#And I think I have an idea for the title of the whole series though not for the individual parts or chapters in part 2 and 3

[lazinesswrites]

Could you write a bit of Cross doesn’t kill the Lt. for WIP Wednesday please?

Certainly!

It is... uhh. Technically Wednesday? Even though this was for last week, but shh. It's here now! And thanks to all you people who asked for this fic, I have now actually outlined parts 2 and 3, and started in on writing part 2! (Part 1 is mostly done; I've written 2/5 chapters for part 3, and now have... two paragraphs for part 2 - I am doing this completely out of order😅)

Eventually, Wrecker tires himself out enough to crawl into the bunk below Crosshair, and Hunter comes out from the cockpit. He sits in one of the jump seats to squint at a datapad for a while, before he too leans back to get some rest. Crosshair finally closes his own eyes, still not sleeping fully, but letting his awareness of the surroundings blur, until Tech and the kid’s voices drifting in from the cockpit becomes indistinguishable from the low hum of the Marauder around them.

[caraphernellie]

ephemeral.

for your information: author!abby x editor!fem!reader. professionals with a very strained relationship. abby and reader drinking a little but completely coherent + sober still. haters-to-lovers, semi-public, outdoor sex. bratty!reader. fingering (r!receiving). steamy make out session. clichés ahead. pet names used: baby, good girl, various insults tbh. 2.8K WC.

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑, had this idea for like, a whole year now. oops. just love autumnal/dark academia type shit and abby is my favourite bookworm. abby picture by @/tpicsl on pinterest. MASTERLIST.

Creativity is fickle. Abby knows it better than anyone.

Her mind is her greatest asset. It is a hidden strength; everybody thinks they have her figured out just by glancing at her. The woman is built of brawn and steadily-sculpted muscle, but it is merely a peek into her real power.

Abby's appearance is a reflection of dedication, an application of self-discipline trained over many moons.

Her brain is her might. Her will to excel. It is a library of all the things she has loved, words she has read, stories she has heard.

And the result is an author of applaudable talent. Yet, her reputation precedes her—she is not easy to work with.

Abby has published four books so far in her career, but she's been through twice the amount of editors in that time. Nothing could ever stunt her rise to fame, no matter how many claims were made against the woman's cocky, self-gratified nature. Abby Anderson is a household name.

But as her most long-standing editor, you must agree with the rumours. Working for Abby is a living nightmare.

Creativity is fickle. Abby refuses to let anybody impede on her artistry. If they do not see her vision, she will throw a fit. Writing is her gift, and god forbid someone attempts to critique it. She rejects all common writing advice—should anyone attempt to tell her to 'kill her darlings', Abby will send back a heated, passive aggressive email.

You let her have her freedom. That is the difference between you and other editors. Perhaps they don't see the vision like you do, and absolutely not like Abby does. You will remove what is only necessary, and maybe there are small disagreements every so often, but you have proven yourself to have the wit that matches Abby's perplexity.

You do not leech on her—sucking the life and rareness out of her words, only to brag and drag her name through the mud. Even Abby will admit that you are the most pleasant editor to work with.

But god, she almost burnt you out.

Impossible deadlines, communicating at only the most iniquitous hours. Whether it was a high-priority email at midnight or two-thousand words to be read and fixed by the end of the day, she was a prick. On purpose.

And why? Well, even though your furious emails would raise her hackles, she began to realise she actually enjoyed reading them. You've got quite the attitude. It certainly tickles her dry sense of humour, after all. Everything you say is professional, so as to not raise alarm, but it's laced with just enough venom to sting.

Her personal favourite email, which she immediately starred, is the one in which you were complaining about her constantly quoting you in her own book.

'Miss Anderson, I do not find you as funny as you think you are. I would like to be taken seriously when I voice my concerns about your ill-treatment of my service, as flattering as it may be that I have inspired your work. 'Please see attached the edited draft as requested.  'P.S. I do believe you ought to get some sleep. Sending a draft at 03:30 is not acceptable.'

It's just not fiery enough to halt her efforts.

Somehow, you made it out alive. Pulled yourself out of quicksand with that heavy load on your back. You have lived long enough to be present tonight.

Today marks the highly anticipated release of Abby Anderson's fifth release, her newest standalone title following her critically acclaimed series. Many reviews seem to say she just keeps getting better, while others written in unkempt fury detest her for writing in a way that feels almost pretentious nowadays.

Abby's clearly had a day full of bustling conversation, hundreds of well wishes. She signed so many copies of her book that her wrist aches of overuse. She made it through, thank goodness, and the hour of relaxation has finally arrived.

The release party.

Who doesn't love a party? A warm celebration filled with prideful chit-chat, her family and friends, and competitors masking their envy with tight-lipped smiles and side-eyes.

All that and a splash of champagne to take the edge off.

Your heels crunch flaxen leaves in your path to the door, streams of fading sunlight painting the yacht club in warm golds and gingers. It's a remotely calm evening save for the seaside breeze. The trees whistle and you can hear the faint sound of pastoral waves clashing with the cliffside.

Your inner-voice begs for a few moments more stood outside the party. You could give yourself some grace, a fleeting moment to prepare for the questioning and disrespect you'll receive.

You think back to a charity event Abby hosted once. You met a man who spoke with blatant indiscretion about Abby's writing, and admittedly your ego was bruised as much as Abby's would have been. He had watched you argue your point, and when you finished, the man parted his lips to ask, 'who are you?'

Her fucking editor, that's who. Only one who'll put up with her.

It would help if Abby would stop acting like she doesn't know you.

You don't expect flowers, nor praise. She wrote those books by herself. But a tree cannot grow without proper care. If her words were sowing the seeds, you were watering them.

If only Abby could take the stick from her ass and so kindly acknowledge the sweat and tears you put into dealing with her.

Light disappears into the horizon and the moon has risen. These cocktail parties were never your style. It isn't a wild bender, nor is it a classy and quiet event. It's just somewhere between that.

Networking.

It's tedious, dreadful. If you don't catch their attention within the first seconds of the conversation, you won't make that connection. First impressions are everything, and unfortunately, you struggle to be as charming as the others in this room.

"Well, well, well. Look who showed up."

Her eyes have wandered to you for the past two hours, not as discreet as she thought she was being. It seems Abby has finally found the time to pull away from big-wig publishers and authors to finally seek you out.

"I almost thought you were gonna pull the same shit as last time 'n hide all night."

"You wish." Your voice is dry and quick, always straight to the point. "Makes no difference if I stay in the shadows or hang around the others. You'll ignore me anyway."

"No," Abby murmurs, a scrunched up scowl on her face now. It's far from hateful, and directed more towards herself than you. "I'm talking to you now, aren't I?"

"Mhm."

"You know what I just.. love?" Abby asks, head tilted towards you. You are a thief to Abby's attention no matter where or when, but regret to realise that. "You are just as hard to deal with in person as you are over email. It's really authentic."

"Ah." You give a curt nod, taking a short sip of wine, and notice the way her eyes track the movement. They linger over your lips, struggling to tear away. "I am glad you think so. I like to keep it real."

She scoffs, short and breathy. "Yeah. It's real lovely."

Abby enjoys the way you match her energy. She enjoys it too much.

"So, did you come here to say anything worthwhile, or are you just polite enough to greet all your guests?"

Her face doesn't change—her smile remains intact, but it's the twitch of her eye that forces a soft chuckle past your lips.

"Yeah, actually. You know, I was getting there." Abby's indignant reply is masked with a pleasant tone, one that irks you. She doesn't know how to act any way but sarcastically with you. She could say the smallest thing, but it gets on your nerves. You're not the most proud of how reactive you are to Abby's behaviour. "You know, some sappy shit about how helpful you are. But I might keep it to myself now."

"Makes no difference to me," you say with a shrug of your shoulders. Actually, it would be nice to hear what she has to say. "You couldn't be genuine with me if you tried."

"You know what? Let's go." Abby takes and sets your glass down on a nearby table for you, hand wrapping firm around your wrist. "I have some things to say to you that I'd rather others don't hear."

"Can't wait," you mutter, anticipating what, from past experience, can only be referred to as a sour exchange of words.

Abby drops your hand to get the door with the most cocky grin you've seen on her face in a long time. "Ladies first."

The French doors lead to a round balcony that overlooks the water. As you step outside you feel a wave of relaxation overcome you. The ocean is calm, the breeze from earlier has filtered away into a still, but cold, night. The only sounds you can hear are muffled chatter and music from inside.

"Alright." You clasp your hands together and bat your lashes. "What was it you had to say? Don't forget to raise your voice this time."

"Y'know, I actually wasn't planning on yelling at you," Abby says in a gritty voice, stepping closer. "But if you keep trying to get smart with me, I may reconsider."

"Oh, of course. I hope you do. It's a pleasant sound."

"I— Stop talking."

Without you having realised, she's backed you into a corner. Your hands grasp the stone fence of the balcony tightly, looking away until she tugs your jaw closer.

"I wanted to actually say something nice. You know, a sorry for being a cunt. A thank you for putting up with me. I wouldn't have half the success I have if it weren't for you."

"Oh."

It's simply unexpected. It isn't an out-of-this-world idea for Abby to be sincere, of course not. But her confidence is often mistaken for pure arrogance. You just didn't think she could tone down her ego enough for something like this. Not at a release party, at least—this whole shebang is meant to be celebrating her.

"I didn't know how to show you I actually appreciate your work," Abby continues, "I thought about flowers... a letter... you know, for an author, it was ridiculously hard to put some words down. And I wanted to avoid cliché. So I wanted to personally talk to you about it."

"You know, this is actually leaning further into cliché territory than a letter?" You muse, only with the intention of making this slightly less awkward.

Considering Abby is usually the one to let her eyes wander, right now, you are the one who can't pull their eyes away. Her shirt fits her far too perfectly for your liking. Her eyes, electric blue and staring sharply enough to cut you—they're perfect. And you hate it.

"Oh yeah?" Abby huffs, her palm flat on the fence behind you. She's caged you in. "Why's that?"

"Because you look like you're about to kiss me."

She falters for a moment, sheer surprise on her face. Oh, come on. She can't be that clueless to her own desires, can she?

"You wish."

"Well if you don't kiss me, I'm going to kiss you."

"What? Because I said one kind thing to you? Are you really that easy?" Abby lets out a quiet laugh in disbelief, perhaps a bit of shock too—you've thrown her off balance.

"You are the one who's not-so-subtly stared at my lips all night," you point out. "So I think you need to find your own answer to your question."

Jesus, you make Abby actually think sometimes. Interacting with you is different—her wit is matched for once, you indulge in the same dry sarcasm, you're actually fucking intelligent.

But what irritates her is the way you have such a great read on her.

"What I need is for you to shut up and let me be nice to you for once."

"God, you write your own clichés so much you'd think you would have seen this coming." You meet her eyes with that of a mischievous look in your own, lips curled into a satisfied grin. "Make me."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Screw it.

Her lips are on yours. Her hands settle over your hips. It's warm—incendiary, even. The autumn chill takes a backseat as she kisses you once, twice, and once more.

She stays close enough for your breaths to mingle, lips a hair's breadth away from each other now.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" You murmur. Abby scoffs softly.

"I hate you."

"I don't think that's right."

"No?"

"You're welcome to walk away right now, if you hate me so much."

There is not a chance that's going to happen. Even below the faint blue moonlight, you can see how rosy her cheeks have turned. Not a chance. She's staying right here.

"I thought a kiss was supposed to make you shut up," Abby grumbles.

"Oh, ha, sorry." You aren't sorry in the slightest. That coy smile is going to be the death of her. Who knew little old you would have the upper hand right now? "You can try again, if you'd like."

"Right."

It's as desperate and fiery as before, yet not as ephemeral. She's captured your words with her lips, her hands unceasingly moving along your figure. She touches and grabs everywhere that she can reach. You cup the back of her head and pull her closer as you sit on the balcony fence.

That stresses her out the slightest bit. It's a precarious position, on a high place, no less. But she simply takes it as an opportunity to splay her palm over your ass, 'keeping you from falling off.'

"Here's the deal." Abby attempts to command you, but wandering lips are staining her throat in lipstick and, plain and simply, she whimpers her words. "You're gonna watch that door and tell me if someone's comin'."

"Mhm."

Your mouth seeks her freckled collarbone, so tauntingly visible beneath her shirt. She always leaves the first few buttons undone. You've controlled yourself so well all this time, you deserve to taste the salt of her skin there.

And Abby's fumbling with the button of your pants. They fit you so well. They hug your body just right, flaring at the ankles. They hug her attention, too.

"Coast is clear?" Abby whispers. Her hand is painfully close to where she wants to be, buried into your cunt, but she just can't without the confirmation that you won't be caught in your little escapade.

You peek over Abby's shoulder. The party is still bustling inside, not a soul seeming concerned with the balcony.

"It's clear."

"Thank god."

Abby's hand slides beneath your panties finally. She's amused with the way you spread your thighs wider to accommodate her, your legs wrapping around her waist now.

"That's a good girl," she mumbles, fingers gathering some of your wetness. She nearly shudders at how fucking hot all of this is. You, your stuttered breath, and the thrill of fucking you somewhere so public. "Shh-shh."

Two fingers push past your folds and your hands grip her broadened shoulders. It's a stretch, those thick fingers stuffed pretty inside you, but the feeling is more than welcome.

"Fuck, Abs."

"I know, just be quiet."

Her fingers begin to move, slow at first as she tests the waters, and gradually it reaches a faster pace. Your sounds are even better than she could have anticipated they'd be. Gentle, short moans. So, so cute, and all for her ears' pleasure only.

"Open those eyes, baby. You need to keep watch."

You do your best. You force your eyes open and stare at the blurry door behind Abby.

Her digits reach in deep, they stretch you wide, and her thumb laves over your clit simultaneously. She feels the tension build in your body. Your fingers bruise her shoulders, your legs tremble, and you muffle your rising volume by hiding in the crook of her neck.

"C'mon, baby," Abby encourages, her free hand groping and squeezing your butt. "Gonna cum for me?"

She has finally conquered your attitude. Left you unable to do anything but moan, and fuck, your legs feel like jelly now. She revels in your jittering, in the clenching of your hole around her fingers.

"Good girl." The praise, sweetened further by that smooth voice, leaves you reeling. And like the prick she is, she just has to use your own words back at you. "Wasn't that hard to shut up, was it? You did so good for me."

You hum tiredly in response, weak fingers fastening your trousers again. "I hate you."

"Hate me enough to come home with me?"

Ha.

"Of course."

[reasonsforhope]

"At HarperCollins, a lot of attention and thought is given to deciding exactly what combinations of margin measurements, font, and layout feel most appropriate for the genre, and writing style.

But in a case of do-your-part environmentalism, designers at the publishing house have now standardized a series of subtle and imperceptible alterations to normal font style, layouts, and ink that have so far removed the need for 245 million book pages, totaling 5,618 trees.

Telling the story in Fast Company, representatives from HarperCollins, one of the four largest publishing houses in the world, explained that the idea first arose in Zondervan Bibles, HarperCollins’ Christian publishing division. Being that the Bible is 2,500 pages or sometimes more, saving ink and pages was not just an environmental consideration, but one of production costs.

A new typeface called NIV Comfort Print allowed Zondervan to shave 350 pages off of every Bible, which by 2017 had amounted to 100 million pages, and which, as Fast Company points out, would be four times higher than the Empire State Building if stacked.

The production and design teams then wondered how much they could save if they applied the same concepts to other genres like romance and fiction. Aside from the invention of the eBook, publishing hasn’t changed much in the last 100 years, and the challenge was a totally novel one for the teams—to alter all their preconceived ideas and try and find a font and typeface that resulted in fewer pages without being harder to read.

They eventually standardized 14 different combinations their tests determined were the most environmentally friendly, and which delivered an unchanged reading experience.

But the challenge didn’t stop there. Printed books, one might not know, are printed in large sheets which are then folded into sections of sixteen pages, meaning that Leah Carlson-Stanisic, associate director of design at HarperCollins, has to calculate the savings of space, words, and ultimately pages with the help of her team to fall in multiples of sixteen.

Nevertheless, they have been successful with it so far, and in the recent print run of one popular book, 1 million pages (or a number near 1 million that coincides with the 16 times tables) were saved.

“We want to make sure our big titles, by prominent authors, are using these eco-fonts,” Carlson-Stanisic said. “It adds up a little bit at a time, saving more and more trees.”"

-via Good News Network, April 4, 2024

--

Note: Great! Waiting to see this on the rest of their books and at the other big publishers!

Actually, though, it's worth noting that this may not come quickly to the other large publishers, because Harper Collins almost certainly owns that font - meaning that other publishers would have to pay HarperCollins in order to use it, on an ongoing basis.

More on publishing shit and more realistic solutions here below the cut!

What I'm hoping for and think is more likely is that this will inspire the development of open source eco-friendly fonts, which would be free for anyone to use. That would make it far more likely other publishers would adopt eco-friendly fonts.

I'm also hoping it would inspire other publishers to create similar eco-friendly fonts of their own.

Ideally, there would be a whole new landscape of (hopefully mostly open source) eco-friendly fonts. And/or to see calculations of the eco-friendliness of popular existing fonts, compared to each other.

If we could have a publicly accessible list of calculations for different fonts, including fonts designed to maximize eco-friendliness, I really do think that it would affect which fonts publishers choose to use. Here's why:

Most people in publishing are on the left (notoriously, actually) and really do care about the environment

People in publishing are plenty aware of these issues re: paper and trees, I promise

Shorter books means smaller production costs - and possibly smaller shipping costs as well, over time! So it would save them money too.

Eco-friendly fonts could also be combined with other measures for greater effect, such as bamboo paper (already in use for a lot of projects where page color/quality is more flexible) and thinner paper (aka paper with a lower weight) that uses less trees.

Don't expect books to all move to just one or two different fonts, though. Publishers and typesetters and font designers will innovate to create more options instead, though it will take longer. This is because different books really do use different fonts for various different reasons - one new font to rule them all isn't really a solution here.

"Every book is in the same font" may sound like a "whatever" deal to a lot of people, but as someone who works in publishing - trust me, it would actually make your reading experience worse, even if you could never quite put your finger on why.

[larluce]

Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU

LINKS TO THE OTHER PARTS OF THIS AU HERE: PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , PART 10 , PART 11 , PART 12 , PART 13 , PART 14 , PART 15 , PART 16 , PART 17 , PART 18 , PART 19 , PART 20 , PART 21 , PART 22 , PART 23 , PART 24 , PART 25 , PART 26 , PART 27 , PART 28 , PART 29 , PART 30 (You're here), SERIES 2!!

Hi! This part is going to be a summary rather than a script of what happened after Uther comes back to his senses and how the whole thing with Merlin got solved, cause if I write it all in script format, It'll be like 10 more parts of this episode and I rather end "The Labyrinth of Gedref" at once so I can start writing series 2 events.

So Arthur makes Uther, while still under the effects of the drugs, sign and seal with the royal seal a royal pardon for Merlin so he is absolved of the "attempted assassination of the king". Arthur makes sure to even have a copy of it and gives the original to Merlin and asks him to keep it close to him and hide it well. Merlin is surprised Arthur managed to make Uther sign that, he even thinks maybe Arthur faked the King's writing. He can't ask Arthur that though, because as soon as the prince arrives to give him the pardon he leaves with no other explanation.

When Uther comes back to his senses he's furious. Arthur thinks he's never seen his father so furious with him in all the years he met him. In both lifes! Uther does not only insult him or hit him, he even throws things at him in his fury. Arthur is relieved though, because now his father's anger is directed at him rather than on Merlin. Uther still tries to banish Merlin, but Arthur firmly says that if Merlin leaves he'll go with him, that he will relinquish his entitlement to the throne if he has too. Uther laughs then and says "Please! You think that snake would still be after you if you weren't the prince" to what Arthur says yes, very confident. That's when Uther gets an idea, to both punish his son and make him open his eyes so he sees his manservant's true colors. "Wanna bet?"

So Uther and Arthur make a deal. Uther will disinherit and banish his son publicly, but really it would be all a show. Uther would give Arthur his title back in 3 months, but that's only something Uther, Arthur and very few trusted people will know. If after three months of living in the countryside in the dirt like a commoner Merlin still stays with Arthur, then Merlin would be allowed to stay as his manservant in Camelot, if not, Merlin will be banished forever. Uther is sure Arthur will suffer outside without the riches of a prince and that Merlin will abandon him in weeks time. Arthur accepts the deal because he already knows Merlin will pass with flying colors.

Arthur is still worried about Merlin though. He knows this pretend show will affect him and doesn't want him to have another "anxiety attack", so he urges Gaius to give Merlin concoctions for the nerves and be close to Merlin during this event. Gaius seems frightened so Arthur promptly adds "No rebelion will happen. But the news my father is going to give today will be shocking, so please make sure he is okay".

When Uther finally "disinherits" Arthur publicly, Merlin feels like fainting (this time for real!) He can't believe Uther is doing this. And is all his fault! Again! Merlin inmediatly runs to kneel before Uther, begging him to please punish him instead and no Arthur. But the decision has been made. Arthur was prince no more, Arthur has been banished from the citadel.

Suprisinly, some knights offer to accompany Arthur in his exile, but Arthur only allows two to go with him: Sir Silfred (Uther's spy and is aware of Arthur and Uther's deal) and Sir Leon (who doesn't know anything about the deal) . Merlin, of course, goes with Arthur too, full of guilt for the turn of events. He can't help but notice Arthur is quite calm though, happy even. Like he's going on a trip rather than being exile and striped form his title forever.

Long story short, Arthur gets his dream of living in a farm with Merlin in a way. They do get a farm. Merlin uses his savings as servant to get what they need. At first Merlin is sad and doesn't want Arthur to do any hard work due to the guilt he feels for condeming Arthur to this life. He's also worried about what this turn of events will untile. Will Arthur ever get back his rightful place in the throne? Is destiny changed forever? But Arthur soon assures Merlin he doesn't blame him for anything and he even confesses him he used to have a dream like this, of becoming a farmer in a place who nobody knows him. Merlin stops feeling sad and worried and starts actually enjoy his time with Arthur away from the citadel.

Sir Silfred sends Uther reports on what Arthur and Merlin do and the king is displeased to find out Arthur is not suffering at all, on the contratry, he took this "exile" as a vacation trip! A honeymoon even! Though Sir Silfred vehemently clarifies in a letter: "Although there's clear tension and shows of affection between The Prince and his servant, they haven't done anything of lascivious nature, not even what they call a beak on the lips. It seems the boy is indeed inexperienced". Uther crumples up that letter and throws it away.

Two months pass. Merlin decides he'll tell Arthur about his magic. What's the point of hiding it now that Arthur is not a prince anymore. Uther is not his king. Merlin can tell him. When Merlin drags him away to speak alone, Arthur knows, he just knows Merlin is about to tell him. "Finally" he thinks, "Finally!". But just when Merlin is about to say the words, they get interrupted. The King has sent a search party for the prince. The King wants his prince back. Arthur curses inside. Merlin was so close to tell him! But he sighs and lets himself be scolted back to the citadel with Merlin, Leon and Silfred.

"We agreed on THREE months!" complains Arthur to Uther when they are alone in a room. "This was supposed to be a punishment, not a reward!" retorts Uther. Arthur reminds Uther that he has to let Merlin stay now, that was the deal. Uther recluntantly allows Merlin to stay, but he warns he won't tolerate more insurbodination from that boy.

When Arthur encounters Merlin again he's face with a furious Merlin. "YOU LIED TO ME! YOU MADE ME FEEL GUILTY FOR MONTHS! AND IT WAS ALL FAKE! I INVESTED ALL MY SAVINGS IN THAT FARM, YOU CLOTPOLE!" Arthur starts mumbling his apologies, tries to explain this was the only way his father would let him stay but then "I CAN'T BELIEVE I FELT BAD FOR PRETENDING TO FAINT"

"YOU PRETENDEND TO FAINT?!" exclaims Arthur angry now too and they fight. "NO, YOU DON'T GET TO BE OFFENDED. YOU LIED TO ME TOO!", "NO, THERE WAS A CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF THE LIES AND YOU LIED FIRST!". They shout at each other for a while, but soon they laugh of how ridiculous their fight is. They decide to call it even and Arthur promises he will give Merlin all his money back.

Arthur wants Merlin to have the lucky charm he was gifted by Anhora, so Merlin is protected in a way. "There is something a want you to..." but when Arthur looks for the bracelet, he can't find it. Then Arthur realises, he had achieved his goal: to make Uther spare Merlin's life and allow him to stay, so now the lucky charm is gone. However, Merlin is still waiting, so Arthur, drived by a sudden feeling, gives Merlin his mother sigil. It just felt right, to gift Merlin with this now. As in the other timeline, Merlin tries to give it back, but Arthur insists. "We were practically married for two months. It's just right that you have this". Merlin looks at him confused and blushing. "What... what do you mean?" the warlock asks, but Arthur just laughs softly and says "It would mean a lot to me that you have it, for that I only trust my most valuable treasures with my most valuable person". So Merlin finally accepts the gift.

The official version will tell that the King exiled his son and Prince because he was still ill when he woke up and gave his son his title back as soon as he regained his senses. However, It will be foretold by many minstrels and gossipers how the Prince of Camelot was so in love he gave up his title and run away with his servant. Which reinforces the rumors about how deadly and echanting the beauty and the ways of the unicorn catcher is.

...

With this I finally finished with series 1! 🎉🎉🥳🥳. This happened before the events of "To kill a King" and "La morte de Arthur" that are in earlier parts just so you know, so You can reread them if you like.

Hold yourself to what is coming in series 2! 😈

Tagging @aceauthorcatqueen , @fallenxjas , @smileytrinity ,@lucifertookmyshoe , @an-entity-i-think , @thecornerofbelu , @griffonskies , @odinjm , @cinnabon-sweetroll-tiramisu , @thelady-mary , @bennedict , @nightninjaboy , @st8-of-grace , @starrieisdelusional , @error-username-not-available , @dogberryrowan , @jamieweasley13 , @tansyuduri , @tercais , @robynnemrys , @evadne01 , @serasvictoria02 , @hairdryerducks , @hopeaha , @curiously-lazy , @harriettesthings , @andrealux16 , @wacko-weirdo , @greatdonutenemy , @yougottobekittenme , @anxiousosaurus , @kinkforwings , @someweirdassnamee , @impracticalantlers , @miyriu , @hobipabo , @whitemaskcd , @bogslob , @tkmaras , @rubinaitoart

[directdogman]

Dogman, how do you write SO WELL!?!? I love all your characters and I need to know what/where you find inspo from...

Ha. Every writer is just someone who apes the creative processes of their inspirations. For video game writing specifically, there's two answers for me.

Toby Fox is always gonna be a huge inspiration for me. I've written plots and characters before and had to abandon ideas after realizing I'd accidentally written part of UT again. Even some of the ideas I used were undeniably inspired by UT in a subconscious way and ofc, I included several explicit references to UT in my last series. Toby's a very clever guy who likely pays very close attention to the art he consumes and tries to figure out how to maximize how much his work connects with his audience. Whatever his process is, it works.

The other answer is a lil funnier: Scott Cawthon, but specifically the legend, not the man. For context: Back in the earlier days of the FNaF fandom, people had a hyper-inflated view of Scott Cawthon's writing skills that largely came from how little of a presence he had back in those days. In the vacuum of Scott actually explaining his own process in detail, people got caught up in his genuinely creative way of hiding exposition in his games using cryptid and (then) unexpected methods, and a narrative formed (one that he's since refuted.)

While he never implied it tmk, fans broadly believed that he constructed these sweeping and complex narratives with tons of cohesive moving parts, with the games essentially acting like the mere tip of his lore iceberg. People even thought he wrote so much that he had whole games worth of lore outlined from the beginning! In the first Dawko interview he gave, he clarified that this wasn't the case and explained roughly what his process was (basically just outlining rough theme ideas + aesthetics for future titles.)

However, that legend made younger-me's mind run wild and any time I wrote a story, it became very difficult for me to not keep writing down ideas while completing the grunt work that followed me finishing my scripts. When I finished DSaF 1, I already had DSaF 2's draft written and by the time 2 was done, I had enough lore for a 3rd game on paper (and a lot more stuff that I didn't use.) By the time three was out, I had pages upon pages of unused concepts/story ideas and more or less just had to decide to call it quits or else I'd be pumping out entries forever!

That's why if you go back to those older games, there's references that directly refer to future plot-points in pretty casual/easy to miss ways. (Like Henry's mention in DSaF 1, Dave being heartless in DSaF 2, Jack being soulless in 1, and even Blackjack being Jack's soul in 2. Most of 3's major plotpoints are implied somewhere in 2 and some of 2's in 1.)

DT is much the same. By the time I finished writing it, I had fairly detailed drafts for arcs for each of the characters, some early material ended up getting completely recontextualized (and even modified in small ways to not conflict with the wider ideas I came up with.)

I get really into writing my stories/characters and I always wonder exactly how things ended up where they are, what characters think about but don't say, etc etc. This is why I have an obscene amount of Crown lore that I have very little to do with rn (since he impacted the whole world so deeply.)

This extra stuff also includes plenty of sequel material ideas, though I didn't think I'd even get a chance to use them since DT performed pretty meagerly before the big release and I was expecting to have to move onto something new. Though it turned out that Scott didn't actually write his games this way (by his own admission), it's the correct answer for what my core writing inspiration for writing game narratives is.

Hope this helps!

[leviackermanscleaningbuddy]

SKZ DRABBLE-OT8

The one where love is a death sentence. And you've just stepped up to the chopping block. Or The Twenty Fifth Installment of the SKZ!Pack Prequel Series.

Tags: Skz, Stray kids, Stay, SKZ!Pack, SKZ!abo, Poly!skz, Pack!prequel, SKZ!Pack Prequel, OT8, Skz x you, Skz x reader, Ot8 x you, Ot8 x reader, femreader, Bang Chan, Lee Minho, Seo Changbin, Lee Felix, Han Jisung, Hwang Hyunjin, Kim Seungmin, Yang Jeongin, Y/N, Skz imagines, skz scenarios, skz reactions, skz drabble, skz fluff

Genre: Fluff

Title: Half Baked

You’ve never seen Chan this distraught. 

Granted, it’s not like you’ve known him your whole life or anything, but in all the time you have known him, Chan has always been the calm one-cool, collected, rational, level headed. 

This is not that. 

He flings open the door before you can even raise your fist to knock-you’d decided against using the pincode and letting yourself in, considering there was a very protective alpha on the other side-and when he sees you, his shoulders slump into some sort of exhausted relief. 

“Hey.” He breathes out, staring at you, fingers still gripped tightly around the lip of the omega’s door. 

You arch a brow and incline your head toward the interior of the dorm. “Can I come in there without you biting my head off?” 

He takes in a long, slow breath through his nose, and steps back a little from the open door with one quick jerk of a nod. “Yeah.” 

You step past him, and he’s true to his word, rooted to the spot, but your wolf doesn’t miss the way his jaw ticks as you pass, the way his nostrils flare, the almost death grip of his white knuckles as they tighten on the door. 

You retreat to the opposite side of the small couch for safety, and watch him warily as he closes and locks the door once more before turning to you. 

He takes a small step in your direction, and you tense without really thinking about it. 

Chan freezes, staring at you, and you notice the wild look to his eyes has diminished since he first saw you, but the alpha gold is present and vibrant as ever in his irises, swallowing any hint of his normal caramel.

He sighs again, and reaches up to rake an agitated hand through his messy hair. 

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes in a whisper, voice strangled, and your wolf keens sadly in response. 

You emerge from behind the safety of the couch, moving to stand in front of him. 

Surprise flashes across his haggard features, but he doesn’t move, staring at you, as you study his face. 

The man is tired, so is the wolf. 

You dare to reach up and run a finger beneath his jaw, swiping across his scent gland gently, and his chest caves in as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, then another.

“You don’t need to apologize.” You murmur back, watching him carefully, your fingers still playing around the oozing gland at his throat. 

The smell of storm is overwhelming. 

“I do though.” Chan says hoarsely, his eyes meeting yours, his bottom lip going between his teeth. “I basically kicked you and Minho out-” 

Your lips quirk up into the start of a small smile. “Yeah, well Minho was being an asshole, so I don’t blame you. He kind of deserved it.” 

Chan huffs out something that could’ve been a chuckle if his entire demeanor wasn’t so stiff and morose, and glances sidelong, past you to the darkness of the hallway. 

“Still, I don’t think my alpha has ever reacted this strongly to an omega’s heat before. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.” 

You place your palm flat against his gland, and he leans into your touch, as if he’s a dog seeking comfort from a familiar hand. 

“I think I have an idea.” 

Chan’s eyes flare with surprise, and his lips gap. 

You give him the hint of another small smile. “First off, I don’t think any of us have ever dealt with someone presenting before, so that’s an unknown that we weren’t really planning for. Secondly-” 

You pause, watching him carefully, gauging whether you think he’s ready to hear this. 

Better now than later. 

“Minho wasn’t just being an asshole, though he does that often enough that it wouldn’t surprise me if he were.” You give a little laugh, and then sober up again, staring up at Chan. “He was testing something.” 

Chan’s brows disappear into his hairline. “What?” 

“Yeah.” You nod. “And I told him he should never, ever be a scientist, but he kind of cemented something into place for us regardless.” 

Chan is staring at you, brow furrowed, expression confused. 

You take in another breath, and spit it out. 

“You’re a head alpha. And not just any head alpha, you’re our head alpha.” 

Chan is frozen, staring at you, expression unreadable, and you suddenly worry you’ve broken him. 

“Channie-” You start to say, reaching out for his hands now, as his chest heaves with a breath. 

“Oh my god.” He cuts you off, his voice little more than a shocked whisper beneath his breath. “It all fucking makes sense.” 

Well, he’s taking it better than you had expected. 

“Yeah.” You nod, squeezing his fingers between your own. “Sorry to drop that bomb on you right now, but I thought you needed to hear it, at least to put your mind at ease a little over your behavior.” 

Chan’s gaze raises to you, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Fuck, okay, I’m going to need more details on that later, but now-” 

His gaze flicks past you once more to the dark hallway, and you take in a steadying breath. 

“Yeah, okay. What can I do to help?” 

The alpha in front of you rakes another violent hand through his hair, and you can practically see the agitated wolf pacing beneath the surface of his twisted features.

“I don’t fucking know. I don’t-”  

You reach out and palm his gland again, and when he finally looks at you once more, you give him a serious, pointed look, your alpha surging forward now, ready to hear about the newest omega-your newest omega-in the other room. 

Suddenly, the scent of petrichor is being drowned out by the smell of freshly baked bread, crusted in cinnamon.

“Is Jeongin okay?” 

The wild look is back in Chan’s eyes, the gold molten, as he tears away from you to pace the length of the small room, movements agitated. 

“Yes? I don’t know. Everything happened so fast, but I didn’t- We didn’t-” 

You stare at him, trying to figure out what he’s trying to say, your wolf growling dangerously now. 

“You didn’t what-?” You pin him beneath your gaze, and Chan stops, reaching up to tug at the ends of his messy curls, expression frantic. 

The smell of storm is decaying, turning into something sour and rotten.

“He’s fucking miserable, (Y/N), but I couldn’t-” 

He stops again, and something clicks into place in your brain. Your irritated wolf backs down instantly, purring and chuffing in comfort to the clearly distressed alpha before you. 

“Channie-” You say softly, stepping toward him, trying to send soothing signals into the space between the two of you. 

Chan sighs, long and heavy, shoulders slumping once more, and stares at the floor beneath his sneakers, his hands clenched into fists at his side. 

“The kid’s never taken a knot before.” He sucks in a breath and glances up at you, eyes dark and serious. “And I know he’s an omega now and that his wolf biology is built for that or whatever, but fuck, that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of hurting him.” 

His chin drops back down to his chest, and his fingers clench at his sides, knuckles whitening. 

You step toward him, and wrap your arms around his waist, consequences be damned. 

“Baby.” You breathe, tilting your head to look up at him. “Look at me.” 

He does, lips pulled into a thin, tight line, stretched with worry. 

You can see the war behind his eyes, the struggle. 

Because Chan is worried about Jeongin, worried that it’s his first time, that he’ll be uncomfortable, and his alpha is worried about the new omega, worried that he’s suffering, that he needed a knot yesterday.

You smooth your palms down the sides of his neck, watch the way his chest rises and falls with an inhale, the way his muscles relax slightly beneath the wave you push forward of your own scent. 

“Did he ask you?” You question quietly, gaze intent on his own. 

His features fall a little, and he lets out another long, shuddering breath, a muscle in his jaw flexing slightly as he grinds his teeth. 

“I mean, yeah.” He admits in a murmur, his expression unsure now. “But I didn’t know if that was just a physical and emotional response to being so close to my alpha now that he’s presented, or if he actually knew what he was asking for.” 

“It’s probably both.” You admit gently, his eyes flicking up to your own, and you give him what you hope is the hint of a soothing smile. “However, maybe you just need to trust your gut and go with instinct this one time. Not overthink it.” 

Chan lets out a little sardonic cough, halfway to a chuckle, his eyes bitter. “Yeah, kind of a hard ask when it comes to me.” 

Your mouth tugs upward, and you reach up to trace a finger down the line of his nose, smoothing away the worried wrinkles currently residing between his eyes. 

“Channie.” 

When he looks at you once more, you cock your head and stare him down. 

“You already know, deep down, you’re not gonna hurt him. You’re going to be gentle and loving and careful and give him exactly what he needs. You and I both know you’d never do anything to endanger a member of this pack, right?” 

He parts his lips, as if to respond, but all that comes out is a huff of breath, as if he’s unsure how to answer your question. 

“Right?” You prod again, a little more sternly, and Chan finally nods, shoulders slumping forward in defeat. 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, so-” You let your hands smooth over his scent gland again, your palms sticky with the leaking pheromones, and tug your fingers up through his disheveled curls, tilting his chin to make him meet your gaze. “-go in there and help our omega.” 

Something resolves in Chan’s gaze, just a little, and he gives a tiny nod, lifting his chin, his gaze flickering past you and to the hallway beyond. 

“Okay.” He nods again, taking in a deep breath, chest rising and falling against your own. “Okay.” He repeats, more sure this time, glancing back down to you, a fire in the back of his eyes. “You’re right. I can do this.” 

“Good boy.” You grin, laughing slightly as he rolls his eyes. 

There’s the Chan you know. 

Something hesitant flickers across his gaze, and he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, looking anxious. “Fuck, why am I acting like a pup that doesn’t know what he’s doing? I don’t know why I’m so fucking nervous.” “Because you love him. And I know what that’s like.” You reply back with surety, so quickly that it takes the both of you off guard. 

The look of shocked surprise on Chan’s face probably mirrors your own. 

Because you do love Jeongin, have known it for awhile, and you know Chan knows that, but in this moment, you’re no longer talking about the newest omega down the hall, you’re suddenly talking about-

Chan stares at you, and you wish you could bite your tongue off. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He stares. 

You look away.

You clear your throat in the sudden silence, and inch back from him, straightening the hoodie he wears, if only to give your fingers something to do, your eyes somewhere else to focus. 

You give him an awkward little pat on the chest before you step away completely. 

“So, go get him, pretty boy.” 

You can feel Chan’s gaze still on you, can feel the start of something brewing at the tip of his tongue, the tension in the air between you, but you doggedly avoid eye contact, not giving him the chance, already headed for the door. 

“Text me when you’re done, yeah? I gotta get out of here, the smell of cinnamon is making my teeth ache.” 

Your hand is on the knob when Chan calls, “(Y/N).” 

You turn back slowly, already regretting the decision. 

He gives you the hint of a smile and a little wave of his fingers. 

“Thanks.” You nod, biting down on your own tongue, and leave the apartment and the smell of baked bread behind. 

******************

“God-” 

You throw another punch, your glove landing solidly in the middle of the bag. 

Thwack. 

“Fucking-” Another hit, another ripple of pain through your already abused knuckles. 

Thwack. 

“Dammit!” 

Your glove connects again, and this time you let it drop back to your side after the hit, breathing hard, chest heaving, sweat dripping down your brow, body numb. 

With a low whistle, Changbin appears at your side, brow arched and expression slightly amused, taking in your exhausted stance. 

“Fuck, girl, if I’d known you could go that hard, I would’ve brought you with me to the gym a lot sooner.” 

You give him a sidelong glare, reaching to pull the glove off your dominant hand, before you undo the other, dropping them to the mat at your feet, before you move on to ripping the tape off of your knuckles unceremoniously. 

“Don’t get used to it.” 

You don’t usually take Changbin up on his offers to hit the campus gym-preferring to stick to long distance running with Yeosang instead-but tonight, you’d needed something a little more than running. 

Your slip up with Chan last week-and your misstep and ensuing fight with Jeongin-had had your thoughts in knots since, your body tense, and fuck it all, you’d needed an outlet. 

So rather than unfairly deck Jisung in the face when he’d poured cold water over you in the shower earlier, you’d opted for going to the gym with Changbin, and the punching bag had been just what you needed. 

Changbin reaches down and picks up your discarded gloves, tossing them back into the recesses of his large gym bag, before he steps toward you and takes your hands in his, inspecting your knuckles. 

They’re already bruising, darkening to blue, and a little bit of the skin is split on your dominant hand, but other than that, you haven’t fared all that bad, especially considering you’d been going at it-hard-for more than an hour now. 

Changbin brushes his thumb over the split between your knuckles, and you let out a hiss between your teeth, his eyes meeting yours at the sound with another knowing arch of his dark brow. 

“Minho’s gonna be proud, considering how well you fared the first time you threw a punch against him.” 

You glare at him, pulling your hand from his grasp, as a slight smirk comes to his lips. 

“I didn’t have a glove the first time. It was spontaneous, a rage filled necessity. Minho knew he was egging me on, I just reacted. He was being a fucking dick, and I threw a punch, knuckles and proper form be damned.” 

“Right, right.” Changbin agrees with a little chuckle and a raise of his hands, ignoring your sour look in his direction, as he steps over to pick up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. 

His golden skin is glistening with sweat from his own workout, and if you weren’t in such a bad mood, you would’ve taken the opportunity to push him into the nearest locker room and lick it off, slowly and meticulously, but since you are in such a bad mood, you silently follow him down the stairs and out the front doors of the gym. 

It’s dark outside, and chilly, the sun having set hours ago, and you keep stride with Changbin easily, as you walk through the park and cut across the main field of campus, a shortcut of sorts, that will deposit you directly outside of the alpha dorms. 

As you walk, you can feel Changbin darting glances in your direction, but you ignore him, striding beside him in complete silence. 

Finally, he asks, “So, are you gonna tell me what brought all that on or-?” 

You violently kick a pebble off the edge of the path with the toe of your sneaker, listening to it rattle away amongst the trees in the darkness, and refuse to look at him, snarking back, “What? I can’t just enjoy a good boxing session every once and a while without some dark, sinister reason? Seems a little hypocritical, don’t you think?” 

Changbin clicks his tongue beneath his breath, dodging your warpath, as you kick another pebble into the trees, this one dangerously close to hitting his ankle. 

“I mean, yeah, you can, but you don’t.” You send another rock flying with a vehement curse under your breath. 

“Fucking hell, dude, just drop it, would you?” 

He pivots to walk in front of you, walking backward so he can stare at you, his brow furrowed into the start of a dangerous scowl, eyes dark and flashing with warning. 

“Fucking talk to me like that again, dude, and I’ll drop you.” 

You don’t back down an inch, glaring right back at him and walking quicker, closing the distance between the two of you. 

“Try it, I dare you. I just spent an hour improving my aim and force, and I’m dying to actually apply it in real life.” 

He holds your glare for another moment, a muscle ticking with annoyance in his strong jaw, and then he sighs with exasperation, stopping in front of you so you have to stop too, lest you run smack dab into his broad chest. 

Actually, that probably wouldn’t be so bad. 

He stares at you, his hands going to his hips, like he’s a mother-or Minho-getting ready to tell you off, and then he blows out another breath past his teeth, his shoulders slumping, as he admits with softened irritation, “You’re infuriating, you know that?” 

You feel the muscles in your body relax, if only just a bit, and your glare softens minutely at his obviously candid words. 

“So I’ve been told.” 

He glances up at the dark sky over your heads, the moon rising over the stark branches of the trees, and then back to you, before he says, “You know your scent has been whacked out all week right? Ever since Jeongin’s presentation.” 

Your shoulders tense, but you start to accept defeat under his scrutiny, letting out a long sigh of your own in response. 

“I know.” You finally acquiesce, voice slightly bitter, your words dropping off, as you glance back down at the ground, scuffing your sneaker along the sidewalk, wishing for another rock. 

Changbin steps closer, you see his converse kiss the toes of your own, and then his fingers find your chin, tilting your gaze back to meet his own, eyes dark and gentle. 

“Talk to me, baby.” 

You blow out another harsh breath. “I think-” You start, before stuttering off again, a sudden lump in your throat. 

You nip your bottom lip between your teeth and will yourself not to cry. 

Changbin reaches out, freeing the skin from your grip, before he thumbs your lip softly, tracing the skin with his touch. 

“You think-?” He pushes gently, eyes locked on your own, expression intent. 

You swallow thickly, and glance up at the sky above you, counting stars silently to keep your emotions in check. 

Fuck it, you might as well just tell him. 

“I think I told Chan something, inadvertently, that maybe fucked up our relationship forever.” You give a sardonic little laugh, one that lacks all humor, and shrug helplessly. “You know me and my big mouth. And then, of course, the whole thing with Jeongin-” You sigh. “Ive fucked up-probably irrevocably-two of my most important relationships in the last week.” 

Changbin’s gaze narrows in on you, and you can see him processing, going over things in his mind, reviewing the week back, looking for clues. 

“Have you talked to Chan about it?” He asks you finally, and you’re glad he hasn’t asked you what it was that you said. 

You don’t think you could repeat it again. 

‘Love. I know what that feels like.’ 

“I’ve been avoiding him.” You admit quietly, your gut churning into knots at just the thought of seeing Chan, at having to talk to him about what you’d admitted. 

Changbin takes your hands in his, thumbs brushing carefully over the sore, swollen skin of your knuckles, and when he speaks, his voice is gentle, but firm, “That’s the first step then. And we all need to make reparations with Jeongin. But I think you know all that already.” 

You swallow, before you nod reluctantly. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

He gives you the hint of a soft smile, and pulls you with him as he begins walking again, hand still firmly in his own. 

“C’mon. Let’s go home. Minho-hyung’s gonna wanna look at those knuckles.” 

**************

You: Hey.  Innie: Hey.  You: Can we talk?  Innie: Yeah……cafe @ 12?  You: I’ll be there. 

You’re not sure what to expect when Jeongin slides into the booth opposite you, dropping his backpack with a thud and turning to you expectantly, albeit a little shyly. 

God, he’s pretty. 

His fiery red hair is tucked beneath a baseball cap today, a thick, wool cardigan hanging off his shoulders, a woven bracelet you vaguely remember Jisung making tied around his small wrist. His nails are painted a dark navy, matching the mood of the oncoming winter outside.

The scent of warm bread fills your nose as he leans toward you slightly, and your jaw aches in response, saliva pooling beneath your tongue. 

“Hi.” He says without preamble, large dark eyes on your own. 

You swallow and take in a deep breath through your mouth.

“Hey.” 

It sounds lame, flat, a placeholder for what you should be actually saying. 

You take in another breath and jump in without preamble. 

“Look, Jeongin, I am so fucking sorry-” 

His lips quirk slightly, catching you off guard, and he sits back, looking more relaxed now. 

“Yeah, I know, noona.” 

Your words die in your throat, and you stare at him, openly shocked. 

“You do?” 

“Yeah.” He shrugs, giving you a grin now, white teeth flashing. “Chan-hyung told me all about it. You know, after-” His words stumble to a halt, and his cheeks flush a deep red. 

Fucking adorable. 

You clear your throat. “Okay, well, I just need you to know though, that you’ve always been a part of this pack, from the moment we met you, but we just couldn’t figure out how to be around you when you weren’t-” 

“Presented.” Jeongin finishes for you easily, his brow quirking upward. “Yeah, noona, I get it now. It’s okay.” 

Your body relaxes slightly, and you let out the breath you’ve been holding, sinking back into the booth behind you. 

“Yeah?” “Yeah.” Jeongin nods back resolutely, his expression open and understanding. “It hurt, before, because I didn’t get it, but now, I do.” His dark eyes flash with affection. “You guys were just trying to protect me. I see that now. Seriously.” 

Your alpha hums contentedly in your chest in response. 

“Fuck.” Your shoulders slump with relief. “We went about it really stupidly, Innie, but I swear we were.” 

He gives you a half smile, his lips curling up, and a wave of spiced cinnamon has your gut clenching with need. 

“It’s okay, noona. Really.” 

Might as well continue with the honesty, right? 

“Innie-” You let the words die on your tongue as his eyes meet yours, large, and dark, and completely vulnerable. You swallow and ask, like a coward, instead, “-are you feeling okay? You know, after everything?” 

His cheeks flush a subtle pink again, and he looks away, tapping his fingers on the table between you in an awkward sort of stiletto. 

“Yeah-” He gives a half little shrug, and you see his throat bob with a swallow. “-I mean, I guess? I don’t really know how I’m supposed to be feeling right now. I’ve never done this before.” You reach out, stilling his fingers by placing your palm over his hand, and when he finally looks at you once more, you give him a soft, comforting smile, squeezing his hand in your own. 

His skin is warm, soft and familiar beneath your hold. 

“It’s okay, Innie. We’ve all been there. It’s overwhelming at first.” 

“That’s an understatement.” He gives a little snort, rolling his eyes. “I swear to god I’ve never been this aware of how people smell in my entire life.” 

With a jolt, you realize that you’re probably being really overwhelming right now, this close to him, touching him, your alpha pheromones oozing from every pore in an attempt to soothe the agitated omega before you. 

“Oh, shit, I didn’t even think-” You start, pulling your hand from his grasp, but his fingers clench down on your own, his brow furrowing instantly. 

“No, not you!” He blurts out, almost in a panic, and you freeze. He clears his throat, blushing again, and then repeats quietly, “Not you, noona.I like how you smell. I like how everyone in the pack smells.” 

Your body relaxes once more, and you give him the hint of a smile as you reposition your hand over his. 

“Oh, okay. That’s good. Great, even.” 

“It is?” Jeongin questions curiously, before he lifts an arm, taking a sniff of his sweater, his large eyes flashing back up to your own, alight with innocence. “Do I smell good to you guys then too?” 

As if his body reacts to his own question, you catch a fresh wave of cinnamon and yeast, heady and strong, and your fingers tighten around his own on instinct, your jaw suddenly clenched, aching and expectant. 

You breathe out slowly through your nose, and relax your fingers one by one. 

“Yeah-” You get out through gritted teeth. “-you could say that.” 

Your alpha is begging you to pounce on the omega in front of you-all too big eyes and small frame, wrapped up prettily in an oversized sweater-but you force down the instinct, breathing out slowly instead, counting to ten silently in your head as Jeongin watches you expectantly. 

“Noona?” He asks, a little hesitantly, and you’d bet that his omega is doing something weird, maybe alarming, in response to your obvious reaction. 

“Sorry.” You shake your head to clear your thoughts, and give him a strained smile, clearing your throat. “Yeah, you smell really good to us too, Innie. It’s a pack thing, a biology thing. Especially between alphas and omegas. Nature wants us to find each other enticing, so omega scents are specifically designed to appeal to alphas and vice versa.” 

“Oh.” He simply replies, looking thoughtful now, as if he’s digesting what you’ve told him. 

“Anyway-” You glance at the clock on the wall behind his head, noting the time and how long you’ve both been sitting at the booth now. “-I have a lab I need to get to, but it’s on the way to the omega dorms if you’re done for the day and wanna walk with me?” 

Jeongin’s eyes light up and he grins, nodding rapidly, as he reaches for his backpack and scoots out of the booth. 

“I’d like that.” 

You follow him out of the small, warm cafe, the winter air nipping at your nose as you step outside, slinging your own bag over your shoulder, your hands going into the pockets of your coat for warmth. 

Jeongin pulls a scarf from his bag and tucks it around his neck with difficulty, the brisk wind whipping at the knitted fabric. 

Without a thought, you step forward and bat his hands away teasingly, wrapping the scarf securely around his throat a few times, before you tuck the loose ends down into the heavy fabric of his cardigan. 

“There.” You say firmly, finishing and looking down at him, making sure he’s completely covered. “Better?” 

Jeongin stares up at you, wide, dark eyes lined with incredibly long lashes, the end of his pert nose already turning red from the cold, face tucked into the folds of the scarf. 

“Yeah.” He breathes out, still staring up at you, his breath clouding in the cold air, and not for the first time, you have the fleeting thought that Jeongin looks good enough to eat. 

Bread bakes between the two of you without warning, and you clear your throat, telling yourself to step back, but you can’t physically make your feet move, fingers still clenched on the soft fabric of Jeongin’s scarf. 

“Fuck, don’t look at me like that.” You choke out, not able to stop yourself, glancing around to see if anyone has noticed the two of you, frozen on the sidewalk in front of the campus cafe. 

No one is around.

You don’t know if that’s incredibly fortunate, or incredibly dangerous.

“Noona?” He questions softly, and your eyes flick back to his own. 

“Yeah?” 

He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and chews it, staring up at you, and everything inside of you is begging you to free the delicate, plump, pink skin. 

His cheeks are red, and you don’t know if it’s from the proximity, or from the frigid air. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

You hold your breath. “Of course.” 

He glances away, suddenly looking nervous. “Do you-” He takes in a shaky breath, and bravely meets your gaze once more. “-I mean, would you-?” 

You know what he’s asking, even without the words. 

Taking a step closer to him, your shoes butting against his own, you put a finger beneath his chin and angle his gaze upward, and you’re so close now, your lips are almost brushing, the warmth of Jeongin’s breath fanning across your tongue. 

You can almost taste the bread. 

“Yes, little pup. I would.” You murmur, words husky, voice dropping into a touch of alpha timber in response to his body against your own, his omega practically begging for your alpha just beneath the surface of his gaze. 

He sucks in a sharp breath as you let your thumb brush across the seam of his lips. 

“However, if I kiss you now, baby boy, I don’t think I’d be able to stop anytime soon.” 

His body shivers, and you can tell it’s not from the cold, and fuck, you really want to skip your lab, but-

You thumb his bottom lip once more, letting the skin drag beneath your touch, before you pull back. 

“And I want to take my fucking time, so-” You tug his collar and scarf up around his throat once more, bundling him for the walk back to the dorms. 

His eyes are hazed, pupils dark and blown, as you give him a little smirk. 

“-later, hm, pup?” 

He nods eagerly, and your alpha chuffs approvingly in response.

“Good boy. Now c’mon, let’s get you out of this cold.” 

*****************

“You can’t avoid him forever, you know.” 

Jisung tosses another handful of popcorn into his mouth beside you on the couch, eyes trained on the TV where a badly made action movie is currently playing. 

You don’t look at him as you query back innocently, “Who?” 

He snorts, stuffing more popcorn into his already puffed cheeks. 

“Chan-hyung.” 

“I’m not avoiding him.” You reply back a little too quickly, clearly a lie, your eyes stilling on the page you’ve been doggedly reading for the last half an hour. 

Jisung snorts again. “Yeah, okay, and I’m not fucking Minho-hyung.” 

“Ew.” You shove his shoulder, and he totters, steadying the popcorn bowl at the last moment so it doesn’t dump its contents all over said hyung’s couch. 

He gives you a glare, throwing a popcorn kernel at your head, and missing by a margin. 

“Well, it’s true! I’m just saying, noona-” His words become muffled as he shoves another handful of popcorn into his waiting mouth, glancing at the movie once more. “-ever’one knows you’re being weird all the sudd’n.” 

“Yeah, okay, well-” You shut your book a little bit harder than necessary, tossing it aside as you stand. “-when I want advice from you, Han Jisung, I’ll ask for it.” You lean over him obnoxiously, blocking his view of the TV, as you take a large handful of his popcorn and shove it into your mouth, chewing loudly as you stare him down. 

“Hey!” He protests, jerking the popcorn out of your reach violently, as you straighten and give him one last pointed look, gathering up your homework. 

“I’m only trying to help!” He calls out as you turn to leave the living room, flipping him off over your shoulder without looking back. “Just looking out for you, noona!” 

He goes up on his knees on the couch, cupping his hands around his mouth, as if it’ll make him louder, and you can’t hear him just beyond the doorway. 

“Considering, you know, that he’s here right now and all!” 

His words don’t register for a moment, and when they do, it’s already too late, considering you’ve just rounded the corner into Minho’s kitchen and caught sight of both he and Chan sitting, deep in conversation, at the small table. 

You come to a dead stop, your stomach instantly dropping out of your shoes, and they both look up at your entrance, Minho arching a brow at what you’re sure is clear, unfiltered panic crossing your face. 

His lips curve into the hint of a knowing smirk.

“Ah, sweetheart. We were just talking about you.�� 

Shit. 

[agroteraa]

I Wanna Be Your Dog

Oliver Quick x f!Reader

My fic masterlist

Summary: Oliver's memories of one of the evenings at Oxford, where you began getting closer. And a night in Saltburn, where you try to be dominant with him.

Actaeon series spin-off, taking place between Artemis and The Wrath of the Stag.

Warnings: smut, dom!Reader, sub!Oliver, switching, oral, penetration sex.

Word Count: 2,8K

It was another spring party at Oxford. All the young people were chatting cheerfully with bottles and glasses in their hands in the slightly dim light of the dormitory's common room. Felix and Oliver were almost lying relaxed on the couch and had been silent for some time.

“Now, can you eenie, meenie India or Annabel, and take one fucking home? Because they look miserable,” Oliver suggested softly.

“Eenie, meenie, miny, moe. Catch a tiger by his toe. If he squeals, let him go. Er..." Felix seemingly forgot the text of the counting-out rhyme, but decided to finish it as soon as possible and make a choice anyway, "You're out, boy scout!"

The choice fell on Annabelle. He happily pecked Oliver on the cheek in gratitude, which made him grin widely. Oliver liked being praised. Especially by those who were important to him. Felix quickly jumped up from the sofa and, lightly slapping the contented girl on the ass, and went off with her upstairs.

“Well, what the fuck, mate? I’ve been chirpsing her for about an hour. I wanted at least a hand job...” the guy Annabelle left said in disappointment.

An hour. What did he know about waiting. How about almost a whole year, mate? Oliver smiled indulgently to himself. And anyway, how shallow that guy thoughts and desires were.

“I know. We all want a fucking handjob, mate. Get yourself a title and a massive fuck off castle.”

That where it was hard to argue. A title and a massive fuck off castle had never harmed anyone in life yet.

"Hey, here I am! And where is Felix?.." you were surprised when you returned from your dorm room and sat back down on the sofa, only this time next to Oliver alone.

"I don't know really," he shrugged, smiling, "I think he’s decided to go have some fun on his own."

"Hmm," you pursed your lips, not really surprised, but still, deep down, a little upset that Felix was acting like that again. You guessed where and why he might have gone, but decided not to focus on that thought right now. Besides, you'd already poured another bottle of your drink into yourself. There was some silence in the air. Before that, you had fun talking to the guys, mostly Felix, and you had never been alone with Oliver for long, especially at parties. You clenched your bottle tightly like a social lifebuoy.

Oliver was even beginning to interest you a little, just a little, but you still had no idea what and how to talk to him in private. He still seemed more like Felix's shadow. But at the same time, being face-to-face for at least a short time, you felt like you had to tell Oliver something meaningful, something deep... as if you should be giving away to him some of your secrets. You were vaguely disturbed by this feeling, as now you were just in the mood for small talk only.

"Um... so… how’s your study going?" you asked, not knowing where else to start a new separate conversation with him besides studying.

"Pretty well," he replied a little awkwardly, embarrassed by your close presence himself. Before that, Felix separated you on the couch, but now he wasn’t a bother anymore. Oliver definitely liked this intimacy, even though he was obviously not used to it yet. But one gets used to the fine things quickly. And Oliver was greedy for all the new truly fine things in his life.

"And yours?"

"Yeah, too," you took a small sip from the bottle, trying not to look him in the eye. At the same time, because you felt awkward and because these blue eyes have been looking at you so piercingly lately, as if they were drilling right into your soul. You couldn't tell if it was embarrassing for you, or if it was some other kind of excitement. Maybe both.

"And what about yours..." Oliver was interrupted by one of Felix's many friends, Chad, who plopped down on the arm of the sofa next to you.

"Hey, Y/N! I finally got to the party on your campus! How are you?"

"Oh, Chad! It's been a long time, it’s like you've disappeared somewhere. Have you really been studying so hard lately?" you both laughed loudly at this very bold assumption of yours. You continued to communicate, actively exchanging the latest news. Over time, you felt guilty a little. You turned to Oliver and smiled at him. He smiled back understandingly. His face visibly saddened when you turned back to the blond guy. He began to examine the empty bottom of his plastic cup, twirling it slightly in his hands. How should he get Y/N's attention? He didn't know. He had to come up with a plan. What would he do, what should he say, so that you…

"Hey, Oliver! Did you have any classes with Mr. Wharton?" you asked with interest, involving him in your conversation. He exhaled a little as he realized that you weren't leaving him in the middle of this party, where he felt like a stranger without Felix and you. You looked at him with a warm smile, and something inside him finally clicked and fell into place.

"Er, yeah... that oddball. He constantly comes up with fruit analogies for everything and even sometimes speaks on their behalf while holding them in hands."

"Ah, have you seen that too?! Y/N, I told you, he's an old weirdo! Only you are attending the wrong classes!" exclaimed Chad, and you all laughed merrily. The conversation was going well, and Oliver was incredibly happy about it. He didn't feel lonely anymore because of you.

But in return, some feelings that he had only vaguely suspected until this moment began to awaken inside him. You didn't stop drinking, and at some point, Chad put his arm around you and started lightly stroking your back. You giggled without giving it much thought, especially under the influence of alcohol. But Oliver saw perfectly well how Chad looked more and more into your eyes, lowering his gaze to your lips and lightly licking his own. It was very subtle, but Quick noticed it all. The way his hand keeps stroking your back, gripping you tighter and tighter. Oliver saw it all perfectly well, because he wanted to be in that place himself.

No, rather, he didn't really want to. He had long imagined your first kiss when you were fully conscious, willing and not under the influence of some alcohol, when you were too much mellow-minded. And he wouldn't let your kiss with Chad happen now, in this state, nor ever.

Sometimes it seemed you and him were very different. He could see through everything, and sometimes it was like you notice none of what you really should. How could you not understand that this Chad wanted to take you upstairs just like Felix did with Annabel?

You were kind and open, maybe even too friendly, oh, Y/N. Oliver was drawn to you like a moth to a fire. You were quite a complete and content person in your own right, and this was very attractive to the many-faced Oliver, who was still struggling to find a place in this life, especially here, in his first year at Oxford.

And it seems that he began to realize that he had found his place next to you. And he wanted to take this place like a guard dog, protecting it and you from all the adversity and guys like Chad.

You didn't forget about Oliver and wanted him to feel fine and less lonely, even hardly knowing him, even having so many friends and acquaintances here, even in the midst of fun of the party. You showed towards him attention and care.

Yeah, he would like to be your dog, he thought now.

Fortunately, you got up soon, freeing yourself from Chad's embrace and going to the bathroom. Great. Oliver had been carefully observing the situation in the common room all this time, so he immediately got up from the sofa and sauntered into the common kitchen, where India was smoking, still slightly displeased that Felix had not chosen her.

"How’s the party? " Oliver asked politely, grabbing a can of beer from the fridge.

India rolled her eyes, twirling a cigarette in her fingers, "What do you need?"

"Me? Nothing. But that guy has been looking at you half the evening without stopping," he nodded towards Chad and winked, "Just saying."

"Isn't he hanging out with Y/N?"

"No, he doesn't sleep with his buddy Felix's old friends. So, the way is clear."

"Oh, are they friends with Felix?" India narrowed her eyes. That was good, she needed some male attention right now, especially from those whom Catton Jr. might become jealous of. Thus, the girl went off towards her chance.

When you had returned to the common room, you saw Chad and India flirting with each other on the couch, and the girl did not let go of her hands off him. Okay. That was unexpected, but okay, it was a student party, after all. You shrugged your shoulders and started thinking about where you could sit now.

"Everyone seems to be having fun with each other tonight," Oliver, who happened to be next to you, shrugged sympathetically. Indeed, everyone around was busy with their own lively conversations, and someone was already far from just "talking".

"To singles?" he offered a playful toast, and you agreed with a grin, "Apparently so!"

"Cheers!" you clinked your drinks, continuing to talk a little more relaxed with each other. So, that how you started getting closer from that evening, and you began getting to know the real Oliver. At least that was what you thought at the time. He looked at you with a shy smile of a complete adoration as you were telling your stories full of joy and tipsy giggling. His eyes were shining like two starry sapphires at that moment.

If a guard dog wants to protect the peace of its owner and scare away other dogs, then it must inspire fear itself. Maybe sometimes not very intentionally, but instill just a little fear and sense of power even to its own master. Oliver wanted to be a good guard dog.

He would take this place next to you.

* * *

And he took it.

Now he was hovering over you, pinning you between his arms, leaning on your bed in your bedroom in Saltburn. It was the middle of the night, and finally not a single one inhabitant of this house could bother you right now.

Oliver thought all day about how he would continue his way with you at night, along the way remembering the evening of that party in Oxford, where you finally began to get closer. He looked down at you rapturously, biting his lip and breathing heavily, still not believing that all this was really happening. Not just right now, but in general, everything.

His blue eyes were gleaming with utter delight in the dim.

"What else does my sweet Y/N want?" Oliver asked you, recovering his breathing.

He bent lower, and a chain dangled from his neck, swaying slightly. The metal heated by the warmth of your bodies tickled your lips slightly. You lifted your head and gently but firmly catching the chain with your lips.

"Mm-hmm," Quick mumbled with curiosity. You smiled, gritting the chain with your teeth and began to shake it slightly from side to side. He opened his lips excitedly, inhaling sharply.

"Am I your doggie today? Oh, I'm more than willing to be, sweetheart," he said in his deep sexy accent.

He wanted to add "now and always," but didn't. Oliver was afraid that if he showed how willing he was to obey you, he would lose your interest. He was used to changing masks, adapting to different situations and someone's needs. He was an awkward and shy nerd when you first met, and that was largely true, because of his deep core nature and the new posh environment at Oxford. Fortunately, he had successfully joined Felix's company and was able to relax a little. And here in Saltburn, he almost felt like the master of the situation.

If you wished, he would always be that sweet, shy and awkward guy for you, if only you were truly happy about it. But he had learned that he interested and intrigued you mostly when he showed a more powerful, dominant and somewhat even dark part of himself. And that made him really pleased, because you viewed him the way he hoped to be in his own deep wildest dreams.

And yet, he still wanted to be your dog, an obedient dog who would do anything for you. In a sense, he was. And today he decided to demonstrate you that in more obvious way.

"What do you want me to do? I'm all yours," he leaned back next to you, belly up. Oliver smiled playfully. Right now, he was a tiger who had been caught by the toe with his own permission.

Biting your lip, you straddled him, sitting on his thighs. After enjoying this view, you ran your hand from his navel, sliding your fingers up the groove between his prominent muscles. Oliver exhaled sharply. You stopped at his neck, grabbed his chain, and pulled him to you. Now the guy was in a sitting position, he looked at you adoringly while his hands slid over your waist.

Without letting go of one hand from the chain, you slowly rose and began to descend on his cock. Oliver hissed with satisfaction, "Yes, my dear, just like that..."

"I didn't let you talk," you pulled the chain slightly, smiling slightly.

"Oh," he said in surprise, but gladly began to obey you, nodding in agreement.

You began to move slowly on his things, while Oliver's strong hands supported you with ease, guiding you, leaving hot prints on your skin.

His hands were all over you as his lips feverishly kissed everything they could reach. Finally, he reached for your lips, covering them with a hot kiss full of saliva, admiration and arousal.

When you broke the kiss, you said, a little hesitantly, but still firmly enough, "Take your hands off, next time you touch me when I tell you."

Oliver smiled enthusiastically – you learned quickly from his example, apparently. He liked the hint of his own power and dominance reflected on himself now through you.

He obeyed your request, although it was getting harder to fulfill it by every passing minute. He wanted to touch you again, guide your body and push it harder on his hard needy cock. It became unbearable after a while, and he whined a little. He looked at you a little pleadingly, but you nodded no.

He kissed your breasts again, but in response he got "Do not touch at all."

"Only I can now," with these words, you ruffled his hair and pressed harder against his shoulders. He groaned at the inability to touch you at all, it was a new sensation, or rather, its absence.

You grabbed his hair, and he put his head closer, burying it in your hand. It was the only chance to touch you in any way. Oliver closed his eyes and inhaled noisily through his nose. He didn't even mind if you squeezed his hair even harder, hell, maybe even poked his face into the sheet, where he would inhale the scent of your arousal. If you had forced him to lick it off, he would have willingly obeyed, as long as you continued to press his face to the bed, clutching his dark curls. He even imagined doing the same with the bathtub you were lying in lately. In his bathroom. This thought turned Oliver on even more.

Degrading him, talking him down, pulling his hair or chain harshly - he would not always like to be in this role, but he would like to give you that opportunity from time to time. If only you'd asked. And even if you hadn't asked. Because it was you. And because he was like that.

Reaching the peak almost at the same time, you dug your nails into his back deeply, which made Oliver's eyes darken slightly and starry at the same time. With a pleased moan, you released your grip and sank down onto the pillows. But that wasn't all of it, and you decided to play the role given to you to the very end.

Clutching his soft dark hair, you moved his head to your thighs. He looked back at you with hazy from own rapture eyes.

"Please," you said softly, still not being able to be dominant enough. But this sweetness and dissimilarity from his own, even in a situation where you could and should do it, but asking instead, drove Oliver crazy to his limit. He attacked you with a growl, delivering all the pleasure he could possibly give to you that night.

* * *

Oliver was lying with his arms around your lower back, his head resting on your stomach. Quick looked faithfully into your eyes. His face reflected the moonlight of the deep quiet night that was now in Saltburn.

You stroked and scratched him behind the ear, he rubbed his nose contentedly against your smooth belly skin.

"Is my mistress happy?"

"Yes," you laughed, starting to play softly with his hair.

"Then I am happy too," he said, closing his eyes and rubbing his cheek against your soft belly, "Now and always."

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 2)

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

​GIF: Originally posted by @harleytudinous

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Threat. Dream manipulation. Masturbation. Voyeurism. Plot related cigarette use. Dubious consent.

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: So I know I initially billed this as a two shot but the story has run away with me in the most lovely way. Part 3 will be coming soon. Thank you for all your kind responses to part 1, it honestly means so much to me. Hope you enjoy this one too. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

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

The veil of sleep comes down upon your weary body with a feather-light touch, trying to coax your mind back into the world of dreams.

Dreamscapes have been a whole new experience for you in the past month of your life. Before, you would wake with no recollection of what had played out. Not even the slightest inkling. Now, you remember everything.

They are staggering; bursting with details and ideas beyond your most outlandish daytime imaginings. The emotions that are conjured by them, both when asleep and also awake are just as bold.

And even though it's been 23 nights since it started you are still finding them predominantly jarring and disorientating. You are baffled by how other people cope with the sheer vividness. The unpredictability. Maybe they have become desensitised. You can only hope that the same will happen for you in time.

One thing you tell yourself with each sunrise:

Thank goodness they weren't nightmares.

At least, you don't think they are. There's no resemblance between yours and what you have heard others describe over the years, nor to those outlined in a dream decoding book you had checked out of the library last week. There's no obvious threat or fear. No re-living of traumatic events. Just weird subtext.

The first dream found you standing barefoot on a beach. A mirage distorted the particulars of the scene making it impossible to see further than half a meter in front of you. The temperature of the sand under your soles was verging on painful and as such, it forced you to walk into the unknown before you.

A groaning wind started to brew and lifted the sand into sparkling flurries. You shielded your eyes from the abrasive particles.

The sun was at its apex when you heard the ear splitting bangs. Unmistakably gun shots; you didn't last much longer in the dream and woke with a start.

For the next week, your dreams had been like a series of video clips edited into a supercut.

Raven wings. Black cats. Hellfire. Ruby red glow. Sprawling library shelves. Landscapes hewn by earthquake fissures. Hotel corridors. A handsome, blond haired man wearing sunglasses, holding a blood covered knife.

If you didn't know any better, you would begin to suspect that your new box of tea bags had been laced with a psychedelic. Alas, no. Your hypothesis was unequivocally disproved when you friends had been completely unaffected after stopping by for a Sunday afternoon catch up.

This quick fire of snapshots eventually stopped, transforming into lucid long form dreams. You often think back to the first one where it happened.

Standing in the the empty room, and the appearance of the figure dressed in black. The colour that had flashed in their midnight eyes had the quality of liquid silver. Sometimes you wonder if you see the same image in other dreams, standing in amongst a crowd.

From that point on, regardless of what dream you are in, you cannot shake the intuitive prickle down your spine that tells you someone is watching you.

You reason that it is nothing to be concerned about. Humans dream, and you cannot deny that some of them - swimming in a sea of clouds, re-visiting childhood haunts, trying out superpowers - have been quite fun.

You roll over on to your left side and close your eyes.

You dream.

The room you see is expansive in breadth and depth. Impressive windows bring brilliant light into the space which bounces off the ivory stone of the floors and walls. There are statues positioned at equidistant intervals, implying that the chamber is a gallery of sorts.

One effigy, fashioned from bronze, and rich in colour draws your attention. The lines and curves of its form intrigue you, despite not knowing the creature it was portraying.

You are about to move on when the feeling of being watched sparks through your skeleton.

Everything changes.

Clarity gives way to haze. Sun is swapped for moon.

You see a man across the room. He stands with a perfect posture. Graceful, powerful. His elbows are bent, fingers interlaced, palms facing upwards. Sheer black fabric floats around his frame. It moves languidly, giving glimpses of his bare body beneath.

The man's face is imperceptible. The distance between you too great but somehow you know you are the focus of his attention.

His robes fall to the floor with a gossamer sigh. The pale, unmarked skin of his slight form glows beautifully in the moonlight. You look down in embarrassment as arousal flushes through you, and you see that you are suddenly as naked as he is.

You gasp, and snap your gaze back up.

The sight you see is rather unexpected. The man is intimately touching himself.

You feel compelled to mirror him. You immediately reach between your legs. The man groans as you make contact.

All it takes is a little bit of attention on your clit before you are ready to slide two fingers into your core. The noise you make at the feeling of the stretch is salacious. The man echoes you with a sound that is just as dirty.

It spurs you on and you burrow deeper.

You curl your fingers until your legs are weak and quivering. You long to sink to your knees so you can finish in a more comfortable position yet you can't. An invisible force is preventing you.

It keeps you on display.

Just like the statues to your left.

You wonder if it is for the man's benefit.

You try to focus on him but it is impossible to do so through the trembling glaze over your eyes. All you are able to sense from him now is the sound of the rhythmic pump of his palm around his cock and his panting breaths.

Desperate whines escape your lips. You are teetering on the edge of an orgasm but you can't seem to lose your balance and fall into the abyss. The unsteadiness in your legs is too much of a distraction. You rub at your clit again in the hope that it will bring the satisfaction you need.

It does nothing.

You are so frustrated by your body's disobedience that it is almost painful.

"Please. Please. Please," you mutter under your breath.

A voice suddenly speaks next to you ear. A velvet voice with the timbre of a thunder rumble. It pours like a soothing syrup into your brain and commands you to do exactly as it bids.

"Let go."

You climax intensely, crying out in relief, squirting all over your fingers and onto your hand as you legs finally give way.

The fall jolts you back into consciousness and you wake with a barely contained scream of pleasure in your throat and adrenaline lighting up your nervous system.

Daylight is peeking through a little gap in the curtains. You take a deep, grounding breath.

That was obscene.

The context, the actions, the sounds. That sultry voice at the end. From the throbbing in your vulva and the twitching of your legs it seems like you didn't just finish in the dream.

There is really no point in looking it up in the dream decoding book.

You were clearly horny on a subconscious level. Or craving attention, hence the exhibitionist behaviour. The latter is not usually in your nature to seek out but if it is the reason, you might not have to wait long before the desire is fulfilled. There is a work event happening this evening that may require you to accept an award and address the crowd.

You love this time of year where community projects get recognition; a nomination alone is a sure-fire way of garnering publicity which in turn helps the charity's outreach.

But first, a normal day at the office. You throw back the covers and go straight to the bathroom to rinse off the evidence of your wet dream.

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

Your right hand connects with the metal push plate of the function space's front door. The heels of your boots click and clack as you cross the threshold, moving from floor board to paving slab.

It's fortuitous that you brought a long, thick coat with you this evening for the wind is wintery and unforgiving. You stay close to the wall of the building to try and shelter from it as much as possible.

The pavements are slick with recent precipitation, streetlamps bouncing off of the water with caustic white light.

Then you see him; a figure cut from shadow.

He's breathing in such a laboured way that you wonder if he is sick.

Your phone is still inside the venue, currently being guarded by a colleague along with your bag but it wouldn't take long to retrieve it and call for medical assistance.

"You okay?" Concern colours the simple question.

His reply comes quickly and assertively, "I am well, thank you."

You nod, not entirely convinced for the stranger's response was as stiff as his posture, and reach inside the pocket of your coat for the box of cigarettes and lighter stashed within.

You settle one of the sticks between your lips and use your thumb to bring forth a flame. The crackle of smouldering paper and tobacco perforates the damp air and you take a needy drag. The nicotine taints and tantalises in equal measure, filling you with guilt and relief. You've been trying to give up but the little voice inside your head had won this evening. You close your eyes and focus on the pleasure it brings before flicking some ash into the tray mounted to the wall.

Your attention now back on your surroundings, the stranger steps into the scope of the streetlight. The angles of his cheekbones, jaw and nose are accentuated to an incredible extent in the gleam. His dark hair is being buffeted about the wind, locks of it very close to falling in the blue eyes that are unwaveringly trained on you. He begins to talk again, showcasing his deep baritone.

"I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with you just now. It is not how I envisaged our first interaction transpiring. I hope that you can forgive me for my deception."

You laugh nervously and take another quick drag. "It makes no difference if you're honest with me or not. I don't know you."

"You are correct. You don't know me. Not yet -"

"Oh," you cut in quickly. "I'm not looking for a hook up."

While you cannot deny that he is arrestingly beautiful, you are technically working and have never been one for one-night stands.

"You mistake my meaning. I have been searching for you for so long. I oftentimes doubted your existence however I was wrong and I find myself humbled to be in your presence at last."

The grandiose declaration is one of the stranger things you have heard in your life and you used to deal with drunken patrons when you worked at a university bar. Maybe he was intoxicated; it would explain a lot.

"Look, this might work on other people but I just came out here to have a cigarette -"

It is his turn to interrupt you now. "You will have no need of those going forward. Your addiction to them will be replaced by me."

"Excuse me?"

You are trying to sound incredulous, however, inside you are rather frightened by the turn the conversation has taken. His gaze is not helping either.

The crystalline eyes are embodying every part of the descriptor; a hard, chill inducing blue. Ash drops from the smouldering cigarette as a tremble of fear rattles through you. The man sees this and the ice suddenly melts to a warmer hue.

His tone turns soft and gentle. "We are supposed to be together. Our union is fated."

He's staring at you expectantly even after your two attempts at rejection. You swiftly stub out the part-finished cigarette and take ownership in ending the interaction.

"I've had enough of this. I'm going back inside now. If you try and follow me, I will speak to the venue's management. If you are still here when I leave later, I will call the police."

You turn towards the door.

He calls your name. Your full name. Middle name too.

Despite your brain chanting at you to go inside, you can't stop yourself from looking back at him. "H-how do you know my full name?"

The profound rumble of his voice resonates deep in your ears. "I know everything about you, Y/N."

He's right in front of you now. His posture is bordering between desperate and predatory. Like he can't quite decide if he is seeking comfort from you, or if he wants to consume you.

You are fumbling behind you to find the door handle. "Please get away from me," you say hoarsely.

He reaches for your hand.

You jump back and struggle to get out of his grip but his strength is inhumanly strong. His skin of his palm is glacial against yours and yet somehow, the touch makes heat snake up your arm and settle in your chest.

You become aware of an internal feeling that you've always had, like that of chapped lips. Low level but something that constantly nags. Something that existed every minute of your life until the moment he touched you.

You grip his hand and look up at his face in astonishment.

"Good. That's it. Look into my eyes. See what you know is there."

You do as he says, totally stunned by the depths that seem to reside within them. It's as if there are universes suspended inside. Maybe there are. Perhaps you could float among the celestial bodies if you asked him to show you how.

You feel so alive and overstimulated that you welcome the delirious thoughts taking over your mind.

You welcome him.

It's like there is a cord connected between your heart and his that is shortening in length. The intensity scares you.

"Give into the pull," he urges darkly, sensing your anxiety.

You obey, feet moving of their own accord and then you are standing before him, just centimetres apart.

He smiles triumphantly and presses you flush against his body.

His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of your neck. More heat sears through you from the additional skin-on-skin contact.

Your peripheral vision closes tighter and tighter with every passing moment. The outside world is gone.

He leans in further and you wonder hazily if he is going to kiss you or break your neck. Both options are equally viable given the behaviour he has exhibited. You keep staring at him regardless.

His irises flash silver as he intones his next sentence. "Y/N, I claim you as my soulmate."

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

Taglist: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt

"Am I your dream girl? You think of me in bed. But you could never hold me. You like me better in your head."

[grenade-maid]

there's a lot of reasons more people aren't into yuri that are troubling to consider, but equally, I genuinely think it cannot be understated how much of it comes down to most yuri being boring as hell. Like truly. I've been reading the front page of Dynasty Scans like it was the newspaper for 15 years I am not exaggerating I can show you the download file data 15 years.

You know what the complaint about yuri by yuri readers was back in 2009?

"wow that really was just 5 volumes of them blushing at each other and then they don't even kiss"

You know what the complaint about yuri by yuri readers is today in 2023?

"wow that really was just 5 volumes of them blushing at each other and then they don't even kiss"

Don't get me wrong, Yuri has grown a LOT in that time, to the point that most people today wouldn't even understand a Maria-sama reference if it were dropped in front of them (thank God). It's expanded and evolved to encompass more stories about adult women, wider varieties of scenarios, a greater acknowledgement of real life lesbianism, and is more comfortable showing girls kissing with tongue and having sex.

Yuri Manga is maybe the best is it's ever been, and it's also getting the widest readership it's ever had in the English speaking world. The titles we carry at work are always on back order with long queues, and, when I've asked them, most weebs of all gender or sexualities report keeping up with at least a few Yuri series.

At large though? Most of it is still really boring. That's not a bad thing necessarily. I like it because it goes down easy. For the most part any series you pick is gonna be pretty chill. Even shit from Sal Jiang which is PRETTY EDGY for yuri is a pretty breezy read. More serious ones like How Do We Relationship? cover some pretty real subjects about how intimacy is actually quite difficult even when both of you love each other, but it's not like... Exciting. Yuri isn't where you go to pump your fist or get perched on the edge of your seat.

So when the comparison is made to yaoi, well, I mean, have you READ any yaoi? Even in some of the more restrained titles those boys are likely to be sucking and fucking balls and all within the first volume or two. There's gonna be drama, intrigue, shit is gonna get messy, passions are gonna get heated, clothes are gonna be ripped off, people are gonna get sold to One Direction, it's stuff you can sit down with a bowl of popcorn with you know? Stuff you can message your friend and gush Hey Can You BELIEVE? A lot of it is pretty trashy, but that's the appeal. The generic state of yaoi is torrid and exciting and sexy. Ultimately, as a species many of us like to see pretty people fuck. In yaoi you'll get that. In yuri you won't. Nothing wrong with that, but it is gonna be a major contributing factor to their relative popularity.

It's also worth making the comparison to hetero romance manga, which has undergone a renaissance of it's own in recent years. There's now a whole meta around crafting a handful of mean shitty grouchy dysfunctional bully women and flinging them at the protagonist of the day who, unlike in years past, may actually have a face and personality. Most of these are also very trashy and truly scrape the bottom of the bucket in terms of writing.

AND YET?

I would bet money on the fact that you'll have heard of these women and probably even have a good idea what they're like without ever having touched a page of their manga.

I'm sorry but the straights are whipping donuts around the yuri girls in terms of delivering a wide variety of weird compelling fucked up women. How many yuri leading ladies by comparison can you point to as standout recognizable characters even divorced from their story? There's definitely a few, but not many. I'm not talking quality or depth of writing, I'm talking straight up pure recognizability. There are many beautifully written women in yuri, now more than ever. I can't think of many who'd like, get a figure made or have their face splashed on merch, though.

I don't really have a conclusion here. I love Yuri a lot, but at the end of the day this is just kinda the state of things right now.

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Can you write fuego with a pregnant wife?

Hi!

I thought that I had done quite a few of them, but... apparently not ^^' Admittedly I took some inspo from my own long fic (aka Embers -series) for this, and basically used a scene as a basis. Anyways, hopefully you like it ^^

Pairing: Fuegoleon x f!reader Genre: Romance/fluff Fanfic type: Oneshot Length: ~0.9k Contains: pregnant reader, marriage mention, Fue gets kicked by the baby in the face, a lot of fluffy feels

Fuegoleon had always deemed himself to be a family man. Granted that he has other aspirations as well, and hadn’t had a partner for such a long time, which was why such a status and aspect of his life had been placed on the backburner for the time being.

Not that it had particularly stopped thinking about the future, and the family he might like to have. A wife. Kids. Maybe a few. One was too few for his liking, but he wouldn’t push for more if his partner so wished.

It was a personal preference if nothing else.

But. It had existed in a daydream for a time longer than he could tell.

Until he had met you.

Not that the images had flashed through his mind clear as day from the very first moment he had laid his eyes upon you, but rather… it was like a gentle, comforting sensation. The knowledge that this… this would be it. With you he could go on to build something.

What he had felt, was a kind of familiarity. Like this was how it was supposed to be, and nothing less would suffice.

A part of him wanted to rush. To just move together. Get married. And have the titles of husband and wife. But another part of him held back. Because that seemed more courteous. Something that one does. Bids their time and takes slow, tentative steps to the ever after. Not marry the woman he met less than a year ago.

Though people did do that.

But people, aside of royalty, were more free to make such actions. And he didn’t wish to place such scrutiny onto the two of you. Because it would just be unwanted attention. Rumours of a bastard child possibly.

Senseless gossip.

Attempts to tarnish a reputation.

No matter how displeased even the mere idea of it made him, he chose to abide the customs. Little steps. One by one. And yet with each day he tried to show his devotion, even if with words, scattered here and there, a passing touch, lingering gaze. Some if which came without a thought, because it, too, was easy; as natural as breathing.

And now…

As you sat there, in the arm chair with rings in your ring finger, and a baby bump on your tummy, he couldn’t help but smile.

Because it was his whole world that existed in that chair. And he made a point to cherish the moments where he could know, with absolute certainty, where the two of you were; away from harm and trouble. In the sanctity of your shared living quarters.

“Come here,” you told him with a whisper while stroking your stomach.

He perked up, eyes opening just a little wider, as he made his way across the room and crouched by your chair.

“The baby is kicking,” your tone was hushed, delicate and tender, as if you were speaking out a secret that was only for the two of you to know.

His eyes shifted between your expression, gorgeous and loving like the first rays of dawn, to the little bump in which your precious child resided.

He placed his hand onto your stomach, and waited.

Waited for a moment longer, eyes attentive and curious.

“Come on,” you cooed. “No need to be shy, kick some for dad too.”

‘Dad’… he thought as the corners of his lips tugged further up.

One of the most esteemed titles he could be granted.

“Come on,” you encouraged again, as if your child could hear. But… somehow it didn’t seem to make a difference, if they could, or could not. After all, they didn’t have the language to comprehend for a good while still. So, you were speaking because… speaking to your own child was one of the most natural things to do.

Your precious miracle.

“It’s alright,” he chuckled and pressed his cheek against your tummy. “You are far better acquainted with your mother,” he mused while closing his eyes. “But I can’t wait to meet you to-“

*Bump*

A kick right to his nose.

He jolted back.

You raised your hand to cover your mouth.

“Feisty,” he said while holding onto his nose. “And packs a punch already.”

There was a laugh that flowed from your lungs; equally amused and concerned.

“Are you okay?” You asked while placing your hand onto his shoulder.

“I am,” he chuckled before placing his cheek against your stomach again. “It seems we’re having a true Vermillion here,” he mused to himself with a wide smile again. “But no kicking or punching your mother,” he told, sternly, to your bump and the child. “Understood?” He quirked an eyebrow.

And… almost as if to reply, there was another kick, but this time against his hand. A much softer one this time.

“Good,” he smiled while closing his eyes.

You placed your hand onto his head, and let your fingers stroke through his silken hair, as your eyelids closed half way at the tender sight before you.

Because this… this really was him, at his happiest. While holding you, and being held by you; when he was with his family.

[bellaxgiornata]

All These Years [Part 10: "The Weight of Grief"]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

[You can find the full series summary and masterlist of installments for All These Years here.]

Warnings/tags: 18+ for this series; contains emotional hurt with no comfort until the final installments, angst, pining, friends to lovers, slowburn, and eventually smut

Word Count: 5.4k

a/n: This one is quite heavy on the angst. Also--if you haven't realized already, the timeline and events of this series aren't exactly canon. Just for clarification. I split this installment into two parts so the next one is actually going to be titled "Last to Know." Feedback is always appreciated! And I have not published this to AO3 with whatever is going on, but I will whenever things have calmed down over there. I just didn't want to leave everyone hanging when I had updates ready!

Tag list: @acharliecoxedfan @theetherealbloom @rotscinema @magnumstyles @roseallisonparker @ofmusesandsecrets @readerhead @paracosmic-murdock @v4leoftears @why-always-me-gosh-please @redbircl @keepingitlokiii @yarrystyleeza @mattkinsella @ms-murdockswift @margoo0 @1988-fiend @lockleywife @strangeobsessed @justalittlebitbored @am-3-thyst @buckybarnes-1917 @thora-jane @lionalsowrites @cloudroomblog @prince-tassel @danzer8705 @yourlocalbentspine

“How about you let me take you out for dinner Saturday night?”

Shouldering your phone against your ear, you continued to distractedly chop vegetables for the late dinner you were making in your kitchen. A smile made its way onto your lips at the prospect of a third date already.

“How bold of you, Adam,” you teased. “Three Saturday nights in a row? A girl might think you like her.”

“Maybe I want the girl to think I like her,” he teased back.

Pausing your chopping, you set the knife down on the cutting board before wiping your hands on the towel next to it. Grabbing your phone from your shoulder, you turned and rested your back against the countertop. Chewing your lip, you felt a faint blush rise to your cheeks.

You’d met Adam through a speed dating event that Karen had dragged you along with her to. That had been about a month ago now. You’d thought the whole idea was terrible and you’d made her promise not to say anything to Foggy or Matt, not wanting either of them to judge you for going. You figured it would make you sound desperate because you were sure Karen wasn’t really having trouble in the dating department. It was clearly a ploy to get you to go in the hopes of finding someone instead of Matt to think about.

And you and Karen had considered the experience successful because you’d instantly clicked with Adam that night. From the moment he sat down at your table and smiled at you, you’d been hooked. He was a veterinary technician with a big heart and a love of animals, something that had immediately won you over with him. He was cute, too. And funny. And he seemed like he was close with his family. With Adam, you found you weren’t actively trying to forget about Matt and push him out of your thoughts. Something that had you instantly drawn to him because no one else had ever accomplished that since you'd met Matt back at Columbia. 

And ever since Matt and Elektra had surprised you at your apartment a few months ago, you'd tried hard to let your feelings for him go. There would never be anything more between you and him, you knew that now. So now you were doing your best to focus on just letting Matt be your friend, especially while you tried to adjust to the new knowledge about his heightened senses and him being the masked man running around the streets of Hell’s Kitchen at night performing heroics. Though now he’d recently become known as Daredevil in the news ever since he'd gotten that protective new suit made for him. And you were glad he had because you'd worried a lot less about his well-being; he was visibly sporting less injuries at least.

But you didn't spend as much time with Matt as you used to, even if you had stopped actively avoiding him. He was often busy with his vigilante endeavors, and it just felt weird and uncomfortable being around him knowing he knew you had feelings for him that he didn't return. And from your knowledge, he had spent the past few months helping Elektra with something. You were certain they were back together again even if you'd never asked and had it confirmed. You didn't want to even think about it.

And as for what he was helping her with–you didn't ask about that either. You weren't as in the know about what was going on as Foggy and Karen seemed to be, and frankly you didn't want to be. Despite having come to accept Matt's secret alter ego, you didn't want to know about anything that involved Elektra. So whenever the topic of her came up, you usually asked about the bare minimum and found a way to quickly exit the conversation–especially when you’d later overheard that Elektra had died, but also apparently had been resurrected from the dead. Which had confused you too much to want to try to understand.

"Well I am free Saturday night," you answered Adam. 

"Should we try that new Italian restaurant?" he asked over the line. "You were talking about craving pasta earlier this week."

The smile on your lips grew wider. You'd told him that offhandedly on the phone three nights ago and apparently he'd remembered. 

"I would like that," you told him. "I'm–"

A few knocks on your apartment door interrupted you, your attention shifting to it across the room. A frown settled on your mouth. It was after seven on a Thursday night, who would be stopping by? You hadn't been expecting company. 

"Hey, Adam, someone's apparently at my door," you told him. "Mind if we finalize the details tomorrow?"

"Not at all," he told you, the smile apparent in his chipper tone. "I'll call you in the evening? After work?"

"That sounds great," you told him.

You exchanged goodbyes before hanging up, setting your phone onto your kitchen counter. Eyeing your door curiously, you made your way across your apartment towards it. It took you a few moments to unlock the door, unlatching the deadbolt before pulling it open.

Your eyebrows rose up high onto your forehead at the unexpected sight of Foggy and Karen standing there. Both of them had red, puffy eyes that were glistening with tears on their sullen faces. Heart beating harder in your chest, your hand tightened around the doorknob you were still holding. Whatever had brought them here couldn't be good, not with the way Foggy’s lips were suddenly trembling as he opened his mouth, clearly struggling to form a sentence. 

And that's when you knew what this visit had to be about. You'd felt the rumble and shaking earlier tonight when you'd been grabbing food at the store on your way home from work. Everyone had been saying it had been an earthquake at the time, but you'd later heard something about a building collapsing nearby in Hell’s Kitchen.

Something must have happened to Matt. There was no other reason for both of them to be standing there looking at you like they were. Not in the state they were in.

Tears immediately stung at your eyes, a feeling of dread washing over you as your gaze danced between the pair of them before you. It felt like your throat was closing up, making it almost impossible for you to swallow. Shaking your head, you felt the first tears fall. 

"No," you said, voice breaking on the word. "No, don't tell me he got hurt."

A choked sob fell out of Karen instantly, your heart feeling like someone had crushed it in their fist at the sound. One of her hands rose up to cover her mouth as she turned away, unable to look at you. Beside her, Foggy sent you an apologetic smile when your eyes met his, but he couldn’t hide the tears present and ready to spill over. 

"There was an–an accident," Foggy said softly. "Matt he was–was out helping those others like him. The ones we'd told you a bit about. They were over at Midland Circle." He paused, exhaling a shuddering breath. "Trying to destroy that Hand group. And they–they blew up the building."

Both of your hands flew to your face at the tremble in Foggy’s voice and the implication of his words. You felt like you were going to be sick.

"No," you repeated, shaking your head more firmly. "No, no he's okay. Tell me he's okay, Foggy!" you shouted.

Foggy said your name softly, stepping into your apartment slowly with his hands raised placatingly as if he was approaching a wild animal. A painful grimace was on his face as he approached you and you took a step back, still shaking your head as more tears streamed down your cheeks.

"He didn't make it out," he whispered. 

"No," you growled through clenched teeth. "No, don't you tell me that! Don’t you fucking tell me that, Foggy!"

"The others said he stayed behind," Foggy continued gently. "Trying to save Elektra."

It felt like you’d been barreled over by a city bus at his words. Matt had stayed behind…to save Elektra? He died for her? The heartless woman who’d only toyed with him? The woman who didn’t even know the beautiful, fragile heart she held in the palm of her hands? Who’d never truly loved him, abandoning him back at Columbia with a shattered heart? The very same heart you’d spent months trying to help him piece back together just for him to give it back to her years later to permanently destroy?

He died for her?

You collapsed to your knees, hot tears steadily pouring down your cheeks. It wasn’t until Foggy was kneeling on the floor before you, his hands gingerly grasping your shoulders and drawing you towards him, that you realized you were screaming. You fought Foggy’s attempts to soothe you, struggling against him as he tried to hold you still. The entire time you heard him repeatedly croaking out ‘I know, I know’ over and over, emotion thick in his own voice. 

“He’s not dead!” you wailed, still thrashing against Foggy. “He’s not dead! Matt’s not dead!!”

“Hey, hey,” Karen said gently, her voice breaking as she kneeled down beside you and Foggy on the floor. “I–I know it’s hard to hear,” she whispered, “but Matt he–he didn’t make it. They–they said they saw him stay behind.”

“Well maybe he made it out!” you cried hysterically, sniffling loudly as the tears didn’t stop falling. “They’re wrong! It’s–it’s Matt we’re talking about, guys! He’s–he’s like a goddamn superhero! He isn’t dead! He can’t be!”

There was no way you would believe Matt was gone. That his smiling face wouldn't still greet you if you headed over to his apartment right now. That he wouldn't be calling you tomorrow night to see if you wanted to grab drinks with him, Foggy, and Karen at Josie’s. That he wouldn’t be making one of his stupid blind jokes to you over a few beers.

He wasn't dead. You'd have known if he was. Felt it somehow.

Matt wasn’t dead.

You shook your head, pulling away out of Foggy’s embrace and roughly wiping the backs of your hands against your tear stained cheeks. Sniffling loudly again, you ignored the pitying looks on their faces.

“Was there a body?” you asked, trying to calm down.

“What?” Foggy asked you.

“Was there a body?” you repeated, forcefully enunciating each word.

“No, not yet,” he answered. “But they just started trying to sort through the rubble. The emergency responders said it could take days for them to sort through the mess.” Foggy’s frown deepened as he said your name again. “It doesn’t sound like he made it.”

“No,” you said firmly, rising back up to your feet and wiping at your eyes again. “I’m not believing it until there’s a body. He’s alive, I know he is.”

Karen sent you a sad smile, tears still falling down her own cheeks. “Okay,” she said softly with a nod. “Let’s give it a few days. Maybe–maybe they were wrong.”

You were kneeling, bent over the pew before you with your forehead resting against your clasped hands. You'd lost track of the time a while ago, unsure how long you'd been here. But your back was now stiff from however long you'd remained stationary in prayer, your knees aching. 

Praying wasn't something you did. You'd never been the religious type, though lately you'd often found yourself seeking solace at Clinton Church. Because it was Matt's church, the place where he told you he grew up going to. The place he had told you he frequented for advice from Father Lantom–who you'd met now with all the time you'd been spending here since Matt had gone missing. The orphanage he grew up in was just next door to this church, too. 

Coming here in the recent days since Matt had disappeared had always made you feel closer to him for some unexplainable reason. Like you could just feel him here in the walls of the church somehow. It was comforting to you, the only comfort you’d come to find over the past couple of weeks.

Despite the fact that everyone had told you he'd been in the building when it collapsed, and that he'd been missing for over two weeks, and the fact that you'd gone to a memorial service for him at this very church just a few days ago, you still absolutely refused to believe Matt was dead. There had never been a body found among the wreckage of Midland Circle–for him or Elektra. Which only cemented it in your mind that he was out there alive somewhere. 

But your friends were not of the same mind. They’d tried to grieve him at his memorial service, and they’d spent many conversations already trying to convince you that the facts all pointed to Matt having passed in the building’s collapse. Foggy had even asked you to explain why Matt wouldn't have reached out to let any of you know he was alive if he really had made it out of the building. All you could think was that he was lying horribly injured somewhere and unable to reach out. That had to be what was going on. 

Because Matt Murdock wasn't dead. He just wasn't. You didn't care that Foggy looked at you now with a different and more infuriating sympathetic look on his face whenever he saw you, one that wasn't just because you were in love with Matt and he didn’t return those feelings. He thought you were in denial and delusional now, unable to accept reality. 

Maybe you were, but you weren’t going to accept his death without proof of a body.

You heard movement nearby as someone came and sat down in the pew beside where you were kneeling. Almost immediately you recognized the scent of incense and smoke and you already knew who’d taken a seat–Father Lantom. Over the past few days he’d been stopping to chat with you, having recognized you from Matt’s memorial service and realizing you’d been showing up often. 

With a sigh you lifted your head, turning and glancing at Father Lantom in the pew. He was smiling at you, the expression somehow reassuring and comforting just like the church itself. Pushing yourself away from the kneeler, you settled into the pew beside him, your focus on your hands in your lap.

“You’re back again today,” Father Lantom observed.

“I come every day after work,” you muttered.

“You do,” he agreed lightly. “And how’re you feeling today?”

Your hands clenched into fists in your lap. “Furious,” you answered, eyes still focused on your hands. “I’m still angry. Probably more angry than anything lately.” 

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Father Lantom nod. He shifted in the pew, turning to face you more fully.

“Anger is a common reaction when a loved one is taken from us,” he told you. “Especially when the loss is so unexpected.”

Your head darted up, your eyes brimming with tears as you focused on the priest beside you. “He’s not dead,” you stated, shaking your head firmly. “I told you that. He’s not dead.”

Something flickered across Father Lantom’s face briefly before his lips pressed into a thin line, his expression becoming something neutral. He nodded his head just once. 

“So much like Matthew yourself,” he mused. “He was always stubborn. Ever since he was a boy, really. When he had an idea in his head you couldn’t shake it from him for anything.”

A tear slipped out of your eye, your hand darting up to quickly wipe it away as your focus shifted to the large crucifix at the front of the church. It was the one thing you didn’t like about Clinton Church–the way Christ was always staring back at you from within the sanctuary, battered and bleeding on the cross. It felt too much like Matt.

“I miss him,” you whispered, eyes falling back down to your hands in your lap. 

I still love him.

“Well,” Father Lantom began slowly, “the most we can do for those we’ve lost–however it is that we’ve lost them–is to keep on living. I believe Matthew would want that for you. To keep living your life. To move forward.”

“I feel like all I’ve done is move backwards,” you admitted quietly, your fingers twisting around each other now. “I barely sleep. I can’t focus at work. I broke things off with the guy I was seeing not too long ago because I just can’t–can’t pretend everything is okay. Because it’s not, nothing is.”

Father Lantom sighed loudly, shifting in the pew beside you to clasp his own hands in his lap. His mouth opened as if he was about to speak, but you saw his focus shift towards a nun, your own eyes following the movement. She looked quite stern as she eyed the priest beside you, almost like she was trying to tell him something with her eyes, but when her attention turned to you her expression softened. You swore she offered you a smile before you ducked your head, tears once again threatening to fall. 

You abruptly rose to your feet, the threat of tears urging you to seek the solitude of your apartment before you broke down publicly in the church. That was usually your cue to leave.

“Going already?” Father Lantom asked in surprise.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, turning away from him and making your way towards the other end of the pew. “I’m sure I’ll be back tomorrow, though. And the next day.”

Matt’s hand tentatively reached out, fingers brushing over the cool stone of the statue. He could feel the grainy texture of it under the pads of his fingers. Each and every little divot in the stone. His sense of touch hadn’t really been affected by the collapse of Midland Circle, not quite, but what a shitty and useless sense to have retained. All it did was make him further aware of how uncomfortable the cheap cotton clothes he was wearing felt on his skin, and how scratchy the little bed he attempted to sleep in every night felt underneath him. It only brought him further discomfort and pain to match his injuries.

His hearing hadn’t fully come back to him, either; it was often touch and go. Sometimes he’d hear a ringing in one or both of his ears if it didn’t sound like he was underwater. He also hadn’t regained his heightened sense of taste–didn’t matter what food Sister Maggie brought him, it all tasted like blood and ash. And his sense of smell was basically nonexistent. He hadn’t been able to smell a damn thing besides smoke since he’d woken up in the undercroft of Clinton Church. He was utterly and pathetically useless without his senses. Just plodding around clumsily with a cane and tripping over his own goddamn feet in the church’s basement.

Yet for some reason, he still found himself trying. Which is what he’d been up out of his bed trying to do now as he attempted to map out the space he was in. He had no idea what time of day it was–it’s not like he could hear much besides the room he was in to even gauge time–and he was becoming stir crazy trapped in this church basement trying to heal. So he’d been up the past few minutes wandering around, his cane left hanging off one of the statues somewhere in the room. He honestly didn’t even know where, which wouldn’t have been the case if he’d been back to his normal self. Something that only further pissed him off.

Matt took a handful of careful steps forward, focusing intensely on where he was going. But as he took one more step, his foot hit something solid and he lost his balance. He fell to the floor, his hands flying out to try to brace himself for the impact, but he’d cut his palm on the corner of something sharp before he landed roughly on his side. He groaned out, his eyes closing as he curled into a ball.

He wished he’d have died in that goddamn building. 

But that wasn’t quite true. What he’d really wished was that Elektra hadn’t been so dead set on getting her hands on what the Hand had been after. That she hadn’t become the Hand’s puppet when they’d resurrected her as the Black Sky. If she’d have just listened to him he wouldn’t have stayed behind. He wouldn’t have felt the need to try to save her. Because despite the hurt she’d put him through, despite the way she’d broken his heart those years ago, he couldn’t just leave her to die. That wasn’t him. But ever since he’d woken up after he’d been dragged out of that wreckage, he’d hated her for having made him make that choice. For not just leaving with him and everyone else. For choosing to die trying to get what she wanted, and in true Elektra fashion, dragging him down with her.

But it wasn’t Elektra he’d been thinking about when the building had collapsed and he knew he was about to die.

It was you.

Every moment he’d ever had with you felt like it raced through his mind in a matter of seconds. The first time he’d stumbled on you on campus, when you'd stopped to help that stranger pick up their spilled belongings and you’d been so unbelievably kind. All that time he’d spent searching Columbia's campus for a sign of you afterwards. The unexplainable excitement when he’d accidentally ran into you at the library and finally got your name and your phone number. And every good memory he had of you ever since then; all of those Saturday nights he’d spent with you and Foggy, and the times he got you all to himself when Foggy had inevitably passed out early in his bed. Every conversation at meal times in the dining hall. He recalled graduation night when he’d almost kissed you, almost told you he loved you–and he regretted it so much right now that he’d never just said it back then. 

He recalled every moment with you that he could–every single one of them. Because he wanted you to be his dying thought.

As the building fell around him, Elektra had been shouting something at him, trying to rile him up one last time, but he hadn’t been paying attention to her because he’d been trying to remember the way it felt when he held you in his arms. You’d always fit so perfectly against him. He’d tried his hardest to recall the scent of your shampoo–something faintly floral and sweet, but never overpowering–and the softness of your hair the times he’d been bold enough to press his nose into it. You almost always buried your face into his left shoulder when he embraced you, a small random detail, but one he always remembered nevertheless. Your arms always wrapped around him so hesitant at first, but then you’d almost melt into him for a moment, expelling the softest little sigh that he always wondered about, even then in that moment. 

And that’s what Matt believed would be his last thought. The memory of that soft, contented sigh that always confused him whenever you hugged him.

Except it wasn’t his last thought because he hadn’t died in the explosion. He’d somehow been spared. Saved. But all he could think about since he had woken without his senses was how absurd that was considering God had clearly turned his back on him. He’d been spared for what? What was the point of him without his heightened senses that he’d always thought God had bestowed on him?

So he’d decided to let Matt Murdock die at Midland Circle. He figured he would finally listen to Stick–he’d cut out the people in his life he cared about who cared about him in order to keep them safe. Foggy, Karen, and you.

You were all safer without him. Safer thinking he was dead and gone.

And then he would just be Daredevil. Nothing left to live for, nothing left to lose.

Matt heard the faint, muddled sound of footsteps hitting his ears as someone descended the church’s basement steps. The sound pulled him from his bleak thoughts. Gradually he pushed himself upright, leaning against the stone of whatever it was he’d tripped over. He wasn’t surprised when he heard Sister Maggie’s voice speak a moment later. It was only ever her or Father Lantom that checked on him down here to begin with.

“What on earth are you doing on the floor?” Sister Maggie asked.

Matt huffed out a frustrated breath from his place on the hard floor. He could hear Maggie’s footsteps approaching him and he tried to focus on them, attempting to lock on to her movement in the room.

“Falling, apparently,” he muttered bitterly.

He heard the way Sister Maggie sighed, the noise coming from nearby. He realized she’d lowered to sit on the floor next to him a few seconds later when he registered her body temperature near his right side.

“I brought you something,” she told him.

“I’m guessing food?” he asked flatly. “Not like I can smell anything still. Everything tastes the same too–like blood and ash.”

Matt felt Sister Maggie press something into his hand. It was long and cylindrical. Wrapped in something like a wax paper wrapping. 

“It’s a sandwich from the deli nearby,” she said. “Thought you might enjoy it more than the soup Sister Ethel made tonight for the children.”

Matt’s fingers ran over the paper wrapper for a moment, trying to ignore the stirring in his chest at the kind gesture from Sister Maggie.

“Thank you,” Matt murmured.

He heard her unscrew the cap of something next. It sounded like a pill bottle; the sound of a few pills rattled out of it and into her hand.

“Brought you water, too,” she continued. “And you need to keep taking these.”

Matt held out a hand expectantly, waiting for her to drop the two pills into his upturned palm as she came down here to do every few hours. When she did, he quickly tossed them into his mouth. Holding out his hand again, Sister Maggie handed him an opened bottle of water. He drank down the pills, frowning as he swallowed and stared blankly ahead. 

“How’s the hearing?” she asked.

Matt made a face, the fingers of his left hand absently fiddling with the sandwich wrapper again. “Still can’t hear for shit,” he replied.

“Well your body took quite a beating,” she told him. “Everything’s swollen. Maybe your hearing will come back when it goes down.” There was a brief pause before she added, “Or maybe it’ll come back when you finally take your head out of your ass.”

A sharp, bitter laugh fell out of Matt at her words. He hadn’t been expecting that, but she'd been full of crass and unexpected comments like that since he'd woken here. 

Humorless laughter subsiding quickly, a heavy silence fell around the pair of them. Matt didn't need his extra senses to know there was more she wanted to say. And he had a feeling he knew what it would be, too.

"What?" he asked. 

He briefly registered the sound of Sister Maggie’s shoes lightly tapping along the cement floor, almost like a nervous fidget. Matt's frown only deepened as he waited in silence. 

"She was back again this evening," she eventually said.

Matt's eyelids slowly lowered, his heart feeling like it sank to the floor beside him. She didn't have to even say your name, he knew she meant you. Father Lantom had told him he'd seen you every day here for over a week now. Always bent over a pew in prayer–which was odd because he knew you weren't religious and you weren’t a parishioner at Clinton Church.

"Who is she?" Sister Maggie asked curiously. "She comes here everyday grieving over you. I saw her at your memorial service with those friends of yours that you refuse to call friends.”

“Just someone who used to be a friend, too,” Matt mumbled morosely.

“Seems like more than a friend with how often she frequents this church because of you,” Sister Maggie replied. “Paul seems to think so, too.”

Matt’s head darted towards her at her words, his brows furrowing. “Father Lantom has spoken with her?” he asked. “He’s never told me that.”

“Mmm, oh yes,” Maggie answered. “Often. She comes around the same time every evening. Just after work. Always praying silently in the same pew. Paul says she doesn’t believe you’ve actually died.”

Matt’s brows drew together even further on his forehead, his mouth going dry. “What?” he breathed out.

“She refuses to believe you're dead without a body,” Sister Maggie explained. “And she’d be right, because you aren’t dead. But you are stubborn as hell, though. Tormenting your friends like this. Letting them think you’re dead and forcing them to mourn the loss of you. Letting that poor young woman up there put her life on hold–”

“She’s not putting her life on hold,” Matt cut her off sharply. “She’ll move on soon enough.”

Sister Maggie drew in a deep breath, silence once again falling between the pair of them. Matt’s attention shifted back to the space in front of him. His fingers were still absently fiddling with the sandwich wrapper.

Why were you coming here every day praying for him though? Refusing to believe he’d died? Why not just mourn with Foggy and Karen and move on already? Just forget about him. He wasn’t any good for you anyway. You deserved a better friend, one who wasn’t in love with you and keeping your secret from Foggy just because he was selfish.

“Was she more than your friend, Matthew?”

The question broke through his thoughts, Matt’s face scrunching together in confusion at the unexpectedness of it. Why would she even ask that?

“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “She’s just a friend. From Columbia.”

“Hmm,” Sister Maggie hummed curiously. “But you love her, don’t you?”

Matt’s teeth grit together, his jaw clenching in frustration at that question. He had been trying his best to ignore those feelings. And also–how the hell could she possibly know that?

“You flinch everytime Paul or I say her name,” she clarified. “Every time we tell you she’s been by the church crying again. It hurts you that she’s hurting. I can see it plain on your face, Matthew. It’s killing you.”

“She’s not safe being around me,” Matt ground out.

Sister Maggie scoffed loudly. “That’s bullshit and self-pity talking,” she shot back. “Clearly the woman loves you, too. Why keep up the lie? Why keep hurting her?”

Matt shook his head, his fist tightening around the bottle of water in his right hand. “She’s in love with our mutual best friend. She’s told me that already,” he gritted out. “And she’ll move on from the loss of me.”

He heard the frustrated sigh come from the nun beside him, vaguely aware of her rising back up to her feet. For some reason the thought of her leaving him alone again down here had him grinding his teeth harder together. He didn’t want to be alone. But it was better if he learned to live like that.

“I think you’re being foolish and stupid,” Sister Maggie stated bluntly. “Causing undue harm to those you love most–and it's only going to backfire on you. And if you really think that young woman repeatedly coming here doesn’t have feelings for you, you’re more foolish than I ever thought.”

Sister Maggie’s steps slowly grew fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear them anymore. His focus shifted down to the sandwich in his lap that she’d brought him, his fingers carefully tearing the paper open.

She didn’t know what she was talking about, he thought angrily to himself. Sister Maggie couldn’t possibly understand the decisions he’d made or why you kept coming to Clinton Church. He’d been one of your best friends–a shitty one, truthfully–and you were grieving. That was all.

[tkwrites]

Private Lessons - Quinn Hughes x Sarah (ofc)

Photo from Pinterest

Title: Private Lessons

Author: Tory / @tkwrites 

Relationship: Quinn Hughes x Sarah (OFC) 

Warnings: None? If I should add any, please let me know. 

Summary: As requested by @eyesthatroll, Quinn teaches Sarah to skate.

Word Count: 3,300

Comments: After taking a bit of a breather, I’m back with a requested fic. 2 months after you requested it, your wish is my command, Mari. I hope you enjoy it!

This was an interesting exercise for me to write something requested by someone else that wasn’t necessarily my own idea. I wrestled with it and got in my head a lot about it, but ultimately, I like the result I finally came to. 

Thanks for your patience and support. Please let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to see in their universe! I can’t guarantee I’ll write it, but I love the inspiration and challenge these requests bring! 

eyesthatroll asked: tory!! i absolutely adore your writing 🥹 maybe if it’s in your wheelhouse, you could write quinn teaching sarah to skate (or them going skating together) for the first time. i think that would be very adorable 😭 it’s totally fine if that’s not in the cards for the series though, don’t feel pressured! love ya! 🫶🏽

Private Lessons

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot

At the end of every season we have a family skate. It's on the 15th. I'd like to bring you if you can come. 

Sarah knew this was a bigger deal than his crafted to be casual text was letting on. If it really was casual, he would have mentioned it before he left for the three game road trip.

She also knew dating a hockey player meant she would have to face her fear and past failure eventually. Even if a team event wasn't involved, it was such a big part of Quinns life. She wouldn't be able to avoid it forever. 

Does everyone skate? 

Usually yeah. Not all of the partners do, but most. 

I've never skated before. 

Really? 

Desert flower, remember? she sent with a picture of a blooming cactus. 

He laughed. There are lots of different skill levels there. People bring their kids and stuff.

Meaning what? That I'll be the only adult with training wheels? 

No wheels ;) 

She sent a gif of someone rolling their eyes. I'd love to go with you, but I really don't want to be the only one who doesn't know what they're doing. Could I persuade you to give me some private lessons? 

I guess that depends on what you’re willing to give me. ;) 

I mean, there’s not much I wouldn’t give you. What do you want? 

A long pause passed in their conversation. When she finally read his response on her way home, her cheeks pinked so much, she had to put her phone in her bag for fear of giving herself away on the train. 

That’s how they ended up at a mostly empty training rink the Wednesday night after he got home. 

She found him waiting for her in the lobby, surrounded by a swarm of kids all jockeying for his attention. It looked like a whole little league team was getting out of practice or a game right as he arrived. They were so excited, acting as if he came in just to see them. 

Sarah waited off to the side, watching him sign autographs and give advice, and talk to each of them. She was tired and hungry, but seeing Quinn in this element gave her a new side of him to admire. He was patient and kind, and invested. She remembered him telling her how he always liked to talk to kids because he remembered how much it meant to him when his favorite players were willing to stop and talk. Seeing that quite literally come full circle was a gift she hadn’t expected to see.  

When he finally looked up and met her gaze, he flashed her a grin and mouthed, thank you. 

Smiling in return, she nodded to an empty room off to the side before settling in with her laptop to work on her publication. 

A big sigh announced his presence a while later, as Quinn slid down the wall to sit next to her on the floor. “Sorry about that,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her temple. 

“It’s fine. I always have stuff to work on, and seeing you with the kids is sweet.” 

“Winning me some brownie points?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Like you even need them.”

Sarah closed her laptop and turned her head so they could finally say hello properly. 

He pulled her close to deepen the kiss. Even though he'd gotten back in town after midnight the night before, they hadn’t seen each other until now. He'd debated going to the aquarium after practice, but remembered they wouldn't let him back without a pass the last time he’d tried. Besides, he didn’t want to interrupt her work so close to finals. 

The urge to climb into his lap was so strong, Sarah had to pull back from the kiss before she made a public spectacle of herself. 

“I missed you,” he said, trailing a finger from her cheekbone to her jaw. It felt like the road trip was finally over now that she was back in his arms.

“I missed you, too.” 

“I have to confess something,” Sarah blurted, nerves eating her from the inside out as he showed her how to tie her skates.

Quinn looked up from pulling her laces tight.

“I’ve been skating before.” 

One of his eyebrows cocked up, “you have, have you?��� 

“It was terrible. It was on a first date with this guy when I was a freshman, and I’m pretty certain the only reason he suggested it was so he could get his hands on me.” 

Quinn wrapped his hand around her calf and joked, “I guess it’s a good thing I’ve already had my hands on you, then.” 

“You’re not mad?” she said, surprised.

“About what? That I’m not popping your ice skating cherry?” 

Laughter barked out of her mouth before she explained, “no, that I lied. I mean, I didn’t really lie. We went on ice, on skates, but no real skating was involved.”

“Now I feel like you’re lying,” his voice was teasing. 

“After half a wobbly, too touchy lap, I fell and broke my wrist.” 

The bemused smile dropped off his lips, “oh my god, Sarah, why didn’t you tell me before?” 

Her bottom jaw moved as she worried the inside of her lower lip. “I didn't know when it would come up.” she said. “I mean, if anyone can teach me to skate, you can. But that's why I wanted it to be just us first.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve broken lots of bones skating,” he said, stroking her leg. 

She smiled tightly. “I bet none of those were from you falling down.” 

“I don’t know, maybe? You’d have to ask my mom, but I fell plenty when I was learning, that’s really normal.” 

“It just feels like one of those things that I'll never live down, you know?”

“Well, you and I are the only ones that know now.” 

“Yeah and Josh Jackson and all those people at the Reno rec rink.” 

“You keep in touch with everyone who was there that night?” he joked, hoping she would see how ridiculous her worry was. 

A hand flew up to cover her face as she blushed. “I guess it just lives in my head every time I think about ice skating.” 

“I know the feeling, but it was one time seven years ago, right? And you’ve got a better teacher, now.” 

She dropped her hands so she could meet his gaze, giving him a hopeful smile. 

He changed the subject. “Are these too tight? Can you move your toes?”

“Yeah. I mean, no they're not too tight.”

He smiled, stood and held out a hand, “come on. I can't promise you won't fall, but I'll do my best.” 

As they walked through the tunnel to the rink, she said, “This is the weirdest feeling.”

“It can't be worse than wearing heels.”

“Have you ever worn heels?”

“Well, no,” he admitted. 

“Then you can't say a damn thing about it. At least in heels, the ball of your foot is on the ground. With this, it's like my feet are suddenly half an inch wide.”

“You're thinking too much.”

“What am I supposed to do, not think?”

“Don't think so much,” he said, stopping at the boards and turning around. “Okay, I'm going to get on and help you on, okay?”

She nodded. 

He bit back his smile at the determination on her face. “It's slippery, so be prepared.”

“Gee, thanks, Hughes,” she said, flatly. “I had no idea ice is slippery.”

He laughed. She’d never called him by his last name. Of course it would come out when she was nervous. 

“I'll have you the whole time. I won't let you go until you tell me to,” he promised, reaching to help her through. 

She stepped on and immediately over corrected, jerking back. 

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her against him to keep them upright. “Calm down,” he said, trying to sound soothing. “I know it's a weird feeling.” 

In all actuality, he didn't know. He'd been skating so long it sometimes felt easier than walking.

 “Just hold on and let me pull you.” 

Skating backwards, he took her on a lap. Her fingers were hooked around his elbows, so he was forced to awkwardly hold the backs of her arms.

“Can you relax? I’ve got you.” 

She glanced down and felt her legs wobble. Visions of the ice rushing up to kiss her on the temple made her dizzy. 

“Look at me,” he said in a voice that couldn’t be ignored. 

Sarah met his eyes. The dim lights over the rink made them a sort of muddy green she’d never seen before. 

“If you keep looking down, you’re going to fall,” he said. “You go toward what you look at.” 

“I just want to make sure my feet are right.”

“Do you have to watch your feet when you’re walking?” 

“Well, no, but this is new.” 

“Sure, but once you get over the fact that you’re on the ice and used to your skates, it’ll start to feel more natural.”

“Yeah, I’ll just get over that.” 

He shook his head, and moved on. “Okay, start picking your feet up like you’re walking.” 

“Like I’m walking?” she repeated. “That seems really counterintuitive.” 

“It’s not that different from walking, you're just gliding instead.”

She leveled him with a deadpan, sarcastic look.

She was about to ask him how she was supposed to walk when she couldn’t lift her heel or push off with the ball of her foot, when she realized arguing his syntax wasn't going to get her anywhere. This was a case where she had to swallow her pride and ask for what she needed. 

“Can you break it down, like the physics of it, for me?” she asked. “It helps me to see all the steps before I do something.”

As he talked her through the mechanics of skating forward, she held onto his arm. She had so many questions he’d never considered, like how he used his edges to push off. 

Skating was so automatic on his part, he didn’t even have to think about it. He’d never had to break down what he was doing like this. 

Seeing how his legs worked up close and in slower motion helped her envision doing the same things herself. 

“Okay, come back here.” 

He moved in front of her again. 

“You make that look so easy,” she said, a bit of a whine in her voice. 

“Sarah,” he said, swallowing the bite in his tone, “I've been doing this for twenty years. I do this for a living. I'd hope I make It look easy. I couldn't take over writing one of your papers, or come into the aquarium and start taking care of Walter.”

“Yeah,” she said, resigned. 

“I know it's frustrating that you can't pick this up right away, but no one can. You can’t read your way into skating well.”

That touched a nerve and she glared at him. 

He let go of one of her hands so he could hold his up in surrender. “All I mean is that you just have to physically get used to it. How long did it take you to perfect your golf swing?” 

“That’s different.” 

“How is that different?” 

“I started that as a kid.”

“So? You can learn things now. You learn new things all the time.” 

“Yeah. It just feels so daunting. I really don’t want to look like an idiot in front of all your teammates.”

“No one will care. They’re just excited to see you. We can come back every night I’m in town if you want. Or you can just not skate.” 

That caused distress to fly over her face. “No. I can’t do that.” 

“Why not?” He glanced behind him out of habit, even though there was no one else on the ice. It was a clean sheet too, freshly zambonied after the pee-wee hockey game that ended right before they arrived. Perfect learning conditions. 

Sarah recentered herself by pulling a breath down her spine, “this is such a big part of your life. I want to be able to participate.” 

“Yeah?” he asked, a half smile lifting the right side of his mouth. 

“Yeah, and like you said, I have a better teacher now.” 

“Tell me about your day,” he said.  

“Okay,” she answered, dubious of his intentions. 

“It’ll help you to stop thinking about what your body’s doing. I think you’ll find it will sort itself out if you let it.” 

He could tell she didn’t really believe him, but went ahead anyway, telling him about the little boy at the aquarium that afternoon who had insisted he’d caught an octopus as big as Walter and thrown it back the last time he and his mom had gone fishing. 

“I mean, maybe he did,” she said, shrugging. “But his teacher gave me this look like, ‘don’t believe a single word he says’. I felt bad, She just looked so tired of him.” 

Quinn laughed and decided not to point out that she was skating perfectly naturally now that she was out of her head about it. “What happened in class?” 

“Well, even if I get a C on my comparative physiology final, I’ll still pass the class.” 

“That’s huge, Sarah,” he said. 

“Yeah, it's such a relief, but then, Paul dropped that he's adding a test on top of our publication. Thankfully it’s not a huge part of my grade, but still, more on the pile. He’s calling it a review, but that just means it’ll cover everything we’ve studied this term.” 

“That doesn’t seem fair for him to add that at the last second.” 

“Well, he can do what he wants, so,” she shrugged. “He said he thinks we need it. I think he's just being a controlling jackass.” 

“Can't you report him or something?”

“For what?”

“For changing the syllabus so late.”

“Well, he's the head of the program, so I can't complain to him, plus if I went to the dean, I'm pretty certain she'd tell me ‘this is graduate school, and you should grow up.’” 

Quinn winced. 

“Yeah. He's just a dick because he can be. He’s the lord over this little kingdom and he wants us all to know it.” 

She shook her head, “I’m sorry, we can be done talking about him.”

“You can keep complaining if you want.”

“No, it's okay. It just makes me more mad, which makes me not want to study, which only shoots me in the foot.” 

“Okay,” Quinn said, “I think you’re ready for me to be next to you.”

“What?” 

“Yeah, you’ve been skating fine for the last five minutes.” 

She looked down as if to confirm, “I have?” 

“It’s not like you were standing still.” 

“But you’ve been pulling me.” 

“I was, but I’ve mostly just been holding your hand, keeping distance. You've been moving yourself forward.”

“Really?” Shaking her head, Sarah laughed a little to herself, “you really are a better teacher.”

He gave her a wink and spun to stand next to her. 

“Keep talking,” he encouraged. 

“About what?” 

She didn’t know what to look at now. There were empty stands, and scratched glass, and the whole smooth sheet of ice, lines etching a curving lacey pattern around the perimeter. 

“Whatever you want.”

“I don't -” glancing down, she remembered his advice and jerked up. The sudden movement caused her to promptly fall on her rear with a frustrated grunt.

Her hands fell to her sides in a gesture that said, why is this so hard for me? 

“You're doing great.”

“I just fell down.”

“So? I fall all the time. You just need to learn to get back up.”

He did fall, and she was always so impressed with his ability to just pop back up and continue playing as if nothing happened. 

He coached her back onto her feet, and they continued around the rink as he told her about the road trip he’d just come home from. Only five days away, but the comeback overtime loss and two wins made it a huge confidence builder. 

He admitted that though some of the strain was lessened for the next month with their guaranteed spot in the finals, he still felt so much pressure to perform. 

“There was this moment on Friday, though, where we were just gelling, you know, and it felt like ‘we deserve this now.’” 

“Of course you deserve it. You work your ass off for that team, Quinn.” 

Throwing her a thankful smile, he said, “I mean we all do it together.”

“And you’re a big reason everyone is buying in.” 

“Look at you, learning hockey talk.” 

“That is something I can read my way into.” she joked. “Plus your mom explained a bunch of the idioms to me.” 

He laughed. 

She fell twice more, but got up each time. The last time, she even managed to do it without his help. 

“You’re doing great,” he praised, moving in front of her again, “you’ll be a natural in no time.” 

Pulling herself to him with their clasped hands she winked, “it's because I have the best teacher.” 

She was close enough now that he would just have to lean in to kiss her. He did, because he could. They were apart so much, it only made sense to take advantage when they were together. 

Whenever people kissed on ice rinks in movies, Sarah was always struck with what a dumb idea it was. It seemed incredibly stupid to not pay attention to what you were doing on such a volatile surface. 

In reality, when Quinn kissed her, she melted. It felt so romantic. Cold, but cozy with his warm body pressed against hers, and the confidence in knowing he wouldn’t let her fall. The only sound was the pleasant scrape of their skates on the ice. 

Suddenly, everything she’d stopped herself from saying over the past few weeks came bubbling up into her mouth. 

Just the night before, she’d felt on the cusp of saying something other than “I miss you,” at the end of their goodnight phone call. She had bit it back, not wanting that first time to happen over the phone. She felt like the moment had to be perfect. 

Fuck that, she thought, now. She didn’t want to hold it in anymore. Plus, wasn’t this moment perfect enough? 

Pulling away, she waited for him to open his eyes.

After a moment or two, Quinn realized she wasn’t teasing, and met her gaze, “what’s wrong?” 

“Nothings wrong.” 

Suddenly, it felt too formal. They weren’t in the Elizabethan era where one declared their feelings in some kind of a grand speech, but she couldn’t not say it. It felt too disingenuous to keep holding it in. 

“I just…” she brushed her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck as she ran over a few possibilities in her mind rapid fire, dismissing them all for being too much. Honesty, it seemed, was proving to be the best policy. “I just really love you.”

Quinn could feel his eyes crinkling closed as his face melted into a goofy smile, one reserved only for family and people close to him.  

It felt like something broke open in his chest, finally set free. “I love you too.”

Sarah giggled and it came out a little watery. She never expected to cry when she told him, but her body always did like to cry over big emotions. 

Quinn wiped her tears away with his thumbs before tilting her face up to his. 

This kiss was softer, not as hurried. Desire giving way to something deeper – less fickle, and more settled. 

As they walked back to the locker room, Quinn realized, suddenly, that he'd left something unsaid. He tugged on her hand, and she turned. 

“I’m really proud of you,” he said. “I know you were really nervous.”

She leaned up to kiss him. “Thank you for being a very patient teacher.”

Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist

To read all my fics, check out the Fanfiction Masterlist

[myfriendpokey]

tunnel notes

i wrote some extra little notes and thoughts for the bonus tunnels in anthology of the killer, and then removed them before release; i didn't like the prescriptive feeling of leaving that stuff in the "final package" as if it was something people should feel obligated to engage with. but as of today it's been 30 days since the loader came out, so i figured i'd dump some of them online, for the benefit of whoever is interested in these things.

History: HISTORY IS A NIGHTMARE FROM WHICH I AM TRYING TO AWAKE is one of many famous zingers given to Stephen in Ulysses and I’ve always wondered if it’s especially Irish as a sentiment, Ireland sort of feeling like the “Oops! All Peasants” edition of European history as a whole – same misery, exploitation and death minus the occasional episodes of feudal colour or triumphant empire-building that seem to make the past tolerable for other people, and give them their own sense of demarcated time. But then I’ve never been much good on Irish history, which has always just felt like an interminable, indistinguishable series of massacres and betrayals and missed shots. Was I not paying attention or was this how it was taught in school? Well, it would have fit the style at the time – I was born in 1989, smack at the start of the famous end of history era. The 90s in Ireland meant the peace process and infusion of American capital to our backwards shores, all the more reason to cosign the idea of an abrupt and permanent break with a history notably lacking in the non-depressing or picturesque. All our history textbooks seemed to trail off at the point we’d joined the EEA. And even as this new modernity just started seeming like the monstrous antiquity dressed up in different clothes – hooded prisoners transported to torture sites through Shannon airport, our patchy social infrastructure dismantled by burghers, ghost estates and half-completed monuments scattered around like the ruin theory of value with more leprechaun imagery – there was still a sense that any change was off the table. You didn’t want to drag us back into history, did you? History seemed to have “ended” in the same sense Freddy Krueger did – done away with in ways that none of the grown-ups ever wanted to talk about, and now officially a non-presence, even if all the kids in town were mysteriously disappearing.

--

Art: One reason I wanted to do an episodic series is just to see what would turn up, if any recurring interests would build despite a minimum of planning. One of the themes turned out to be, “art” – or specifically modernist art – and I am curious about why that would be. A recurring tendency in modernism was the idea that only by destroying the world as it currently existed could we clear space for anything better to emerge. Under the cobblestones, the beach! But this was always attended by a kind of fear: that clearing away the old structures would just allow something even worse to emerge, unmasked. Under the cobblestones, more corpses! And that the bleakest tendencies of the period would now run free without even the emptiest symbolic constraints to chafe against. Max Ernst’s painting of the fascist victory in Spain, of a huge, grinning oaf rampaging over the landscape like a kaiju while a miserable birdlike figure remains haplessly grafted to its leg – is titled both “The Angel Of Hearth And Home” and “The Triumph Of Surrealism”. As if to suggest that these are each the same thing, as though a cause of creative liberation worth devoting your life to and an empty cliché of domestic repression had so little light between them as to not even be worth the effort of distinguishing.

Part of the reason works like that make their way into the games in little ways is because I just like them, and go back to thinking about them. But the status of modernism in the 21st century is an odd one; the most tentative and inventive parts got dropped, while the brashest and stupidest aspects curdled into a kind of official state ideology – the idea of “creative destruction”, which just seems to mean a vague sense that it’s punk rock to create ridesharing apps. The monkey’s paw curled and the emptiest version of the modernist credo became something we all have to live with.. and yet I still can’t help but be moved by the source works and the goofy, ridiculous temerity of that wish to transfigure the world. sometimes it feels like only way to keep faith with those ideas is to travesty them, to try returning to them some of that sense of fear and doubt without which they just sound like so many web design agency manifestos. Kept alive in the breast of so many grimacing waxworks, underground.

Another reason to put this stuff in a horror game: to try getting at that feeling in a dream of looking in the eyes of people you know, people you love, and seeing nothing there anymore, seeing them look right past you. An earlier horror game idea I used to think about would have ended with the protagonist being dismembered and eaten by Gertrude Stein.

--

The moral: I’ve seen people express a sense, now, that merely working in the negative is not enough; to just outline what’s bad without also trying to give a vision of the good, some glimpsed utopia to shoot for. For the benefit of these people here is an epilogue. Imagine it’s the future and the long nightmare of prehistory is over; history proper unfolds as the full expression of human powers unhindered by material subjugation. Some students are given an assignment by a professor to investigate the meaning of a term that no longer exists, the meaning of horror. Well, the students do their best: they watch lots of old movies, put on rubber masks, comb through old fragments of the world that was. They’re enjoying themselves and that enjoyment warps the process, they keep drifting into pleasure, unsure what’s meant to be funny and what’s not. They get lost, get confused, lose the thread, famous faces appear under the wrong names, espousing things that are the opposite of whatever they believed. In the end they all have to admit defeat: they hand in their assignment with a note saying that in the new world, we can’t even imagine what horror may have been. The professor reads their findings, nods, and gives them all an F. No moral.

[image source: James Ensor, "The Intrigue"]

[doc-pickles]

sent to save me | sidney crosby (ch. 1)

series masterlist

summary: sid meets nikita’s best friend and runs into a ghost from the past

warnings: none! :)

author’s note: hello! sooooooooo I have probably a million other things to do/write but this came to me and I knew I needed to write it. this is going to be a series and will probably be a lot angstier than my vegas series. I have some ideas for what’s going to happen and I can’t wait to share them with y’all!! anyways I hope yall enjoy this!

xoxo

nina

(ps - title is from ‘always been you’ by shawn mendes)

It starts off innocently enough. He’s at Geno’s for dinner like he does once a week. Nikita is babbling away next to him about everything he’s learning in first grade.

“And Mrs. Riley is super nice and I get to sit next to Vivie who always shares her fruit snacks,” Nikita says all of this at a speed that Sid can barely comprehend but he simply nods at his godson.

“Always with Vivie,” Anna coos as she ruffles Nikita’s hair, her other hand coming to rest against her swollen belly. “Attached at the leg you two.”

Sid chuckles and gently corrects Anya which has her rolling her eyes as she squeezes his arm. Being with his best friend and his family made going home to an empty house hard, but Sid knew he wouldn’t trade his weekly dinners at the Malkin house for anything.

“Vivie is my best friend in the whole world,” Niki rambles on as he runs out of the room. He comes back with a picture frame and shows it proudly to Sid. “This is us at science camp over the summer.”

Sid’s brows furrow as soon as he looks at the photo. The little girl with her arm wrapped around Nikita is a bit shorter than him, dirty blonde hair pulled back into braids. Her big brown eyes are staring up at the camera, upturned nose and gap toothed grin framed with freckles and a set of dimples. Sid stares at the photo for probably a bit too long, the little girl looking somehow familiar even though he knows he’s never met her.

“Nice picture Niki,” Sid smiles when he finally tears his eyes away from the frame. Anya is watching him carefully but doesn’t say anything as Nikita begins talking about how much he loves math.

The rest of the night is uneventful, Geno’s steak and potatoes going over well with everyone at the table. If he and Anya notice that Sid is quieter than usual they don’t say anything to him. It’s not until he’s playing outside with Nikita after dinner that Sid catches his friends whispering to each other as they wash dishes.

When he gets home later Sidney doesn’t even take his shoes off before he’s walking down the hallway to his study. The photo album is tucked into the farthest bookshelf, the dark leather binding helping it to blend in. But he knows exactly where it is, exactly what it feels like in his hands. He pulls it off the shelf and holds it for a moment before opening it to the first page.

‘To Sidney, the love of my life. Happy anniversary babe!

xoxo A’

The handwriting is loopy and decidedly womanly. He traces his fingers over the words reverently before flipping the page. Sid’s breath hitches as his eyes lock on the photo there. Blonde hair, shining green eyes, and a dimpled smile so wide he still sees it every once in a while when he closes his eyes.

There’s a part of him that wants so badly to flip through every page, to take in the smiling woman on the pages and the version of himself that seems to have faded without her. Instead he closes the photo book, shelving it again before he goes out to the living room and pours himself a glass of scotch.

“Why the hell am I still here if you can’t make me a priority Sidney?”

“I’m trying! Don’t you see that? But I also have a team to think about, a whole fucking franchise riding on my shoulders! Don’t they matter too?”

The night and all of his regrets replayed in Sid’s head often. Annie’s tear soaked face, the words they both carelessly yelled at each other. His front door slamming, her things gone from his house by the time he came back from his next road trip.

He’d wanted Annie and hockey, wanted her to see that he was trying to make them both a priority but it hadn’t been enough for her. He hadn’t been enough for her.

And in the end none of it had mattered because three weeks after their argument Sid had shattered his knee in what would be his last game as a Penguin.

Yeah he missed hockey, but he missed Annie Wright more than anything else.

+

A week later Anna’s water breaks in the middle of the night. Sidney drives over and crashes on Geno’s couch as they head to the hospital together. When he wakes up Nikita is poking his cheek with a frown.

“Hey bud,” Sid yawns as he wipes a hand over his face. “Your mom and dad went to the hospital, looks like you’re gonna be a big brother soon.”

Nikita seems wholly unimpressed as he looks at his godfather, “Can we get McDonald’s breakfast before school?”

And because he’s a sucker for Niki, Sid agrees.

By the time they’re pulling up to Nikita’s school Sid is more awake, parking and following Niki up the path to his classroom.

“I’ll pick you up later too bud,” Sid tells him as he ruffles his hair. “Then maybe we can go see your little sister.”

“Nikita!”

Both Sidney and Nikita whip around at the excited voice, watching as a little girl runs up to them. Sid immediately clocks her as Vivie from the picture Nikita showed him. She’s sporting white overalls and a pink sweater, her blonde curls bouncing around in the pigtails fastened high on her head.

Vivie hugs Niki tightly then blinks up at Sid and he swears the air just got much thinner because he can’t pull in a full breath, not when he feels like he’s looking in a god damn mirror. Vivie has the same big hazel eyes as him, the same jutting chin and furrowed brows. But her smile and those dimples… Those remind Sidney of someone else.

“Vivie! You left your lunchbox in the car,” the voice that haunts his dreams is suddenly right behind Sid and before he can think better of it he turns around.

Annie looks much the same as she did eight years ago, her heart shaped face and wide green eyes exactly how he remembered them. Her blonde hair is shorter, resting just above her shoulders now. There’s something else Sid can’t quite put his finger on but he thinks that Annie doesn’t hold that same infectious joy she used to.

“Oh my god,” Annie breathes the words out slowly as she makes eye contact with Sidney. “I- Oh my god…”

“Miss Annie, this is my Uncle Sid,” Nikita explains excitedly. “My mommy is having a baby so Uncle Sid got me McDonald’s and took me to school!”

Annie schools her features as she tears her gaze away from Sid and pastes on a smile for Nikita, “That’s so exciting! I’m sure you’re excited to be a big brother.”

The school bell rings then and Vivie and Nikita waste no time hastily saying goodbye before running off hand in hand. When they’re out of sight Sidney turns to Annie who’s white as a sheet as she stares at her shoes.

“Annie,” the word is low and laced with hurt as Sid focuses on the woman he used to love. “Annie please tell me you didn’t… That she’s not…”

Sidney can’t bring himself to say the words out loud, even though he’s almost positive they’re true. Vivie’s face is ingrained in his mind now, showing up every time he blinks. His eyes, Annie’s smile… He stares at Annie and begs her to tell him anything but what he knows is true.

Please don’t tell me you had our daughter and kept it from me. Please don’t tell me I’ve missed seven years of her life. Please don’t tell me that perfect little girl has been so close and so far. Please. Please. Please.

“Sidney, I am so sorry.”

[myzornaccount]

I think valve's philosophy regarding games is that a new game has to have something entirely unique and innovative before it can be released. If it is innovative enough, it can be released twice and done way better the second time. They release experimental first games, and the successful first games get the privilege of becoming polished second games. Gong past that is a waste though. High quality, inspired, design happens when new mechanics are introduced

If valve really did release half life 3, then 4, then 5 and so on, the series wouldn't be any better than call of duty 9 gorrilion and seven

Think about it

Half life: first successful FPS with a functional third axis, polished in half life 2

Portal: first FPS physics puzzle game, polished in portal 2. Previous canon is not abandoned by setting this in the same universe as halflife, but the gameplay is fresh. Another action shooter wouldn't have kept as much attention

Left4Dead: first co-op PvE shooter where teamwork was implemented into intended game design (special infected) unique enough to be polished in a second game

Team fortress: one of the first (maybe the first) PVP game with a class system, later polished

And then there's all the not so popular games valve released:

Death match kinda sucked, experiment failed, no second game

A whole bunch of VR titles, they kinda sucked because VR just isn't there yet. No polish expected

I think it's against valve's development/greenlighting philosophy to create a new game while using an old formula. It's why they keep making such great games. It's not the same slop every time they release a new title. Modern warfare 9999999999 plays the same as modern warfare 2. There's no improvement to be made after the first sequel and it's not a good idea to invest resources into games whose only real differences are improved graphics

Valve can count to three, they're just enlightened enough to know that counting to three yields boring games with nothing special or unique to make them worth playing

[flymetosnarryland]

My Snarry WIPs' list.

I would like to share something. My Snarry WIPs' list, yup. Why? I always felt weird writing about myself and stuff I do, but I'm processing changes and thought I can share not only art, lol.

How many project are you working on? I'll dive into couple of mine:

Date with a Star - a Post-War romantic comedy. Harry is in love with Severus, Severus secretly loves Harry. Both are too scared to say what they feel to not lose their friendship. A friend in need asks Harry for help and this is where the wild ride with dumb dating TV-show starts. Especially because Harry don't know that the same friend-in-need blackmailed Severus to get him into the same show too. This is actually a second Snarry fic I ever started to write, inspired by dating TV-show from 1992. I remember that when the idea for this one hit me, I was laughing for a good hour (that TV-show was absolutely ridiculous). And I still feel a pinch of positive embarrassment when think about what's going on there. In fact this story made me want to learn how to translate my wiritngs into English. It's half written and translated too. I really have to finish second part.

Infraction - my first monster fic. My baby. Crime (serial killer), slow burn, Muggle AU featuring Marauders and Death Eaters, political sheananigans and Severus' old flame. I have entire story written out from beginning to the end. What's more... with an ending that allows me to dive into second book (I'm excited lika a child) including the initial idea for it, ahh. Every time I think about Infraction, I feel butterflies in my stomach and a tear comes to my eye, damn. However, the entire project requires a huge amount of work. And a few modifications that I finally have to do to complete the first stage. It's not simple, though. I regret a bit that I released the cover, prologue and first chapter. I was prematurely carried away by the joy of creation, but that's okay. Going to fix it all in time.

In the Moonlight - working title. Something I planned to write for last year's Snarry AUctoberfest, but the beast got bigger, lol. Crime (kidnapping), Muggle AU - my great weakness and, most importantly, inspired by the movie Bodyguard (the one with Whitney Huston). Much like Infraction, this fic is fully planned and scripted. I can't believe I managed to do it. I wrote 1/4 of the whole thing and even have the lyrics of original song that Harry dedicates to Severus, although I don't know anything about music at all (an elephant stepped on my ear).

In between - a drawing series. Harry and Severus in a cute/fluff version. Post-War and happy life, because that's what they deserve!

First time - Drama/Romance, Muggle AU (gosh, yeah, again!). This is a project I want to do 50/50 as a fic/comic. A few works and dirty sketches have already landed here. I have a little dream of writing something that includes e-mails/text messages. In general, a romance that started online. Aren't Harry and Severus purfect for this? (Plus doing art in colour for this project was a test I wanted to start before 3B.)

3B - a Vampire fic, yessss. Can you believe that once I said, I'll never ever write or do anything connected to vampires? Hehe, now I'm in the middle of it, fully commited and over the moon. A bit dark/angsty story with a bonus: illustrations. Crime (more like, cri-me a river, lol; I mean, again? Yup xD), Post-War, a few intrigues, even a SnarryWedding o_0 gosh. That is another thing I said: "No, that's not going to happen." I guess, I fell on my head since now I do everything I promised to myself not to. But it's fun. And bloody, mhaha. I also created my own Vampire Villains and I kinda fell in love with them. Going to sneak into this fic a bit of blood magic mechanics that I created for my fantasy book, too. The picture at the top is one version of the cover sketches ɷ◡ɷ

Adrenaline - working title. Post-War/Drama/Romance and slow burn, a bit of Hogwarts, a bit of Quidditch and for a change Severus will have to show that he wants something more. I mean, I always writing/thinking about Harry chasing Severus. So here the dynamic will change a little. Can't wait for it! The idea for this one was accidentaly born last week and I can't stop it anymore. The inspiration comes from the cover art for Witch Weekly that I did, lol. I had no idea that at the stage of brainstorming, it would turn into another monster. It supposed to be a short story, but, apparently, I'm not good at short stories and it's time to come to terms with it xD I won't cry either because I like Harry and Severus pairing up in different ways/AU's, hehe. And most importantly - creating all these things, even if they don't fully see the world outside my drawer, still gives me great joy!