of times in the Tribe's history. Thus, I was chosen at birth to be raised and trained in preparation to become Araldir's bride. My power is a sign that he has marked me as his own. A divine gift, they call it. A blessing.

This year, at the Winter Solstice, our Tribe's Speaker will take me to the Spine on the border of our lands, will lay me down upon the cold stone altar, and will carve out my heart in sacrifice to our deity. I've trained my whole life for this and have had years to prepare myself both in body and mind.

They say it is the greatest honor I could ever hope for.

They say I should be proud.

But, I am far from such. In fact, I have no memory of anything the Tribe has told me about my life. Sorocan, to be specific. A short stout woman with greying hair and sky blue eyes. She's the one who found me after my failed escape attempt, treated my wounds, and nursed me back to health. She's our Tribe's shaman and our Speaker, a woman who leads and dictates all spiritual rules and traditions. She saved my life, and I should trust her. What she tells me about me sounds false, but who am I to doubt the words of someone that communes with the Gods themselves?

I don't have any proof that I am not who these people say I am, after all.

Exactly one month ago today, I awakened in the steppe alone. Wounded. Lost. Confused. Entirely devoid of any recollection of who I am or how I got here. My only clue is a vivid black tattoo seared into my wrist, a dark carving that resembles a link of some kind. It snakes up my forearm to my elbow. I've been told to hide it, and ever since my homecoming I've worn only long sleeved dresses despite the brutal heat of summer to ensure than no one in the Tribe sees my new mark.

Perhaps the torture serves me right. Sorocan says I ran away from home, that I'm reckless and defiant, perhaps nervous before my ceremony to join Araldir coming up in just a few months. She says I must have fallen and hit my head, lost my memories due to my injuries. But, the Tribe's explanation of my identity doesn't make any sense. Their words don't resonate with me. When they found me and saved me from my aimless wandering, I accepted their aide too readily.

Now, I regret it.

Over the course of the weeks following my fated reunion with Sorocan, preparations for my ceremony begin. I am to join Araldir in the heavens soon, and that means my heart must be full of only joy. I am given my own quarters and an entire array of ladies to wait on me hand and foot. I'm fed the best food the Tribe has to offer, bathed in fragrances, and massaged with oils. I'm adorned in the finest silk, wool, and cotton dresses, my neck surrounded with strings of silver and my hair glimmering with ropes of precious stones and gold.

Yet, there is no joy in any of it. As I am pampered and fawned over in my own luxurious yurt, I start to feel like I'm missing something profound. Not just my memories, but a piece of my very heart. The mystery of the tattoo on my arm gives me no peace of mind. It resembles a chain, and I wonder where the other side leads. Or, to whom. Though I still can't remember my true origins, I know that I don't belong in this place and that there is someone I must find, someone that searches for me now just as I search for them.

Once more, I try to escape. Taking advantage of a dark and windy night, I try to sneak away from the village. But, I don't make it far. Without any memories, I don't know the lay of the land. I wander in circles and nearly fall victim to a pack of hungry monsters wandering the grassland. Sorocan catches me just on the border of the Tribe's lands and commands her warriors to bring me home. I fight and I claw at them. When I cannot break free, I beg her to please let me go. There is sadness in her eyes when she refuses me, and it helps me understand that there is more to her actions than readily meets the eye.

Back in my quarters, I am chastised and lectured. The potential consequences of my escape are brought home without mercy. If this sacrifice isn't performed, the Tribe will starve. Araldir will unleash his fury upon us. In fact, our lands are already suffering, and it is only my sacrifice that can bring life back to them again. Most of the crops we plant rot in the soil. More and more of the herds we hunt fall ill to an unknown sickness. Our women struggle with fertility. Slowly, inevitably, our Tribe is wasting away.

Sorocan's eyes are accusing. Hard. Furious. She doesn't understand what's come over me. I've always been obedient. I've known all my life this day would come. What has changed? What is driving my rebellion?

"Why did you try to leave us again?" she demands from me. "Have we not given you the best we have? Have we not taken care of you all your life?"

I sit on my bed, my wrists tied together. A prisoner. I raise my chin, pulling and yanking on my bonds. Sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle. But, I can't give up. I won't.

"I'm not going to accept being a pig fattened up for slaughter. I don't want to be your sacrifice. I find no pride or joy in having my heart cut out and placed on an altar for someone else's benefit."

We sit in awkward silence for some time before I speak again. "I don't belong here, Sorocan. The story you've told me is a lie. Everyone here has been lying to me from the first moment I got here. I'm not the Kismet. I have another name. Another life. I don't even speak like you do." I clench my hands into fists. "You're ready to murder a random innocent person just to make yourself look good?"

Sorocan's eyes widen. It's proof enough that my words have hit home. Yet, she does not remove her mask. She continues with the charade.

"None of this is about anything personal," Sorocan argues, her piercing blue eyes unwavering. "The Tribes are at each others throats. They need something to unify them in this time of crisis. You are that something. Do not despair, child. Your sacrifice will save the land. Heal it."

I glare at her. "The minute you look away, I'm gone. I'll fight you to the last second."

I stay true to my word. Over and over again, I try to run away until I'm kept under constant guard. A post is buried deep into the earth, and a yurt is built around it. Sorocan chains my ankle to this structure. I'm able to walk around my quarters, but I cannot go outside. The guards bring me food and sustenance, but none except our Speaker and a few of her hand chosen women are allowed inside. I'm watched as I bathe, eat, and sleep.

And so, more weeks go by.

As time stretches on in this endless procession of monotony, my cage begins to addle my mind. I grow listless. My appetite dwindles to nothing. Most days, I sit on my bedroll and stare at the tiny slit in the wall of my dwelling with my legs pressed up against my chest. There is no joy in my heart, and there won't ever be. Araldir will claim a desiccated shell, and it serves him right for ruining my life. It's a silent rebellion. Worthless, perhaps, but it's something.

More time passes. I only realize that the seasons begin to change because Sorocan and her women bring me warmer blankets, furs, and clothes. I let them feed me, dress me, and bathe me like a soulless doll. I feel empty, but my mind refuses to give up. My heart insists that I am not alone in this cruel reality. That someone is out there, searching for me. Someone at the end of the chain tattooed on my arm.

Sorocan isn't blind. She sees that I'm wasting away. She tries to lecture me again and again to convince me of my duty and my destiny, but I tune out her voice like I would a buzzing fly. Then, one day, her words pierce through the haze.

"If you do not rebel, I will agree to let you go out and see the festival."

I have no idea what she's talking about and blink at her wordlessly. Her face comes into focus, the first thing that does in quite some time.

"...go out?" I croak in a voice that hasn't been used in too long.

"Yes, child," Sorocan says. "You've grown too thin. Your complexion is unhealthy."

I make a bitter sound. "That's what happens when you chain someone up against their will."

She frowns. "It is for your safety and for the good of the Tribe."

My hands clench into fists. Is this another chance for escape? Should I play along and act like I've learned the error of my ways? Maybe this is my last chance to try to get away.

"What festival?" I ask.

Sorocan stands up and crosses her arms over her chest. She explains that a most exciting time approaches. The Tribal leaders of the steppe have called everyone together for a Conclave which will last almost a full month. In preparation of the Kismet's offering to the Araldir in Winter, all Tribes have gathered from all around to mingle and trade. Normally, these clans are enemies. Yet, for a short time, they agree to lay down arms. The planned festivities are thrilling. Warriors fight each other in brutal combat for the right to the title of Champion. Men and women freely seek a life partner, no matter their origin or affiliation. Artisans and craftsmen come together to share knowledge and skill. Music plays. Dancing, spirits, and merriment abound as history and traditions are set aside to celebrate life.

On the steppe, there is one rule that is followed and respected above all else: you keep what you take. This applies to all things, for strength and cunning are the most valued traits among warriors here. In this beautiful golden grassland which stretches all the way to the mountains on the far horizon, there is no greater honor than fighting for what you desire and claiming it. No matter his background, any warrior may challenge another and take all he owns. Women battle for their love without hesitation, often fighting each other to claim a powerful warrior as their life mate. Merchants and traders steal each other's secrets through intrigue and betrayal.

None hesitate and none judge, for life here is short and unpredictable.

The heat and cold are harsh and merciless. Each year, there is less game to hunt and less resources to pull from to survive. Monsters roam the lands. Serpents fly through the skies and breathe flames. Stones come to life and seek destruction. The very elements give birth to spirits and creatures of unimaginable power, and if one is not strong of body and mind, a terrible end will come swiftly.

Each year, the situation worsens.

They say the steppe is dying.

Just like Sorocan described, they say my sacrifice will rejuvenate the land.

I should be proud. Glowing.

Yet, I still want no part of this.

My only wish is to find that missing piece of my heart. To return my memories and find where I truly belong.

The first night of the Conclave arrives too swiftly. Obtaining my vow that I will not try anything foolish, Sorocan agrees to let me venture out and partake in the celebrations. I'm dressed up in a lovely leather and cotton dress, my wrists and ankles cuffed with jingling bracelets, and my ears adorned with glimmering earrings. Sorocan takes me around the stalls to greet the people, bringing two warriors to guard me and ensure I don't try to escape again. We traverse winding rows of makeshift shops. It's a beautiful evening and an even more beautiful sight and experience. Roaring fires, handmade decorations of all shapes and colors, and people shining with ardor and passion as they trade, barter, and show off their craftsmanship. All comes together in a kaleidoscope of colors, scents, and sounds.

Despite all of this, my heart is dead as stone.

We meet other Chieftains, and I'm showered with gifts and praise and "thank-you's". As if any of these things could make me feel any less forlorn. All I want is to escape from here, yet I'm paraded around like our Tribe's prized possession. So many see me, yet none comment on my sickly complexion and the distinct lack of life in my eyes. They don't really see me. Just the Kismet. To them, I don't even have a name. Despite everything, I try not to despair. Instead, I look around at the wealth of strangers and pray that I'll find a familiar face to jog my memories. I pray that the tattoo on my wrist might guide me to my other half, that one lost piece of my heart that I so yearn for.

As the final stop of the evening, Sorocan takes me to see the warriors who will be competing this year for the title of Champion. The men have set up carved wooden fences in the shape of a great big circle to act as a ring of combat. The first series of matches of the Conclave is to take place tonight, and the tension and excitement is palpable among those visiting the area to get a glimpse of the fighters. The yurts here are packed with adoring women. Whispers and gossip abound between blushing cheeks and excited maidenly squealing. Apparently, there is a new warrior competing this year who has already earned quite a reputation for himself. They call him Arataan - the White Wolf - and they say he has a strength and power bestowed by the Gods themselves. He's challenged other warriors already, and so far he is undefeated.

"My sister saw him riding in with the Chieftain of the East," one girl whispers to her giggling friends. "She said he's bigger than a bear."

"My lak'lah caught a glimpse of him earlier in the day," another girl says. "She couldn't stop talking about how strange he looks. He was an Outsider once, wasn't he?"

Sorocan is conversing with another Speaker in a different part of the yurt. Since she holds my leash, I can't stray too far from her. So, I settle in to listen to the gossiping women. Talking about the warriors isn't something I'm interested in, but I suppose my curiosity is piqued. I've hardly spoken to any of the girls in our Tribe, but they seem unusually excited about the arrival of this one man.

"There is nothing strange about him," a curvy young woman with braided long hair smiles. "He is so handsome that no words can describe him."

"Did you see him?" a girl to her right asks, grabbing at her shoulder.

"I did. He has eyes like rubies and hair that's silver like a shooting star."

The girls all gasp and sigh.

Silver hair and red eyes? How unusual. Most of the people in the Tribes have dark hair and eyes except the Northerners. He must have been born with a mark of the Gods, much like me. Had he been a woman, he might have been chosen to be the Kismet. Then, I could have been the mighty warrior instead of just a helpless Priestess. The thought makes me smile, and I suppress the urge to giggle at how ridiculous that sounds.

"He will be the Champion for sure," a girl squeaks with excitement. "He already defeated Batu of the North and Tögöldör of the South. They were both Champions the last two Conclaves. I wish I could have seen Batu's face. He's always saying he's the strongest in the land."

"I want to give the White Wolf my pouch this year," one of them swoons. "I've already made one in case I find someone I like."

Another girl laughs. "You and a hundred others. I'll be he'll have a whole basket of pouches to choose from when the Conclave is done."

A tap on my shoulder breaks me from my thoughts. Sorocan stands over me, and I get to my feet to follow her to her next destination. As we exit the yurt, she begins leading us to the warriors' quarters. We trudge up a small hill to a secluded set of dwellings. Before entering, Sorocan stops me.

"Because of the struggles so many of our Tribes have faced these past years, the Chieftains and Speakers have decided to augment our traditions. This year, the Champion and several of the strongest warriors will be paired with girls of our choosing."

I tilt my head, only half listening. "Paired?"

"To couple and bear children for the sake of the Tribe's continued survival."

I stare at Sorocan blankly, not sure why she's telling me all this.

"Kismet, it is within your power to pass the blessing of the Gods to those you touch. I must ask you to do this now for our strongest warriors. Bless them with your power. Give our warriors the strength to fight so we can choose the most worthy to continue our bloodline."

I put my hands on my hips, my throat growing tight. I can't believe this woman is asking me for a favor when all she's done is imprison and ridicule me. "No," I tell her. "I refuse."

Sorocan's eyes grow narrow. She frowns at me. "Even in this, you will rebel? When it costs you nothing to touch a warrior's shoulder and give him the gift of inspiration?"

I look at her long and hard, contemplating my options. How badly does she need this? Do I have enough leverage to use it to my advantage? I try to read her body language, but I'm tired and drained. Today has been too eventful. I've done more walking, speaking, and interacting than than I've done in weeks. I cross my arms over my chest, deciding that there's really nothing for me to lose.

"If you want this from me, you will give me something in return."

Sorocan's hand tightens on her cane. A cleft forms between her white eyebrows.

"Speak your terms, then. However, your freedom isn't negotiable."

I hesitate, trying to form my end of the bargain the right way. What can I ask that might sound like a small request unrelated to my ceremony? What can I ask for that might sound like something an ordinary girl might wish for before her death? I don't want Sorocan to know she hasn't broken me yet. If she realizes that I still have hope, she might tighten my guard again.

"I want to meet the White Wolf."

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can think them through. For some reason, he's the first thing that popped into my mind.

"The Arataan?" Sorocan asks, her brows shooting up into the air. "Don't tell me you're taken in by all the gossip about him." Suddenly, she looks suspicious. "Don't tell me that you saw him and were charmed by his good looks. Let me remind you, child. You are no ordinary maiden. You are spoken for by our Divine."

"So I am not allowed to fall in love like other girls? To give a pouch to a warrior I favor?"

Sorocan looks angered now. I want nothing to do with love or pouches. At this point, all of that seems like a frivolous joke. I just want to get a rise out of the Speaker. To make her feel even half the frustration that's in my heart.

"The Kismet only loves her Divine."

I shake my head. "I simply want to meet him."

"Impossible," Sorocan says. "The Kismet is a symbol of purity and virtue. Your one and only partner shall be your Divine in the heavens. You shall not be left alone with any man at any point in time."

I squash down my frustration. Spitefulness takes over. "Then, may I bless him with you beside me?"

I can't help it. I can see my words have angered our Speaker, and the bitter pleasure that runs through me is just delicious. How else can I ruin her day? Heck, how else can I ruin this entire Conclave? If I make a nuisance of myself, surely they will hate me so much they will just throw me out of the Tribe. If I'm supposed to be a symbol of purity and virtue –

Stars.

An idea strikes me. Vile and terrible. But, I'm desperate. I have no recourse.

"Sorocan," I begin, forcing my expression into one of embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I've just realized that what I'm saying is pretty ridiculous and selfish."

The Speaker doesn't answer.

"I'm sorry. So, will you let me step back and ask for something else?"

My pleading tone must have worked. The Speaker grumbles but tells me to continue.

"I still haven't accepted what you've told me about my role as the Kismet. I still don't want to be a part of the ceremony. But, maybe it's because I don't remember anything about the Tribe. I can't identify with something I can't remember."

Sorocan glares at me. "You've never shown any interest in regaining your memories of our people, and you've never expressed any concern about our plight. What's come over you?"

"After seeing everyone today, I figured out some things for myself. I see how beautiful our culture is and how hard everyone is working for this Conclave. Can you please let me continue watching the festival and meeting other people? Maybe something will help me remember. Maybe if I remember my connection to these men and women, I'll be more ready to surrender..." I take a dramatic deep breath, "...and be the sacrifice."

It takes some more convincing, but Sorocan agrees to give me some independence during the Conclave. She can't afford to ignore the possibility that I might become a willing participant in her plans.

We go into the warriors' yurts, and I bless the fighters one by one as promised. It is clear whom the Gods have chosen, for when I touch their shoulders my hands light up with a brilliant golden light. Those warriors are tapped and led away, likely to have the conversation about their new duties this year.

In this way, I meet all of our fighters. All except the White Wolf. According to Sorocan, he is undergoing some kind of ritual prior to the first fights tonight and doesn't want to be disturbed. I wonder how a mere warrior has the right to refuse a visit from a Speaker and blessings from the Kismet. He must be much more important than I realize.

Once the blessings are done, Sorocan takes me to the Speaker's throne in the makeshift arena. It's a series of ornately carved wooden chairs called the Honored Seats. The length of their legs is adjusted based on hierarchy. The Chieftains sit in the highest seats with the Speakers just below them. All others sit on the ground to watch the combat. The Kismet sits with the Speaker, and as we find our seats and wrap ourselves in some wool shawls, the Game Master blows a colossal onyx horn to signal the start of the event. The ground shakes beneath our feet from the deep earthy bellow.

Warriors enter the ring in order of rank based on their prowess. They're dressed in traditional garb: loose cotton pants to allow for ease of movement, leather boots to give traction on the ground while fighting, and a leather piece of armor on the chest. Each fighter wears a thick corded necklace around his neck. As the fights progress, wool braids of different colors will be hung on them for each of the warriors' victories. I wring my hands together as men of various heights and builds march onto the field, holding my breath until I finally see him.

The White Wolf enters the ring last, marking him as the strongest of the fighters. I can't make out his features from this distance, but the first thing that catches my eye is his shining crown of white hair. It isn't styled like a typical warrior's cut. In fact, there's absolutely nothing "typical" about this man. His necklace is already covered in braids, showing off the victories that earned him his place in this pecking order. Added to those braids are various vicious looking fangs from beasts and monsters.

The gossip I'd heard in the yurt earlier that day was absolutely accurate. He is massive. As he passes the other warriors, he towers over them. His shoulders are big and broad. The leather armor on his chest is more revealing than the others, showing off his incredible physique. With each step, his muscles ripple in waves. He's shaped like a lean predator, and everything about his stance says that he's ready to strike at any moment. Each step he takes is graceful and measured.

My hands tighten, wadding together parts of my thick skirt. So, this is the man that will decide my fate. I must find a way to meet him alone and undisturbed. My life depends on it.

As the warriors all bow respectfully to the audience, the three strongest approach our seating area to pay respect to the Chieftains, Speakers, and the Kismet. My body grows tense. As they near us, I can finally make out the White Wolf's features. My eyes trace his chiseled jaw, muscular neck, and aquiline nose. His silver eyebrows arch gracefully over sharp slanted blood red eyes. It's a color more beautiful than any I remember seeing. My heart stills in my chest.

Suddenly, my wrist is burning.

I rub my other hand against it, flinching at the pain.

It's like a snake is wrapping around my arm.

Tighter and tighter.

And then I realize it. The closer the three warriors come to us, the more painful the pressure on my wrist. My eyes go wide. It's one of these men!

One of these warriors is the person I've been seeking!

It takes all of my willpower not to fly to my feet and shout. After all, I've made a bargain with Sorocan. I'm supposed to be learning the ways of these people so I can resign myself to my fate. Frustrated, I search the warriors' faces for any sign that they feel the same discomfort. Maybe they have a mark, too. Would it react to mine? Would they even be aware of it?

"Greetings, proud combatants," our Chieftain says as he rises to his feet. He stretches out his arms, and his red, orange, and earth toned wool robes spread out around him like a hawk's mighty wings. "As you know, this Conclave is different from many others. In this time of darkness and difficulty, it is even more vital that we elevate the strongest among us to preserve our traditions and fight for the continuation of our Tribes." He gestures of the Ring and the fighters within.

"This tradition has been held for hundreds of years. Our strongest fight with all their strength to take the title of Champion. With that title, comes great reward. Glory, honor, and of course the Champion's jewel –" he reaches into a chest sitting before him and takes out a multi-layered silver chain. Attached to it is a fiery red gem about the size of my palm. "The gem called Daybreak!"

Whispers break out around those seated around the Ring as the Chieftain shows it to all. "The last time we held this Conclave, it was I who claimed Daybreak for my own. Now, I offer to pass it to the next Champion." The Chieftain looks down at the White Wolf and the warriors to his left and right.

"Batu of the North," he calls. The warrior to the right of the White Wolf crosses his big fist over his chest and kneels down. He has short golden hair with a single thin braid stretching down past his shoulders. On the end, I see a few colored beads and an emerald hued feather.

"Tögöldör of the South," the Chieftain nods. The warrior to the left of the White Wolf mimicks the actions of Batu and also kneels before our leader. His hair is dark as night and flows down to his waist in a thick braid.

"We have a new addition to our most honored warriors. Arataan, the White Wolf. Once, he was an Outsider. Yet, he has proven to us that he is blessed by the Gods themselves. The Speakers have welcomed him into the Eastern Tribe. He is now their strongest and fiercest!"

The audience goes wild with cheers and cries of support, particularly the women. Though Tögöldör and Batu remain reserved and expressionless, the other warriors standing in the Ring don't look pleased in the least. The White Wolf's expression is hard to read. I can't imagine a greater honor than standing before the Chieftains and receiving the adoration and admiration of all the Tribes and their leaders like this. Yet, he looks entirely disinterested.

The Chieftain waves for the crowd to calm, and eventually silence fills the field again. "Brothers and sisters, as I have said this Conclave will be different from any prior to it. The Champion and the three strongest warriors will be paired with our loveliest maidens to couple and produce heirs that will carry the fire of our Tribes into the future."

More cheers from the crowd, even wilder this time. Apparently, the people approve of this spontaneous addition to the festivities. Once again, the Chieftain waves for the audience to quiet down.

"In addition to the Champion receiving Daybreak as his reward and having first choice of pairing partners, the Chieftains and Speakers have agreed to grant him a single wish. He may ask for any reward and claim it as his own without reservation." The Chieftain raises his hands high into the air. "Because these three warriors have proven themselves as the likeliest candidates for the title of Champion in the sacred Conclave, they may speak now and tell the Chieftains what their wishes might be."

He points - "Batu, speak your wish."

The golden-haired warrior rises to his feet. He thumps his fist across his chest. "My wish, honored leader, is to become the new Chieftain of the North and to carry on in my Father's footsteps!"

The Chieftain nods. "Granted. Fight, then, for that honor." He points to the next man - "Tögöldör, speak your wish."

The onyx-haired warrior rises to his feet. Much like Batu, he thumps his chest and states that he wishes to become the Chieftain of the South. Also like his father. The fact that both the warriors have the same wish tells me that this is nothing more than a grand show for the crowd. The Chieftains' sons will inherit the reins of their Tribe if they manage to win the title of Champion. More cheers this time. Even more deafening. I tune them out, focusing on the warriors.

Suddenly, the White Wolf's eyes jump to me, and from the second that our gazes meld, the mark around my wrist bursts into a fresh wave of agony. Chaotic images flash through my mind, but I can't make out any details. I waver dizzily in my seat, nausea rising in my belly. A throbbing pain begins to pound in my temple. My hands clench into fists until my nails dig into my palms.

"Child, are you alright?" Sorocan asks beside me. Her voice sounds so far away. I can't break away from the White Wolf's gaze, and before my wide eyes he lifts his right hand and tugs down his glove as though adjusting it. My body breaks out in cold sweat. A thousand needles stab into the nerves along my spine. Goosebumps cover my arms. There, wrapped around his muscled forearm is a mark identical to mine.

"Arataan, speak your wish for all to hear," the Chieftain shouts, his voice piercing through my trance.

The White Wolf looks towards our leader and takes a few steps forward. He does not thump his chest or lower his head. His chin remains tilted up in a regal and arrogant manner as his full sensual lips curve into a satisfied smirk.

"I have one wish," he calls. His voice is deep and dark, like the rumbling of thunder in a wild storm. My heart pounds in my chest as he places one hand on his hip. "But, really, I don't need to speak it. If you do not allow me to claim what is rightfully already mine, then I will take it by force."

Hushed whispers and murmurs ripple through the crowd. The Chieftain doesn't seem intimidated. In fact, he seems impressed. "Speak, then. Tell us your desire."

Slowly, deliberately, the White Wolf raises his large hand and points a finger towards the Honored Seats.

"That woman there is mine," he says.

My heart stops in that moment, for there is no doubt that he is pointing directly at me.

#love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x mc #sylusposting #sylus/mc #sylus #eyes of infinity delirium #love and deepspace fanfic #lnds #lnds sylus

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 2 years ago

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Love You Like That

Part 7 of Sometimes All You Need (A Getaway Car)

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader

Description: The months following Jake's injuries during his deployment have been anything but easy. You have hope, however, that the two of you are strong enough to overcome all of the trials and tribulations that you encounter. After nearly losing Jake, it's the least you can do, right? Wrong. Especially when your boyfriend himself can't seem to understand just how difficult these past few months have been for you. Will he ever be able to understand your point of view? Or is this how you lose him - for good?

Disclaimers: Mentions of Injury, Arguments, Alcohol, Drunken talk, Smut

Warning: Female Reader

Word Count: 3670

Author Note: Here's part 7 of Sometimes All You Need (A Getaway Car). This chapter was my first time attempting to write an argument and I hope I did it justice. This is the third of the truly angsty chapters I have planned for this series. I hope you like it.

This chapter is inspired by Dagny's Love You Like That. I highly suggest you listen to the song while you read.

I also have about a million thanks for the lovely @desert-fern (@ferns-fics) for beta-reading this for me! Also! Look at my new watermark! @cassiemitchell made it for me and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!

AO3: Cross-posted Here!

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"What do you mean you're going back to work in three weeks?" Your voice sounds incredulous and pained.

"I mean, I'm going back to work in three weeks." Jake sounds infuriated with you, and a part of you understands why - this is the fourth time you’re having the same discussion.

He doesn't seem to understand how your world had imploded in seconds when you'd found out he'd been hurt. Jake had been in a coma for three weeks! He'd been so severely injured that you weren't sure at times if he'd ever recover from the trauma. You still wake up in the middle of the night with nightmares. Sometimes it's still the same nightmare you had in the hospital. But more and more it's you waking up to find Jake cold and clammy in the bed next to you.

All the while Jake slumbers peacefully next to you. He doesn’t seem to understand the emotional toll his near loss has had on you. Maybe that’s partially your fault. You’ve hidden your exhaustion from him, resolving to be his rock. So instead you drive him to each doctor's appointment and every physical therapy appointment, masking your worry by showing your love for him in every way you can.

"I don't get you at all. Why can't you understand?" Jake's glaring at you, thin and pale standing across the island in your kitchen. His eyes are molten emerald, glinting dangerously in the warm lights.

"Why can't you understand?!" Heat crawls its way up your throat, uncomfortably prickling behind your eyes.

"You nearly died, Jake." You can't help how your voice breaks as you say that word.

"And?" He can't sound so matter of fact about this - like it is an everyday occurrence. Maybe it is - for him - but it's not for you. When you can't get your dry throat to cooperate, he continues.

"This is what you signed up for. I'm a Naval Aviator." He's breathing raggedly before he spits out, "Or did you forget that over the months we were apart? Did you forget that you'll never be my first priority? The Navy comes first. Flying comes first."

You feel like a marionette with all of its strings cut at his words. You can't believe this is Jake, your Jake, saying the words - the man you love, who claims to love you. You've made him your top priority since he's been injured. You haven't even seen Callie since the squadron got back. Jake has been your only focus. His words also send rage flowing through your veins.

"So that's how this works, right? It's perfectly alright for me to make sacrifices, to drive you everywhere, do everything for you when you're hurt, but you can't even hear me out?" A tear drips down your cheek as you look up at Jake. "I just want you to listen to me. To hear my fears, my worries and tell me that everything will be okay."

"But I guess that is an ephemeral hope. I'm not your first priority right? That's the Navy isn't it? What happened to, 'I'm looking for forever with you, gorgeous'?" You don't know when you moved around the island to face him, but you've got one finger pointed at his sternum. "I guess I'm just another fuck for you then. So what then? Why are you even here?"

You can physically see the regret in Jake's eyes as he tries to reach for you. But you slap his hands away before he can get close. Your rage is taking the wheel now.

"Why aren't you back on base? Go back to killing yourself with workouts before you're ready. Go back to having a multi-million dollar missile strapped to your ass going faster than the speed of sound." You ignore the pain in his eyes or how he gapes at you for your words. Then the anger takes over his face. His jaw tightens and his eyes glare even more.

"You want me back on base, gorgeous?" You can't help the way your fingers reach out to him as he whirls away, striding away as fast as he can.

"You got what you wanted then. I thought you knew what I wanted. I thought we were in this until the end. I saw myself growing old with you. So why? Why can't you just listen to me?" Jake's out of breath, his shoulder moving jerkily, protesting his movements, as you follow listlessly behind him as he jams his feet into a pair of sneakers and shrugs on a jacket.

You can't breathe. Each word cuts so deep that you're half sure that when you look down you'll see blood pouring out of you. But you're left standing in the yawning doorway as Jake gets into his truck and drives away. Every sound is muffled. Once again you feel adrift, tossed aside like you don't matter. There's no way Jake thinks so little of you. There's no way.

You're not sure how long you stand there, your heart bleeding as it sits perched in your hands. What did you do? Months of fostering an epic love and it's really that easy to forget? To forget all of the best parts of Jake? Jake makes you feel like no other man in the room. You can talk about anything and everything with him. And his eyes? They make you melt like ice-cream on the sunniest summer day.

Please, you beg yourself. Please, let cooler heads prevail. Please let Jake have just gone for a drive around the block. Please let him come home. But as the hours pass and the sun sets out the kitchen window, your unease grows. You’ve taken to keeping your phone barely a finger’s breadth away from you, praying that he’ll call. Your mind keeps running around in circles, the worry and fear preying on your every thought. When your phone rings from the coffee table, you nearly sprint to it, even when you're barely a foot away.

"Hello?" It's a number you don't recognize.

"Is this Gorgeous?" It's a male voice, deep.

"Yeah." You clutch the phone tighter to your ear.

"I've got a Jake Seresin here. You're the top number in his contacts. Can you come pick him up?” You scramble for a piece of paper.

“Yeah, I can come get him. Where is he?” Your voice is tight with worry as you listen intently to the address spilling down the line to you. When you put the address into your phone, it’s to a small bar halfway across the city. Out in the driveway, your car is the only one in its spot - meaning that Jake drove his truck there. You sit in complete silence during the entire cab ride to the bar.

It’s a seedy little joint, trapped between an alley and a strip club. The one, lone street light in the parking lot flickers with a dim, dirty yellow light. There aren't many cars in the parking lot, but you could pick Jake's pickup truck out on sight any day. The bar falls silent when you walk through the doors. The air stinks of unwashed flesh and spilled beer. A smoky haze lays over the entire building as you make a single-minded path to the bar counter. You try desperately to avoid thinking about where you’re stepping, what you’re stepping in, as you crane your neck looking for Jake.

It takes you a bit to find him, slumped as he is against a wall staring listlessly into the glass in front of him. The glass itself is chipped and clouded, but it’s no less cloudy than Jake’s expression. You walk forward, your movements hesitant and unsure but Jake doesn't look up until your sneakered feet are in his line of sight.

"What do you want?" You've never heard Jake like this. It's a tone that's all anger and spite as he downs the mouthful of amber liquid at the bottom before plunking the glass down on the bartop with a harsh thud.

"The bartender called. I'm still at the top of your emergency call list, Jay." You carefully cradle his face in your hands, tipping it up so you can see just how drunk Jake is.

"Huh." Every word sends whiskeyed breath into your face. "You're not m'gorgeous. Let go'a me. My gorgeous girl is home waitin' for me." He slaps your hands away as you try to get him to recognize you. You pay his tab before collecting his credit card and pocketing his phone. By the time you're back to Jake, he's quieted. You sit on a nearby barstool to wait. You have to sober him up, so first, you flag down the bartender.

"Can you switch him to water please? And keep it coming?" Your smile is forced when he hands Jake a tumblr full of water. You settle down to watch eagle eyed for the next hour as Jake steadily downs glass after glass of water. When he starts listing in the seat, this time because of sleep, you finally intervene.

Your sigh is soft and sad as you drag his arm around his shoulder. "C'mon cowboy. Let's get you home, yeah?"

Jake's mostly compliant, if uncoordinated as he drapes himself across your back. He's a far cry from his usual muscular self, in part due to lost muscle tone from his stint in the hospital, and you can feel every inch of his lighter weight draped over you as you stagger your way out to his pickup truck.

It takes you far longer than you care to think about to get Jake buckled into the passenger seat. His cheeks are flushed as his green eyes track your every movement slowly.

"Where're you takin' me?" His voice is all Texan drawl as you start the truck up.

"I'm taking you home, Cowboy." He doesn't seem to recognise you any better now than he did earlier.

"But y'dont know where I live. And I'm not goin' home with you. I only go home with my darling girl." You can't help your fond sigh as you drive carefully home. Even drunk and in the middle of the worst - and only, thus far - argument of your relationship, Jake's still loyal to you.

You're silent as you carefully drive home. Jake keeps up a token protest, grumbling under his breath as he sits in the passenger seat with his face smashed against the glass. When you pull the truck into the driveway and turn it off, it's to the sight of him snoring brokenly against the glass.

It's late, well past midnight and Jake's entire body is still recovering. He hurts just napping on your overstuffed sofa nowadays. So you carefully wake him up and help him stagger through your house. A couple of glasses of water more and you have a nearly sober, awake boyfriend to handle.

It's as you're gently tugging a fresh t-shirt over his head that Jake finally speaks again.

"Why'd you come get me, huh, Gorgeous?" You carefully cradle his head, fingers gentle as they trace over the still tender scars under his hair.

"Why wouldn't I, Jay?" His hands find your waist, sliding under your shirt to map out your skin.

"There wasn't ever a doubt that I'd come find you." You kiss his hair, pulling him in closer.

"Why?" You've never heard Jake sound so lost.

"Because I love you. One fight could never change that. I was so angry at you that I let my mouth get away with me. I'd do anything for you. I'd do everything for you." Your voice is hushed, choked by the tears you're valiantly trying to keep at bay.

"If you love me, then why can't you understand? Flying -" he clears his throat before saying the words, "flying is everything to me. I don't know who I am if I'm not a naval aviator."

"I never asked you to stop flying, Jake. I just." You take in a deep breath, trying and failing to corral all of your warring emotions. "I guess I just want you to be safe. To take a bit more time to heal before you head back up there. You’re my everything, Jay. When I got that call in the middle of the night saying you’d been hurt it felt like my world had rocked off of its axis. I was lost.”

Your sniffle is soft as Jake tugs you even closer. “A-and I hate fighting with you Jay. I know this is our first one, but I already hate it.”

Your breathing is ragged as you card your fingers through Jake’s soft short hair. “I just don’t want to lose you. Lose what we have. I want at least 40 years with you, you know? It’s non-negotiable.”

“My flying, baby doll? It isn’t going to change that. I promise.” His words should fill you with relief, but instead, all you’re filled with is more worry.

“You can’t promise that, Jake. You just can’t.” You pull away from him, looking out the big bay window in your bedroom with your back to the man who holds your entire heart. Jake’s thin and worn, his reflection and the light over emphasizing the bags under his eyes.

“Baby Doll -” You can’t even look at him right now. Your stomach is flip-flopping unpleasantly, all of your emotions clogging your throat and muffling your voice. You don’t think you can even look at his reflection without crying. Not tonight, not right now. You startle at the feeling of Jake’s hands on your skin. It’s something you’ve never done before. You’re just so on edge tonight that you feel like even your skin doesn’t fit right on your body. But Jake’s arms? Your body knows, no matter how tense your mind is or how wrapped up it is in your thoughts, that you belong there. You slump against his chest, turning in his arms until your ear is to his heart and your hands are flat against the warm skin of his back.

“Baby Doll?” Jake sounds so tired, even as his arms curl tighter around your frame. Each breath he takes sounds like the sweetest music you’ve ever heard.

“Jay?” Your voice is a barely suppressed sob.

“You scared me so badly.” Your sniffle is wet as you nuzzle further into his chest as you tell him exactly what he means to you.

“You’re so deeply entrenched in my life, Jay. You’re my heart. My whole soul. It’s only been a little more than a year since we met and I don’t even know what it means to not love you. I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for you. How?” You’re struggling to breath, your lungs not computing the oxygen entering them.

“How could I possibly let you go when it feels like I’ve just found you?” Your fingers grip tighter to his skin. You’re sure you’re hurting him but he never complains and just clutches you closer, his hand cupping the back of your head as you wet his t-shirt with your tears.

“You’re not letting go, Baby Doll. I’m not letting go of you either.” His voice is just as choked up as yours is.

“You’re just as deep under my skin, gorgeous. I wish I could tell you that I’ll be safer, that I’ll do better. But you were right, earlier. It’s not fair for me to expect you to make all of the sacrifices. It’s about time I made some too. Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His hands are gentle, feather-light as they tip your chin up until your teary eyes meet his own.

“Tell me the word, sweetheart. And I’ll do it. I’ll quit the Navy. My contract’s up in a few months anyways. I’ll apply for desk duty until it’s up. For you, I can remake myself. Just say the word.”

“How could I ask you to do that? Wasn’t it your dream to fly?” You can’t believe what you’re hearing. Your eyes are wide as you gaze up at Jake.

“Baby doll, my dreams changed the minute I met you. You.” His hands rise to brush the tears from your face. “You’re my new dream. Forever and always. And this dream? It’s one I’m going to keep alive for as long as I still have breath in my lungs. My heart? It’s yours. So is my life. The decision, my gorgeous girl, is yours.” Your gasp is soft, but the way you smash your lips to Jake’s is anything but.

You pour your entire heart into the kisses you give Jake, breathing out your love against his cheeks, lips, and neck as you push him back towards the bed. Jake goes willingly, letting you strip the shirt off before settling yourself lightly in his lap.

“What’s this for, huh, baby?” His hands slide under your shirt easily, gripping the soft skin at your waist like they were made to be there.

“I love you, Jake. Do I need a reason to show you how much?” Your smile is soft and slightly mischievous as you ghost your lips gently against his.

“Not as far as I’m concerned, pretty girl.” The look in his eyes sends heat shooting through you as you capture his mouth again.

His tongue is wet against yours, plundering your mouth as he takes back control. His hands feel like brands over your skin as they drag you even closer. You're so wholly occupied by Jake that you barely notice your shirt landing on the floor or how your bra joins it seconds later. The next thing you feel is Jake's lips wrapping around your peaked nipples. Your resulting moan is high pitched and breathy.

Even when you're on top of him he drives you wild. In no time at all he has you writhing on top of him, completely bare. Your cunt is so wet that it's soaking a wet spot into his jeans. Jeans that you need off. It's been far too long since you've had Jake. Between his exhaustion and your own, and his recovery, all physical intimacy went out of the window months ago.

But now? You need him like you need air to breathe. His cock is already drooling precum as you work it over. When his head tips back, you take the opportunity to mark up the golden column of Jake's throat, pulling back only when there's a bruise blossoming against his throat.

"God, pretty girl. What're you trying to do, huh? Kill me?" Your resulting squeak is embarrassingly high-pitched as he manhandles you until you're ass up on the bed. "Or d'you want me so bad that you'd do anything to get my attention?"

You'd accuse Jake of being cruel if his hands weren't so tender against your fever-hot skin, your arousal so potent that it's practically emanating off of you in waves. The first press of his cock into you has you nearly sobbing in relief.

"Mmm." Jake's voice is a guttural growl against your shoulder as he pulls you in against your back is to his chest.

"My pretty girl. So wet and ready for me. Feels like forever since I've had this pretty pussy. Is it still mine, baby?" Jake's voice is all sex and smoke in your ear as his cock fills you up in a way no other ever has.

"It's yours, Jay." Your moans fill the bedroom as he fucks so slowly and deliberately into you that you can feel every inch of him in your throbbing, sopping wet core. "Always yours."

Your mind is already foggy. Jake's making you lose your thoughts, trapping your tongue with the constant, relentless onslaught of his cock as it hits your sweet spot every time with unerring precision. He already has you babbling, droplets of sweat dripping down your temples as the temperature in the room ratchets up. All you can think of, all you want to think of is Jake. He's your everything.

The way he's rutting into you feels like a brand burning into your skin. He's ruined you for all other men. Not that you'd ever think of ever letting anyone else into your heart. A part of you loves the thought. That you're Jake's and that he's yours. That same part of you longs for a marker, something to show to the world that he's yours. But for now, you can wait.

Honestly, you want something else just a bit more now, and that is to cum. With Jake, because of Jake. The pleasure that's been making you tongue-tied and cock-drunk, dumb except for the thought of Jake has been rapidly tightening the band in your gut. You want to cum, no, you need to. But you don't not until Jake's hands find your breast and your clit, rolling your nipple and rubbing harshly at your clit. That's the final straw. You cum hard, harder than you have in a long time, the pleasure making you see stars and fogging up your vision.

You come back to yourself draped over Jake's chest.

"Jay?" Your voice is rough as you murmur his name.

"Yeah, gorgeous?" He sounds half asleep as his big hand cups your bare ass.

"I don't want you to quit the Navy. I'm going to be an Admiral's wife one day, you know?" You grin into his skin as he squeezes your ass.

"An Admiral's wife, huh?" You can feel his smirk as he kisses the top of your head.

"You bet. I can't wait for us to be introduced to everyone as Admiral and Mrs. Seresin." You're smiling from ear to ear as you kiss Jake this time. It's an uncoordinated, sloppy, messy kiss, too much teeth and tongue but you love it anyways.

"I love you, my gorgeous girl." You can't help your smile as you fall asleep in his arms. Admiral and Mrs. Seresin. You're sure there isn't a sweeter title that you could ever hold.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

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