#12 hours of absolute bliss

[imaginatio-n]

I just read long live evil by sarah rees brennan all in one go and i feel like a have emerged an entirely different human being

jesus christ

like, i read a lot and there is always something wrong with a story, those tiny little derails you wished were different, but like. I didn't even have time to find any of those in this book.

I had absolutely no clue where this story was going, and I was laughing so loud i startled my cats, and I was sobbing, and i was absolutely delighted with every single plot twist

I need someone to hit me with the amnesia so i can experiance it for the first time again right now. No, let me read it a second time first so I can have the experiance of knowing, then hit me over the head with a steel bar

I feel hollow.

I fear I will never find a book this good ever again. Damn you sarah rees brennan. Bless your beautiful soul.

[angellic4l]

don't hate the player - d.m

massive thank you’s to @esote-rika @wheresmacoffee @notlongtolove @floraisunwell @mggslover my absolute angels!!!

in which; fem!bau!reader goes to a jazz bar and bumps into the last person she’d ever want to see

content: flirty!derek, fem!bau!reader, angst!!, they fight sort of, reader hates morgan (i promise there’s a point to this) mentions of sex but no one does anything, swearing, alcohol consumption, reader wears a dress and heels

2.5k

a/n: i see basically no derek fics unless its smut (i dont read that) so i’m showing him some love!! i will continue with spencer fics im just stressing trying to write my ideas for him. kisses!!!

One of the girls’ playlists was blaring in the big bedroom, ‘Cool For The Summer’ reverberating off of the creme walls as each of you were primping and priming yourselves. Hair tools plugged in and on, makeup bags half empty with their contents spread throughout the room, and mirrors almost everywhere.

The night had been planned weeks in advance, and you were lucky enough to get the whole day off instead of having to use a sick day. It was one of your friends’ 27th birthday, and the first time you’d been out with your friends for a while, so all of you were buzzing with excitement.

She wanted to go to a jazz club, to ‘experience that ‘20s aesthetic’, in her words. You absolutely couldn’t wait to be celebrating your friend in a jazz bar, imagining soulful music as the soundtrack to your night, espresso martinis, and just having fun with your friends while you got ready.

Once done fixing your hair, you turned off the curler and unplugged it, setting it back on the heat proof mat before grabbing your hung up dress from the top of a door. You changed in the bathroom, stepping into the dress so as not to mess up your hair. It was the perfect mix of elegant yet sexy, form-fitting in the right places, but not too much skin on show to be deemed inappropriate.

After taking photos with and of the birthday girl, and then a group photo of you all on a polaroid camera, a taxi was ordered to the house. Excitement gathered in your stomach, the realisation that you were actually going out for the first time in forever, to celebrate one of your closest friends’ birthday no less, setting in and making you feel giddy.

As you all walked into the jazz club, you were greeted with a dimly lit room, illuminated with orange lighting to give it that cozy, intimate atmosphere. Red brick walls, decorated with vinyls, paintings, and wall lamps, were lined with brown leather booths. The sweet symphony of the saxophone softly sailed through the place before settling in your ears.

For the first time in a while, you felt alive, truly alive. Of course, working in high stake situations, apprehending some of the worst criminals known to man, and acting in life or death situations constantly fills you with adrenaline. That would be considered as feeling alive by most people, but it isn’t.

In this moment, you felt electric. You were on a high, not because of adrenaline, but because of pure euphoria. The atmosphere was welcoming, intimate, and so full of passion. You and your friends were all sat around a table sharing anecdotes, laughing, drinking, and just having fun. There was nothing to worry about, no nerves about a phone call from Hotch, no having to filter what you say.

It was pure bliss, everything you’d been missing for a while, and you felt like nothing and no one could bring you down from this peak.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Being so in the moment with your friends, enjoying good gossip and reminiscing on your uni days together, meant that you weren’t really checking the time, nor did you care to. Subconsciously though, you figured it had been at least an hour since you’d arrived; 12 five minute songs had been performed, give or take.

Everyone was taking turns buying rounds, the group had agreed on it before the night. It was your turn to buy everyone’s drinks now. The bar was popular, but it wasn’t packed like a club was, and for that you were thankful. Carrying a tray of drinks back to the table, in heels no less, would’ve been a nightmare.

Standing at the deep brown, oak bar, waiting for the drinks, you watch your friends laughing and giggling. The contentment you felt still hadn’t gone away, coursing through your body as if it were inside every red blood cell, depositing this gleeful energy with each pump of your heart. A few moments pass before you turn your attention back to the bar, leaning on it ever so slightly, observing how the drinks are made.

Suddenly, you feel a presence to the side of you, but you figure it’s just another patron buying a drink. Then, there’s a voice. An all too familiar voice that seems to not only pull you down from your euphoric high, but plummet you deep into the depths of anger, too.

“Pretty girl, fancy seeing you here,” he almost sings and you can hear the arrogant smirk on his face without even turning to face him.

“Morgan. Please, for the love of all things good, do not talk to me,” you try to remain as civil as possible, he hasn’t actually done anything yet, and you’re not horrible.

Derek raises his hands in some mock surrender, but his smirk never wavers. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to humble him, wipe that smirk off of his face, and bring his ego down a few notches. Immensely gratifying, you’d decided a while ago.

To put it simply, Derek Morgan was everything you hated about men in today’s society. He was a cocky, arrogant, bastard with little to no regard for people’s feelings. And the worst thing? He talked about women as if they were conquests, notches in his bedpost, trophies for his fucking shelf. It pissed you off to no end, how he could act like the women he ‘dated’ or slept with weren’t real people who deserved basic human decency.

But, you worked with him, day in and day out, and you weren’t about to lose your job over someone as insufferable as him. Besides, as much as you could hate his self proclaimed ‘CasaNova’ ways, he was damn good at his job, and he hadn’t done anything to you directly. He was fully unaware of the stance you’d taken against him, and he hadn’t done anything to require you airing out your grievances. Yet.

A long suffering sigh escapes your gloss coated lips as you come to terms with these facts, realising you can’t be hostile to your coworker, even if you’re not at work, because he doesn’t even know you have a problem with him.

“Look, Morgan, I’m sorry for that, but I’m here with my friends, celebrating, and I want absolutely nothing to do with work right now,” you murmur, still leaning across the bar.

“Look, mama, I get it. Jus’ didn’t wanna be rude, that’s all,” his tone is soft, softer than you’ve ever heard Morgan speak, and it’s filled with understanding. To say you’re shocked would be an understatement.

The pair of you exchange small smiles, a fleeting farewell, before he grabs his drink and leaves. Maybe you’ve misunderstood him, even if you don’t agree with what he stands for, and maybe you’ve been too impulsive with your initial judgements. Derek Morgan is a dick, but maybe he isn’t always a dick.

Drinks are passed around the table, manicured hands grabbing at various coloured liquids in different shaped glasses. Euphoria is long gone after your interaction with Derek, no longer on that high of serenity but in a sea of uncertainty. You won’t let yourself be a Debby downer on your friend’s birthday, though. Being a profiler means knowing all of your own tells, so you mask them well, putting up a front of glee until it isn’t fake anymore.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Jazz music speaks to the soul, transcending all borders, dimensions, and whatever the hell else Reid talks about, to reach the quintessence of your being. Rhythmic notes reach deep until they’re at the core of you, becoming a balm to the very essence of yourself.

Being surrounded by something so passionate and deep works quickly to heighten your mood once more. The sea of uncertainty parts for serenity’s peak, the fake smile becoming real, and the way Derek’s surprising attitude had shifted your mood is washed away.

Out of nowhere, a server comes over to the table with a tray full of everyone’s exact orders, seemingly confident about the table number. She smiles at you, but your brow furrows with confusion.

“Oh, these can’t be for us, I just bought drinks,” you explain, confusion painting your face even more, bottom lip jutted out ever so slightly and a small wrinkle in between your eyebrows.

“No, no, they are! That guy over there just ordered them all for you. Don’t worry, he didn’t touch them, just bought ‘em,” the server explains, pointing to none other than Derek Morgan, sitting at the bar.

All of the girls’ heads whip over to look in his direction, finding the man sitting on a bar stool next to his friends, but his attention isn’t on any of the guys. Instead, his gaze is on you, a soft smile playing at his lips, watching expectantly. For what, you don’t know, but it seems shady. If you know anything about Derek, it’s that he doesn’t do things that don’t benefit him directly. God, it’s almost too predictable, sending drinks to a table of pretty girls, hoping to luck out and get some.

Clearly, your own friends don’t share the same sentiment, because there’s a chorus of ‘awh’s once they recognise him as Derek. None of them have met him before, but they’ve seen pictures, having stalked each of the BAU members after your transfer request had been accepted.

The birthday girl says your name, almost as if you’d personally offended her, while hitting your arm lightly. For a moment, you’re afraid Derek sending you all drinks genuinely did offend her, but she’s speaking before the worry takes root.

“You didn’t tell us he was hot! My god, look at those muscles,” she raves, rolling her bottom lip beneath her teeth while staring at him past your head.

“Hot? You’re kidding, right? He’s awful.”

“He just bought us all drinks! That’s not awful, that’s lovely.”

“No, but he’s not actually like that. It’s just a ploy!”

“Not everyone has ulterior motives. I think you’re letting all that crime stuff get to your head.”

“You don’t see him like I see him, he’s really no-“ she cuts you off.

“Can I go for it? Am I his type?”

You actually have to bite back a scoff at that, because anyone that breathes is basically Derek Morgan’s type. He’s not good enough for your friend, not for any of them, but you know her well enough to see that she won’t listen to a bad word you say against him now. Truthfully, you’re resigned, you don’t care, it’s her choice. If she wants to make the bed and share it with him, she can lie in it, too.

“You’re stunning, of course you’re his type. Be my guest,” and the second the words are out of your mouth, she’s walking over to him like a lioness about to pounce on her prey.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

For the rest of the girls, two drinks becomes four, then shots, and before they know it they’re slurring their words, no longer making any sense. Of course, you’d come out tonight to celebrate your friend’s birthday, to have fun and let loose, but you also know that at least one of you needs to be somewhat sober.

Not to say you’re entirely sober, because your inhibitions are definitely a little loose, but it’s the kind of drunk that reduces your filter and boosts your confidence. You’re still in full control of yourself, just maybe not your mouth. Or your bladder’s strength, ever since you broke your seal.

Walking back from the bathrooms through a larger crowd than there was before isn’t too difficult, but the singer on stage now is semi-famous in the jazz world, so people are treating the bar like a concert, standing in your way. Succeeding in your mission to get through the crowd, your speed picks up once you’re in the clear, the clack of your heels becoming more frequent.

In your rush back to your friends, you aren’t properly taking in your surroundings, gaze trained on the table to ensure they’re all alright. Thus, you’re quickly met with something hard, prompting your foot to slip, and you stumble backwards.

A large hand reaches out quickly, grabbing your hip to stabilise you and resting there to make sure you’re alright.

“Watch your step, pretty girl,” the hand says and you know the voice too well, the nickname slipping off of his tongue like it’s nothing, and suddenly your eyes are on Derek Morgan’s face once more.

How fucking embarrassing.

“Oh gosh, ‘m so sorry, I didn’t even realise,” you rush out, not even thinking about the fact that the man you have a massive issue with has his hand on your hip still.

“Don’t apologise. You can push up on me anytime you want to, sweet thing,” his voice is smooth, tone suggestive, and the smirk on his face is one you’ve seen plenty of times before. When he’s talking to pretty female police officers on a case, after he gets a girl’s number, when he’s talking about his rendezvous to Rossi at work. The fact that it’s being directed at you makes you feel a bit sick, to be honest, and it’s definitely not the martinis.

Any and all uncertainty you had about Derek Morgan’s character is gone in a flash, as is the serenity, and is instead replaced by an overwhelming fire of rage because he is exactly what you thought he was. He’s a pig, a disgusting one at that, and no small one off conversation, or him buying your friends drinks, or how good he is with kids, or how great he is at the job will ever change that in your eyes.

While the alcohol may not be making you feel sick, it’s definitely doing a whole lot for this rage, feeding the flames and giving you the confidence to finally give Morgan a piece of your mind. However, you still have some semblance of self control and so, you hold back a little, but not completely.

“As if, Morgan.”

“Pretty girl, you don’t gotta play hard to get.”

His arrogance drips from every word that leaves his mouth, seeping from his pores like sap from a tree. The fact he genuinely believes that you aren’t saying no, is so full of himself he believes your dismissal is you ‘playing hard to get’ enrages you even more, fueling the fire of your rage for the last time. Grabbing his hand on your hip and shoving it off, you start talking, tone as bitter as ever.

“I am not playing hard to get, Morgan. I simply do not want you.”

“Woah, sweetheart, what’s all the hostility for?”

“Because you’re a classic player! You have no respect for women. You just think they’re there for you to fuck and move on.”

“You know what they say - ‘Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“No. I do hate the player. You’re a self centered, egotistical, whorish bastard who doesn’t see women as anything but notches on his fucking bedpost. You don’t have any fucking respect for anyone that isn’t beneficial to you. People are not pawns in your game, women are not queens waiting to be conquered. Grow the fuck up, Morgan.”

Your words wiped the stupid smirk right off of his stupid face, left him speechless and expressionless, like a deer in headlights. Like your words, you left him standing there too, heading back to your friends at the booth. You were right. It was immensely gratifying.

tags: @darkmatilda

[jiminjamms]

sex therapy :: 29. karma's a bitch

chapter tags/warnings: manipulative! naoya. naoya's anger issues continue. infidelity/adultery. extremely strong language. corruption. mentions of physical violence. family drama.

word count: 3.2k

notes: my sixty-hour work weeks have been taking a huge toll on me, so i apologize for this incredibly slow update. the good news is that i cannot take this corporate america bullshit anymore and will resign in the next two months. thank you for being patient! likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated. xoxo

fic masterlist | 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. 09. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

Naoya had never felt this humiliated in his entire life.

When people said karma was a bitch, he never thought that it would actually make its way back to him. While he was not the most righteous person in the world, he was the Zenin CEO, for god’s sake! He was the leader to a multi-billion dollar conglomerate, the heir of a centuries-old bloodline. 

Yet, here he was, charging back to his apartment like an irate animal.

He startled the lobby doormen upon his loud entry, and once he returned to his penthouse, he had to will every muscle in his body not to tear apart his abode in a rampage.

In his head, his encounter with Toji looped like a broken record, fueling his chagrin.

When Naoya sought to confront his cousin for the first time in months, he thought he had been prepared. He did not expect to end up digging himself into a deep hole surpassing the world's layers due to a judgment error—a slight miscalculation. 

Correction: this miscalculation was anything but 'slight' because he wildly underestimated what felt like everything. Now, he bore the consequences of his mistakes after inadvertently turning himself into a laughingstock. Because his ego was his hamartia, he had become a mere jester in a story where he was meant to be the sole hero, and thus his ill feelings burned hotter than the surface of the Sun.

As much as he hated to admit this, Naoya had been shortsighted. He should have known better. Just weeks ago, he saw a vision filled with saccharine promises of a happy, comfortable life as the most powerful man in Japan imbued with power and wealth. He had been confident—a hundred percent certain—that absolutely nothing could go wrong in the trajectory he worked hard to create. But, what the actual fuck just happened at the therapist's office?!

He did not expect his mistress to make a complete fool out of him. Her very existence was an anathema to him, and he hoped to never be in contact with that woman ever again. In hindsight, Naoya should have taken the hint a while ago. He had previously forgiven his cousin's ex-wife, dismissing her blissful but intentional ignorance. Mari had never been too keen on actual intellectual and corporate matters, for she took far more interest in the money and comfort that came with starting from the bottom and sleeping her way to the top. Despite that, Naoya trusted that she at least had half the mind to not publicly discuss their affair, only for him to be proven wrong in front of none other than...Toji Fushiguro.

"Fuck!" Naoya screamed into the void of his empty living room. His reality was a nightmare as he thought about his despised cousin again—the assured gleam in his viridescent eyes, the smug smirk that tugged across his lips. The imagery soured his mood beyond measure. "I'm going to fucking—"

He did not finish his sentence.

Instead, he kicked a nearby lamp in an angry bout, toppling the fixture over and sending tiny shards cascading across the floor accompanied by the dull thud of the shade. Whatever. His housekeeper tomorrow morning would come in and clean that. 

What he instead focused on was how he had never been this infuriated, this belittled, this undignified.

The entire apartment echoed with Naoya's loud huff.

'About ‘your wife’ or whatever you want to deem her, there is not a single chance in hell that she’d ever think about calling you her husband anymore.' These words from Toji affected him more than he would have liked.

What did he mean?

That bastard is bluffing, the blonde had to tell himself, yet even he could not believe in his own consolation.

He needed to do something about this. 

No, no, Naoya wasn’t scared.

He couldn’t possibly be, right?!

Yet, after he could feel his ears begin to cool and breathing start to re-regulate, he stared at the emptiness in his halls as he came to the realization that had no better choice but to talk to you.

You didn't want to be here.

The moment you read Naoya Zenin's text to meet up for a 'quick chat' at the café near his office, you already knew that the upcoming conversation was going to be anything but 'quick.' The last thing you wished to do was to be in the same vicinity as that very man again.

After spending the last few days at your family residence, you had been showered with warm attention from aunts, uncles, cousins, and even house attendants who—despite naturally wondering the reason behind your stay—welcomed your visit with open arms. To your relatives' many inquiries, you forged a pretense that all was well even if all was not. (Besides, all did seem well in your family estate, away from the incessant pandemonium that was the Tokyo city center.)

While you knew that this peaceful break was not meant to last forever, you did not anticipate returning to the capital just to sit with the Zenin CEO alone.

Naoya had specifically chosen a corner table in the Hong Kong-inspired establishment, distanced from potential eavesdroppers. He seemed to have been waiting for a while by the time you arrived, his right leg crossed over his left knee as he twiddled with his thumbs impatiently. Sprawled on the table were a freshly brewed pot of jasmine tea and a platter of warm custard pastries.

He remained quiet as you took the seat across from him, observing with a crease on his forehead and a knit to his brows.

Anyone could tell that the blonde was not the least bit happy.

"Giving me dirty looks is not going to get this conversation anywhere," you pointed out while helping yourself to a tart.

From your comment, the inverted slope on Naoya's lips twisted into a deeper frown. 

He did not understand where your annoyance came from. 

Fine, he never treated you nicely either, but he did not expect you to snap at him when the discussion had hardly begun. You offered him no greetings, and Naoya also took great offense at how you chose not to look at him as you talked.

Truth be told, your neglect reminded him of all the other upsetting things that he was dying to bring up, and your unpleasant attitude whittled away the little restraint he had left.

“You didn’t try to ask where I’ve been. Not one text or call. Guess it would not have mattered to you if I disappeared, huh?" he lashed out through gritted teeth. He hated being forgotten, hated being looked over, and hated how easy it was for him to prove you to be a neglectful and apathetic wife.

Which was why there was no better option than to cut him off.

“You ordered me to leave you alone, Naoya.” Only slightly did you turn your head to glance at him. Stirring sugar into your tea, you kept your attention otherwise on the nearby window and watched businesspeople scurrying about on the streets on their lunch breaks. "You can live without my attention since I'm not the only woman you have around. What happened to your lady friend? Hasn't she been entertaining you long before our marriage? I am sure she would love your company, so why not pay her an impromptu visit?”

From a slanting angle, you could tell that the transformation from your normally calm demeanor dismayed him. Naoya, not you, was typically the one to make snide comebacks, but he could not deny your latest comments. Evidently, he wanted you to go back to your submissive and passive self, but that was precisely what you no longer could be for him.

His silence prompted you to reach into your purse and retrieve a thick manila envelope, and you presented the package on the table.

Naoya's gaze snapped to the parcel. 

He was curious, but cautiously so. He had invited you here, expecting to control the narrative, to dictate the terms. As a result, your unexpected move threw him off balance. 

"What...?"

“Take a look and find out for yourself.”

A puzzled Naoya demonstrated no hesitation.

He snatched the folder, tearing the top open and greedily grabbing the curated pieces inside. He stared for a long time at the first item: a photo. But he recognized the image of him and his mistress, boarding a private jet for their most recent trip to Mexico. Then, he flipped through the stack rapidly, barely registering each item before he turned to the next. Some were printed-out pictures and others were cutouts from news articles, but all featured him and his paramour. The confusion on Naoya's visage slowly morphed into aggravation, and when he finished his inspection, he forcefully threw the items back onto the table.

In the end, Naoya sat back and went still, not even blinking, thinking, or doing anything but pressing his tongue along his inner cheek. "How did you get these?"

No apologies. No remorse.

Hell, based on his response, the man could not even bother to deny your accusations, a telling sign of how little he could care for his relationship with you. Obviously, you must be a joke to him.

In one firm motion, you placed down your teacup.

"You're missing the point.”

While one's eyes may be the windows to the soul, Naoya's offered nothing in his current state. His pupils looked at—no, examined you in intense dark pools despite the iridescent glow from the lights above.

"Toji gave you these, didn't he?" Naoya continued with a disdainful laugh, himself insistent on getting answers to his own questions. "You can't find this shit on the internet anymore since I've had them all taken down. But Toji's fast. He has eyes everywhere, I know he does. Look at him. Months later, and he's still hung up on reclaiming a position he should've never had the right to in the first place!"

Thankfully, you didn’t flinch from his loud voice. What you did do was become more indifferent as if you were placing a wall to separate yourself from him, mentally bracing for his emotional maelstrom.

"You are missing the point," you said once more. This time, you shook your head in disappointment, and your tone was far more frustrated than the last. "Aren't you shameless?”

"Me? Shameless?!” His brows pinched closer from fury. "Take a look at yourself, woman! What did you do to get all this dirt from Toji and his henchmen, hm? Ha! Know what? I bet it’s because you're so willing to spread yourself for them,” he rambled with a nasty sneer plastered on his expression. At his comments, your jaw fell open before snapping shut as the meaning behind his words sank in. The way this man disregarded how he had an affair (that began many months ago!) only to redirect the spotlight onto you was repulsing, implying that the sole reason the therapists talked to you was that you had slept around. “A whore like you love taking all them all, don’t you? Well? Well? Am I right? Goddamn, you’re such a—”

The harsh scraping from your chair as you stood was what finally interrupted him. Unable to tolerate his vilification, you counteracted his anger with the venom in your rancorous glare. 

"How dare you talk about me like that!”

In the meantime, prying eyes started to turn in your direction from the commotion: teenage girls, sharing nervous glances across their table; a lone businessman, stopping mid-sip from his cappuccino; even the barista, pausing mid-grind such that her arm froze inches from the hopper.

"That man...doesn't he seem familiar?" a distant voice asked.

"Is he a celebrity or something?"

"No, wait. He's the person on the cover of last month's Fortune magazine. Naoya Zenin!" another replied.

"Isn't that lady his wife?"

While the onlookers' curious glances turned into full-on stares, their regard steeled your resolve rather than bothered you. Instead, you wanted the crowd to take in the spectacle. Corrupt tricks and dirty money had long painted the Zenin heir as 'the most perfect man in Japan,' and the public deserved to understand the fraudulence and cruelty that underlaid his facade.

"For months, I trusted you. I respected you. I put aside the harrowing loneliness weighing on my heart all because I tried to understand you. You told me that finding the time or energy for our marriage was not easy because board meetings kept you late in the office or business meetings required you to spend several nights abroad. Fine! So, I had been patient. But," and your voice overflowed from anger as you pointed a shaking finger at the pictures on the table, "Taking another woman to Michelin restaurants for dinners? Spending nights with her at Ritz-Carltons and Four Seasons? Going on entire vacations with her across the Pacific? All while you had a wife at home? Are you out of your fucking mind ?!" 

The man's nose flared with deep-seated rage, his eyes mirroring the same bitterness in yours. "At the end of the day," he began sternly, "we're still married."

Ridiculous.

“On paper, ” you had to clarify. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be cheating on me with your older cousin's ex-wife."

Immediately, louder murmurs rippled through the crowd. Naoya turned stiff, uncomfortable with the attention. So much for selecting a quiet corner in the café. He wasn’t stupid enough to sense that he had to be careful. Saying one wrong phrase would condemn him to a public meltdown. 

However, you were already steps ahead of him when you loudly declared: “I’m filing for a divorce.” 

That caught him off guard.

Your announcement even drew audible astonishment from bystanders as they stopped their meals, turning to each other and drawing out their phones.

In literal milliseconds, the vexation once riddling Naoya's demeanor shifted into denial.

“No. We’re not going to talk about a fucking divorce right now. We’re going to fix what we have, and you’re going to come back to me. We’re...We're married for a reason, and we’re going to keep with it!”

"That's a bullshit reason,” you had to snap. “Listen to yourself. Do you hear how selfish you sound!?" At this point, nothing could hide your bafflement. "Naoya, you were the one who said that if I wanted to leave this marriage badly, then I should leave. Ask Mai and Maki! They heard the entire conversation. Didn't you also say that you didn't give a fuck anymore?"

The man attempted to salvage some semblance of control. "I was just joking!"

"No, you were not." Picking up a photo of Naoya and Mari together, you pressed the picture to his face. “How much more can I take? How many days would I still have to go through alone in the penthouse, all because you would be spending your sweet time with the woman that you love?”

Unloading all this emotional baggage, not only for Naoya Zenin but also for the café spectators to hear, took courage. Previously, you would have let the burden gnaw at your soul. You would have rather wallowed in suffering rather than even think about speaking up.

But the past was the past, and you had grown immensely since then. Currently, you were stronger, more confident. You knew that, in Toji's words, you deserved better. Life was too beautiful to waste on a man who did not love or respect you and, with that in mind, you relaxed your clenched fists with an exhausted and fatigued sigh. 

You broke me first, you said through a deserted gaze. 

Naoya Zenin was the reason why you had become the way you were: a cold, seemingly heartless wife who cared none for her husband. The misery that he placed on your shoulders finally reached its limit, and while you could forgive, forgetting the memories in your scarred heart would be a task over months, years, and even a lifetime. 

“Listen,” you began, tone terse, “this divorce will set you free. Mari is the person whom you need—”

“The hell. No!” the man interrupted in a violent outburst, taking your breath away as he slammed the table and hissed. “I don't give a damn about her right now! We’re…We’re over!" he snarled with incredible anger such that he almost appeared to growl. "I don’t need her, I need you! That...That whore doesn't give a flying fuck about my shit! All she cares about is...is...Fuck this. All she wants is the money. Why else do you think she married and then later divorced Toji? She doesn't want to hear about all the shit in my family because she had not been brought up to deal with all the fuckin' drama in my household. She can't understand because, unlike you, she wasn't born with a silver spoon shoved down her goddamn throat!"

Quietly, you absorbed his words, stunned.

So this was how their relationship had been.

You had not expected him to reveal all these entrenched feelings willingly, but his concoction between reckless rage and sheer desperation had allowed him to spill the ugly side of this extramarital affair. Naoya could not afford to lose you, and not just because this marriage solidified the respect of those around him. While Mari offered him an outlet for physical indulgence, only you could offer the cornerstone to Naoya's mental and social fortitude.

“So you ‘need’ me now, but what happens when you find another reason to hate me again? What will you do if you don’t think I can fulfill the role you want me to have as your partner? Or if you wake up one day and suddenly want your cousin’s ex-wife again? Or if you meet another woman? Am I supposed to stand there again, and watch this all happen?" 

No answer.

The fact that he couldn't respond hurt.

"My decision is final. Looking back, I despised every single second married to you. In fact, I feel sorry for myself. The fact that I blindly put up with your manipulation, betrayal, and blame for all these months.” With your belongings collected, you prepared to leave. “You would be stupid to think you're the only one with options, you know.”

Only when you turned around did Naoya react, scrambling to his feet.

“What the fuck are you—”

In any other situation, he would have grabbed you, lunged at you, did everything in his power to stop you from going. Yet, given all the witnesses, all he could do was call you back like a helpless child, trying his best to not escalate the scene (although, at this point, even passerbys outside have stopped by the window to spectate).

"Hey!" Naoya called after you. “Hey! I’m still talking with you!”

Pathetic, really, to see him desperately beg for you to stay in his life.

There was a certain satisfaction in finally having the control at your fingertips. The feeling was empowering—electrifying, even—and you became so focused on the gratification that you barely registered Naoya's last question.

“Where are you going?”

At this point, you already stood by the exit.

“That’s not something that my soon-to-be ex-husband would need to know,” and you hardly gave him another glance as the door closed behind you. “Thank you for showing me everything I hope to never find in another man again."

last chapter || next chapter

end notes: Part of why this update took so long was because I wanted to have an encounter between Naoya and Y/N to showcase Y/N’s development, from someone who thoughtlessly defended her husband to someone who could stand up for herself (all while alone!). I envisioned this interaction many times, and I thought about different ways to approach the scene, the delivery, the dialogue, the choreography, etc. It took me a while to go for what I currently have. Thank you for reading!

taglist: @dissociatingdiva @httpsplanetmarsdotcom @nemoyr @huangfairy @shadowarchon @203steph @agentdedf1sh @cloudybabes @lynn-writes-things @illicitwriter @7oji @kikuchimi @chaoticjojofan @musicisme333 @kumocchin @s-guru @mwahilovemylife @hey-gurls69 @cloudsinthecosmos @moon-mumu-moon @kazscara @skilerfrostfairy @funicidals @nico707 @proteovaldez @tsukiyohanayome @marimoares @qirbys @puffaloxx @sakanoshitaa @arizzu @kissditrio @lewd-bunny14 @mistyheart @szired @supsii @yvy1s @lazyassfinals @katkbc @tokyometronetwork @downtown-roponggi @the-cosmos-network

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 2 "Eidolon"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧༺༻ Dreams are messages from the deep ༺༻✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, Feyd-Rautha's big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, Frank Herbert would frown, some politics, implied/referenced (child) abuse ❗, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts ❗, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable!Feyd, Emotional!Feyd, Possessive!Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, implied/referenced cannibalism ❗, implied/referenced murder

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️| Relic Masterlist (12 Chapters)

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Tag list? Do let me know if u want me to tag u 👉👈

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Night 15

Midnight darkness caresses Feyd's shoulders as he pads to his dark bed, clad in full-coverage pajamas of loose, black fabric. He catches his silhouette in the wall mirror, glad to be spared the view of the new blemishes on his back and chest.

When he slips under the stiff covers of his bed, he is almost too excited to fall asleep. Excitement knots his stomach, so he forces his lungs to perform the breathing exercise that has always helped him since he was a child, channeling his focus only on his breathing, not whatever is happening to his body, the good and the bad.

The excitement helps him through the day, but he needs to relax his mind, relax his soul.

Is it working? When will he finally sleep?

The transition is seamless. He never realizes when he falls asleep and when the dream seeps into his mind like a blessing.

But then there she is, right in his arms where she belongs. They are reclined against the headboard of the large, white bed, their legs half buried under black covers. The fern rustles faintly in the terracotta pot and Feyd catches a glimpse of the two of them in the wall mirror. Immediately, his cheeks do this thing that makes them appear rounder and fuller and his teeth are on full display while his eyes are slitted. He is shirtless and there are no blemishes on his skin.

"Have you been here for long?" He asks, fingers tracing the softness of her upper arm.

"What?" She asks.

"What?" He replies and the same sense of could-be-should-be déjà-vu as always macerates the fabric of reality. She blinks at him and he leans down to kiss her on the lips. Her hand curls around the smooth back of his head, pulling him close as she opens her mouth and beckons him inside, so easily, so softly.

When they part, she whispers: "I don't know how long I've been here, but I missed you."

"I missed you," Feyd rumbles. She has absolutely no idea how much he missed her.

Gentle hands explore his face, touching places no one has ever touched, like his closed eyelids, the dip of his cupid's bow or the meandering shapes of the shell of his ear.

"How is this scientifically possible?" She raptly breathes and Feyd's eyes open back up from the blissful trance where only the caress of her hands can bring him.

"I still don't care." He smiles, leaning closer into the warm and comforting body that breathes against him.

"How can you not care? Shared, lucid dreams imply the existence of a connection between two organisms across space time, and since our interactions seem to be instantaneous, it's almost like we're quantum entangl- Feyd!" She squeaks when he rolls her on her back, pushing one leg between her thighs and his chest on top of hers.

She is so caught up in her wild chain of thoughts, that she completely forgets to hold him and that annoys Feyd greatly. "Don't you find that fascinating at all?" She asks.

"I have bigger concerns."

"Yes, like what?" She grins, cupping his face with gentle hands.

"Like the fact that you're not kissing me."

"Oh, you're so needy." She pecks him on the mouth, noting how his features soften and his lashes lower.

"I'm not." Feyd growls, pressing his mouth against hers softly while he wonders why he actually denies it. Their chests come flush in an intimate dance of bodies, bare, vulnerable skin stretching across bones and muscles.

These may be dreams and they are the dreamers, but she is real. Feyd could never make up a woman so kind without any reference.

Night 28

"How was your day?" Worry laces her voice and Feyd would like to be upset with her but, oh, he can't. She always looks at him with such concern, as if she expects him to drop dead any moment, or fall apart beneath her fingers.

"My day was better than usual," he reveals nonchalantly, scanning her face with challenging, blue eyes. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Something is up today, I can feel it."

"Nothing is up," he insists and delves for her throat where he intends to place kisses on the impossibly soft and delicate flesh, but she catches him by the chin (so smooth, not even a hint of stubble) and pouts.

"Don't lie to me, Feyd." She can read him so well, as if they've known each other forever.

Fine. "I killed my uncle's pet today." Oh, how good it felt to say that. The elation in his tone is impossible to hide.

"Feyd! Why?!" She lets go and flinches away from him and Feyd regrets his choice of words instantly. She however is more shocked by the fiendish grin with which he had admitted a murder than the actual words.

"If you saw iit and lived with it, you would understand why. You could say I put it out of its misery." He sits upright, mirroring her position. He should have just kept his mouth shut.

"Oh, so it was sick?" She hopefully asks and Feyd is seriously tempted to just lie to her to maintain that warmth that returns to her expression. She appears to be ashamed of misjudging him, but his answer can only disappoint her.

"It-, well, I should spare you the details."

"But now I want to know." She comes back to him and curls against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. She wants to know about his life.

"It was a monster. It would have scared you." And now it won't ever scare her. Feyd's arms slide around her waist and she leans into his embrace. His presence is so comforting, she thinks. She may not even care if he killed an animal.

"Was it dangerous?"

"It shouldn't have existed in the first place!" Feyd hesitates for a second and she feels the spike of his pulse against his jugular. "And it was my uncle's."

Aha, she thinks with alarm, fingers tracing patterns on his smooth, bare chest while she keeps her face hidden in his shoulder. "Tell me more about that pet." What she really wants to know is more about that uncle.

Feyd turns his head, catching her gaze which is only inches away and leans closer as if to whisper a foul secret to her. "It was Tleilaxu-fashioned." That word doesn't have the intended effect, which is a little annoying. She blinks at him without understanding - bless her innocence - so Feyd sees himself forced to elaborate. "I'm saying it was genetically engineered to be a monstrosity."

"Oh." She shrugs her shoulders like that is not at all shocking. His strange woman was shocked by his black cum but not a twitch of disgust decorates her features in the presence of breaking the laws of nature.

"It was fashioned only for my uncle's amusement, not because it should exist but because it could!" More anger swings in his tone now. "I've done it a favor."

When he was younger, he had asked himself many times if anyone would ever do him the favor, but he was too well-protected and now the idea has been banished into a dark, dark corner of his adult mind.

"So, your uncle has been… Mistreating his pet and you put it out of its misery?" Her fingers gently stroke his wrist.

"He's been treating it better than other things." Things, people, boys…

Feyd glances into the center of the room, looking right through everything, into the nothingness, not realizing how his grip tightens around her innocent flesh.

She sees it there in his eyes, the truth. She sees it in the tight set of his jaws, the sharp intake of breath, the terror buried beneath layers and layers of apathy. It could be anything, but her empathy has never lied to her. It's like she's always known.

"Oh Feyd," she says and wraps her hand around his. His every muscle becomes rigid and his head whips around. He can see that she knows. 

How can she know from just a glance? This witch! Feyd recoils, aghast that he gave away so much of himself so easily. It slipped out of his grasp like a snake left to flail on the ground and bite him in the ankles unless he stomps it dead. Should he kill her so she can't tell anyone his secret?

As he recoils and slides off the bed, she releases his wrist and Feyd's stomach cramps. Why did she let go of me? I repulse her now, I repulse myself. Everyone who knows would be repulsed and wouldn't want to touch me.

He backs off until he has maneuvered himself into a corner, shoulders drawn up, panting like the small boy who once ran down the corridors, chased by nothing but the sticky shadows of reality that follow him every waking hour. His woman hasn't followed him at all. She sits on the bed, looking at him sadly and with pity that overflows from her eyes and posture.

"I don't want your pity!" He barks, voice shaking. "You know nothing about me!" 

"I'm sorry," she squeaks, flinching, and Feyd wants to take it back, feeling awful for making her scared, but he can't, just like he can't take back the terrible truth.

"No…" Feyd weakly mutters, looking away, staring at the pattern of the floor until his vision turns grainy. Clenched fists yearn for his blade, but he's never had it in this dreamscape. Any target will suffice, a slave, a fighter, himself, his uncle… But not her.

"What can I do?"

"Can you get me out of here?" Feyd blurts out.

"Oh." Why does she sound so disappointed? "We've tried to wake up before, it's never worked, I don't know how to-" 

"That's not what I meant." Feyd's jaws grind and he stares so hard at the floor pattern that his brain starts seeing the shapes of snakes that slowly coil around what looks like his neck.

"Oh, Feyd. My poor-" 

"I don't know where that question came from!" Feyd snaps, interrupting her. Viciously, he shakes his head. His eyes sting with hot, wet tears because he's stared at the floor too long. How silly of him, a pathetic, dreaming boy, to think she could save him, when he can't even save himself. Giedi Prime's most fearsome warrior can't even-

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrap around him tightly and the crown of a head invites him to rest his chin upon it. Feyd's heart stops and he bites back the agonizing pressure in his throat with a choked sound.

"I'll stop if you don't want me to."

He hugs her back so fiercely that her poor ribs and spine must be aching, but she only hugs him back fiercer still, face buried in his chest, lips mouthing sweet nothings. After minutes, Feyd's grip grows weaker, his face on her head heavier and by the end of it, she is holding him.

Night 39

"Have you always dreamed?" Feyd innocently asks and she struggles to comprehend the question. 

She lies prone on her stomach, legs spread open and a pale, smooth body undulates on top of her, taut chest and tummy pressed against her back, pelvis grinding against her ass. His length slides in and out of her at an inefficient angle, every upwards arch of her hips being smothered by a downwards push of Feyd's.

"Every other night, y-yes, hah~" Once more she tries to raise her behind, but Feyd's rutting hips press her down. He could reach much deeper if he only let her move!

"And have you ever dreamed of other men?"

"Hnngg, ahh- I'm sure I have. Feyd!" Her cheeks blush hotly when Feyd slams himself to a stop, cock throbbing palpably against her walls as he holds himself there, nearly crushing her with his weight.

"What?" His voice is more growl than human and a shiver passes down her spine which is smothered by his smooth torso.

"But not like this! Oh, please, don't stop." She tries to grind her ass against his pelvis with little to no range of motion, but Feyd only slightly shifts his knees, tightening the cage he has created around her body.

"Do other men have you in your sleep?" Plush lips tickle the shell of her ear and his hot breath caresses her skin, eliciting a clench of her inner muscles around his unmoving, velvety length.

"I only dream of you," she whimpers, heart thrumming up a storm in her chest. To be craved so possessively almost feels forbidden. "And do you dream of other women?" 

"I only dream of you. I only think of you too," he rasps, hips snapping leisurely back to action massaging her inmost parts. Feyd expects her to repeat it after him but she doesn't, so he tightens his manacle around her shoulders, caging her torso with his arms. "Who do you sleep with when you're awake? Is there someone holding you while I fuck you in your sleep?" 

"No, there is no one!" She snarls, shuddering from the harsher pace that came with the last question.

"Are you lying?!" Tiny specks of spittle spray against her ear.

"I'm not lying!" She snaps. Why doesn't he believe her? "Feyd~" A pleading moan rolls past her lips, body squirming for freedom and release, rejoicing when the former is denied to her. Feyd's right arm crawls under the impossibly tight space between her body and the mattress, past her sweat-damp pubic mount.

The tender, little nub of her clit rewards him with a clench of her walls when his fingers trace deft circles, smothering her body and mind from all directions with possessive affection that would be too much if she didn't crave it so much. Her body adjusts so easily to the rough tempo and pressure builds with no way out, nowhere to go except over the top of her climax and crashing down in hard waves that squeeze his cock and make tears and drool roll down her face.

The orgasm takes her worries to the sky where they dissolve among the clouds and pelt down like harmless rain drops. What if the dreams suddenly stop, what if she will never see him again, what if something terrible happens to either of them in the real world? All meaningless words, jumbled into benign disarray as bliss takes a hold of her body.

Her face drops on Feyd's forearm which is the bars of the fleshly cage that shelters her and she moans open-mouthed against his skin as he still ruts into her from behind, chasing his own release. Why would she ever have anyone at day when she can have him at night?

 By a route obscure and lonely,     Haunted by ill angels only,     Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,     On a black throne reigns upright,     I have reached these lands but newly     From an ultimate dim Thule –     From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,           Out of SPACE -- out of TIME. - Dream-Land by Edgar Allen Poe, 1844 

[Tag list: @nostalgichoya]

[azsazz]

Dead by Dawn (Part 20)

Azriel x Cassian x Reader

Summary: Zombie!AU: It’s been a while since the end of the world.

Warnings: Blood, gore, injury, graphic depictions of violence, poly!relationship, slow burn, undead, death, sex, anal, double penetration, fingering.

Word Count: 3539

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15) (Part 16) (Part 17) (Part 18) (Part 19)

_________________________________________

Day 196

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You sleep later than you normally do, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the two, warm bodies on either side of you, caressing and holding and kissing you in reassurance throughout the night, or if it’s because of the fluffiest, softest bed you’ve ever had the pleasure of sleeping on—yes, even before the world went to absolute shit. Perhaps it’s because there’s no worries about the undead crawling into your bed and tearing into your flesh in a tasty midnight snack, though you did wake in the early hours of the morning with Cassian down between your knees, ravaging your cunt like you were the antidote to all his needs. Whatever kept you tucked safely in a deep slumber, when you wake up the next morning, you feel like an entirely new person.

The downside is that you wake up alone.

You squint against the sun creeping in through the small, frosted windows of the basement room you, Cassian, and Azriel stumbled into post-shower for a second round of fun. They both exhausted you in the most blissful way. You can still feel their hands on your body, trailing down your spine, caressing between your thighs, poking, prodding, petting. You have the marks to prove that last night wasn’t just the best dream you’ve had in your entire life.

You roll over, body aching in the best way. You shove your face into Azriel’s pillow to hide your grin. The fabric smells like the soap you all shared in the shower, but somehow the scent suits Azriel perfectly. Musky. Metallic like fresh rain. A sharp sting of midnight.

You take your time properly getting up. You find extra clothes in the dresser by the door. A t-shirt that’s a size too big, and you opt to wear a pair of men’s boxers you found in the top drawer. You need to assess the state of your jeans and you’re sure they won’t be pretty. Maybe you and your group will stay long enough that you can wash your clothes and leave them to dry before you make your next move, whatever that may be.

You could scrounge in your pack for your spare set of clothes, but you’re still clinging to the daze of the night to bother. Hopefully, no one recognizes the clothes you borrowed as their own.

You trail up the stairs, following the sound of soft murmuring. Rhysand hadn’t woken you during the night, so you assume that there has been no change in Feyre’s state. You will check on her first thing when you make it upstairs.

A pang of guilt stabs you in the chest. While you were fooling around with Cassian and Azriel, your best friend was lying comatose on the dining room table with a bite on her arm and an infection crawling in her veins.

She’s okay, you remind yourself. She’s immune.

Whatever that might mean.

Your eyes connect with Azriel’s when you round the corner into the living room, his hazel eyes drag down your body in a leisurely sweep that makes you blush and your body heat. You’d grab him by the collar of his fresh, gray shirt—a color you’ve never seen him in, but he looks mighty delectable in—if you didn’t have an audience.

Cassian sits on the couch beside Azriel. He’s shirtless, like he couldn’t be bothered to dig around in a drawer or his pack for a shirt. Your mind wanders to an image of something more domestic, where he’d tend to his gardens on the weekend while you sat on the porch, a book in your lap that you couldn’t concentrate on because of the skin of his muscular, gleaming back in the sunlight. Azriel would be there, too, beside you with his computer on his lap. Maybe he’d be booking a surprise vacation for the three of you or ordering you chocolates because Cassian doesn’t like receiving flowers. For someone who spends most of his time elbow deep in dirt, it’s the pretty, frilly flowers that flare his allergies.

You’re snapped from your daydream when Cassian raises his hands to you, waving you over. You swear that your cheeks turn a deeper shade of red at the motion. He wants you to sit in his lap. You want to sit in his lap, but you need to check on Feyre, first.

She lies splayed out on the couch, eyes closed, mouth parted. Her chest rises and falls evenly enough for your shoulders to drop a little in relief.

You check her pulse. It’s steady albeit slightly weaker than it should be. Then, you carefully unwrap the wound, cringing when the gauze tries desperately to cling to the remnants of dried blood.

The stench hits you first. It wafts from the wound like putrid death. Your lungs constrict and your stomach revolts. You barely hold yourself back from slapping a hand over your mouth and nose, barely hold back from getting sick. You don’t need to be known for doing throwing up more than once in this nice home. You have a feeling that Nesta wouldn’t appreciate it.

“What’s wrong?” Cassian asks, worried. He springs from the couch, Azriel and Rhysand going still behind him, their quiet conversation cutting off abruptly as their attention latches onto you. Rhysand looks like he’s about to vault from the sofa to your side. His violet eyes blaze with worry, his brows furrowed deeply, even when you wave off the men in your group.

“It’s fine,” you reassure, reveling in the warmth of the hand Cassian plants on your lower back. You want to lean into him, but you revert your attention to your friend. “I just didn’t expect the smell,” you admit, carefully breathing shallow breaths through your teeth as you examine the day-old bite.

It looks like any other wound, minus the black, spidering veins that crawl up her arm. They taper off near her elbow, where you assume her white blood cells are working overtime to battle the infection. From what you’ve seen of Elain’s mark, it will take weeks for the wound to fully heal, but you fear the new color of her veins that peek from beneath her skin are here to stay.

You take another pass at it with expired peroxide. The wound bubbles minimally, and you slather on some of the antibiotic ointment that Lucien gave that he mentioned helped Elain’s bite. Hers has been healing slowly but steadily and only scabbing remains.

Feyre mumbles something under her breath when you swipe the ointment against her skin. It’s incoherent, something you don’t catch, but it has Rhys rising off the couch and crossing the room in the span of seconds. He caresses her face gently, whispering soothing words to her. It’s a scene too intimate for you to watch, so you quickly avert your attention to re-wrapping her arm.

Once you’ve finished and checked her temperature with the back of your palm, you allow Cassian to pull you back toward the couch, even tug you into his lap. You settle as much as you can, which proves to be difficult with the way that his cock twitches beneath your ass when you squirm, trying to readjust.

Cassian’s hands clamp down on your hips, keeping you still. You can’t help but peek over your shoulder at him with a teasing smile twitching at your lips. His eyes are alight with the promise of his cock between your legs again, and you can’t help but wonder where and when. This very sofa? Bent over the counter in the kitchen? Up against the barn you saw out back?

You clear your throat very carefully. “What were you talking about?”

The relaxation from the morning quickly dims as the horrors of the world creep back up as you stare at your best friend. A sour feeling twists your stomach. You’ve both been through so much, and you always knew it was a possibility that something like this could happen, but you never allowed the thought take root in your mind.

“We were discussing our next move,” Azriel fills you in, straight to the point as always. His arms are crossed over his chest, and you ache to reach your hand out to him, see if he’s willing to hold your hand. With the emotion that crosses his features, something hard-set and annoyed, you refrain. “So far, Rhys and Cassian think we should stay.”

“And you don’t?” you question.

“Do you?” He counters, carefully.

Azriel allows you to see the vulnerability in his hazel eyes. For a second it’s there, then is replaced by that stoic mask he’s perfected. He wants your honest opinion, and unfortunately, it’s all too easy to sift through the pros of being here to reach the reasons that you shouldn’t stay.

Your silence permeates the air. The men give you time to think, but after a few minutes of silence, the tension in the air thickens.

“What is it?” Rhys breaks the silence, studying you intently. You busy yourself with playing with Cassian’s fingers, but even he twists his hand around and grips yours tightly, stilling your movements.

You eye Feyre on the sofa for a long moment while you gather your thoughts. Her chest rises and falls in a steady motion, and for that you’re thankful.

“It’s just…” you trail off, squeezing Cassian’s hand for reassurance. You peer over at Rhys, then Azriel, and Cassian behind you. “Doesn’t this all seem a little too good to be true? It feels like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Cassian leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple that warms you to your toes.

You melt into him, chasing the feeling of his lips on your skin. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” he murmurs, and goosebumps breakout across your skin at the sentiment. “Leave the worrying to us.”

And Godsdamn, if that isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard in your short-lived life.

But you’ve never been one to not worry.

You risk a glance at Azriel, who stares at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. You blush under the intensity of his stoic features, and heat floods between your thighs. His fingers creep along the cushion of the couch and find yours. You hold on tightly.

“This is the best position we’ve been in in months,” Rhys says with a sigh. He looks exhausted, and maybe you can offer to stay by Feyre’s side while he cleans up and gets some rest. He rubs a hand across his jaw. “We found her sisters, which has been her goal from the start, has it not?” He asks, looking at you.

It’s true. Feyre has finally been reunited with her sisters, even if she doesn’t know it yet. It’s all you’ve wanted for her, too, but there’s something about how protected their group has been behind these gates that has you wondering. How were they so prepared for the end of the world? You know Eris mentioned something about his father, but something isn’t adding up right here.

“It is,” you agree, then shrug. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Azriel reassures you. “Make sure we don’t slip up. At the first sign of trouble, we’re gone.”

To whom the hell knows where goes unsaid.

The five of you sit in silence, all lost in your own thoughts. Cassian’s hand trails soothingly up and down your arm, and you feel like you could fall right back asleep against his chest.

“What are we doing today?” You ask, trying to keep your eyes open. It’s difficult, but you don’t want to spend any longer sleeping the day away, especially with the was the sun pours through the windows.

“Eris is going to show me the gardens today,” Cassian says, and you smile at the excitement in his voice. This is what he’s been searching for, of course he would want to stay and begin his garden. It’ll benefit everyone, and maybe helping will make you feel less like a freeloader in this luxurious home. “When he gets back from a supply run with Nesta.”

“And you?” You ask Rhys.

“I’m staying right here until Feyre wakes up,” he says, and your heart swells at the adoration in his eyes for your friend. She needs to wake up more than ever.

“No offense, Rhys,” you say, and wrinkle your nose for effect. “You need to shower. You reek.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ve smelled worse.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to,” you counter. “I’ll stay with her, you know. She’ll be okay.”

He looks weary but eventually nods and takes his leave, moving quickly, like every moment spent apart from Feyre is a pain like no other.

Looking between Cassian and Azriel, you agree with the sentiment.

The back door opens, carrying Eris and Nesta’s voices along with it. They’re home from their trip and before you can move from Cassian’s lap to ask if they need assistance with anything, Nesta emerges from the hall, striding toward her sister like she’s on a mission.

It’s instinct to rip yourself from your seat, to protect Feyre, but Nesta’s only checking her temperature the same way you did a few minutes ago. She’s just worried about her sister, you remind yourself, trying to calm your racing heart.

Eris appears in the doorway, amber eyes tracking Nesta before latching onto Cassian’s. “You ready for that tour?”

Cassian stands, planting you on your feet. Nesta slips from the room, brushing past Eris with a brush of their fingers, most likely to check on her other sister. Cassian meets Eris at the door, Cassian listening eagerly to every word Eris says as he’s lead back to the rear door of the home.

“Why don’t you go with Cassian and Eris,” Azriel suggests softly, brushing a longing touch down your arm.

You can’t help that your gaze flickers back to Feyre. You already feel guilty for abandoning her for a shower and sex with not one but two men. You shouldn’t leave her alone now. What if she wakes up? What if something happens and you’re not around to help?

“I’ll watch her.” Azriel’s voice draws your attention. “I promise.”

“Okay,” you agree reluctantly. Azriel rewards you with a short and sweet kiss that holds the promise of more. You almost chase him, almost wrap your arms around his neck to keep his mouth pressed firmly against yours. You almost whine when he straightens, hazel eyes glowing with mischief, a barely-there smile tilting the corners of his mouth just enough that your breath catches in your chest.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You didn’t realize how much there was to talk about plants.

Seriously, you don’t think you’ve understood a single word Cassian and Eris are talking about. Of course, Cassian would have questions, you just didn’t think that Eris would have answers, but he does, even the ones to your boyfriends most obscure queries.

But with the way that Cassian eagerly drinks in every word Eris says is too adorable to miss. He hasn’t let go of your hand since you joined Eris on the back porch, Cassian excitedly squeezes it every time he hears something he likes. His hazel eyes glitter with joy, and your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your chest with happiness.

The garden shed is smaller than the barn but well organized. You spot the tops of carrots, cabbage, even strawberries. Sunlight streams through the glass roof and there’s a doorway that leads to the outside part of the garden, which you have yet to walk through. It’s massively impressive, positioned far enough away from the fences that you wonder if whoever selected this spot knew about what was to come.

Your stomach growls, so loudly that it interrupts the conversation Eris and Cassian are engrossed in. Both men stop to peer down at you, their eyes glittering with amusement.

“Sorry,” your face blushes hot and you shrink in your spot.

Cassian chuckles and tugs you into his chest with ease. He seems the most relaxed of the group, being here, and you wish that some of that feeling would rub off on you, but it hasn’t yet. There’s still a mass of uncertainty in the bottom of your gut.

Eris takes a few steps away, giving you and Cassian some privacy.

“Why don’t you go find some lunch?” he asks, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. His touch is tender, eyes soft and happy, and you want to throw your arms around his neck and kiss the daylights out of him, taste a little bit of that sunshine that radiates from his smile. “I’ll be in after we finish up here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he bends down and pecks you on the mouth. You pout when he pulls away and a deep laugh rumbles Cassian’s chest. You wanted a longer kiss, a much longer one. “Go on, get your lunch,” he whispers. A shiver drags up your spine, trailing that path Cassian’s teasing fingers make. “We have all night for kisses, sweetheart.”

You read the promise in his eyes. Something coils pleasurably between your legs, and the urge to grab Cassian’s hands and press it against your core is strong, but you are in company. You glance at Eris who peers down at his shoes, offering you what little privacy there is in the small greenhouse.

Your gaze flickers back to Cassian, drinking in his wicked grin. You swallow hard and manage to say your goodbyes, trailing out of the garden shed. Maybe if Rhys is back at his post by Feyre, you can convince Azriel for an afternoon quickie.

The sun beams across your shoulders as you make your way toward the large house. You can the yard, drinking in the scenery. It’s an entirely different world. Like the apocalypse isn’t real within the gates of the Vanserra mansion. They have a well-fortified home, food, weapons, clean water, medical supplies…it truly is an anomaly, which is why you think that there must be something wrong.

Your gaze snags on the barn. It’s painted a rusty orange color. There’s a wrought-iron crest above the barn doors, the Vanserra crest. It’s a shield split into four sections. In the top-left, there’s a leaf, falling from a tree. Beside it is a rapier, and you wonder what the story behind each section of the crest is. Vines wrap around the edges of the shield, and the bottom-left icon is a silhouette of a man and a woman holding hands. Huh, you wonder. Maybe you’ll ask Lucien what they mean.

The icon on the bottom-right has fallen off, and even though you squint, you can’t make out the shape of the sun-faded mark.

You take a detour for a better look. You wouldn’t mind peeking into the barn to see the animals as well. You know they have chickens, because that’s what you’ve been eating for most meals, but you wonder if there are horses or cows or goats. You’d take joy in seeing a living, breathing animal.

You’re a few feet from the barn door when Lucien appears, calling your name. Your head snaps to the side, where he’s approaching with an easy grin. You relax, but your heart continues to race at the scare.

“There you are,” he says, stopping a few feet between you and the barn. “I was looking for you, wanted to invite you to lunch with Nesta, Elain, and I.” He gives you an easy smile, one that you return.

Lucien nods to the back porch where Nesta and Elain sit at the long table. Elain looks livelier today. There’s more color to her face and a soft smile on her face as she speaks to her sister.

“How is she doing?” You ask, relenting as your stomach growls at the mention of food. Seeing the animals can wait.

“Better today,” Lucien admits, staring admiringly at his girlfriend. Your chest aches at the love he has for her in his eyes. If something like that had happened to Cassian or Azriel, you’re not sure you’d survive.

Your eyes fall on Nesta, and the hair at the nape of your neck stands tall. Her sharp, silver gaze is pinned on you. Her features are set in neutral, but her stare still burns with each step you take closer to the house. It’s a feeling that you certainly haven’t gotten used to yet.

“Are Azriel and Rhys joining us?” you ask. There’s something about sitting with the three of them alone that’s unsettling you, and you don’t know what it is. You’d prefer to have one of your friends with you, and you assure yourself that it’s because the last time any of you have split up, things haven’t ended well. “I believe they were in the middle of a heated discussion when I went to invite them earlier, but I will check again,” Lucien explains, and pulls out a chair. The metal legs screech against the stone deck and you cringe. “Here, take a seat and dig in. I’ll be right back.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

DBD Taglist: @writingsbychlo @kemillyfreitas @5moremin @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @waggel36  @bionic-donut @queserasera @applepie02 @azrielsbabyg @arcadianmoonlight @pradaxstyles @illyrian-dreamerdreamer @reiincarnatiion @fuckthatfeeling @shadowsingersmate24 @poppyalice2001 @fallmyriad @sstrohma @tcris2020 @jeannineee @21stcenturytaegi @ochiolism @secretly-here @harrystylesfan2686 @i-am-infinite @lees-chaotic-brain @eternallyelvish @lilah-asteria @randombibitch @st4r-girl-official @nanisearchinginnerpeace @aemondsb1tch @chxosangxl @marigold-morelli @w0nderw0manly

[darkmagyk]

Part 4 of Let them Call it a Sin

3 hours ago, it was midnight I was like "no writing today, but that's fine." And then I wrote this in the middle of the night. So that's fun.

Percy had been in an absolute panic for days. He’d been to war as a squire for the first time at 12. This was worse than a battlefield, worse than seeing a sword swinging at his head. Worse than being young and unprepared. And at least at war disquiet was expected.

The queen was giving birth. And the Duke of Thera would be expected to hhow basic concern, but not the deep, soul crushing anxiety that was currently his constant  companion.

Annabeth, the woman he loved, was giving birth to his child. The most dangerous time of a woman's life, and he could not be with her, could not express his deep worry for her, could not truly tell anyone of his fears for the baby. 

He wished he could see her again. Before the king court arrived three weeks ago he'd had three months with her, three months of play acting house.  It was a domestic bliss he could never have, for how would he ever love any other woman more than he loved his Queen. And he would settle for no less

He wished she could see his mother. His mother knew his dark secret. And he knew she could offer him comfort. But unlike Percy, Lady Sally was allowed to attend the queen. That was its own comfort. For their was no one better placed to help Annabeth. But the separation still hurt.

He'd gone riding yesterday, to the farthest ends of his estate. He hadn’t gotten back until dark.  But he couldn't bear to be that far away today. What if something happened? He prayed nothing would happen to the baby. And he tried not to think about anything else, because if something happened to Annabeth he truly did not know how he would go on.

He should have gone and found his father, the King was likely to be first informed if something went wrong with the queen, but he couldn't stand the man's apathy right now. Anymore than he could stand his own deception.

He was hiding in his Library. The last Duke of Thera, or perhaps the one before that, had been a great scholar. It was a well-stocked, beautifully decorated space, full of comfortable couches and intricate tables. Annabeth had loved it when they had first toured his house,  she said it reminded her of home, both her father and uncle kept excellent libraries. She'd sometimes fall asleep on one of the couches,  and it still smelled like her.

Sometimes he threw himself down to be surrounded by her scent. And sometimes he flung himself away, afraid of never smelling it again. 

He was on the couch now, trying to think of anything else he could do with himself.  He nearly screamed at the poor page who knocked on the door, interrupting his brooding. If the boy had entered without knocking, which some of the Royal pages had taken to doing, he might have. But the boy knocked, so Percy kept his head and called for the boy to enter.

The boy was wearing the king's livery,  and bowed to Percy, who rose to greet him. 

“If it pleases, Your Grace, the King has asked for you to attend him. The queen gave birth and he wishes to have a prayer to the Gods for the baby's health.”

“ The baby is born?” Percy said, feeling an entirely new form of shock. His child was here. Real and present and not just a growing phantom in a belly. “Is the queen all right?”

“The Princess was born,” The boy said. A princess. Percy had a daughter, “ and the queen's alive.” 

 Percy would take the lack of a ‘for now’  on the end of his sentence to mean at least no rumors of her imminent death were spreading below stairs.

He would content himself with that right now, and see his father. 

***

He at least made it through the prayer service without crying or attacking the king when he bemoaned, just to his bastard son,  but he’d wanted a boy. 

Though after he said that he'd pause and gave Percy a long. considered look. If Percy were younger, or perhaps had more respect for his father’s intelligence, he might have feared the king figured him out in that moment. But he just stared back, wondering what the King saw when he looked at his son and tractor. Then the king clapped his shoulder, and said “I've got two strong sons already. A daughter can be useful, can she not?”

Percy had enough control to agree, “ Yes sir.” and then, perhaps boldend by a year of Annabeth's tutelage, added “Lady Sally gave birth not so long ago, also to a girl. She will be of an age with the princess,  perhaps if Lady Sally were giving some charge over her nursery, Lady Estelle would be a fitting playmate.”

His father considered him again, and Percy wondered if he thought it was some sort of bad trick to get his mother and father back together. A silly idea. King Poseidon was married as surely as Lady Sally was. And he wished his father on his mother no more than he wished his father on Annabeth. Though Queen Annabeth and Lady Sally were both too linked with him to truly escape.

“A sharp idea, lad,” his father said, “I really need no more sons when I have one as sharp as you, do I.” 

“I'm glad to serve,” Was all Percy responded. He did not like the look his father kept giving him. Too much of the King's attention often worked out for Percy, it had gotten him titles, lands, and important military campaigns. But in these circumstances that made him all the more uneasy.

“What will you name your princess?”

“Oh yes,”  the king sighed, “ I suppose I hadn't really thought about that. I could name her after my mother.” Princess Rhea was not as pretty as Princess Annabeth or Princess Sophia, but it would do. Percy was sure he would learn to love it as much as he loved the girl. ”But I'm not sure. Maybe I’ll leave it to the queen to decide. It will save me the trouble of thinking of it. As I learned from your mother, women often have some sort of ideas about that.”

“That would be very generous, Your Majesty.”  Percy said, and could not suppress his smile at the thought of his little Princess Sophia, “ I'm sure the queen will love that. How fairs she?”

“She's not dead,” Poseidon said like he was commenting on the weather, preferring a sunny day, but knowing a raining one would not ruing his day, “and I'm told there's no worry, yet,  that will change.”

“I will pray for her continued good health,”  Percy choked out, “and that of my new little sister.”

He was not able to excuse himself until after luncheon.  Luckily his father did not dwell on either the queen or princess. It made Percy despise the man if you never had before, but it also meant he did not have to think on it over much, and come up with things to say that we're not professing his love.

His father wanted to know about the estate and the Duchy of Thera. Percy was able to speak on that. On hearing petitions from his peasants and speaking to the Lord's under him. How his steward Grover had many ideas about the crops and how to get the best yields for many years to come, and how Percy was considering collecting taxes this year. His father nodded in approval, and Percy had never once cared about his approval less.

He finally got away when the king called for his pipe. Claiming exhaustion and thinking he would need to have someone seriously air out this room when the Royal Court finally vacated it, so he did not wonder about Annabeth and the baby.

He did not want to return to the library, but with so many members of court crawling around his house, he’d ended up having his steward make the library up as his bedroom so he would not have to figure out exactly where among the Dukes and duchesses he was supposed to be  housed. 

He’d brought the third best bed for those purposes. Leaving the first for Annabeth and the second for his mother and Paul. The king traveled with his own. And Triton would just have to make do. 

He splashed some water into his face and spent a few minute heaving over the chamber pot, just to make sure he wouldn’t throw up anywhere else.

Then he said his own private prayers for Queen Annabeth and Princess Sophia.  

His mother found him kneeling on the bed after the sun had gone down, and his valet had brought him his meal.

“She's all right,” she assured him as soon as the door had closed behind her, “and the baby as well. Both have gone to sleep right now, and I imagine after one more night and a hearty breakfast in the morning our Queen will be able to get out of bed. The wet nurse said the baby took her food well. So you have nothing to worry about.”

“They could take a turn.”   Percy said.

His mother sighed, sitting down on the bed next to him, and taking his hand, she squeezed it.

“My boy, tomorrow you could take a turn. Do not invite that worry into your life early. Both mother and child are doing well, all evidence suggests they will continue to do so. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow you shall see the queen.” Her eyes narrowed, “but you will give her several months rest.”

“I had not even thought…what do I need to do too…”

“Perhaps the three of us shall discuss that later. Right now I think you need to rest.  it's been a hard few days for you.”

“Yes mother,” He agreed. He would rest. He would say his prayers and rest and dream of his love and his daughter. 

***

He did not see Annabeth the next day. It was three days when she put in an appearance, sitting next to the king briefly. She looked pale and tired. But in good spirits.

He did not get to speak to her for over a week. But he knew his father would have him into a private reception after the baby’s naming blessing, so he would be able to speak to her there. 

She looked a bit better then. In a new gown, he thought, a beautiful blue that brought out her eyes. The nursemaid behind her, carrying Sophia wrapped in blue and purple. A royal princess. 

“He will still be the king’s blood.” Annabeth had told him once, some months ago. He’s has always known he’ll have royal grandchildren. The fact that he does not already should shame Triton.” And Percy knew that it did. And caused the King quite a bit of worry and anger. “We are taking nothing which was not our due.”

It felt a little too pat, Percy thought, and he did not think the words would sway the executioner's blade. But it wasn’t entirely untrue. 

Percy was not with the royal family for this event. Triton was standing on the dais with the Priest, King, Queen, and baby Princess. Normally he didn’t care, not really. But right this second he would give anything to be so close to his daughter. 

“We are gathered here today,” the Priest started, “to ask the gods to bless this child, and to name her for their work.” 

It was a routine speech. Percy had been asked by several of his vassals to serve as witnesses to a naming blessing, A high honor. So he knew what to expect. 

Each of the 12 ruling gods would be named, and their blessings asked for in her life. She would be introduced to all of them by name. And then she would be considered ready to grow up, protected by the gods. 

He hoped Poseidon had not changed his mind about letting Annabeth name the baby. Percy had spoken to him several times, and he’d said he’d told Annabeth she could. But he could always change his mind. 

“To the king of the gods,” the Priest was saying, “We present you Princess Annabeth of House Atlantis and ask that you…”

He looked up sharply, and from the dais, Annabeth caught his eye, smiling. She’d not named the child Sophia, she’d used his name.

Annabeth had let him name his daughter.

His little Annabeth. 

He could not have loved either of them more if he tried.

[cozymochi]

nahnahnah keep up the oc content Toboso feeding us good rn we can live

(Currently still reeling from Jack new year card)

(Context!! My 12 hour late follow up reply to previous)

THANKS

HOWEVER, until the staff feed ME a Briar Valley Hometown event where absolutely nothing happens, then I will continue to be starving. I need to see the rest of Sebek’s family I need it

Actually scratch that, until I see EVERYONES family, or until I see a Port O’ Bliss event (“”mardi gras”” type ordeal or whatever they got) I WILL REMAIN HUNGRY…. [explodes] I have a laundry list of trivial demands that I only want for silly little purposes

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen

TW: nsfw, angst

You wake up to the smell of bacon, coffee, and something sweet in the skillet.

Usually such a thing would mean you are dreaming, and you need to wake your ass up before you’re late for work. But you roll over to look into your tiny kitchen, finding a sight fit for Playgirl Magazine before your disbelieving eyes.

Dear Penthouse, I can’t believe this actually happened to me…

Detective Tom Ludlow is in your kitchen, making pancakes…in nothing but a towel around his trim waist. His dark hair is combed back, still wet from the shower. His broad shoulders are something to write home about–Kansas farm boys had nothing on this beautiful specimen of masculinity.

Had the night before even been real?

As though he senses your return to consciousness–or maybe the weight of your gawker’s stare upon him–he turns to look at you. “Morning, beautiful.”

You blink with surprise, because he is talking to you.

“Hi,” you greet, clever as ever, and goddammit but are you blushing?

“Whacha looking at?” he teases, spatula in hand. The very picture of domestic bliss. God help you, but in that moment you were 300 percent ready to put a ring on this man.

“Just…the most best thing I’ve ever seen,” you admit, knowing you’ll kick yourself for it later.

However, the smile he pays you, smug yet somehow gentle–it fries your brain entirely.

“Likewise, sweetheart.” He crosses the short space with a few long strides to press his lips to yours. “You like pancakes with blueberries?”

You’d bought the ingredients–and promptly stuck them in the cupboards–for just such a purpose, thinking that someday, when you had time, and weren’t bone fucking tired from working 12 hour shifts days in a row, you’d make a point to treat yourself.

Funny, how that never happened, until Tom Ludlow came around.

Here you are, getting emotional about blueberry fucking pancakes.

“Yes,” is the only answer you can muster, and he kisses you so sweetly that it curls your toes.

His soft smile down at you will be the death of you. “Sleep well?”

“Like a well-fucked rock,” you tell him, winning a bark of masculine laughter. 

“Likewise, beautiful. Definitely likewise.” He vacates the couch to flip his pancake. You continue to stare, still dumbfounded.

“Tom?” you ask, still struggling to wake up.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Did last night…actually happen?”

“Sure did. Don’t you remember driving to Vegas? We got the best Elvis in the building.”

You blink stupidly for a few moments, before registering his absolutely shit-eating grin.

“Very funny. And the joke would be on you, if you married me on a drunken lark.”

“Why?” he asks, seemingly amused by your discomfort.

“I told you. I’m a fucking mess.”

“Far as I can tell? You’re fucking perfect, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” 

You’re not really sure why this pithy little compliment brings tears to your eyes, your lip quivering. Only a beat later does he notice, and he rushes over again.

“Hey, hey, no crying, baby, I’m sorry. What’s wrong? I was just joking.”

You swipe at your eyes with the heels of your hands, embarrassed. “You’re just..so sweet, and I actually fucking believe you, when you say this shit, ok?”

He blinks, but god bless, it only takes him a moment to assess, and act. He presses his soft lips to yours, then his forehead to your forehead, as though he can will you to accept his declarations through osmosis. “Believe it,” he tells you. “It’s true…well. Not the Elvis bit. We can do that next weekend if you want.”

You know he’s joking…but it still doesn’t fail to utterly melt your insides. This man who manhandled and harrassed you has turned out to be the biggest fucking softy, and you just might lose your shit.

You’ve already cried in front of him too many times, though, so you play it off and act like what he’s saying is no big deal. “Really? I think I’d rather have Michael Jackson instead.” 

You wonder if he misses being married. If he fucked his wife like he’d fucked you last night…you can’t fathom stepping out on him. But then you also know, that sometimes cops can also be married to their jobs. It could make for a difficult threesome. You imagine going without him, while he was working an intense case, would be absolute hell.

Tom snorts. “Whatever floats my lady’s boat,” he answers, flipping another pancake onto the stack. He ports them to the table with a flourish. “Come eat, sweet girl. You gotta work today?”

“Later. Unfortunately.”

He sticks his full lip out in a pout that should be illegal on a grown ass man. “Then eat quickly, because I’m not done with you yet.” he informs you with a wicked smirk that causes a brand new flood between your already sticky thighs. 

He turns, that broad, tapered back on full display, to finish plating breakfast, and you can’t not watch the tight muscle in his butt shift in the thin towel. You get this sudden strange urge to sink your teeth into him and latch on, and wonder if ancient cavewomen bit their partners to lay claims. Because that’s what Tom Ludlow works on—the part of your spongy brain that developed before speech and theory—the part that wants to bite and howl. 

Evolution is a bitch. 

Oh no, he can cook. And cook good. The pancakes he sets in front of you, drizzled with honey and topped with fresh blueberries, taste like a fluffy heaven in your mouth. Even the coffee is splendid, done up blonde and sugary just the way you prefer. “Tom, damn,” you compliment between mouthfuls. “You went out to get blueberries?” It’s selfish, but the thought of him leaving you alone even to run out and grab something for you makes your insides twist uncomfortably. 

“Oh, no, I borrowed some from your neighbor.” 

Of course at that moment you have an entire mouthful of coffee that you almost spray on his bare, beautiful chest. “What?!” 

He adopts a bemused smile. “Very nice lady.”

“Please tell me you had more than just a towel on?” 

“Less, actually.” 

He bursts into laughter and the astonished look on your face. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Ludlow.” 

“She asked me something really interesting.” He wipes a little honey off your top lip and sucks it into his mouth, making you dumb enough to forget you’re annoyed. “She asked me if I’m the nightmare?” 

“I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

“You are a terrible little liar, you know that? I can see your tell from a mile away.” 

“Oh, what is it?” You smirk, shove a bite of pancake into your mouth. 

“You’re lucky I’m hungry,” he threatens, playful and promising, sending a thrill through your chest. 

You grab a glob of honey on your finger and kitten lick it off, almost bold enough to make direct eye contact with him for more than five seconds while you’re doing it. “Or what?” 

He pops up from his seat, and your first instinct is run. Run away. You make it two steps before he has you grabbed around the waist and is dragging you back to his place at the table. 

Your squeals of nervous laughter crescendo into a moan when he pulls you down onto his big cock. It surprises you as much as it did last night, how well he fills and stretches you. Not a piece of your fluttery hole unpunished by his silky, maddening pressure. You immediately grind, eager for that pressure to shift and rub and build you, but he stills you with a mitt on your waist. 

Then his big hands bunch in the ruffled fabric of your sundress, which somehow you never managed to remove amidst both of your eagerness to get to other parts of you instead. Slowly he draws it up over your head, tossing it away somewhere across the room. Before you can even begin to think about feeling self conscious he makes a low sound of appreciation behind you, running his hands down your curves. 

“So fucking beautiful. I just wanna stay inside this pretty little pussy all day,” he tells you, smoothing his wet tongue across your shoulder. You arch into him, and he nips your skin for the retaliation. “Feel her throb while I tell you what I wanna do to her. Jesus, you’re soaked.” 

You try to squeeze your thighs together for precious friction on your clit, but he tugs them back open, chuckling at the pathetic attempt. “You wanna fuck yourself, baby?”

“Yes. Fu-uhck.” 

“Want me to pet that pretty clit while you ride me?” He kisses up your neck, into your hairline, tugs your ear between his teeth and you see white fire. 

“Yes, Tom. Yes. Please.” 

“Then eat your breakfast.” 

It’s impossible to focus on the delicious food anymore. The chunks of stuff getting forked into your mouth are no match for the small taste of him. It isn’t long before he’s done with silverware and hand feeding you, making you lick and suck his sticky fingers clean. 

“Atta girl. Keeping me all warm and cozy.” His mouth traces circles on your upper back that make you twitch and gasp while his heavy pointer and index finger rest on your tongue, sweet and salty-pleasure and pain-the desire to move trumping all of it. 

When his fingers trail up your side and land on your nipple, rolling and pinching, you clench your thighs shut again. He grunts at you, although you think it was meant to be a sound of disapproval before you clenched deliberately on his cock. 

“You want to cum?” 

“Yessss.” 

“Then open your legs back up.” 

You obey with a groan of frustration, widening your hips so that the tantalizing pressure is off your throbbing clit. That means all you can focus on is having him inside you, and that would be great if he would just fucking thrust. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He grabs your hips to hold you in place. “You’re busy.” 

“Could be important,” you say. 

“More important than this?” He grinds up, into your cervix, into all the sensitive soaked walls of your cunt, and the answer to his question is no. Absolutely not. There is nothing more important than him or his cock. 

“Tom,” you hiss. 

He sighs. “Alright. I’ll get it. Get dressed.” 

How empty you feel, when you slide off of his cock as you stand on trembling legs. He halts your progress by gripping your hips, pressing his mouth to the curve of your buttocks. You forget about the door, and everything else, turning in his arms so that he can bury his face in your cleavage. “These beautiful–” He kisses one breast cupped in his hand, “Naughty,” a kiss for the other, just beside your nipple, the tease, “titties are in so much trouble.” He sucks on your perked nipple with a pop, making you cry out. 

Knock knock knock.

“Someone’s fucking determined,” he grumbles against your skin. 

Reluctantly you manage to pull away from him, and you remember this state of the art technology in your door called a peephole. Naked as a jaybird, you peer through the tiny lens–and gasp at the sight on the other side.

This clearly interests Tom, his head canting at an angle in question. You shake your head, just knowing a perfect storm is brewing. “It’s no one. Ignore it,” you say quietly, hoping they don’t hear you on the other side, praying they have the sense to go away. You try to distract Tom again with kisses and by trying to pull him towards the bedroom, but dammit this man is solid as a fucking tree when he doesn’t want to move.

“Who is it?” he asks with a lifted brow.

Knock knock. “Y/n? I know you’re home.”

Goddammit.

What can only be described as a wicked grin spreads over Tom’s handsome features. “Oh. Let’s say hello, shall we?” 

[ceebit]

11:12 PM

wc 690 ‧ genre fluff ‧ pairing joshua x reader ‧ cece’s note i’ve been missing him terribly… so. not proofread so sorry for any spelling mistakes oops

sleep takes its sweet time in puling you under, his gaze fond as his fingers toy with the frayed edges of a t-shirt long lost to the black hole of your shared closet. a smile tugs on his lips then, disgustingly, irrevocably fond. thread gives way under his fingertips.

it’s a minute past the wishing time, red standing out against against the darkened room. tomorrow you’ll ask him if he’d asked for anything and he’ll humor you, spouting something sickeningly sweet enough for you to roll your eyes and laugh. something like lottery wins or grocery prices going down. sharing memories with you in the kitchen were fun, but scowling at ever rising numbers were beginning to become habit. any more, and he’d start seeing wrinkles by thirty-five.

still love you, wrinkles and all.

but even though he’s memorized the layout of your cramped apartment and spends more time in your cluttered room, home to miscellaneous sticky-notes and loose socks discarded tiredly, he still finds himself wishing for more. selfishly so.

his pristinely and embarrassingly bare walls quite literally pale in comparison to the life breathed into your home—and that’s what it’s become over these past few months. he spends less and less time in a space he’s resigned to paying for but isn’t living in, content to look up from your island to your tired groans and passionate complaints about whoever has slighted you in the worst way possible, hands already reaching to wrap around his middle. it’s become routine, even down to your jokes about housing him without paying rent.

and yet, you don’t.. budge. i love yous are shared almost daily, he’s seen you in less fortunate situations and you, him, and he’s absolutely certain you feel something. you accept his affection in large doses, his care criminally present, but the two of you don’t. budge. and it’s beginning to pick at the already fraying edges of his brain, overworking himself pass the very same pull sleep desperately tries to drag him under.

you love him. he loves you. what more was there to discuss? he pictures romance film worthy scenes of slow dancing in a parlor that overlooks at pretty view, the prettiest one in front of him smiling in complete bliss. something something the light from the setting sun glinting prettily against the matching silver that adorns your joined hands or something. a setting readers of young adult novels would burst into tears over.

the weight of the box sits heavy in chest as it does buried under old clothes in his dresser. he keeps telling himself he’s waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect time. he thinks he’ll end up waiting forever at this rate.

so as he sits against the headboard, shoulders heavy with anticipation, the clock strikes a new minute into the night. you stir slightly in your sleep and wrap your arms around his middle. routine even unconsciously. right then does he decide he’ll propose tomorrow, probably casually over coffee as if his nerves won’t be shot a hundred times over and the mirror isn’t sick of watching him pace back and forth.

sleep isn’t as friendly to him as it is to you. but it doesn’t matter in the long run anyway.

(tomorrow you’ll comment on his comically disbelieved appearance. his plan will nose dive out of your fourth story apartment window, eyes wide, running on adrenaline and less than an hour of fitful sleep altogether.

tomorrow he’ll tell you he loves you, he loves you for real, and set the box on the island with shaking hands. it’s far from the perfect setting, both of you in less desirable clothing.

tomorrow you’ll cry in the middle of your kitchen, swamped in a t-shirt he hasn’t seen in months, your yes warbled in between half stuttered attempts at words altogether. the rising sun does glint against your finger, so he figures a win is still a win.)

[bristof]

Citizen Sleeper 2, One Foot Forward and the Other Slightly Backward

Spoilers for the entirety of Citizen Sleeper 2: Starward Vector

Citizen Sleeper 2 was up there with my most anticipated games of the year. After beating the first game mid last year, I've read every article posted about the sequel, bought the art book made by Lost In Cult, and done everything in my power to get my close friends to play it. Citizen Sleeper is easily one of my favorite games ever made, and unfortunately, the second game does fall short in comparison. Now don't get me wrong, I still loved my time with Starward Vector. The art by Guillaume Singelin is unsurprisingly still incredible, the music and world design still gives you that same unique atmosphere, the cold unforgiving vacuum of space and the somehow even colder and more vicious people behind the corporate dystopia that looms over the game at all times. Yet that warmth is still present within the characters you meet and the found communities that somehow continue to persevere and thrive due to the individual people within them. My only criticism of this game boils down to one thing, time. It took me around 11 hours to beat the first game, that game takes place in one really big location. It took me only 12 hours to complete Starward Vector, which has close to a dozen major settlements and even smaller locations. This game is aiming to have a broader scope, but the characters and narrative suffer due to the lack of time to flesh everyone out. This was most apparent when I approached the end of the game, by that point I had recruited every person you could which adds up to around 7 or 8 people being on the ship. Save for Bliss and Serafin, most of the characters in your crew barely interact with one another outside of their story quests. This leads to the ship feeling really empty a lot of the time. It would have been really cool to hear other characters chime in during major story events, maybe giving insight on potential outcomes based on their specific expertise. A simpler example would have been to add more events while you traveled to other locations. This does happen sometimes with a few of the characters, but most of them didn't get that treatment during my play through. I don't think Nia or Kadet said a single thing to another character on The Rig after recruiting them. Which really sucks, I loved hearing these characters interact with one another and I don't think it should have been as rare.

In terms of broader narrative, I found most of the stories told in this one to be pretty underwhelming in some way or another compared to the first game, save for everything that happens in Wellspring. Laine is a relatively weak villain (though the dialogue involving his control over you is very well written and unsettling), The new characters, while very charming, didn't grab me with their conflicts like the first game. Most of the stronger narrative moments involved a returning character, like the standoff on the asteroid with the fraction drive, or finally figuring out the history behind Olivera. Every character story has the ingredients needed to be something really cool, they are just crushed under the lack of time that permeates everything in this game. The second to second game play is vastly improved, Starward Vector demands that you understand and play around its systems and will heavily punish you if you don't. This can create some really cool narrative gameplay moments, like with your first infiltration into Darkside.

I beat this game a few days ago and will probably come back to this post with different feelings in the future after it's marinated in my head a bit. It says a lot about a game when my one issue is that I wish there was more of it. Starward Vector is absolutely worth your time, while not as numerous, It's filled with lovable characters, challenging decisions and superb writing throughout. Gareth Damian Martin and the others who've worked on these games are profoundly talented individuals and I am confident that their future projects will continue to amaze.

[paperstorm]

Made it Easier Somehow

for @theghostofashton

Rating: T Pairing: TK Strand/Carlos Reyes Word Count: 1876 Tags: Established Relationship, Comfort no Hurt, Domestic Fluff

Carlos leans against the handrail in the elevator, closing his eyes for a moment. His head sways. He’s dead tired, this particular 12-hour shift feeling longer than most for reasons he can’t entirely isolate. Nothing particularly terrible occurred, and he didn’t need to stay significantly later than he was scheduled for, but the day dragged. It’s nearly midnight and he just wants to rid himself of shoes and jeans and collapse into bed. TK will be there. He was working today, too, but his shift ended hours ago and he’ll be in their bed when Carlos finally gets there. He’ll be warm and soft and Carlos bites back a moan as the elevator comes to a halt on their floor and he imagines how nice it will be to crawl in beside him.   He never used to be one for lounging, for sleeping in, for lazing days away. Carlos always felt like he was wasting time. Like there were always better things he should be doing – exercising, cleaning, working, fixing something. He was always moving, even when his body wanted him to rest, and he’s not sure he’s completely unpacked how much of that was the urge to run so fast that his hurts and fears couldn’t catch up with him. He knows it enough, and he’s getting better at settling into the bliss of lying around doing absolutely nothing with TK. When it’s the two of them wrapped up in soft blankets, with arms around each other and legs tangled and kisses to foreheads, it feels like a far more valuable use of his time than doing almost anything else.   Carlos puts his key into the lock and turns it, dragging the sliding door open when the lock gives. It grinds on its gears as it always does; a sound he has started to associate with coming home. Lights are still on inside the loft, and Carlos’s brow furrows as he turns and pulls the door closed behind himself. TK must have forgotten to shut them off before he went to bed. Carlos sets his bag on the ground and walks a few steps forward, toward the table behind the couch to deposit his keys. As he gets closer, he notices a lump on the couch. Peering over the back of it, Carlos takes in the sight of his husband – husband, he’s still not accustomed to how sweet that word tastes – curled into a ball underneath a gray blanket.

Read the rest on AO3

[posthumanwanderings]

gonna finally beat the rest of Shenmue 1 tonight. at the very end basically then gonna showcase the Shenmue Passport disc with all sorts of bonus material. I know there's other longplays that beat the entire game under 12 hours but it defeats the whole purpose of its series which is just vibin out, exploring every nook and cranny and treating and getting to know the NPC's as real people. by doing this I always discover new stuff and apparently there are cutscenes with secret inputs that unlock hidden content that people are just now finding out! I have another motive of going back through these, which... requires playing it again on a modded version of the remaster lol. but it'll be worth it for sure for those who are into my Dreamcast Ambient vidmixes. I'll be continuing with Shenmue 2 sometime February to sync up with the game's plotline time which is even more expanded and filled with alternate content and the soundtrack is absolute bliss 👌 anyway, shoutout Yu Suzuki / AM2 for being major forerunners in the gaming industry; from the launch of the super scaled 3D graphics of Space Harrier in 1985, taking fighting games into the 3rd dimension with Virtua Fighter in the 90's, the open world aspects that became the modern staple in games with Shenmue, til the rapid decline of arcades in the 2000's adding so many more unique and fun titles under their name. there is also so much Sega love in the form of minigame content and capsule toys in these 1st two games which sucks the rest of the Shenmue series won't have because of rights ownership :( I'm not too thrilled with the way Shenmue 3 looks and how Ryo will die from hunger if you idle too long lol but I gotta check it out for the cause at some point.

[randomvarious]

1990s Downtempo Playlist

Well, ya just knew that after doing a bunch of trip hop playlist posting over the past few weeks that I was gonna start adding fresh coats of paint to my downtempo playlists too. And this week I've got some 90s gems from a same trio of albums I've been posting a lot about lately on these Sunday nights: Ninja Cuts: Flexistentialism from UK electronic powerhouse Ninja Tune, Parisian Kid Loco's brilliant DJ-Kicks mix, and then a pretty damn obscure comp from late 90s South Africa called ReRooted: Beatz From Da Ground Up.

And I think my absolute favorite of these new adds this week comes from that Flexistentialism comp, with a lovely piece of blissed-out, mid-90s, reverberating, softly bonging and throbbing dubbiness by legendary Austrian duo Kruder & Dorfmeister called "Shakatakadoodub." These guys are better known as top-flight DJs and remixers, and their own DJ-Kicks mix is often ranked as one of the greatest DJ mixes that's ever been made, period, but "Shakatakadoodub," which is not an obscure track by any means, as it currently has over 1.11 million Spotify plays, is seven-plus minutes of light, hazy perfection 😌. K&D don't release much music of their own creation, and so, this merely made its debut on Flexistentialism, but if they'd ever been more committed to releasing more material, this definitely would've been a stand-out track on whatever they were fixing to release; it's so good.

Next up, from that ReRooted comp, we've got something from a band that hailed from Johannesburg called Sugardrive, who deliver "Girl You Made Me Bad," which is also sort of this vocal indie pop crossover hybrid too. Excellently soothing bits of trumpet, choppy psychedelic synths, and electric acoustic guitar strums. Looks like there's another version of this song on Spotify that has 31.8K+ plays, but this one appears to be cruising somewhere below 1,000 right now...

9 Lazy 9 - "Spoonful of Slow" Kruder & Dorfmeister - "Shakatakadoodub" Funki Porcini - "Venus" Sugardrive - "Girl You Made Me Bad" Boards of Canada - "Happy Cycling" Kid Loco - "Flyin' on 747"

But the YouTube version of this playlist contains all those adds and a handful more too that can't be found on Spotify, which is where some of the songs from Kid Loco's DJ-Kicks mix come into play, like a 1999 song called "Slo Jo" by a guy from Vienna named Stereotyp, who was signed to Kruder & Dorfmeister's own G-Stone Recordings label at the time. And true to that label name, this one is definitely stoned 😵. Very trippy and chill tune, with slow and syrupy synth zaps, a crunch-dusty drumbeat, and vocals delivered by someone named Le Bubu, whose only credits ever came from the Stereotyp 12-inch that this wonderful song first originated from: Stash It. Currently under 2,300 YouTube plays, and deserving of a lot more.

Hacienda - "Diskoking" Tongue - "Culture Consumers" Thievery Corporation - "Lebanese Blonde" Stereotyp - "Slo Jo"

And this playlist is also on YouTube Music.

So this latest update now brings the Spotify version of this playlist up to 40 songs that clock in at 4 hours and 7 minutes, but over on YouTube, we're up to a total of 69 songs (nice!) that clock in at 7 hours and 14 minutes! So if you want a shit-ton more of excellent 90s downtempo, do check out the YouTube one!

And if those playlist lengths sound way too long, consider checking some shorter ones out, which are segmented by year:

1993 Downtempo: YouTube / YouTube Music 1996 Downtempo: YouTube / YouTube Music 1997 Downtempo: YouTube / YouTube Music 1998 Downtempo: YouTube / YouTube Music

And you already know that there's gonna be more downtempo next week, but just to make it official: more downtempo next week.

Enjoy!

More to come, eventually. Stay tuned!

Like what you hear? Follow me on Spotify and YouTube for more cool playlists and uploads!

[random-vore-blog]

Hi, I love your MHA fics and stuff! You write the characters so well! If you're still taking requests, and interested, I'd really love to see one of Present Mic comforting a student, or something similar to that. (They could have like a shrinking quirk or smth, idk LOL) No pressure to do so, of course! Keep up the good work!! :)

Alright! Sure! I am going to use my mha triplet oc for this because she fits in with the description.

UA was quiet for a change. No screaming or explosions, no fighting or anything. It was absolute bliss tonight for a lot of the students. All except one student who constantly had nightmares of the death of her two sisters and her past with Overhaul.

Tossing and turning, tears threatening to escape their prison after so many years of building the tough act. However, that act was torn apart when she found out about the death of her sisters. Five months... five months right after the three of them were rescued, rehabilitated and got the proper treatments needed help them cope with their traumas.

Sweat crept out of the pores, the room suddenly too hot for the sensitive organ covering her body to protect the flesh underneath. The fabric covering her body drenched with the salty water that escaped the skin prison.

The flashbacks of their bodies, the dead stares from their lifeless bodies boring into her like sharp knives cutting through flesh with ease. It haunted her mind, a plague that never vanished no matter how many times she went to therapy.

She gasped, sitting upright with eyes open and glowing white, ears lowered as her body trembled. Light yellow hair hugged her skin, clinging onto it as if it sensed her distress. It had been months since she was rescued with her sisters by the heroes. The first meeting was not in the best of circumstances.

But that was almost three months ago. She had to get over the trauma- or should have gotten over it by now. The plague of nightmares prevented that, however and kept reminding her of the horrible life she had. The excruciating pain she and her sisters endured for twelve long years. She was almost eighteen years old, yet she acted like a child. Why was she so childish at the age of almost eighteen? Why? Just why?

Her brain thought of one person to calm her down, to comfort her but she was scared. What if he was not there? What if she disturbed him at early hours? She didn't want to intrude or trouble him with her childish behaviour. What would he think about it?

So many questions, no answers for any of them.

She lifted the covers off of herself, slowly hanging her feet off the bed and placing them on the cold floor below. The wooden floorboards were smooth but cold to the touch just like ice. It wasn't as bad as when she was in the hands of Overhaul. But that... man... that thing kept her hostage for so long, for 12 years with her sisters, until they were saved by Aizawa Shota and Bakugo Katsuki.

A small creek made her tense up, body stiff as though cement had turned solid, ceasing her ability to move. The fear of loud noises always got to her, and she didn't know why it still affected her.

Her muscles relaxed slightly, but not much. She could move, but it proved to be difficult, as if she herself was a heavy object being dragged. That did not settle down her nerves, however. It just made them crawl sround like worms, even her gut felt like it was made out of caterpillars ready to transform into butterflies.

A knock made her flinch, something her brain couldn't decipher if it was a threat behind the wooden wall or if someone with good intentions stood behind the object, ready to comfort and soothe her scared soul, to heal it and take away most of the trauma off of her mind.

" Rika? You alright in there?"

Present Mic? Her entire body relaxed upon hearing the familiar voice. The tension that once seeped through her muscle and bones evaporated in the air.

" Mr. Mic?"

Her small and shaky voice made her cringe, coiling in on herself like a snake, tail wrapping around her knees as if to barricade hersself away from the world.

" Yes, Rika. It's me. I heard whimpering from my room. Are you alright?"

Her throat felt dry, her tongue felt dry even as she swallowed back her insrecurity of how weak and vulnerable she sounded not too long ago.

" Can I come in?"

She gave a small yes, voice above a whisper, but he heard it. She watched as the knob to the room she resided in twisted, door opening to reveal the man that stood on the other side.

" What's wrong? Another nightmare?"

Present Mic, the only teacher she really allowed to be in her personal bubble for as long as he wanted to. Not like the other teachers, however. She'd snap and growl at them, cursing them out or even start biting them due to her more animal-like behaviour. Present Mic, however, was different. While the other teachers restrained her whenever she got aggressive because of her temper and forgetting her life before everything happened, Present Mic always made sure to try and do his best to not forget her past and possible abuse in the darned place Overhaul had her in, along with her sisters.

She jerked as he sat down on her soft bean bag, the colour was a soft orange that gave her a sense of safety and warmth, a reminder of what the sun looked like whenever she went to play outside. She took a deep shaky breath, shivering slightly as the nightmare flashed in her mind, snippets taunting her.

" ... Y-yes."

He rested a hand on her shoulder, causing her to tense up begore relaxing again.

" It's not your fault, Rika. It was the LOV, not you."

" But- but they would still be here if I arrived on time! If I hadn't decided to split up-"

" Rika, listen to me very carefully. Had you been there, the chances of you three surviving would be close to zero."

She began to shiver, whimpering again at the memory. Present Mic sighed.

" How about I take you to Aizawa? Maybe he can-"

" NO! I don't- he-"

She couldn't make a complete sentence before starting another one, and Present Mic quickly reacted, telling her to calm down and that he won't get Aizawa. Aizawa was another teacher she trusted, but feared to ask something that might anger him. She hated seeing him angry, thus the fear of angering him evolved. She trusted the other teacher, she really did, but seeing him angry made her fearful. It reminded her of her past, how angry Overhaul would get at her whenever something went wrong during experiments that were done on her.

She only trusted people her age or younger. Aizawa and Present Mic were the only exceptions for being in the older category.

" Woah- okay! It's okay! I won't get Aizawa."

He nearly forgot about her fear of an angry person. He should be ashamed for forgetting that important information.

" I- I- nevermind... it's stupid."

She stopped speaking, frowning as her shaking stopped for a few seconds. He had an idea of what she wanted, what she wanted to ask, but he had to be sure.

" You want to..."

He thought of how to ask it, to word it perfectly.

" ... be safe again?"

She kept quiet, ears lowered more as she tried to hide her face, blushing from embarrassment and shame but nodded, trying to avert her gaze away from him. Present Mic thought for a while, trying to think of how to calm her down before comforting and keeping her safe.

" Want some hot chocolate?"

She shook her head slowly and shakily. She seemed to be desperate for that comfort. The sliver of safety, even if it was just for the night, an act only a child of eight would want from their parents... She was an eight year old inside the body of seventeen. The world was harsh, and she endured it, witnessing the cruelty at a young age no child should ever witness.

He sighed heavily, slowly parting his lips to reveal pink-red gums and muscle behind white teeth. The top canines a bit longer than any human, but it was unnoticeable enough to not give away his true identity as a predator. Rika stared at the pink-red cavern of flesh, the abyss right down the tube that led to his digestive system.

With a shaky meep, she shakily and cautiously stepped inside, lowering herself until she was basically on her hunches, scanning the area as the entrance closed with a soft click of the teeth behind her. The male grimaced as he swallowed, using his hand to support the barely noticeable lump in his throat.

He swallowed again and again, taking up to four swallows to properly send her on her merry way. The fourth was needed to pull her down as she was a bit stuck in his throat. He still grimaced even after she made it safely in the pouch above his stomach. A secondary organ found only in predators. He was a predator alright, but not an evil one like in mythology or stories. Villains with his predator appearances fit in that mythical category.

He could feel her settle in her new compartment, relaxing in the fleshy chamber that only predators had. He knew she was okay. He had good control over sending valuable things to his storage organ, a crop or false stomach- there were many names for it- and knew when to store and how to store.

He hoped Rika would not grieve as much as she did now in the future.

Sorry for the long wait! I was very busy and hope you enjoyed it!

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Somewhere Between Sorrow & Bliss

1200 words for 1200 followers #6

A/N: Hi friends! Welcome to the 12-A-Palooza! This event is my way of saying thank you for sticking with me. Your support and kindness toward me and my writing is out of this world and I’m grateful for every last one of you! This is the second of two requests that I got for Jack, and they go together because the two songs demanded it. The first can be found here, and should be read before this one to get the full picture. I absolutely have plans to continue this AU, as well as to fill out the time between these two parts, but for now please enjoy a little more Time Traveling Jack Daniels. 💚

Warnings: mild angst, Jack’s big brown puppy eyes and pouty lips 

Requested by: @writeforfandoms Song: Too Much Is Never Enough Character Choice: Jack Daniels - Jen!! Thank you SO MUCH for sending this in. I have A LOT of feelings about this song, just like I have a lot of feelings about this Cowboy. I hope you enjoy the direction I took it in, and where it’s eventually headed! 

Jack stood at your bedroom window as he gazed out over 9th Street, still quiet at this hour on a Sunday morning. 

You were asleep in the bed behind him. If he had his druthers he would be, too, with his arms wrapped around your body and your cheek against his chest. Then it would be your warm breath fanning out over his skin, not the summer breeze coming through the sheer curtains. Then he could trace lazy figure eights over your bicep, your hip, the nape of your neck. Then he could have one more morning’s worth of moments with you to take back to the present with him. 

Because by this time tomorrow I’ll be gone. 

A dull ache punched through his heart at the thought of going back. 

He winced, remembering the look on your face and the hurt in your voice when he’d come back to the Junction this time - on July 31st, not the 19th. For you it had been twelve days since he’d spun into your world like a tornado, charming you with his smile only to disappear just as suddenly as he showed up, without a word, without a goodbye, without a way to contact him. Without a reason to think he was any different than the other casanovas who wandered in looking for a one night stand. 

“Well, look who it is.” Your eyes had flashed as you tossed a cardboard coaster onto the bar like a frisbee. “So you do remember how to get here, then, Cowboy?” 

“Darlin’, I-” 

“Oh, absolutely not.” You slammed an empty glass on the rail and shook your head. Reaching for the neck of a whiskey bottle with your left hand, you tipped it to pour while grabbing the soda gun with your right. “You do not -” You pressed the button on the gun to add a splash of water to his drink. “- get to Darlin’ me after -” 

Your brow furrowed then, as though you weren’t sure how to articulate the disappointment, frustration and heartbreak you felt waking on the 20th only to find an empty bed beside you. Because it didn’t make sense for you to feel this strongly over someone you’d spent one night with. 

One night. Twenty-seven times. Spread out over a year.  

A year of figuring out how to make you smile, laugh, moan his name. A year of learning how to bring you to bliss with his touch and his tongue. Of falling in love with you while you learned him from scratch each time. 

But something in the way your fingers shook as you set his drink down on the coaster made him wonder if some part of you remembered more than just your last July 19th together. If maybe on some level your consciousness carried the memories that going through the Rewind had written over. 

Jack tried again, using your name that time, his fingers grazing yours as they left his glass. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for havin’ to leave that morning.” He frowned, swirling the contents of his drink. Whiskey’n water. She remembered. “I was on call for work and-” 

“And you couldn’t say goodbye?” You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “You snuck out, Jack. Your work was that urgent that you-” 

“Yes.” 

It wasn’t a lie. He had been called back urgently - by Ginger, when the twelve hour window had shut and the Rewind yanked him out of your bed and back into the present. 

“Yes,” he said again, a deep crease cutting into his forehead. “It was. But you have no idea how much I wish it wasn’t.” He sighed, tapping his glass.  “Would you believe me if I told you I haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since the last time I saw those pretty eyes’a yours?” 

For you it had been twelve days, and that had been longer than he would have liked. But for Jack it had been two months without you. 

You sucked in a breath, clearly struck by his claim. The tip of your tongue swept out to wet your lips as you recovered. “No.” 

“No?” He swallowed despite not yet taking a sip from his glass. “Well I’d do anything for a chance to change your mind, Darlin’.” 

“Don’t call me that, Jack.” Your voice was barely above a whisper but he heard you even over the din of the bar noise. “Not unless you’re here to stay.” 

His heart slammed at his rib cage as he contemplated how to answer. The trial for the Rewind had moved to the next stage, which involved sending the subject back for a longer period of time to see if prolonged skips along the continuum had any side effects. After a year of testing it for half a day, Ginger had reset the window to three days for this trip.

Finally bringing the glass to his lips, he took a drink, eyes on you the whole time. “Well, I’m in town all weekend. That be a good start?” 

A patron at the other end of the bar flagged you down and you shouted over to let him know you’d be right with him before turning back to Jack. He could see in your eyes that you wanted to say yes, and he latched onto that little bit of hope even after you responded. “Ask me again at the end of my shift.” 

He had. And now here he was in your bedroom two days later, awake and already feeling too far away from you even though he still had just under a day left in your life. Like waking up an hour shy of the alarm clock for fear of missing it, Jack found himself on edge about leaving you before it was time to. 

Part of it was due to the fact that he didn’t know how long it would be until he got to repeat these three days with you. Part of it was because the previous night, as you curled your body into his, both of you sweat slicked and spent, you’d confessed that you thought you’d gone crazy for how strongly you felt for him after just that one night - that you felt like you’d known him and that he’d known you for much longer than those few hours. 

But part of it was also because he was confused - and concerned - by the fact that in the present, when he’d tried to look you up just to see what your life was like along his current timeline, his search had drawn a blank. 

I need to find out why that is. Find out if- 

“Jack?” 

The sound of your voice, still hazy with sleep, pulled his focus away from the window, away from the ticking clock in the back of his mind and brought it back to you. He turned to see you lying on your side, the sheet pulled partially up your body, and in two long strides he was back at the bedside and climbing onto the mattress beside you. 

But right now I just need to be here. 

“G’mornin’, Darlin’.” He reached to pull you against his chest. “How’d you sleep?” 

.

.

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[hullomoon]

hullomoon's 2024 works round-up: part one

it’s the end of the year, which means it’s time for a work round-up! once again i didn't post too much this year, but i definitely know that i was doing longer works (looking at you 17 hour pod!). if you haven’t yet, check out my 2019 roundup, 2020 roundup, 2021 roundup, 2022 roundup, and 2023 roundup! all works are ordered in chronological posting order.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six

[podfic] leave the children behind | Stranger Things | Joyce/Hopper, Steve & Hopper | 32:53

She catches sight of Hop first, of course. He’s who she’s looking for after all; or, perhaps more accurately, she will think later, he’s the only one she thinks she’s supposed to be looking for in this moment. The way Robin Buckley had talked about what had happened beneath Starcourt that night — well, it had all just seemed so final, she’d thought, and truly she’s never been so happy to be wrong in her life. Meanwhile, in the Soviet Union, Joyce finds not one ghost but two.

[podfic] the goodest boy, his Henry, and the other guy | Red, White, and Royal Blue | Alex/Henry | 04:07

“David?” That voice. The most beautiful sound in the world. David scrambles to his feet, performing a perfunctory stretch before leaping off his bed and bounding down the hallway. His heartbeat accelerates when he sees his Henry, wrapped up in a scarf, looking soft and snugglable. And oh! Behind him is the other guy.

[podfic] Interlude | Schitt's Creek | Alexis & David | 12:25

David whips the tie from around his neck and throws it to the floor in frustration. He will not cry, he will not cry. There is an itinerary and he’s supposed to be sticking to it. There is not enough time to budget in a whole other round of emergency skincare; the only option, if any, would be a few dabs of concealer. That’s it. — Or, a missing scene before the wedding where David's getting ready and realizes he can't quite do it on his own.

[podfic] Goosey Nature | Doctor Who & The Untitled Goose Game | multivoice | 01:42

"Don't you shake your tail feathers at me!"

[podfic] Mixed Emotions | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | multivoice | 33:43

Steve and Eddie trade mix tapes, for totally normal friend reasons. And if a little extra work goes into choosing just the right song, well, what's wrong with that?

[podfic] This Ken Has a Boyfriend! | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | multivoice | 13:39

Eddie the Banished is a half-elf bard, destroyer of Kas, devilish charmer, the Party’s ace up their sleeve, and he is trapped in the Barbie bin. Someone —a loyal party member never rats on their own— dumped him in the fluorescent neon pink tub during clean-up and now he’ll spend the weekend with the dippy plastic models. There’s three Barbies and one Ken, and no one has broken yet. Do they really just sit here and do nothing? “This is hell.” “Well that’s rude.”

[podfic] Five Cakes Marcus Thought Were Bombs and One He Knew Was Fire | The Bear | Marcus-centric | multivoice | 04:51

Six drabbles about Marcus's search for a perfect new cake to bake.

it's perpetual bliss | Schitt's Creek | Stevie/Ruth | 487

It's the end of their first date and Stevie is soaking up the last moments

[Podfic] covered bridge love | Stranger Things | Steve/Eddie | multivoice | 16:39

“You fucking asshole,” he says, and the moment he lifts his head, Steve’s hand is pushing tear- and sweat-matted hair off his forehead, so careful and kind and infuriating in the way the touch takes over Eddie’s entire self to the point where he can’t help but lean into it. “You absolute fucking jerk.” “I’m sorry.” “Yeah,” Eddie scoffs wetly, “you oughta be.” – Steve is injured in a fire. His ex-boyfriend gets a call. It was supposed to be easier this way.

[podfic] Close Encounters of the Alces Kind | Schitt's Creek | Gen | multivoice | 07:58 & 08:52

why are you trying to get me to stay at work longer than i need to what did you do Nothing i can hear you lying