#AND NOW I WEIGH MORE THAN I EVER HAVE IN MY ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE

[zer0s-g0re-f1lled-gr4ve]

[phagodyke]

😐😐😐😐

[ursie]

Brennan’s statement on Palestine :

[ ID: Statement from Brennan Lee Mulligan, on Instagram. It consists of three black squares with plain white text. The text reads as follows:

"I'm calling on my government officials to immediately demand a ceasefire and de-escalation in Gaza.

I applaud anyone and everyone calling for peace, with the understanding that real peace only exists if it deeply and honestly accounts for and fully ends violence in all its forms. Real peace addresses and corrects wrong-doing in the past and guards against it in the future. It goes hand in hand with justice and requires truth, restoration, reconciliation, reparation.

Peace cannot co-exist with collective punishment, ethnic cleansing and forced displacement. It cannot co-exist with blockades, embargoes, or with 2.2 million people, half of which are children, trapped with no hope of escape or political recourse. it cannot co-exist with murdered journalists, bombed hospitals, or years of protesters being shot and killed at the border. it cannot co-exist with illegal settlements, segregated roads, and the silent, imperial chill that settles over the gaps in the violence - the unspoken geopolitical consensus that a group of people need to unflinchingly accept permanent subjugation and occupation.

My hear breaks for every Israeli person who lost loved ones during the attacks of October 7th. It breaks for every Ukrainian person who has lost their loved ones. It breaks for every Congolese person who has lost their loved ones. I do not speak on behalf of Palestinians now because some lives are worth more than others. I speak on their behalf because I, and all Americans, have a responsibility to pressure our government because we are responsible for this. Some have said that this situation is complicated. The Unites States government clearly disagrees. It has definitively, categorically, militarily chosen a side, and I do not agree with that decision.

In wiring this, I have been wrestling with what I am sure many people like me wrestle with: There is a powerful narrative surrounding violence in the Middle East that asserts and ever-moving goalpost of self-education and study in order to even be qualified to have an opinion. As someone with a love of research, I have at times in my life fallen into the trap that I am not educated enough clever enough, or aware enough to have a worthwhile perspective, and that three more articles and two more lectures and one more book will do the trick. Unfortunately, democracy doesn't work that way - we, the citizens of any democracy, cannot possibly be experts on every aspect of the policies of our governments, and yet if we do not constantly weigh in an make our voices heard, the entire experiment falls apart. Not only do people constantly doubt themselves and the things they can see with their own two eyes, but old shortcuts for political action can fall apart as well: This specific issue exists along a raw, charged and unique faultline in American Politics. Nobody I grew up with has ever challenged me on my support for abortion rights, LGBT rights, Black Lives Matter, anti-capitalism, anti-fascism, none of it. The people in my country who would despise me for those positions are, for all intents and purposes, strangers to me. But there are people who I've broken bread with and shared honest affection with who will see the words I've written here and incorrectly conclude that I do not wish for the security, dignity and happiness of them and their loved ones, and that breaks my fucking heart. Full-throatedly condemning the actions of the Israeli government while battling rampant anti-semitism at home is an urgent moral necessity, and doing so is made unnecessarily challenging for the average person to navigate by the pointed obfuscations of cynical opportunists, bigots, and demagogues on all sides of the political spectrum who see some advantage in sowing that incredibly dangerous confusion.

So, I'm calling my representatives. I'm having hard conversations with friends and family. I'm here, talking to you. I should have done it sooner. If you're Israeli and hurt by this statement, know that I want freedom, dignity, security and peace for you, and that every ounce of my political awareness believes whole-heartedly that the actions of your government are not only destroying innocent lives, but doing so to the detriment of you and your loved ones' safety. If you're American and feel lost and confused - I understand and empathize. This, the whole country, only works when we get involved. I am constantly haunted by the specter that maybe I missed some crucial piece of information on this, or any, important world event. I'll just have to make my peace with that self-doubt and trust my gut by going with Jewish Voice for Peace, Amnesty International, the Geneva Conventions, the United Nations, etc. And if you're Palestinian and reading this: I unreservedly support your right to life, to freedom, to happiness and human flourishing, to full enfranchisement and equal rights, to opportunity, prosperity and abundance, to the restoration of stolen property and land, and to a Free Palestine." End ID ]

[covenofagatha]

A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 6)

You go to confront The Witch and Lady Death

Word count: 3900

Warnings: smut, fingering, more murder

You try to call Tony on the way over, but his number isn’t there. You scroll through your text messages, his thread isn’t there either. You try recent calls. Nope. 

It’s like he’s been entirely erased from your phone. 

You’re getting frantic, desperate, and you know that you can’t exactly look up the personal phone number for the director of an FBI branch, so on a complete whim, you check your blocked contacts. 

Fucking Rio. 

She must’ve gotten into your phone when she came by to get your clothes that night and made sure there was no way you could reach your life outside of Westview. No way you could get help. 

Fingers gripped around the blade of the knife, you’re about to leave the room when your phone lights up with a call. Tony. You scoff, decline it, and block him. You don’t have time for that. 

Grimacing, you massage the area between your eyes. You’ve made a huge mess of everything. 

You unblock him and call him and he picks up on the first ring. 

“Y/N, where the hell have you been?” He barks and you wince at his scolding tone. 

“Things here have…developed,” you start, weighing how much you should tell him. 

He scoffs. “None of my calls or texts have gone through. I thought you were dead!” You try to say something but he barrels over you. “I’m on my way to Westview right now. I’m supposed to land in about an hour. I don’t know what’s going on there, but I’m bringing you back to Miami.” 

“No!” You cry out. He can’t. “Please, Director, I’m so close, I’m about to get them right now. I know who they are and where they are, I’m on my way.”

You can hear his sharp intake of breath when he realizes what you’re about to do. “Agent, stand down. That is a direct order. You are not to engage with them.” 

A blush spreads through your body as you remember just how much you’ve engaged with them. 

“It’ll be fine,” you assure him. “They don’t want me dead.” 

The sound of him hitting the tray table on the jet reverberates through your phone and you almost jump. “Dammit, Y/N, this isn’t a game! This is life or death, and you are not to try and get them all by yourself. Turn around from wherever you are and go back to your motel and do not leave until I get there!” You’ve never heard him this mad. 

But you can’t. You’ve come too far to let them slip away like this. You have your gun and maybe the element of surprise on your side. You have the power to end this tonight. 

Tony’s still ranting about how irresponsible and impulsive and stupid you’re being, so you hang up. The call ironically disconnects in the middle of him saying how you never listen to anything he says. 

You’re more convinced than ever that Agatha and Rio did something in the woods that day that fucked you up beyond measure. 

And who was that other woman? 

Somehow, after all of that, you had ended up in the hospital with hypothermia and pneumonia, and the post-traumatic and retrograde amnesia accounts for the block in your mind. Did you hit your head on something? 

Or did someone hit you on the head with something? 

Agatha and Rio and the mystery woman had been so shocked and afraid when you came across them doing something bad that they had clobbered you in the hopes that you would forget, or die? 

It’s plausible. 

If nothing else, you need answers before you kill them tonight. Maybe knowing what they did will give you some semblance of peace and you can sleep without fearing that you’re going to murder innocent people. 

It can hopefully get rid of your headaches, at the very least. 

When you get to the address left on the note, Agatha’s car is already parked out front. You breathe a sigh of relief and the tension in your shoulders you didn’t know you were carrying seeps out. They’re here. They didn’t send you on a wild goose chase. 

Your heart is beating so fast you think it might fly right out of your chest and you try to slow down your breathing before entering the viper’s nest. 

There’s no telling what you might find in there, or what tricks they have up their sleeves, so you want to be mentally prepared. 

When your breaths are finally under control, you get out of the car and immediately slip on ice. You crash down to the pavement with a thud and you struggle to get your bearings and 

Snow. 

Clearing in the woods. 

The woman beckons you forward and you find her with two other women. Out of the three, there’s two brunettes and one with gray hair. The gray-haired one looks older, lines prominent on her angry face. She’s standing against a tree.

The two brunettes smile. 

When you get closer, you can see that the gray-haired lady is standing in the middle of a big mound of sticks and branches. 

Why doesn’t she just move? 

The cold ground bleeds through your pants and brings you back to reality. The big mound of sticks and branches coupled with the fire you started seeing…was she on a pyre? 

One thing at a time, you remind yourself, pushing yourself up with the help of the car next to you. 

You silently slink up to the front door. It’s slightly open. You pause and press your ear to the wood, listening for anything that might indicate a struggle happening. 

Nothing. 

You push it all the way open and carefully step inside, wincing when the floorboard creaks under your foot. It’s so silent in the front corridor of the house that you think you can hear your blood rushing under your skin. 

There’s flickering light coming from the living room and you make your way in that direction when you hear something. You strain your ears and stop against the wall to try and discern what it is – is that a smacking noise? 

Are they kissing? 

You dare to peek around the corner and yes, not really to your surprise, Agatha and Rio are making out amidst a crime scene.

 A dagger sits on the kitchen table next to a plate of the same cookies from their house, two purple azaleas, and two containers. 

Two people, a man and a woman, are laying on the ground gasping for air. Their skin is getting tighter, shriveling, lines etching into their face as their cheeks hollow out. 

Their chests are still intact though. Maybe they haven’t gotten to that step yet? Clearly Agatha and Rio have been sidetracked.

You should go help them. You should go in there and save their lives, you should stop The Witch and Lady Death. Why do you feel so hot? You must have a fever, there’s no reason your body should be this warm.

But then you look in their direction and you’re enraptured, all other thoughts leaving your head.

The skeleton mask is thrown on the floor and the glow of the fireplace lights up Agatha and Rio trying to devour each other’s mouths. 

A flush of heat stutters through your body as Rio reaches her arms around Agatha’s neck and tries to pull her even closer. Agatha’s hands are clasped on her wife’s cheeks and you can see her tongue sliding into Rio’s mouth. The electricity under your skin is back, roaring to life, while your eyes move from the people on the floor, taking their last breaths, to Agatha and Rio, still kissing like their lives depend on it, to the 

Snow. 

The clearing. 

The sound of a match striking against the matchbox. 

You watch it fall, almost as if in slow motion. 

A brilliant blaze of fire erupts. 

Agatha’s foot squeaks on the floor as she walks Rio backwards, mouth never leaving hers. Your fingers tighten around the gun so hard you think you might snap them. You should shoot them. You should shoot them both right here, right now. 

But you can’t move. 

You’re stuck, rooted to the same spot around the corner, watching as Agatha’s lips trail down Rio’s neck. The younger woman’s head drops back to give her wife more room and you can almost feel the pleasure she does. 

“Agatha,” Rio whines and you never thought you would hear her beg. But the mighty therapist, the same woman who poisoned you after eating you out on your couch, is reduced to holding her wife’s hair so she doesn’t move away. 

Your breath comes out in sync with Rio’s, like you’re imagining that you’re her instead of you, that you have Agatha pressed up against you instead of being pressed against a wall. 

Rio’s fingers dig into Agatha’s thick locks and she switches positions, whirling Agatha around, and she takes control of the kiss. Your eyes are wide, rapt with attention, not daring to look away as Rio moves down to Agatha’s chest and rips her flannel open, revealing her pale chest and lacy black bra. 

Your mouth waters and the ache, the same one you felt in the woods and in your motel room, the same one you feel whenever you’re around them, floods through you, settling right between your legs. 

Rio nips at Agatha’s breast over the fabric, mouthing at her nipple, and you would kill to be with them. Agatha is watching her fondly, with heat in her eyes, and you think Rio must be looking up at her. 

Now would be the perfect time to shoot, so why can’t you move?

Because you like this too much, your body answers for you. You have to tug at the neckline of your sweater as you feel too hot. 

Rio kneels down, hands sliding up and down Agatha’s thighs while she sucks on the smooth expanse of her wife’s stomach. Your body is swimming with desire, it’s dizzying almost, and you think you need to cum soon or you might die. 

Agatha gasps when Rio sinks her teeth into her skin roughly and then soothes the spot with her tongue. She reaches up, moves Agatha’s hair out of the way, and unclasps her bra and you feel a guttural moan form in your throat. You have to bite your lip hard so it doesn’t escape. 

The pale skin of her chest is flushed red and there’s a slight sheen of sweat on her clavicle. Her nipples are a dusky rose color, pebbled and hard, and you want them in your mouth so fucking bad. 

Rio surges up to do exactly that, tugging on them with her teeth, and Agatha groans, eyes fluttering shut. 

Your brain finally forgets about shooting them, forgets about the fact that they’re serial killers at all, and you do possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever done in your entire life. 

You put the gun into the waistband of your pants and you step out from behind the corner. 

Agatha’s eyes fasten on to you immediately, but instead of looking surprised, she looks impatient. Like you should’ve been here thirty minutes ago. 

“There’s our superstar,” she drawls, hands tangling in Rio’s hair, forcing her still. “What took you so long?” 

You try to think of something to say, anything at all, perhaps a remark about how you caught them, when Rio rakes her eyes up and down your body and chuckles. “Look at her, Aggie. She didn’t just get here. She’s been watching.” 

Agatha smirks in agreement. “I wonder what got her more hot and bothered, watching us” She nods to the surely dead couple on the ground. “-or watching them die.” 

“You two are crazy,” you say, willing your hand to grab your gun, but it doesn’t obey. The heat in your voice betrays you, though. 

Rio simpers, advancing toward you with Agatha in tow. You clench your teeth as they start circling you like sharks. “Want to know how we do it?” Rio purrs into your ear and you shudder. 

“No,” you spit out, trying desperately hard to keep your eyes from darting down to Agatha’s breasts. She’s made no move to cover up. Her nipples are still hard.

“First,” the detective starts. “We lace the cookies with a delicate mix of hydrofluoric acid, acetone, isopropyl, and a few other things meant to just confuse test results. It slowly decomposes their body from the inside out and they’re dead within minutes.” 

Rio moves your hair out of the way to press kisses to your neck and it sends goosebumps down your spine. 

“And then,” Rio says right against your skin while Agatha’s hand slithers from your waist to your stomach up to around your throat. You can feel your pulse throb against her fingers. “I take my knife and carve out their hearts. The first cut is always the sweetest. After that, we use bleach to wash it away and hydrogen peroxide to eat away anything we left: blood, fingerprints, DNA.” 

“Voila,” Agatha says, snapping her fingers that aren’t around your throat. You hate how wet you can feel yourself getting. “That’s how you get away with murder.” 

Rio’s hands are on your hips now, squeezing in time with the hand on your throat. Your airway is constricted, you know you should be scared, but you meet Agatha’s blown-out pupils and are sure yours look the exact same. 

The therapist finds your gun and disarms you. “Or in your case,” she says right into your ear, jabbing the muzzle into your back. “You just lure them into the woods while you’re unconscious and slit their femoral arteries.” 

All the air leaves your lungs, both from their proximity and your own weapon being used against you. 

“Get on your knees,” Agatha orders, letting go of your throat so you can immediately drop down. 

Your knees hit the ground hard, but you barely even register the pain, looking up at them eagerly to await what’s next. 

Rio slowly walks around until she’s standing next to Agatha and tucks the gun under your chin, forcing it up even more. “Look at how much she’s getting off on this,” she says in a hushed voice. The air between the three of you is thick with tension, the dead bodies only a few yards away completely forgotten. 

“You’re capable of so much more than just being a profiler,” Agatha says wistfully, stroking your hair with some sort of affection. “You can be so much more.” 

Snow. 

The match drops.

Fire. 

The gray-haired lady screams. 

You’re running through the woods. Are you being chased? 

There’s a crack as your head hits the ground.

“What did you do to me?” You ask, voice breaking. “What did you do to that woman?” 

Rio drags the gun up the side of your face, traces your cheekbones, and then presses it to your lips. Instinctively, your tongue darts out to flick at the cold metal, and both their eyes flash. “You still don’t remember everything?” Rio asks. 

“I remember that you killed her, and it fucked me up,” you tell them, voice level as it’s finally making sense to you. “I found you two in the woods. You burned her, and then what? You tried to kill the ten year old who saw it? And this is — what? Your way of finally tying up all those loose ends?” 

Agatha snorts and Rio scoffs. 

“Look at our superstar, thinking she knows everything. We don’t want to kill you,” Agatha says, rolling her eyes. Rio takes the gun away from your mouth and tosses it onto the couch. 

Your gaze flicks between them, not sure who to look at. “What do you want then?” 

Agatha winds her fingers through your hair and yanks you off your knees, dragging you in for a kiss, biting your bottom lip hard. A metallic taste fills your mouth and it only makes you hungrier, so you open your mouth and shove your tongue into her hot and waiting mouth. 

You feel Rio’s body pressing against your back and her hand delves under your waistband to cup you over your soaking underwear. Your hips involuntarily jolt at the contact and you moan, but it’s swallowed up by Agatha’s lips. 

The detective pulls your shirt over your head as Rio pushes your underwear to the side and lazily spreads your wetness around your cunt. 

There’s a tugging in your gut, a burning, aching, guttural tugging that is going to be the death of you. Electricity skates through your veins, lighting up your blood and setting it to a boil. 

You’ve never felt so hot in your life. 

Agatha’s lips on your neck do little to quench your thirst for more and Rio shoves two fingers into you with no warning and a gasp tears its way out of you. Agatha bites on your collarbone as Rio twists her fingers and you groan loudly. 

“She loves this, Rio,” Agatha says like you aren’t even there. Rio whimpers and curls her fingers, her other hand snaking around to grab Agatha’s throat. The older woman’s breath hitches as she kisses along your bra, tasting the perspiration on your cleavage. 

Rio’s fingers inside you and Agatha’s mouth now sucking on your nipples, having pushed your bra down, somehow isn’t enough. 

You need to feel them. 

Your hands find Agatha’s breasts, kneading them and pulling on her nipples. She makes a noise against your skin and it only sears you more. You slide your fingers down her stomach, over the red marks from Rio’s mouth, and dip them into her pants. 

She’s just as wet as you are, and you gingerly rub her clit, gathering wetness from her entrance and bringing it back up to swirl at her. She pants hotly against your skin and you can feel her hand creep behind you to Rio, who has set a slow pace inside you. 

“Aggie,” Rio breathes and bites down onto the back of your shoulder. Agatha chuckles breathlessly and you’re able to twist your head just enough to see Agatha’s hands down the therapist’s pants too. 

It makes you clench around Rio’s fingers. You’re all being fucked, and fucking someone, and you can feel Agatha’s wetness the same way Rio is feeling yours, the same way Agatha is feeling her wife’s. 

You slide your middle finger into Agatha, groaning when her walls flutter around you. Rio squeezes a third finger into you and you keen at the stretch, but then she starts fucking roughly and it’s everything you need and more. 

Her thumb swipes at your clit and you try to time your thrusts into Agatha with Rio’s into you. 

Rio’s teeth find your shoulder blade again and dig in, and the pain just makes your body feel even more alive. 

You’ve never felt like this before. The intensity is tenfold what anyone else has ever given you. 

Your ring finger joins your middle and Agatha nips at the curvature of your breasts. Your free hand palms hers and you roll her nipple, enjoying the way she gets tighter around you. Rio plays with her wife’s other boob, and you don’t think you could move a muscle either way because the two women are wrapped so firmly around your body, holding you in place in the middle. 

But that’s nothing new. You’ve been intertwined with them since you’ve gotten here, maybe even almost your whole life. 

Agatha’s lips capture yours and you can feel her muscles in her arm strain against your bicep. You curl your fingers and find the spongy spot that pulls a resounding gasp from her mouth right into yours. Rio pauses, pulls out, and when she presses back at your entrance, your head almost falls back when you feel four fingers posed. 

The detective seems to know because she chuckles against your lips, sucks on your tongue. 

And then she pulls away as Rio plunges four fingers into you, the stretch burning. But the pain gives way to even more pleasure and when she twists them upward, you almost cum. 

“I’m so close,” you moan and Agatha leans behind you and out of the corner of your eye, you see her kissing Rio. And then Rio pulls your head back by your hair and her mouth is on yours and then there’s a flurry of tongue and teeth and lips and you don’t even know who you’re kissing but it’s someone and it’s so good and you’re about to —

— Rio’s fingers stop inside you and you whine, frantically rolling your hips. Your fingers are still pumping at a steady rhythm inside Agatha and you can feel by the movement in her arm that she’s still fucking Rio. 

“Why did you become a profiler?” Rio asks into your ear. “Tell us and we’ll let you cum.” Her thumb brushes against your clit and you’re so sensitive, you think you might be able to cum anyways with that and the fullness. 

“You guys…you killed her so I wanted to know why you did, how you could,” you choke out and Agatha peppers kisses all over your chest. The livewire in your body is about to snap. 

Rio gives you one harsh thrust and you almost sob. “Try again,” she orders. 

Tears prick in your eyes and your fingers falter inside Agatha. You can hear Rio’s breaths becoming shorter and shallower, indicating how close she is. Agatha’s eyes dart from your dark pupils to your swollen lips. She’s still holding onto her composure, better than you and her wife are at least, but you can tell she’s on the edge. 

“I don’t know,” you say, but is that the truth? 

The thrumming in your head comes back, like a memory knocking on your brain, asking to be let in. 

You give in. 

Snow. 

The clearing. 

The three women: two brunettes and one with gray hair.

You can now see that the gray-haired lady is tied to the tree.

The sound of a match on the matchbox. 

The match is flicked onto the sticks by someone, igniting the stake and a brilliant blaze of fire erupts. 

Who set the fire?

Your eyes snap open, the entire block in your mind gone and the memories flood through your head. 

“I wanted to understand why I did it,” you gasp and you know that you finally got it right when Rio starts fucking you with a renowned vigor. 

It takes no time at all before you cum explosively all over her hand and the two of them follow shortly after. The feeling of Agatha orgasming around your hand triggers another one in you and you cling to both of them while you come down from the most intense high of your life. 

They soothe you, whisper sweet nothings, press kisses all over your face, and you wince when Rio pulls her four fingers out of you, the emptiness filling you. 

You start to shake and you don’t realize you’re sobbing until they’re kissing your lips and you can taste the saltiness from your cheeks. 

“It’s okay, baby girl,” Agatha says, and they wrap their arms around you, holding you and letting you cry. “We got you. We’re not letting you go.” 

You sniff and lean into their embrace, feeling whole for the first time in your life. 

[wordslikesilver]

I swear I’m almost done being mentally ill about Elden Ring I promise but I never see anyone talk about Morgott’s heart wrenching death scene. It’s never overtly pointed out but please imagine the progression of events from his perspective. Lying on his back, staring up at the sky, defeated. He’s one of the ONLY bosses that leaves behind a corpse and it’s heart wrenching okay, it’s OBLITERATING. Because he’s lying there withered and broken, staring up at the golden boughs of the one thing in the world he loved, not the golden order, not the greater will, he loved the Erdtree and dedicated his ENTIRE life to it even though it never loved him back because not even a man as scorned as Morgott could live without love and the love was to keep his heart still beating in his chest when he felt most like a monster. He has spent his entire life keeping this crumbling kingdom together. For his mother, who hid him away so the world wouldn’t hurt him, for his father, the man who taught him how to bear the weight of a crown and stand taller than the ignoble origins you come from. And he was so alone. The only constant in his life being that golden tree that shone down into the sewers. He is the last of all kings. The horns about his brow weighed heavier than his crown.

And then the tree was burning. Lying broken on the ground, unable to truly die, his curse expelled from his body, he could only look up and watch the only thing he loved with all his heart burn down around him. The ashes falling like snow on his face. Can you imagine the heat? The resignation? The misery and the promise that if there’s ever a next time, he’ll do better, and if there isn’t then this shall be his final legacy and he’ll just have to accept that final truth before he dies. The self hatred washing over him and passing into quiet peace as he chooses to pass away together with it. Omens do not get reincarnated by the Erdtree. Loved and blessed by the crucible of life, they are not loved the same as all the rest of us. But that’s okay. For Morgott, that was okay. He would live nobly and die with honour in its service and that would be enough. He’d spend the last moments of his life bathed in the warm ashes of orange and grey, content that even if he never felt loved by anyone at all after being cursed and shunned all his life, he did his duty as best he could and finally repaid the debt he felt towards the tree that showed him the light for so many long, lonely years.

And then, then it makes me so fucking miserable because then a pair of gentle, scarred and terribly rough hands lift him up from the ground and cradle him with all the tenderness in the world. The roar of a lion salutes his passing, honouring him, mourning him. “It’s been a long time, Morgott.” No anger, no disappointment. Simply, sadness, that he could not see you sooner. Godfrey, his father, returned at last to hold him one final time as he passes away, the rune of death now unbound and finding its way to Morgott after all this time. His last memory would be of being held by his father, loved for all that he is in the ashes of all that he dedicated his life to. His body fades, his entire world upheaved one final time, and an easily missed detail in the cutscene is that Morgott’s body becomes a Grace that points towards you, the player, to guide his father to his next step along the path of Lordship. One final time, Godfrey is guided by the unyielding love he feels for one of his children. Fuck it makes me so miserable. How do write something so tragic and not spend more time with it? How do you leave that beauty hidden in the details like it’s not one of the greatest moments of the entire game? It’s so quiet it’s private, almost. Like we’re not supposed to see that side of either of them, being such an outsider. It’s sundering to think about. Annihilating. I love it with all my heart and I hope more people love Morgott too after reading this.

[queensunshinee]

His favorite toy- Part 4 || Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex), our favorite toxic relationship is back.

Word Count: 6.1k

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

This one can stand on its own, but I recommend reading the rest :)

His favorite toy- Part 4:

"What are you doing here?" I tried to sound composed. My heart couldn't stop racing at a speed I never wanted it to beat again. A speed reserved for one person only. And no matter how many years passed or how out of place he would seem in my world, Art Donaldson entered my life like he was the boss. Like he was paying my salary. With exaggerated confidence and an aura that made me blush. A smile that made my lips tremble.

I was painfully aware that my mascara was smudged after a too-long day, and that I had taken my shirt out of my skirt after lunch. Painfully aware that I had taken off my shoes an hour ago because pacing around the room in heels made it hard to think. Painfully aware that he was seeing me in all my flaws now. Years after the last time we met, and he was just as smug.

"I was in the area, and Patrick mentioned something about you working around here..." he said, as if everything in that sentence made sense. As if the fact that I stayed in touch with Patrick made sense. I nodded, trying to somehow control this ridiculous situation. I'm not supposed to react this chaotically to Art Donaldson. I'm 28. I'm not a 19-year-old girl. I do morning meditations. I drink green smoothies and ginger shots. I'm a fucking queen. But I don't feel particularly royal when I remember the coffee stain on my shirt, or the half-eaten avocado sandwich I bought from the café downstairs. It was awful. Both the sandwich and the café. I’m pretty sure the regular barista hates me because once I corrected one of my orders. Ever since, he's been out to get me. It’s a nightmare. I've considered changing jobs more times than I'd like to admit because of it.

"That sounds... completely normal," I mumbled, and he chuckled in response. One of his legs found its natural place over the other, and his fingers played with one of his billion rings in a disturbingly nonchalant way. "Is a tennis player supposed to have that many rings?" I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, knowing how stupid it sounded. Hating myself a little for how stupid it sounded. "I don’t play with them, and they’re beautiful," he shrugged. "They’re ridiculous," I rolled my eyes, trying to recover from this topic of conversation. "Yours is ridiculous," he shot back playfully, looking directly at my ring. At the small diamond (Art probably thinks it’s too small- well, fuck him).

"Oh, this?" I asked, and now we were both looking at it. I liked it until about three seconds ago. Until he walked into the room and stared at it like it was filled with snake venom. It felt like it weighed as much as my entire body. It felt like it was burning my hand from the inside. My blood boiled beneath it, reminding me that all my plans just went to hell. A reminder that I was crazy to even try making plans. "It’s pretty, delicate," I could hear the mockery in his tone. No matter how many years passed, I would always recognize every nuance in his voice. Every rise and fall in octaves. Every unnecessary affectation. He smiled the way he did when he tried to get under my skin—five minutes hadn’t passed, and he’d already succeeded. How embarrassing. What a failure as a person. A failure as a woman. A failure to feminism. Sitting in my office with a coffee stain on my shirt, while my ex from college critiques my choices like some kind of fraudulent fortune-teller. Like God sent him to help me make some life-changing decision.

"Why are you here?" I asked again, trying to maintain control and not snap at him. After all, we hadn’t spoken in nearly a decade. What good would it do to lash out at him? What would it accomplish to tell him about the therapy sessions, about the years I didn’t believe anything good was coming my way at all? About the fact that because of him, I didn’t believe I could ever be anyone’s first choice. "Why did you stay in touch with Patrick?" he asked, and for a moment, it sounded like his tough mask cracked. Like his defenses crumbled and his heart was laid bare. Like we were 20 again, and he was holding my face, explaining how scared he was to let me go.

"He insisted," I shrugged. The day after that party, Tashi's accident happened. Some would call it karma, but I’d say it was just bad luck. Because even though she hurt me without even knowing my name, I never wanted her career to end before it even began. And everyone was sad that day—Patrick, because he felt guilty, Tashi, because her knee twisted in the air, and Art, because he lost a friend and the girl who forgave him for all his bullshit. Aka me. But he won what really mattered. He got Tashi. Patrick found me that day in the library, refusing to wallow in my own misery, and somehow, he managed to entwine his miserable life with mine. He managed to secure a spot on my couch from time to time. He managed to impress me with lame jokes about his pathetic life, or maybe about mine.

And life didn’t turn out the way I planned. I didn’t discover a cure for cancer or make it to space by age 25. My apartment was crappy. So fucking crappy. But there were funny moments, and I only occasionally followed Art’s career. I only followed his love life when his face and Tashi’s were plastered on billboards. That could never have been me. It would never have worked. It wasn’t meant to be, I’d tell myself every time I was filled with self-pity. Every time I worked a temporary job selling skincare products or transcribing lectures for students. Every time I felt lost. I knew he wouldn’t have settled for someone like me in the long run.

He and Patrick made up two years ago, which was ironic. Because what’s the point of maintaining my friendship with Patrick if not to have at least one person in my life who understands the pain of knowing Art Donaldson? Of knowing that once, he was a part of your life, and it felt amazing. Almost unreal. Almost spiritual. But they made up, and Patrick promised me he wouldn’t talk about me with the smug bastard sitting in front of me right now. He promised and didn’t keep it. Well, here’s someone who’s never eating pasta at the restaurant near my place on my dime ever again.

"He insisted?" Art looked amused, and I just shrugged again in response. I knew he wanted more details, but I wanted him to take a headfirst dive into a volcano. Desires are ridiculous. "He insisted," I repeated, and this time he laughed. Actually laughed. "It's like you two have a contract not to tell me anything. How am I supposed to work with that?" He spoke as if we’d been friends for years. As if there hadn’t been a rupture, a break, and devastation. As if I didn’t have the image of him leaving me at that party seared into my brain. As if my heart hadn’t shattered into pieces because of him more times than I could count.

"I want you to handle my money," he suddenly said. "Excuse me?" I raised an eyebrow, looking at him as if he'd lost a lobe of his brain. "You're a financial advisor, right? Be my financial advisor," he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, all while glancing at the pathetic office I was sitting in. "You don’t want me to be your financial advisor, Art," I almost snorted in disbelief. "You haven’t spoken to me in ten years, and now you know what I want?" he asked, allowing himself to raise an eyebrow in return. "This is a big firm; I can recommend someone who’d be happy to take you on," I tried to fake a smile. "I'll go to your boss and tell him I’m willing to let only you handle my account, and that you’re refusing. I’m sure he’d be thrilled. I Googled him—Albert looks like a guy who’d love to lose a wealthy client," and I saw that spark in his eyes. Challenging. Almost childish. The kind that said, 'Let’s see what you do. You’ll lose.'

"That’s a terrible idea," I declared. "Keeping in touch with Patrick and not me is a terrible idea. Managing my investments will give you some good money," he said, gesturing with his hands, and for the first time, I realized how big his hands were. "Are you bored with your life, Donaldson?" I asked, trying to figure out what I was dealing with here. "Come on, Peaches, you have to admit you missed me, at least a little." And for a change, his smile was genuine. He looked like every word I said could hurt him. "Like I miss my appendix," I rolled my eyes, and he laughed. "I’m looking forward to working with you." He suddenly stood up and extended his hand for a handshake, as if that wasn’t utterly ridiculous. "I’m looking forward to it like a deer looks forward to being eaten by a lion. It’s on my wish list," I said, and he just laughed again. A laugh that was too real. The kind that made tears gather in his eyes.

An hour after he left my dingy office, my heart was still racing at an unreasonable pace. The kind that made me wonder if there was a defibrillator in the building. I tried to remember if I shook his hand at the end of the meeting. I couldn’t. . . . As he left your office, Art felt like he does after a long tennis match. One that he won. A thought detached from reality, but he allowed himself those kinds of thoughts now. He was a new person. He believed in victories before they even happened. And seeing you after so many years in real life, not in blurry Facebook pictures, felt like a victory. You hadn’t changed much. The years had even given you a more sophisticated look—subtle yet full of curves. Your eyes still looked at him with that same spark. With a glimmer of something he could never quite put his finger on. But he wanted to conquer it. He wanted to win.

When Patrick and he reconnected, it was alongside the problems that only began in his relationship with Tashi. Alongside Lily’s birth, alongside the intrusive thoughts that had plagued him all his life, he wondered if it was a mistake. But Patrick was Patrick, and when he insisted on something, he got his way. And for Patrick, he and Art had to reconnect. So they did. Slowly, gradually. He wasn’t his best friend anymore, of course. But sometimes Art thought he was his only friend. Which was strange, because he was always surrounded by people. Tashi was supposed to be his best friend, but she never was. She made it clear more than once that it was a ridiculous notion.

One night, as he and Patrick were having beers at some sketchy bar, Patrick casually mentioned that you and he were good friends. Art looked at him as if he’d fallen from the moon. He wanted to punch him. He hadn’t expected that. It felt like someone had punched him in the chest and knocked all the air out of his lungs. Patrick got over Tashi and settled for you? You weren’t supposed to be a compromise. Art wouldn’t allow that. He’d go to war if he had to. He had no grounds for such a war, but you were too good to settle for Patrick. You were too good to settle for anyone, really.

He quickly realized that things between you and Patrick were platonic. Or at least that’s what the guy sitting across from him kept repeating, but Art wasn’t fully convinced. Everything was too mysterious. Patrick kept too much information to himself. He didn’t share anything with Art about your life, and the more Patrick kept things hidden, the more obsessed Art became.

And it wasn’t weird that he checked if you’d posted a new status on Facebook almost as often as he checked if his infant daughter needed anything. It wasn’t weird that he searched for you on Instagram. It wasn’t weird that he looked through the profiles of all 67 people you followed and hated most of them. Because you didn’t follow him, and millions of people did. You could have followed, and he wouldn’t have even noticed—allegedly.

"She got engaged," Patrick said one day, throwing it into the air as if he were talking about his grocery list. Art stared at him, blinking, trying to process the information. Who’s the person responsible for this? Who’s the person who took you away, and why do you think he deserves forever with you? What kind of thought is that—that someone else deserves forever with you? That someone gets to have a picnic in the park with you. To pick you up for dates. To share a house with you. There’s someone who’s going to be the father of your kids. Who picked out a ring for you. Who’s going to make sure your dreams come true. Art doesn’t know what your dreams are. But he doesn’t want to think about it.

"Is he a good guy?" Art knew that was what he was supposed to ask. That’s what social norms demanded. "I’ve sat with them a few times when they were together. He’s kind and funny, and I think he loves her," Patrick shrugged, as if that’s all it takes to be with you. "Well, I’m happy for her," Art took a gulp of whiskey, too big, letting the drink burn its way down his throat. Patrick looked at him like he didn’t believe him. His problem, Art thought. Let him believe whatever he wants.

That night, Art opened your Instagram while Tashi was asleep. There wasn’t a picture of a ring or a tag of some guy. Tashi got annoyed because of the phone light. Art apologized.

That was almost six months ago. Since then, his life had changed because he and Tashi decided to keep their relationship strictly professional. It was for both of their benefit, though he wasn’t entirely sure how much it benefited him. He was still learning how to function without her. He was still learning how to communicate effectively. He was still trying to bridge the dissonance that came with going home to an empty house, yet navigating press conferences as if he were happily married.

In two weeks, even that charade would end. And he wasn’t sure what he was even fighting for. Because they weren’t truly happy. And you were in his thoughts enough for it to count as emotional cheating if he were married. So he let Tashi go. He was much less broken than he had imagined he would be without her.

'I’m looking forward to working with you.' -Art- He couldn’t resist sending the message. Maybe ten at night was too late. Maybe you were already asleep. Maybe your fiancé was with you, trying to love you. Maybe Art was intruding.

He didn’t particularly care if he was. . . . "I’m going to kill you," I said into the phone, hearing Patrick's rolling laughter. "You're exaggerating—" he began, trying to save his ass. "We had one rule! Just one, Patrick!" I found myself pacing the bedroom while Alec worked in the living room. This was the day after the meeting with Art Donaldson. "He lives in New York and he’s divorced. I felt like a jerk not telling him where you work when he asked so nicely," Patrick’s voice sounded genuine. "He's not divorced," I rolled my eyes. I would know if Art were divorced. His and Tashi's faces are plastered all over this stinking city.

"They’re finalizing things in about a week and a half. There will be a press conference and everything. It’s going to be a big deal," he said, as if it were common knowledge. As if I should already know this. "Sorry I didn’t give you a heads-up. That wasn’t cool," he added, and I could hear him biting into something, probably an apple. "We’re supposed to be a team. You can’t prioritize Art Donaldson’s interests over mine. I fed you when you were half-homeless," I declared. "I still prioritize your interests, drama queen," he continued speaking lightly, as if I had no reason to feel like my world was crumbling. "How is this prioritizing my interests? I’m going to manage his money. I’m going to handle his investments, Patrick. I’m going to see his stupid face every time he wants, as part of my job. Because of you! This is your fault!" I found myself stopping for a moment in the room, almost stomping my foot in frustration. Years of self-work going down the drain.

"Everything okay, Bunny?" I heard Alec's voice from the living room. "Yeah, I’m just talking to Patrick," I replied, steadying my voice into something more composed and responsible. So he’d keep thinking I had my life together. "Tell him 'hi,'" Alec said, and I could only guess he’d put his headphones back on. "Well, hi," I rolled my eyes, returning to the conversation with the chief idiot. "I’m sorry," Patrick mumbled after a few seconds of silence, and I hung up, sprawling on the bed like a starfish. He didn’t sound sorry.

I sat down next to Alec on the couch, wearing just my bra and panties with an open button-down shirt over it. Sexy enough for any stranger peeking through the window. A teenage boy's wet dream. I’m on fire. He kept staring at his screen, ignoring my existence. I started placing small kisses along his neck, trying to set the mood. Trying to seal the deal. Trying not to think about the one-who-shall-not-be-named. Trying to be a good woman. Trying to conquer feminism with mediocre sex, just like Alec and I know how to deliver. "I really have to finish this, Bunny," he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably, making me sigh, lean back, and roll my eyes. "How long will it take?" I asked. "You’ll probably be asleep by then. Watch an episode of your favorite show instead," he said without looking at me. "Can we talk about the wedding?" I tried another angle. "If I don’t have time to make love to you, I definitely don’t have time to plan the wedding," he said, slipping those hideous—massive—headphones back on, ending the conversation. I kind of hated that he never said "fuck" or "have sex" or even used the word "sex" in general. He always treated it like I was Princess Diana. I am clearly not Princess Diana. Sometimes I wonder if he even wants to marry me at all. It’s been over six months since he proposed, and he’s been dodging setting a date since practically the same day. It’s very frustrating. I need to meditate.

"Bunny," he suddenly said, and I looked at him expectantly while he removed his headphones after I’d already started heading to the bedroom, "you have a stain on your shirt." He quickly put his headphones back on, eyes glued to the screen. At least the soup I had for lunch managed to fuck me today. . . . "You can't just show up here," I said as I tried to finish chewing the terrible sandwich I’d chosen today. I think it had mold. "If you had answered my messages, we could’ve scheduled something without me showing up at your office." Art looked good. So fucking good. It was frustrating. Today was the day I decided to skip the contacts and wear glasses. God hates me. But on the other hand, God was trying to help me—making sure Art Donaldson never gets attracted to me. God is on my side. I knew she was a feminist.

"What do you want?" I mumbled in surrender, knowing he wouldn’t leave until he said whatever he came to say so we could all move on with our lives. "To talk business," he smiled from ear to ear. "I'm eating right now, come back in half an hour," I replied, "or better yet, schedule a meeting like a rational human being." I continued pressing my point. "Better idea, let's go grab lunch and talk business over food." He looked at me like a dad who just told his little girl what her next hour is going to look like. "Sorry, I can't—" "Art Donaldson! When I got your email, I couldn't believe it," Albert burst into my office excitedly. Sure, let’s invite everyone. Apparently, there’s free cookies being handed out. All are welcome.

Art kept wearing his unbearable poster smile while Albert went on and on about tennis and how much he loved Rafael Nadal. Albert is clearly a man with vast general knowledge. "She treating you right?" Albert asked Art as if they were best friends, and now they both stared at me while all I wanted was to finish my food-poisoning sandwich in peace. "She just agreed to join me for lunch to talk about my money," Art said, and if looks could kill, Art Donaldson would’ve had a stroke right there and disappeared from our lives as suddenly as he appeared. But no, looks don’t kill, and feminist God apparently isn’t on my side anymore because now I’m sitting across from this asshole at a diner. I ordered a burger because I knew he’d never allow himself to eat one and would whine for hours about how he wants to eat a burger every day but can’t.

"I hope that's okay," I smiled one of the fakest smiles I could muster, blinking as I took a bite of the slab of meat in front of me. "Mmm, it's amazing," I sighed, watching for a moment as he stared at me, mouth half-open, eyes sparkling. "You're cruel," he stated after shaking his head, as if shaking off urges. He looked different with short hair. I always told him he needed to cut it because it kept falling into his eyes, but his curls had a youthful playfulness that was clearly missing now. He looked defeated.

"So, what did you want to talk about? What are you looking to invest in?" I tried to focus on the reason behind this ridiculous meal while Art stole a fry from my plate and picked at the sad grilled chicken he had ordered. Maybe I should stop making those satisfied sounds when I eat. "You," he said, biting his lip like a kid who let a curse word slip in front of his mom. Testing boundaries. Watching as I rolled my eyes. "I'm not going to let you waste my time, Donaldson," and we both knew I wasn’t just talking about business. Because honestly? Fuck business. Art didn’t seem like someone who was planning to disappear from my life anytime soon. He had shown up too determined for that to happen. "I have no intention of wasting your time, Peaches," he smiled, leaning back, relaxing a little after we established this basic ground rule. He continued stealing my food.

"So, tell me about him," he suddenly said after insisting I order an enormous ice cream that was supposed to be just for me. Every time his spoon got closer, mine heroically fought it off. "Who?" I asked, taking a spoonful of ice cream and leaving it in my mouth for a few seconds. His gaze immediately locked on my ring. "We're not that kind of friends, Donaldson," I said, watching as he inched his spoon toward my ice cream, and I quickly blocked him. No chance. "So what kind of friends are we?" he asked, smiling, looking half at me and half at our spoons, still battling each other. "I don't know," I sighed a little, finally lowering my spoon in defeat. There’s no point in fighting. It’s truly a lost cause.

The more Art Donaldson entered my life, the more Alec distanced himself from it. Art did it in a quiet way, almost eerily so. It started with deep conversations about financial investments he wanted to make. About charity events he wanted to be part of. A foundation he wanted to establish. He talked about his money as if it made sense to be this rich at his age. As if he and I were on the same level in terms of lifestyle. He never once acted condescending about it, even though I expected him to. Even though I had prepared arguments in advance. He never once asked why I didn’t continue in academia or why I gave up on medicine. He didn’t poke at that wound. Even though he could have. Even though it would’ve been easy.

It continued with stupid messages in the middle of the day about how he was hungry, tired, or wanted to go home. Messages about seeing a guy dressed as a bear in the middle of the street. Fucking New York. He’d ask questions about my day. Ask what I ate. If I ate. If I was drinking enough water. Never anything too deep. Never out of nosy curiosity. If I forgot who he was, I might’ve thought he cared about me. I know, it’s unbelievable.

One time, he called me at seven in the evening, talking such nonsense that I wondered if he was drunk. I wondered out loud, of course, because I’m not 19, and I’m not afraid to tell Art Donaldson what I think. He wasn’t drunk. He made dinner and decided to call. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Said it, and then went on about his day. About Lily. About how she was adjusting to splitting her time between his place and Tashi’s. He talked about Patrick and told me what he was cooking. It was domestic. Like I was a part of his life. Weird.

Alec and I were in the middle of a fight that made me wonder if I was mentally strong enough not to throw the vase that was sitting on the dresser. Not at him. I’m not violent. On the floor, to make a point. “Do you even want to marry me?” I suddenly asked. Because at that point, I no longer knew what was happening. I don’t like not knowing what’s happening. “Of course I wa-” “To who the hell is it obvious? Do you know how embarrassing it is when people ask me about a wedding date almost a year later, and I change the subject?!” I cut him off. “Every time I try to bring it up, you’d rather talk about light fixtures or that time we randomly had an hour-long conversation about types of doors.” I reminded him of some of the truly bizarre moments we’ve had recently. “We do need to replace the door.” I shot him a look that should’ve made it clear that if he kept going with that sentence, I was breaking the vase on the floor.

“Why don’t you want to fuck me anymore?” I suddenly asked. Almost defeated after too much yelling. “What? Bunny-” he blushed. The question was too brutal for him. Too raw for his delicate soul, which couldn’t handle talking about sex. “I can count on one hand how many times we’ve fucked since you proposed,” I said it as bluntly as I could, enjoying his discomfort. “We don’t have to make love every day,” he mumbled. Last time I checked, to make love, there has to be love. I threw the vase. Alec left the house. . . . ‘You’re not at work.’ – A –

‘How is it that we’re back to you not answering me?’ – A –

‘Did you secretly get married over the weekend?’ – A –

‘Seriously, get back to me. It’s about the charity event.’ – A –

The bitter truth was that I was busy wallowing in the current failure of my life- Alec. I binge-watched all the seasons of The O.C. in three days and ate more ice cream than should be legal. But I didn’t feel the pain in my bones the way you’re supposed to when ending what was supposed to be the relationship. I’d once hurt more over losing someone who loved me less.

‘Are you okay? You’ve got our mutual friend worried.’ – P – He talked about Art like he was a spy. ‘Hey, could you stop being an idiot for a second and just answer to say you’re alive?’ – P –

‘I’m calling the fire department to check your apartment.’ – P –

‘This is concerning.’ – P –

‘I’ll call your mom. She’d love to hear from me after that time I burped in her face.’ – P –

‘I broke up with Alec.’ – (Y/N)–

‘You’re not going to die alone.’ – P –

‘I know you think you will, but you won’t.’ – P –

‘You can’t know that.’ – (Y/N) –

‘You’re an idiot.’ – P –

‘Are you okay?’ – P –

‘I mean, obviously you’re not okay, but... are you okay?’ – P –

‘I’m okay.’ –(Y/N)–

When I walked into the hall where Art Donaldson’s charity event for kids with muscular dystrophy, was being held, eyes didn’t turn toward me like they do in the movies. Everyone was too busy with their conversations and stroking each other’s egos. From the side, it almost looked homoerotic—the gentle touches on shoulders and the occasional pats. Almost sexy. Maybe I was seeing sex in things that weren’t sexy because my ex refused to touch me with more resolve than an ant carrying food that weighed more than its body. “You made it,” Art’s voice came from behind me. “You’re sharp,” I shot back as I turned to him, taking one of the champagne glasses he offered. “Is Patrick here too?” I asked. “No, he couldn’t come. He signed up for a Challenger in Malibu,” he replied, his eyes unapologetically scanning me. I felt completely exposed under his penetrating gaze. “So random,” I mumbled. Art’s hand gently pulled me by the waist, bringing me close to him while keeping his hand exactly where it was. I almost let confusion show on my face, but he introduced me to the man who had come over to talk to him, never taking his eyes—or his hand—off me. Not during the next conversation, or the next one, either. He presented us as a strange package deal. If someone wanted to talk to him, they had to talk to me too. Maybe he hoped it would drive people away. It didn’t. "Want to step outside for some air?" he whispered in my ear. After spending most of the evening standing so close to each other, it felt strange to pull away now that no one else was around. "Sure, why not." I shrugged, acting like it wasn’t a big deal. Before stepping out, we each grabbed a glass of wine. "You raised a lot of money," I remarked, trying to break the ice. "You disappeared on me," he shot back, not bothering with small talk. "I’ve been busy." I shrugged again. "Where’s your ring?" he asked. "You’re obsessed with my hands, Donaldson," I said, unsure how to respond to this level of bluntness after being in a relationship with someone who was too scared to talk to me for years. "It’s not relevant anymore," I added, as his gaze didn’t allow me to dodge the question. "Good, it was ugly," he stated, stopping in his tracks, making me stop too and turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow. His expression was challenging again, with that playful spark, inviting a debate. "It wasn’t ugly," I rolled my eyes. "It was pathetic, Peaches. You know you deserve better," he declared, leaving no room for argument.

And somehow, he was so close. Close enough that his breath, smelling of mint gum and wine, blended with mine. "I’m not looking for a rebound," I murmured. "Neither am I," his usual smug smile was gone. There was no trace of it. He looked hazy. Almost captive. "What are you looking for?" I dared to ask. "You," he replied. It was a good answer.

After an excruciatingly long hour and twenty minutes, during which I had two more glasses of wine, and Art spoke into the microphone—stopping me from downing a third—we arrived at his house. It looked a bit like a modern palace. "How is it that you live here?" I mused aloud, and his mouth found my neck as he chuckled. "What, this old thing?" he mumbled, his kisses as sharp as his words. "Don’t leave marks, Donaldson. We’re adults," I managed to say as I kicked off my heels, and he unzipped my dress.

"I want to do this from the moment you walked into the room today. Fuck, you’re so hot," he growled. It was throaty and masculine, almost animalistic. His eyes scanned me like a smoke detector picking up a cigarette. Within seconds, I found myself on the most comfortable couch I had ever been on. His lips traveled over me as if he was painting a map, as if he remembered all the sensitive points on my body. "I missed her," he said, giving a small bite to my right nipple, glancing at my face as I let out a moan. "her too," he added, moving to the left one. "Art, I need you." I tried to make it clear to him that I couldn't handle the teasing right now. That he should save it for another time. For someone else. For something else. I need him inside me.

"Peaches, have some patien—" he started, continuing to place deadly kisses on various areas of my body. "Art, just fuck me. Okay?" I almost pleaded, my voice lower than usual, filled with an inexplicable need. He looked at me for half a minute and nodded. "Okay baby, I got you," he said. And within seconds, his boxers were on the floor, and my panties disappeared too. He was inside me as if this was his home, as if he belonged there. "Fuck. Art. Thank you, there," I felt stupid, but I couldn't control it. I needed him so badly. I needed someone to fill the empty space. That Art Donaldson would fill the empty space.

He moved at a chaotic pace, almost as if he was trying to prove he could give me exactly what I wanted. What I needed. And he was right. I came after a few minutes, during which his cock filled me perfectly, and his lips found mine and refused to let go. He wrapped me from every direction and came right after I did.

"It's like we're teenagers," I muttered, and he laughed. "I usually last longer," he stated, not getting up, his body weight feeling almost comfortable on top of me. It was almost nice to breathe heavily. "So do I," I retorted. His hand drew little shapes on my shoulder. "Let's go to sleep," he decided, standing up slowly, reaching out his hand and pulling me toward him. Not forgetting to give me another kiss on the lips, a small one. As if it had happened a million times before. As if it were a routine.

"Your bed should be illegal, Donaldson," I said after he tossed a soft T-shirt he had in his closet over me. He lay down beside me, laughing. "I can't believe you're here. I was afraid it wouldn't happen," he said, with a seriousness that felt profound. "How long have you been thinking about this?" I tried to sound amused. "Since the moment I stepped into your office," his honesty was both terrifying and comforting. No one had talked to me so openly in a while. "probably before that" he added. "You can't waste my time, Art," I replied, looking up to catch his gaze. . . . Art took a moment to nod. He already had a ring for you. Even before you broke up with that idiot, he had bought the ring. He didn't know where life would lead you. He just knew he was going to spend every free moment proving to you that he loved you enough not to waste your time. Not when you were his favorite person.

How are we doing guys?!?!?!?! Can't wait to hear from you. That's my chance to remind y'all that English is not my first language and I might have some grammar issues. love you all, hope it was a good addition to the story <3

taglist: @lalalandofive @wild-rose-35 @theynothem @angelism13

[evemeows]

kinktober day one - degradation w/ logan howlett

cw: explicit smut MDNI, gn!afab!reader, pet names(darling, sweetheart) turned to name calling(slut, whore), breath play, rough sex, implied size difference, no aftercare, squirting (sorry i had to), dacryphilia, creampie, smidgen of a breeding kink

wc: 538

notes: ik degradation means a lot of different things to different people, but this is what i interpret it as bc i'd for real cry if my man said this to me in bed (but horny yk)

"Come on now, sweetheart, just take it all. For once in your life actually finish the job f'me, yeah?" You whined into the mattress, fingers tangling and twisting the sheets between them as you struggled to hold yourself up, past orgasms weighing your body and mind down.

"Don't-" You hiccuped and attempted again, "Don' say that, Lo..."

"Aw, was that too mean for your sensitive feelings, darlin'?" The press of his chest to your back had you collapsing off your elbows and into the bed entirely. You tried to nod but the hand that wasn't feeding his cock into you spread across the back of your head, forcing it into the pillow further, damn near restricing your breathing.

"Fuck, you can't even do this one thing for me, can you." The statement had you whining, squiriming and reaching backwards for Logan, crying out when he tugged his arm out of your grip. "Nuh-uh sweetheart. Can barely take my cock all the way after I've used this cunt all night and you want to cuddle? Is that it? Can't even do the one thing you were made for, slut?"

The now vicious pace he set had you trembling, Logan's harsh grip on your head and hip leaving a throbbing feeling behind. The slick little sounds of your cunt taking him in deeper than ever almost covered his now barely there grunts.

As that edge rose up again, you tried to warn him, muffled cries into the pillow, tears soaking your face before he rutted into harsh enough you felt him in your throat.

Without warning you gushed around him, sobbing. You continued to cum around him as Logan gritted his teeth at the feeling of you soaking him, yourself and the bed.

"See? You could take it, knew you could, sweetheart," he lets up on your head, only to grip your hair and tilt it back, a debauched look on your face as your thighs continued twitching at his pace.

With a final growl Logan dropped his entire weight on you, pressing you down and burying himself deep. You bawled as he came inside you, heating you up from the inside out.

"There we go, that's it, my pretty little slut," he murmured in your ear as Logan sluggishly pumped his cum deeper into your cunt. This time when you reach back for him, he rests his palm in yours and grips your hand tight.

He presses kisses down your spine before pulling out, kneeling astride your thighs. He clicks his tongue at the mixture of your fluids and his leaking down your cunt and dripping onto the bed. Logan reaches between your legs and pushes his cum back into your cunt, grinning at how you twitch in the soiled sheets.

"C'mon slut, keep that all in ya just like I taught you to. If you don't, you know I have to keep pumping you full." Your cunt fluttered again, gaping at his touch and the ghostly feeling of where his cock had been.

"Please- Lo- no more," You finally turned your head to gasp out for breaths. You opened your mouth again and shrieked when his open palm strikes your clit.

"Good whores always beg for more, remember?"

[scrumpledorph]

I feel compelled by some recent realizations to share the story of my lifetime experience with weight, weight loss, fatphobia, and self acceptance.

I weighed 180 lbs for a lot of my early childhood, and got bullied constantly for it. It was comorbid with severe, impairing asthma that limited my ability to use my body at any pace faster than a brisk, if I was lucky, walk. Nobody ever blamed the asthma, they just called me out of shape, lazy - all the usual insults. I got kicked out of high school gym class in both grades it was a required course because I couldn't run fifteen laps of the gym. I never signed up for it again.

I was the school whipping boy wherever I went. (I moved schools a lot, because I'd lash out violently about this happening to me) One time in elementary school a group of boys hid behind me because they were being bothered by some girls, and knew they wouldn't get within ten feet of me outside the classroom where they were forced to. The first guy I ever hooked up with negged me to lose weight and join him at the gym if I wanted to do anything more serious with him.

Then a growth spurt combined with a two week vacation where I only ate ramen twice a day in high school shaved literally a third of that off. 120 lbs. My parents and I considered it a miracle. Suddenly I really liked how I'd come to look. I went from a frumpy, comely child to a heroin chic rockstar like David Bowie, and all the other imitators that chased after him, and I wasn't even trying!

I was skin stretched over bones. If I lifted my arms up every single rib from the collarbone to the stomach was pronounced, with gaps you could run your fingers along. This was before I realized I was trans, so I was mostly putting myself into the world as a twink (femboy hadn't really come into parlance yet, I'd probably have used it if so). People started treating me well for the first time in my life, I was popular. My romantic advances were reciprocated instead of pushed away in disgust for the first time in my life, I went on dates, I had a couple short lived girlfriends.

Some time in my twenties, I realized I was lactose intolerant. To both truncate and avoid needless disgust; once I took steps to mitigate that my weight rebounded back up from the 160 it had ended up settling at as my metabolism evened out, to 216. So I tortured myself with the most bland, boring diet in the world: plain oat cheerios, cashews, barely seasoned salads and coleslaw, microwaved chicken wiener sandwiches. It sloughed off the pounds, at first.

I hit a hitch around 180. I had originally wanted to go back down to 160, with the height I'd gained since high school that would put me in about the same ballpark range as how I looked then, and it's what the BMI scale says is healthy for my body proportions. But I simply could not go under 180.

Even a single cheat day a week, the recommended amount for any diet, would make my body snap back up by two pounds the next day, which took me the entire rest of the week just to get back to where I started. It was truly miserable, checking the scale every single morning and beating myself up over every single time my family took me out to eat or brought me leftovers.

So I stopped. I said fuck it, let my body sit at 185. Now? I can eat pretty much anything I want and it barely makes a dent in the long run. Recently checked in after three nights of stacked turkey dinner plates for the holidays, with eggnog and ice cream and a whole bag of christmas candy sitting on my desk next to me that I take occasional nibbles from. 184.8, exactly where I want it to be. The BMI scale says this is the borderline of overweight for my height.

An acquaintance who had known me while I was in that emaciated point in my life recently reconvened with me, and said that I looked a lot healthier. It was genuinely the first time anyone in the world had made a positive comment about my body outside of that short lived stint of emaciation. It was a genuine shock, because I hadn't up to that point considered for a second that I could possibly have looked bad to anyone at that point.

An article I doubt I could find with how bad google is nowadays once said that around 97% (I might even be lowballing it) of diets fail, because the body will slash your metabolism by 30% if you drop even 5% from where it wants to sit. I guess all I have to say is: listen to your body.

If maintaining your slim figure is a hobby all unto itself: with a meticulously crafted diet and double digit hour exercise regimen that you lock yourself in by checking the scale every morning? It's not worth it, holy shit. Maybe you'll end up with an extended illness that keeps you from working out for a week or two. Maybe your willpower will just finally give out, and you'll spend a week catching up on all the pleasure you'd denied yourself while you were dieting. But I know, from experience, that one day you'll just end up where your body wants you to be, whether you're comfortable with it or not.

I promise you that the freedom of accepting the weight your body wants to be at and being able to treat yourself guilt free will bring you so much more joy than having a thigh gap does.

[cherubmm]

✖🔪 ⇢ ˗ˏˋ ON MY.Knees࿐ྂ

⊱.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ━━━━FEATURING: CROSS.sans

⊱.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ━━━━CONTENT WARNING: Yandere in general. Soft yandere. Obsessive & Possessive behavior. Unhealthy attachment. Implied neglectful behavior. Established relationship. Delusional mindset. Vague hint of worshipping behavior. Subtly implied abandoment issue. Violence mention. Implied submissive behavior. ANGST. Stalking. OOC. Not proof-read (I got lazy near the end if you can tell)

⊱.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ━━━━PROMPT BY : oozgin

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: why am I keep messing up!?!!?😭😭😭😭 I'm merely editing this on my scheduled post but then it keeps publishing????? Huh?????? Why does the Tumblr keep doing this to me😭😭😭 this is supposed to be for Oct.13!!! But *sigh* whatever, its already here. Enjoy the early treat, again >:(( Hope this won't happen' to another one fic for 14.... Tumblr fuck you :(((

It wasn’t often for Cross to come home.

Well, at least, not anymore. He’d leave before the sun rose, returning long after it set. You used to wait for him, staying up into the late hours of the night, but now? You barely bothered. He’d stumble through the door, mumbling something vague before disappearing into the bedroom or onto the couch without so much as a glance your way.

You understood—you really did. Cross was busy, whatever his job was, it demanded a lot from him. He hadn’t exactly shared the details, and you’d stopped asking after the first dozen times he dodged the question. But no matter how much you tried to rationalize it, it was starting to gnaw at you.

At first, it was just a pang of sadness. Then it became annoyance, maybe even anger. You weren’t one of those cliché lovers who needed constant attention—far from it, actually. You valued your independence, enjoyed your solitude. But this was beginning to feel less like space and more of a...neglect.

He was your lover, wasn’t he? You were supposed to be partners, but lately, it felt like you were the only one holding onto that thread. Every time he came home, he avoided you. No more soft conversations over breakfast, no stolen moments in the afternoon. Just excuses, avoidance, and silence.

The worst part was, you’d started to get used to it. Slowly, your love for him had dimmed, like a flame starved of oxygen. You found yourself becoming comfortable in your own company again, just as you had before Cross ever came into your life. It wasn’t a sudden fall out of love—it was gradual, quiet and subtle. You no longer saw him as your lover, just someone who passed through your life occasionally—acquaintance.

Eventually, you couldn’t do it anymore. The words weighed heavy on your tongue as you prepared yourself, sitting at the edge of the bed. Cross had just come home, dragging his feet, knives still strapped to his side. You waited until he was settled, cleaning his weapons at the table.

“Im breaking up with you.”

...

Cross always thought he was the luckiest skeleton in the entire multiverse.

Of all the infinite versions of himself—sometime's even far, far, better than him—of all the different timelines and universes, he was the one who had found you. He was the one who had you by his side, as beautiful and perfect as you were.

Not even the original version of him—the one from the timeline he could never go back to—had what he did. and that made him feel so special.

Even now, as he wiped the blood from his knives, his mind was filled with thoughts of you. He knew he wasn’t home nearly as much as he should be. Every time he left, there was a pang of guilt that dug deep into his bones. He hated leaving you behind, but what choice does he have? His boss wouldn’t hesitate to come after you if he comes to the conclusion that cross was 'slacking off'' of his work due to his lover. Hell, it was merely a stroke of luck that nightmare decided to not only keep you alive and well, but also provide protection —unbeknownst to you— even knowing his distaste for 'distraction' that attaches to those on his side.

This, of course, was a constant weight on his mind — a sense of indebted. Forcing him to swore his loyalty and obedience to the latter even againts his will. But at least, while he was out there doing Nightmare’s dirty work, you were safe, and that's all that ever matters.

While he couldn’t spend time with you like he wanted to, he could make sure nothing— absolutely nothing—harmed you. The Star Sanses? No threat. Any danger from outside your universe? He handled it.

And on the rare nights he did return? When you were already asleep? Those were slowly becoming his favorite moments. Cross would sit at the edge of the bed or crouch beside you, watching you sleep peacefully. He’d run his fingers through your hair, brushing your cheek, whispering softly to your unconscious form. Confessions of love, of guilt. He’d wish for a world where the two of you could just live a domestic, quiet life—where he didn’t have to kill for survival or settle in the constant state of paranoia— again.

He didn't want the history to repeat itself ever again now that you're here. God, he couldn't even imagine what will happen to him if you're no longer on his side to keep him sane.

But alas, he couldn’t give you that, yet. So, he settled on making you safe instead, hoping you’d understand one day.

...

"Im breaking up with you."

The sound of sharpening knives stopped abruptly. Cross froze, his back still turned to you, as if your words had doused him in cold water. Slowly—almost mechanically—he turned his skull in your direction, his pinprick eye shrinking to a tiny dot before flickering in and out like a dying lightbulb. There was something unsettling about the way he stared at you. For a brief second, his usual stoic expression faltered, a flash of... something. Confusion? Betrayal? Fear? But then, he laughed nervously, trying to play it off as a joke.

"Hahaha... t-that’s a good one, darling. You almost caught me,” he stammered, his grin unnaturally wider than the usual as he tried to shake off the tension.

"I’m not joking, Sans,” you replied, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your gut.

Y-yeah, sure, whatever you say.” He turned back to his knives, trying to focus on his task, but his hands phalanges trembled.

“Sans, listen to me. I wasn’t—”

CRRK!!

The dagger in his hands broke in half as Cross shot to his feet, staring at the shattered blade as if it had betrayed him. His breathing grew uneven as he slowly turned toward you again, his eye flickering with a mix of emotions you couldn’t quite place.

“Why?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper as he took a hesitant step forward. You took a step back instinctively. "Why are you saying this...?"

You tried to explain, though the words didn’t come easily. You told him how you felt—how distant things had become, how lonely you were. How the relationship was falling apart and you both are better off no longer being in each other.

But every time you spoke, Cross took another step forward, his hand reaching out as if to grab onto you, and you found yourself taking another step back.

In a blink, he was in front of you, faster than you could process. Then, there was a small 'ping' sound before you felt yourself flung backward, slamming into the nearest wall that knocked the breath from your lungs. His hands gripped your shoulders, hard enough to hurt, as his face hovered inches from yours.

"Oww-! Sans what the fuck—!?"

His bony hands gripped your shoulders tightly, an anchor that pinned you in place. “Just LISTEN to me first darling. You have to understand—” Tears began to stream from his eye sockets, glistening like pearls against his skeletal face. “I DON'T have a choice” he cried, his voice cracking with desperation. “It’s all for you! To make you safe! Please, you NEED TO UNDERSTAND THAT!!”

You tried to pull away, but his hold only tightened.

His knees buckled, and you stumbled as he dragged you down with him, his hands still clinging to you like a lifeline.“No, no, please— reconsider!! I-i’ll try to change, I’ll do whatever you want—I’ll beg, I’ll be on my knees forever, just—please?”

Ⓒ𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐦 ──── 10/11/24 Navigation | Masterlist

[simpjaes]

One of my fav enha writers elix8r on here just announced that they were leaving and it just made me so sad to see someone leave due to people not appreciating their work and it made me think of you and how you’re literally one of my only fav writers who haven’t left this site and I hope you never do cause ily so much and I was wondering how we could show you more appreciation for giving us amazing fics? Like I know you’re loved by so many people and get good numbers on notes but still like I don’t want to lose you too so lmk if there’s anything else we can do for you to make you know we appreciate everything you put out here 🥺

; - ; time for transparency, and a HUGE rant. But first, thank you so much, im so honored you said this to me <3

there are plenty of ways you can support me! For instance, i do have a patreon set up for eventual writing [which will still be posted here too for the most part], that won't happen until i have more time outside of school. I also do have cash app! Which i prefer over ko-fi because i don't like my personal information shown ;-; you can ask me for my cash app tho!

Other ways include simply telling me how my fics make you feel, or if you like them. You are never obligated to tip me money for what I write, and i will alwwwaaays want feedback and reblogs!

that being said: am i leaving tumblr?

I've been weighing my thoughts lately, and i've boiled it down that i really don't know how I feel about being here after I started writing four years ago. I don't like the way people feel entitled to access my life, and who I am. [remember that blog who posted my selfies, and other writer's selfies just so people could see it? without our consent? example number 2398749382, truly]

I don't like the cliques [even if we all end up in one whether intentional or not, some of you are just fucking mean], i don't like the moral police, i don't like the performative activism, i don't like the copying even if on a tiny level, i don't like how people treat me like a celebrity. I don't like how I can't monitor closely for underage people who should not ever be looking at my blog, let alone reading work that i did NOT write for them. the main thing though, really is the entitlement from people, and the blatant nasty intentions a lot of people have here, especially between writers.

It's unbearable sometimes.

Every day, i have to be talked out of deleting both of my blogs and writing elsewhere specifically for the freedom to stop walking on egg shells. Then again, some days, like today, i like it here.

So, while I was recently just waiting to absolutely disappear without a word here, today I feel good. Today, I feel like staying wouldn't be too awful.

I just want to make something clear to people while I'm talking about it. If i stay here, i will never care so deeply about fan fiction, or people's opinions on it outside of feedback on my work. I care about it as a creative process, and a skill to be learned, that's it. I do not care what other people read, i do not care what they write, i don't care who jerks off to what. I will never, fucking ever take fan fiction so seriously that I feel hatred towards another person. unless it involves minors/underage people, of course. that's entirely different for me personally. For the most part, i genuinely only care about what I'm doing and what i can do better.

If i stay, i need people to stop expecting me to be a spokesperson on literally anything and everything. I am a person who is genuinely struggling just to get out of bed. I am a person who is studying and doing home work more than I would be working if I had a full time job right now. I do not have time or energy to care deeply the way others do, and even if I did have that time and energy, i put it on things i love. Like writing my own fics and not giving a fuck about what anyone else is doing.

This blog is my space. It's my world. I'm sick of expectations for me to make it anything more than what it is: a goddamn kpop smut blog.

This website is excruciating to open sometimes. but on days like today, i really appreciate it and love it here.

I will stay for now, but don't be shocked if, in the future, i leave without even saying my goodbyes. I have things outside of this blog that matter to me, and I will never let myself feel unhappy doing something i love, that's more for me than any other person in this world who wants to scream their opinions.

**edit 11/20** and with the AI apocalypse apparently happening here, it really does feel like....bad to be here. i don't want people who don't write to put themselves on the same level as real writers. y'know, the ones who put love and effort into their work. It's very upsetting to see the amount of people who don't care if it's being used.

especially like....knowing those fics get hella interaction because it seems readers, even if they don't know it, seem to value false writing over very real writing. oof. anyway

as long as my writing stays fun and positive, i will be staying.

[velvetures]

*Peeks from a corner*

Merry Christmas!

Hi um...can I just say your comfort fluff fics have made me realize just how touche-starved I personally am. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

So, if I could be so bold as to ask for a fic with Soap or Gaz or Keegan with that same theme? Making sure they're taken care of, or make them feel safe enough to let their guard down for a bit?

Again, totally fine if you have other things to do, but it would really male my day if you did. Thank you and have a nice day!

- 💀

Fall Back

a/n: thank you for the request babes... I'm sorry Christmas is just now here in mid-fucking May :( I'm ashamed. Additionally, this is my first time writing for Keegan... and I'm still working out the specifics for my interpretation of his character and behavior. So this is a bit different from what I've written before. Hopefully you enjoy it. summary: Keegan's worn down to the bone. And you're there to help him. t/w's: none.

his eyes are almost identical to my husband's... why didn't I notice until now...

He only comes to you when things get too heavy to bear.

And not in the way a refrigerator empty of food, or a late rent payment would weigh on your mind. You’ve not seen the same things he has… and fuck, he’ll do anything to make sure you never do. The mere thought that any of the nightmares and constant PTSD triggers that make him jumpy could touch your conscious would send him into an entirely new mental warfare, impossible to win. No, he shows up when he needs it most. No matter what you might be doing, or how it could appear, he’s crawling on his belly with a broken look in his eyes. Pride bruised, strength dissolved, and voice rough with more pain than you thought he could ever survive.

You tried keeping the back door unlocked for him. Thinking he’d take it as a sign that your home is always welcome. It resulted in him forcing you to lock the doors and make him a key. That lasted a couple of months, and then he lost the key somewhere in Cuba. Something about a guy ripping his chain off his neck and subsequently the key to your door that he wore alongside his dog tags. He’d been quick to change all of your locks after that. And since then, he’s decided that crawling in through your bedroom window is the only way he’ll enter your house unless you’re formally inviting him in.

Maybe it’s the anti-social part of him that believes he can’t come and go as he pleases. Spending precious time sneaking into your little house instead of doing what he came for in the first place. Getting close to you. Sometimes he won’t wake you up. Just taking off his bloody-soaked gear and taking a quick wash in the shower before curling up to you in bed. Tucking you under him, and breathing in the soft smell of your soap and fresh sheets. Other times, you’ll stir away when you hear boots scuffing heavily against the floor. Hearing heavy breaths and his tac vest thumping to the floor. Witnessing what it’s like when a ghost finally runs out of hatred and cold-blooded determination.

“Are you hurt?” It’s almost always your first question. After so many missions, he’s almost always got something that needs looked at. And while you never thought that tying stitches or cleaning shallow stab wounds would be a common occurrence in your life, Keegan has made it so that your medical kit under your bathroom sink is always stocked and ready for emergency-room worthy injuries.

He’s not going to talk much, even if he’s in good shape. It’s not in his disposition. More like a shelter dog sent back too many times for growling or bearing his teeth. Wary of everything, yet so desperate for touch that he’s willing to show you exactly where a bullet grazed his thigh. About eight hours old and weeping blood, staining a pair of pants that you’ll spend time scrubbing out in the morning while doing laundry. But if you’re worried, he’s going to hide just how badly he’s hurting… if for nothing than your sake.

He’s already broken into your house again… and now bleeding all over the bathroom rug with pretty flowers you bought after the last time he made a mess in there. Constantly reminding himself it’s selfish to demand you care for him. To show up with a shitty fucking attitude and guilt you into licking his wounds when he can’t bear to do it himself, or admit to the medical staff on base that he needs it. You’re too kind for this kind of bullshit. Too sweet to run him off though. And it’s why he keeps crawling back. Greedy… hungry… insatiable… he’s always admonishing himself for just how little control he possesses when there’s an opportunity to leave you alone, or place himself right in the middle of your life again.

“Everyone come back alive?”

Keegan has a love hate relationship with that particular question. Debating on whether or not he likes that you worry for his teammates in such an honest way; or if he’s so jealous of your mind wandering to them, and what fucked-up things they do during missions that it’s almost unbearable to hear you ask it.

“Alive.” He breathes out steadily as you thread your stitching through his skin for an eighth time, tying another knot over his twitching and aching muscles.

You’re always asking questions about the missions. About what he had to do, if he got hurt, where they went… it’s innocent enough. You mean well. But he never can tell you much. Protective instinct and top secret red tape make much of the details not worth the risk of divulging. But he’s patient with you. Giving away small hints maybe by saying a few words in a native language, or talking about a particular landmark that might’ve been close enough that you can make a guess from there. At this point, you’ve learned at least a few words in: German, Russian, Thai, and multiple hispanic dialects. A smart woman, of course, but he’s always surprised when you connect his work to something you’ve seen on the news.

It’s like you’re always watching for him.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Maybe you do look out for him in more ways than one. Not bothering with the fact that you’d already completed your nightly routine, just to strip down and get a shower running. Rubbing out strained shoulders with soft hands, and gently thumbing out the thick knots in his lower back. It’s the only pressure he’s willing to accept in this state. Merely breathing just to live for more of your touch. Keegan can’t even bother with soap, and had it not been for you, he wouldn’t have at all. Feeling you scrub down every inch of him. Much more like a maid than… well… he still didn’t know what kind of label to put on this relationship.

There were too many variables and more questions than he could answer. Sure it was… transactional at times, but he’d be remiss to ignore all of the ways you occupied his thoughts when it wasn’t appropriate to. And you always do more than you’re supposed to. Just like now. Wrapping your arms around him for behind and kissing over his shoulder blades. Humming a soft tune and letting your fingertips trace over his stomach. Any man should be able to admit that he’s weak for it… but Keegan can’t readily do that.

Fighting his own heart pounding in his chest as you sway him back and forth. Wishing he could let this feeling go. Be a stronger man. Be a better ghost and lock himself away behind the gear and guns. Fuck. You’re so good at it though. Stripping him down to nothing, even when he thought there wasn’t anything else left. Soothing aches and kissing away pains he blocked out for so long that he felt like had disappeared. You are smarter than that. You know how his mind works whether he likes it or not. How willing he is to go from hell and back so many times that he’s unsure of what kind of being he truly is. Caught between worlds of warfare and the softer one where you always welcome him back, knowing that within a few days the gore will call him back for service.

“Sleep on the couch…” He mutters, standing with a towel slung around his hips and a bleary look in satin light-blue eyes. “Don’t wanna stain your sheets.”

He’d seen them upon arrival; crisp white and hundred-dollar softness he didn’t want to touch. Between the blood and feeling of getting spoiled to them, it wasn’t worth it to him. He’d done it before without much thought, but this time something was making him attempt responsibility.

“Then I’m coming with you, Russ.”

You’re smiling that damned smile he dreams about. That one where the gap between your front teeth shows and the dimpled skin on your cheeks shadows just enough to make him forget that you’re human. Angelic. Teasing… Gracefully not leaving him room for an argument. Simply turning around and headed towards the bedroom without another word as to if he’d be choosing to lay cramped on your couch. Hell, it’s four in the morning, and your mind is sharp enough to play with him just enough that he’s stalking back into the dark room and watching you crawl into the bed with an expectant, innocent look directed at him.

Keegan can’t help it.

He’s under the sheets and unceremoniously reaching for you without hesitation. Feeling his callouses catch on your skin and wincing when he hears his rough palms scratch at you. No matter how rough it feels, you’re still sliding closer. Careful of bruises and cuts, tucking yourself against him and using one arm to guide his head against your chest. Laying just above him. Incentivizing him to hug tightly to you and tuck his head under your chin. Allowing this unfeeling soldier to hide in the temporary shelter of your heartbeat.

You rub his head, and feel short, clipped, hair tickle your fingertips. Soft from a shampoo and condition after weeks away in sand that made the bathroom floor feel gritty. You’re almost always pressing kisses to his forehead and using your other hand to rub over his brow bone and bridge of his nose. Seeing in the nighttime shadow where his face paint has settled into wrinkles that you didn’t manage to wash off in the shower. Looking at long, black eyelashes that flutter a bit when you scratch up and down the back of his neck.

“You’re so pretty…” You always talk to him like this. Unable to keep from spouting praise that wells up after long periods of not knowing if he’s alive, let alone safe.

You’re not dumb. You know he’s dangerous. Maybe even a monster in some people’s eyes. But it’s a necessary evil, and it’s something you came to terms with easily. Because you didn’t just see him for the guns and direct orders. You got to witness moments like this where he’s nothing but a man in desperate need of humanity. Hungry for connection. Soft touches… and whether he liked it or not, the praises that you whisper against his pink-tipped ears.

“You’re the pretty one, dollie.” He grumbles back, squeezing your hip in a big hand.

It makes your face heat up just ask quickly when he pulls that one out. Almost always with a nickname up his sleeve that just makes it all that much more worth it. But being anything other than your own name to him… it’s a different kind of reward. One that has you smiling like a fool as you get sleepier. Nearly petting him to sleep, and hoping to god you can stay awake longer than he does just to prove you’re willing to. Maybe willing isn’t even strong enough…

Any way you think about it, there’s a sense of duty you hold much like his to a career as a ghost. Yours stemming from love so deep for this man that it’s painful watching him crawl to you as a last resort. Despising what or whoever made him feel like wanting a warm bed, and someone to look after him when he’s weak, is wrong. God it’s enough to make you angry. Looking down at a man who could make anyone tremble, and seeing him curled up against your chest like he’s clinging to a shred of comfort. If you thought picking up a gun alongside him would change things, you’re certain you’d have done it years ago. Right when all of this started and Keegan was much more proud. Unwilling to relent as easily as he does now.

But it took that long because there wasn’t another option.

He wouldn’t have allowed it if you were any different of a person, or hadn’t possessed the patience for him to let go like this. You’re positive no one knows that this is where he runs to when things get too hard. None of his team, and with no family to speak of, you’re left as his final resort, but the only one he trusts. Unlike Keegan who avoids his medal pinnings with sheer hatred, you wear your designation proudly. You’re always shining it… polishing it… looking for the first opportunity to show just how willing you are. Just for the chance to hold him. Anything to feel his breathing even out after weeks of holding it. Anything to clean him up. Put him back together.

All while silently praying that it’ll be the last time. Wishing he’d see that you aren’t a last resort, and that he can lay here as long as he wants without losing the worth he assigned to himself after becoming a ghost. Wondering when it’ll come to an end where he can come back and hang up the guns laying on your bedroom floor, forever. Patiently anticipating the day you can not have to wait until he’s asleep to say exactly how you feel.

“I love you, Keegan…”

comments & reblogs are always appreciated 🤎

[sadnightforus]

[10:34 PM] If kissing your best friend while you’re smoking is illegal, then sue you for just doing that. Or even better, go to jail for that crime alone. 

 Because right now, you’re kissing the most well known boy from your university slash a party boy in the comfort of his apartment rooftop that he himself hosts a small gathering there. 

 You didn’t mean for it to happen, but Sim Jaeyun, better known as Jake, is just irresistible. And you would be lying if you say you didn’t have a little crush on him. 

 Both of his and your tongues are still gently roaming in each other’s essence, even if it lingers of the nicotine taste. You don’t hate how this night has particular turned out, but now you’re suddenly worried about how he’ll react or whether he’ll regret and realize it’s just his impulsivity that leads to the greatest mistake of his life, simply because you’re not his type, probably. 

 So you pull away, despite you wanting to reattach your lips onto his and leaving him in a trance of confusion as his dazed eyes look over at yours. 

“Why did you pull away?” He asks, sounding small and there’s a hint of him being upset. Truthfully, you’re caught off guard by the question and your face drops. 

“It’s just a mistake.” You mumble, feeling ashamed that you run away from your own feelings. 

“T-then… Why did y-you kiss me like I mean anything to you?” His voice sounds shaky just now, eyes brimming with tears just as he feels his heart breaking. 

 Thankfully, all of your other friends are too busy indulging in their own fun to focus on how you both are kissing, or have been awfully close the entire night since the little party has started. Which gives all of you more privacy to talk about whatever the hell you both just did without them interfering. 

“…..” You bite your lips and you can feel a bucket of hot tears streaming down your cheeks. “I-I.. like.. you. R-really fucking l-like you.” You stutter, letting yourself cry as you almost hyperventilate from confessing your own feelings. 

 What if he doesn’t like you back? You’re not his type. You’ve seen the type of girls he goes after, none of them really look like you. 

“I like you too.” He says in the most gentle voice you’ve ever heard. And his voice sounds so sweet that you want to keep listening to him talk. “It’s not too early to say I love you, is it? Because I’ve had my eyes on you for a long time.” 

 He then gently leans even closer, his thumbs wiping your tears softly, his eyes never leaving yours as the sincerity in his words weighing all of your worries and everything in the world down. There’s only you and him existing in this very moment. 

“It’s not.” You chuckle, but you can’t stop crying. “I still really want to kiss you right now.” You whisper, intentionally dropping your voice, hoping he wouldn’t catch it. 

 But he does. 

 The after-taste of cigarettes and toxic chemicals would kill you both, but you’d be lying if you didn’t say that it feels reassuring and nice to be kissed passionately and have your feelings reciprocated under the moonlight of the busy city. And you both consume each other hungrily, as if it’ll be the last moment on earth, before everything crumbles and breaks you both apart. 

 But there’s no other place you’d rather be at, as the world becomes blurry to you with his lips exploring yours, and you feel optimistic about the days you’ll get to spend with him far ahead with the sky full of small constellations and a romantic music playing at the background, making the moment more romantic than ever. 

 And you both wouldn’t trade the world for any other thing than being right in this moment. 

COPYRIGHTED BY SADNIGHTFORUS, 2024

A/N: sue me for fluff

reblogs, comments and likes are appreciated!

[dragon-teaparty]

“ I Love You Too ” - Leon Kennedy x Reader

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

ok so first off, i'm so fucking MAD bc tumblr didn't save my draft when it suddenly closed the app to update so i have to rewrite this ENTIRE THING

i'm actually so mad about it, i swear i was about to just not write this. i'm gonna rip my hair out i swear

anyway, i'm back with another story :3 this time it's more wholesome and fluffy

-------------------------------

summary: you and leon become even closer than before (gn reader btw)

It was nearly sunset. You and Leon were in his backyard, just enjoying the weather. You had begun to play fight, something that was common amongst you both.

Usually, it would be typical banter but you'd always say something that would set Leon off, and now was one of those moments.

You said something about his driving and teased him about every time he crashed a vehicle. Of course you had to make some snarky comment about his license.

Before you could bolt off, Leon grabbed you by the waist, causing you to yelp and giggle.

He swept you off your feet and held you in his arms bridal style. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck.

"Hey, c'mon!" You laughed, wiggling in his grasp. "You're like 80 tons of muscle, it's no fair!"

Leon chuckled. "Can't take what you dish out, huh?"

You and Leon were very close. Your connection was obvious to those who even glanced at you. You weren't dating, no, but a lot of people sure thought you were.

It was clear how much Leon genuinely cared for you. You had been his light in the darkness of the horrors he's seen in Raccoon City and the mission to Spain to save the president's daughter. It was difficult for him to let people in and the trauma only made it worse.

Of course, Ada had to do something with this as well. Her betrayal all those years ago still weighed heavy on Leon's heart. He was still confused, hurt, and angry all the same. Although he was glad to see Ada alive, he couldn't help but have a taste of bitterness for her. A bitterness that just wouldn't wash off of his tongue no matter how much the mercenary tried to make things better.

You were different. So much different than any other person he'd ever known.

Everything about you was perfect in Leon's eyes. Your laugh, your smile, your sense of humor, the way you'd look away and squeal when you were excited about something. It made him smile.

You had successfully torn down the walls Leon had built and he was more than happy about that. Of course, the initial part of getting to know you was rather irritating for him, he didn't want to talk about his feelings or let anyone see this side of him. You had been a ray of sunshine on his cold heart.

"Put me down!" You squeaked, squirming around.

Leon let out an exasperated huff. "Okay, okay!" He chuckled and then gently placed you back down on your feet. He immediately pulled you into a hug to which you happily accepted.

Your love for Leon was just as strong as his love was for you. You always had more romantic feelings for him but you never admitted it in fear of ruining the special bond you two had.

"I missed you while I was away," Leon spoke up, still holding you against his chest.

You smiled at this. "i missed you too." You said, your voice becoming quiet. "I always miss you."

Leon felt a pang in his heart when you said that. His job was dangerous and there was always the risk of losing his life. He knew how much you worried and he hated it.

He never really thought much about how dangerous being an agent is since he was so used to it at this point. Seeing you worry made him feel guilty.

"I know," he replied softly. "But you know I'll always come back to you, right?"

You nodded, burying your face into his chest.

As much as Leon reassured you that he'd always come home safe, you couldn't help but have the thought in the back of your mind.

When he was away, your nights were often sleepless and you found it difficult to get things done from how worried you got sometimes.

The thought of losing Leon was crushing and you couldn't stand it.

"Hey," Leon spoke, pulling away a little to look at you. "I promise." His expression was soft and his tone sweet and reassuring.

You couldn't hold it back. As you looked up at him and heard his words, tears swelled in your eyes and they began spilling. Leon pulled you back into his arms and you hugged him back once more. He shushed you quietly, running his fingers through your hair and murmuring soft reassurances.

The two of you had stood there in each other's arms for quite a while. By the time you two parted, the sun had finally dipped below the horizon. The moonlight shines through the branches and leaves of the tree you were under, illuminating you both.

Leon couldn't help but admire you. You looked so beautiful underneath the soft glow of the night sky. Your eyes always appeared to sparkle in the light but they looked especially like stars here. He found himself not being able to tear his eyes away from you.

You looked back up at him and into his pretty blue eyes.

He reached over and gently cupped your cheek with one hand. "I'm never leaving you, y'know." He whispered, once again reassuring you with a genuine smile spreading across his face. "You can't get rid of me that easy."

You smiled back, your heart fluttering as you leaned into his touch, placing your hand on his own.

"Oh, I know," you said, your tone turning more playful. "You really don't know when to quit, Kennedy."

Leon laughed, a genuine laugh that you and you alone had ever heard. He looked back at you, a comfortable silence suddenly falling upon you both.

You felt yourself get lost in Leon's eyes. The baby blue was so mesmerizing to you.

The way you looked at him didn't help either, it made his heart jump out of his chest.

The way you looked at one another was undeniable. The fondness and love in your eyes, like you were a golden treasure in the middle of the rubble in both of your minds.

As Leon looked at you, he had an overwhelming urge to just admit his feelings. He loved you so much and he wanted to shout it out loud, pour out his heart to you.

Instead, he simply leaned in, his lips softly pressing against your own.

Your eyes widened, not expecting the sudden gesture at all but you melted into the kiss, your eyes closing shut.

It felt like fireworks had gone off in your brain, butterflies swarmed your tummy, tickling your insides. You almost couldn't believe this was happening.

Leon held the kiss for a little while longer before he pulled away, looking into your eyes. His expression was so soft and loving.

"I love you," you finally spoke, blurting out the words as you were unable to hold them back anymore. You surprised yourself, a blush quickly creeping across your cheeks.

Leon smiled. For the first time in years, he actually felt complete, he felt so loved and safe. This feeling was almost enough to drive him to tears. Never in his life had he ever felt this way about another person before.

He pulled you close again and planted another kiss on your lips before he pulled away again, looking down at you with a grin that he just couldn't get rid of.

"I love you too."

-------------------------

phew! this one is definitely not as good as the one i originally had and that upsets me a lot :'c

i hope you all liked it anyways! love u guys <3

[thatshirleylee]

brennan's statement on instagram

I'm calling on my government officials to immediately demand a ceasefire and de-escalation in Gaza.

I applaud anyone and everyone calling for peace, with the understanding that real peace only exists if it deeply and honestly accounts for and fully ends violence in all its forms. Real peace addresses and corrects wrong-doing in the past and guards against it in the future. It goes hand in hand with justice and requires truth, restoration, reconciliation, reparation.

Peace cannot co-exist with collective punishment, ethnic cleansing and forced displacement. It cannot co-exist with blockades, embargoes, or with 2.2 million people, half of which are children, trapped with no hope of escape or political recourse. It cannot co-exist with murdered journalists, bombed hospitals, or years of protesters being shot and killed at the border. It cannot co-exist with illegal settlements segregated roads, and the silent, imperial chill that settles over the gaps in the yiolence - the unspoken geopolitical consensus that a group of people need to unflinchingly accept permanent subjugation and occupation.

My heart breaks for every Israeli person who lost loved ones during the attacks of October 7th. It breaks for every Ukrainian person who has lost their loved ones. It breaks for every Congolese person who has lost their loved ones. I do not speak on behalf of Palestinians now because some lives are worth more than others. I speak on their behalf because, as an American, my government is actively championing and financially funding their mass slaughter and forced displacement.I speak on their behalf because l, and all Americans, have a responsibility to pressure our government because we are responsible for this. Some have said that this situation is complicated. The United States government clearly disagrees. It has definitively, categorically, militarily chosen a side, and I do not agree with that decision.

In writing this, I have been wrestling with what I am sure many people like me wrestle with: There is a powerful narrative surrounding violence in the Middle East that asserts an ever-moving goalpost of self-education and study in order to even be qualified to have an opinion. As someone with a love of research, I have at times in my life fallen into the trap that I am not educated enough, clever enough or aware enough to have a worthwhile perspective, and that three more articles and two more lectures and one more book will do the trick. Unfortunately, democracy doesn't work that way - we, the citizens of any democracy, cannot possibly be experts on every aspect of the policies of our governments, and yet if we do not weigh in and make our voices heard, the entire experiment falls apart. Not only do people constantly doubt themselves and the things they can see with their own two eyes, but old shortcuts for political action can fall apart as well: This specific issue exists along a raw, charged and unique faultline in American politics. Nobody I grew up with has ever challenged me on my support for abortion rights, LGBT rights, Black Lives Matter, anti-capitalism, anti-fascism, none of it. The people in my country who would despise me for those positions are, for all intents and purposes, strangers to me. But there are people who l've broken bread with and shared honest affection with who will see the words l've written here and incorrectly conclude that I do not wish for the security, dignity and happiness of them and their loved ones, and that breaks my fucking heart. Full-throatedly condemning the actions of the Israeli government while battling rampant anti-semitism at home is an urgent moral necessity, and doing so is made unnecessarily challenging for the average person to navigate by the pointed obfuscations of cynical opportunists, bigots, and demagogues on all sides of the political spectrum who see some advantage in sowing that incredibly dangerous confusion.

So, I'm calling my representatives. I'm having hard conversations with friends and family. I'm here, talking to you. I should have done it sooner. If you're Israeli and hurt by this statement, know that I want freedom, dignity, security and peace for you, and that every ounce of my political awareness believes whole-heartedly that the actions of your government are not only destroying innocent lives, but doing so to the detriment of you and your loved ones' safety. If you're American and feel lost and confused - I understand and empathize. This, the whole country, only works when we get involved. I am constantly haunted by the specter that maybe I have missed some crucial piece of information on this, or any, important world event: I'Il just have to make my peace with that self-doubt and trust my gut by going with Jewish Voice for Peace, Amnesty International, the Geneva Conventions, the United Nations, etc. And if you're Palestinian and reading this: I unreservedly support your right to life, to freedom, to happiness and human flourishing, to full enfranchisement and equal rights, to opportunity, prosperity and abundance, to the restoration of stolen property and land, and to a Free Palestine.

[nejackdaw]

Baton update: the Finale

Guys I have done it. I strapped on my wax wings and unlike Icarus did not crash and burn. The baton. Is finished. And so is the base. Finished them both today. I might not have ever been much of a crafts guy but I am INCREDIBLY pleased with the final results. This started out as a pipe dream and now it's reality. Don't let your dreams be dreams etc etc

Showing her off first 💞💞💞 I'll add the rest of the images below a cut so this post isn't a mile long but AHHHHHH IT'S FINALLY DONE!!!! Guys I've been working on this since May but I was determined to finish it before the year let out

Here's the baton itself. What a beautiful pain in my ass. It's a regular 12" conductors baton so trying to turn it into Zelda's definitely not 12" Glorious Baton was. Awkward. I winged this entire thing. The grip/spiral is a rubber band. (Two, actually.) It's held together by sheer determination and super glue. I colored those pink roses with marker. The tail parts are made out of cardboard (half from a non corrugated bit off a package flap and half from a graham cracker box.). I couldn't find a wired ribbon to use for the end so I just cut a length of wire and fucking sewed it to the ribbon. Improvise, adapt, overcome.

The display base was simultaneously more and less of a hassle than the baton. Much less fine, close quarter work, much more difficulty getting things to stay put (this is a callout post for the garland, I'm looking directly at you.) Initially I made the actual display holder, which is 100% just painted wooden skewers, then I took MORE package cardboard and used that as the base. If I was a little more insane I'd add tiny lights somehow so the triforce could light up. The garland was. An absolute pain just 100% from having to decide which leaf extensions to remove to positioning them to trying to attach the damn thing (challenge: nearly impossible.) BUT it is surprisingly sturdy for what amounts to a piece of cardboard and some tiny sticks. I just now added that central support piece and the extra flowers today, because unfortunately the baton is top heavy and without it it just... Well. Spun itself upside down. The foam flowers themselves added a shocking amount of weight to it, but it's the baby's breath that really weighs it down. Not that it's heavy--it's very nice to hold in the hand, but again, it likes to spin itself around if only supported at the ends.

It kinda doesn't feel real. I still honestly feel like I should wake up tomorrow and go "I'm gonna work on my baton today!" I think my brain is in denial lmao. Been working on this thing for seven months, man. This year has DEFINITELY been my introduction to crafting year, and I had a blast. After all that time, and it's finally complete. Thank you to the Legend of Zelda for always being a massive inspiration to me throughout my life. Wow. Reality really can be whatever I want. I made myself a prop/display piece out of random materials and a dream

[i-mybrunettelady]

hail, mighty hero

zaeim and nyra share a moment in kourna. set during long live the lich (lws4). mind the spoilers. 2k words. mature.

Allied Encampment is bustling with life. But it’s not the kind of life that would indicate happiness; in Zaeim’s head, that kind of life is almost a fragment of his imagination. It certainly is for the poor souls of Istan, or even Vabbi. Here in Kourna and the real world, it’s a life of anxiety, a life of uncertainty, of vague hope. People are carrying their restlessness with them and looking up at the leaders of this makeshift resistance group to make sense of it. 

Zaeim feels that burden intensely. He guides his Sunspears, makes plans, tries his hardest to not break nor bend under pressure. Every time he sees a wounded or dying Elonian, he sends a prayer to Kormir and it weighs his heart down even further. Every time there’s an accident, or a failed scouting mission, Zaeim wonders if they’re all going to die and Joko will remain the tyrant of Elona forever. 

So when he feels this way, he turns to Nyra. She stands tall, proud, indomitable and entirely mad. Her eyes shine with something wild and barely restrained, like fate itself had carved a chasm in her soul so now she’s trying to rebuild it back with parts of the real world. She attracts attention wherever she goes and people flock to her like moths to flame. From a distance, she looks radiant. Up close, Zaeim wonders when she’s going to burn out entirely. 

She can’t seem to fight off a sunburn from days in the sands and amongst the army. Her hair, short, messy and in constant disarray, has lightened to a near blonde, a contrast to the areas of her face that caught the beginnings of a tan. She has growing dark circles under her eyes and ever-present dirt beneath her nails, be it blood or tar or whatever else. Comfortable tunics she wears are more filled with creases and dust by the day, patched where they’d gotten nicked in the fights with Awakened. She hardly looks like their leader, Zaeim thinks, as worn out and bitter and restless as everyone else. 

He knows deep down, however, that it is her light this whole thing is centered around. And so, he can’t look away. Especially not when they’re discussing tactics, when she’s explaining things in that strangely accented Elonian of hers, or when she settles on a decision and cuts a clear line in the sand. I have listened to your suggestions. From this point on, you are with me or against me. 

Hardly anyone dares oppose her.

And thus Zaeim finds himself drawn to the moments where he’s with her. He likes the reassurance in her eyes. He likes the subtle nature of her smiles. “I’ve never been very expressive, in terms of.. Face,” she said one night, reclining against a wall. Zaeim raised his gaze to her face. “Do you mind that?”

“Some people are simply not,” he replied, with more eagerness than he’d intended. “I don’t doubt that you’re genuine about this and about Elona. Kormir knows you want Joko dead as much as anyone else here.” 

“There can only be one biggest dick in this desert, yeah?” she huffed and blew a curl of hair away from her nose. “For fuck’s sake, I need my hair to grow faster.” 

Zaeim smiled. “That growth spurt went elsewhere with you, it would seem.” 

Nyra laughed. It was a solid, deep sound, echoing in the small cottage they’d claimed as their base of command. “I’d say Joko stole it and I wanna get it back.” 

“Or Sayida.” 

“Sayida is wiser than Joko.” 

Zaeim shook his head. “Debatable, but I will not argue with you.” 

“That’s smart,” Nyra said, in a gravelly tone. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve suspected a threat. “You are wise too.” 

Zaeim doesn’t consider himself wise. He doesn’t think Nyra herself is wise, either. All he knows is that between them, and supposedly Sayida, and the Olmakhan and the Primeval ghosts, they can take down Joko and see a free Elona. 

Sometimes, that is enough. 

Other times, though, he wants to see Nyra the woman, Nyra the person behind the legend. Then he watches her movements, and notices, rather quickly, that her right shoulder is almost always stiff by the end of the day. She’s careful to not move her right hand much unless she has to, and the occasional stretch she does brings about a pained expression. She doesn’t bring it up, however. 

He understands. He has old wounds too. But in the grand scheme of Alysannyra Ainsaph, that one thing feels like a game changer. She goes from a symbol to a person, and from person to a symbol in a way Zaeim is familiar with, as the Spearmarshal. It makes him want to hold her close, feel the heat of her skin and the roughness of her sunburnt cheeks, in a union that so few people can actually understand. 

She comes to him in a dream, once, and there, she kisses him. And maybe Joko kills them all without Zaeim ever having tried to recreate that dream in real life. Zaeim hopes he musters up the courage to try. 

Opportunity presents itself rather unexpectedly. There is an Awakened Inquest incursion that Nyra herself chooses to annihilate, and that has her painfully rolling her shoulder to try and relieve the ache of it all day. In a break between planning, when the maps are in the safety of Canach’s hands for the moment, Zaeim takes a chance to lean in and whisper in Nyra’s ear, “Does your shoulder hurt?” 

Nyra almost hits his head as she raises hers. “What?” 

Zaeim blinks and steps away. “I noticed your shoulder is stiff and I wanted to offer relief. There is something that us Sunspears use and that I have a little bit of in my pack for old injuries.” 

“Relief, Spearmarshal?” Canach snickers, still looking at the maps. “I do think our dear Commander would love some relief! She’s had so much on her shoulders for this little war of yours–” 

“That’s what you take from this,” Nyra drawls, unimpressed. “Anyone you wanna fuck, Canach?” Zaeim blushes. 

“My hand suffices, Commander.” 

“Good. Stay out of the poor Spearmarshal’s business then. Maybe his hand doesn’t suffice.” 

Miraculously, Canach backs down. He offers Nyra a smile and returns the maps in her hands. “I will ponder on the tactics, Nyra,” he says quietly. “I will also see if Gorrik has any advice on the matter.” 

“Gorrik?” Nyra raises an eyebrow. She huffs out a breath and leans in. “Lie better next time, you asshat.” 

Canach grins. “He knows more than you think he does, Nyra.” 

“Oh.” 

“Oh, indeed.” 

“Get lost, though,” she jerks her head towards the door. “Think about tactics elsewhere.” 

Canach salutes her and heads to the door. He makes sure to close them as loudly as he possibly can without breaking the damn thing. Zaeim watches him go and crosses his arms over his chest. His face feels hot still and he digs his nails into the exposed skin of his upper arms. Yes, Kormir curse him, he does want to sleep with Nyra, and is that a crime? Is it a bad thing if a man wants to sleep with a woman? 

“Zaeim,” Nyra says, “if you frown any harder, you’ll get a permanent wrinkle.” 

“Wrinkles are the least of my concerns,” Zaeim grumbles and looks away. He then clears his throat. “I hope you’re not offended that I–” 

“That you find me attractive?” Nyra taps a nail against the table. The wide stance she’d assumed earlier when talking to Canach now becomes a long, lean form. The wood creaks under her weight when she leans against the table. “No.” 

“But?” Zaeim looks back at her again. She’s rubbing her clothed arms. She’s the only fully clothed and covered person in this entire camp, barring Gorrik and Taimi. She has bandages up to her knuckles. “Are you hurt?”

“Zaeim, I’m more scar tissue than skin behind this patched up tunic,” she says after a while and laughs awkwardly. Zaeim stares. It somehow never crossed his mind that she too might have insecurities. His head has a hard time wrapping itself around that notion, that the Godkiller and Dragonslayer is insecure about her scars of all things. 

“That is hardly a concern to me, if it is any consolation,” he offers softly. “There are a lot of scarred Sunspears.” 

She looks him up and down. Her eyes linger on his arms and legs and on the peek of his chest, before she looks him directly in the eye. Zaeim squirms under inspection. He knows he looks older than he is; life of a Sunspear is hardly easy, and beauty is the first thing to go when you choose to defy Joko. In the grand scheme of things, it’s least relevant. But right now Zaeim wishes very hard that he’d been born a noble, a prince of Vabbi or Istan, someone she would find easy to look at. 

“For what’s worth, I think you’re attractive too,” she says and Zaeim’s head shoots up. She sounds a little sad. 

Zaeim breathes out. “I still have my ointment, if you’d like it.” 

She considers for a moment, and as if to prove a point, goes to roll her shoulder. She stops halfway. “Yes,” she says. She rises from the table that creaks thankfully, and carefully pulls some of her tunic down to reveal her right shoulder. Zaeim sees the tail ends of angry, dark pink burns, but when she catches it, she raises the sleeve so they’re covered again. 

He doesn’t ask. Instead, he points towards a little stool near him. She walks over, playing with the material of her sleeve, and turns her back to him as she sits. His breath catches in his throat. The scar there is gnarly, deep, like something had tried to tear her spine off. It sits in an uneven line at a weird angle too. 

“It would’ve been worse without surgery,” she says, distantly. 

“Is there a way to–”

“No.” The finality of her response makes him close his mouth and dig through his pack. He unscrews the little clay pot and a familiar, slightly pungent scent spreads across the room. Zaeim says nothing as he softly rubs the cream into the knotted flesh. The only sounds in the room are the scoops his fingers make and their breathing, rugged and tense. 

She has tan lines, he notices. Her skin is hot where he touches it. Every so often she turns her head to look at him, and her eyes seem so impossibly big and insistent, conflicted in a way he can’t possibly decode. The sunburn makes their purple hue stand out even more. Zaeim’s hands itch to touch and caress more of her. He imagines his lips on her exposed neck, his hands in her hair. This close, she’s less of a symbol and more of a living, breathing person, with dark circles and a haunted stare and greasy hair, and he cannot get enough of it. 

“Kiss me,” she says. Her voice is rough and rich and breathy. It echoes in Zaeim’s ears like a drum. 

“Gladly,” Zaeim mutters and closes the clay pot. He could die tomorrow; it would’ve been a damn shame if he didn’t leap at an opportunity to kiss her. The pot clinks as he returns it carelessly to his pack and washes his hands free of the ointment. Nyra watches him with a strange expression. 

“What?” Zaeim asks and his heart wants to beat out of his chest. He feels its thunder in his throat. 

“You remind me of someone,” she says softly. “It’s– it was a man as dedicated to his dream and his duties as you are.” The way she implies the man is dead makes it seem targeted, almost a reproach. She’d mentioned a lover before, back in Tyria, but that he is dead. Zaeim has no idea who this man is and senses the topic is too raw to discuss further, but he wonders.

Self reproach is the only thing worse than regret. 

Zaeim crouches before her. This close, she smells like the cream he’d put on her and sweat. “Do you want me to kiss you? Truly?” 

Her eyes blaze. “Enough consideration,” she bites out, “I’m not fragile, for fuck’s sake!” And she pulls him to her and crashes her lips to his, digs her hands in his locs. Zaeim moans under the attention, and he would’ve felt bad about it if it wasn’t swallowed by the domineering force of her lips on his, even if closed. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

After a moment, she takes her head back a little, as if snapped out of a daze. “You probably wanted something sweeter,” she says quietly. “This was anything but.” 

“I will not lie,” he replies, “my usual idea of a first kiss is something that isn’t a metaphorical devouring.” 

Nyra blinks. “We can kiss slowly, if you’d like,” she says and plays with his locs. And then adds, with a grief so big it could swallow the world, “It’s been a long while since I had one of those. Probably don’t deserve them either. But..” 

Zaeim stands up. “This chair is a little uncomfortable,” he says. Nyra follows suit, close enough so he can feel the heat of her body. “I am certain there are more comfortable places in this house for people to kiss.” 

“Walls have hardly ever failed,” she suggests. Finding a little nook that’s big enough for both of them is a challenge, but when they finally do, and when he kisses her again, with his hands on her ass, the world falls away. 

Kormir knows they both need this. Kormir knows they both need a lot of things. And thankfully, Kormir, bless Her, provides.