#But I THOUGHT I'd try something different for once I am A FOOL

[heuffopla]

I GOT IT BTW!!! (ON SALE!!!)

SKYRIM ON THE SWITCH 60€??????????????????? Guess I'll go fuck myself then

[monzabee]

run for the hills – lh44 (+18)

masterlist ||

Summary: The one where fate decides to bring you back into Lewis’ life, making him question his belief in fate.  

Pairing: lewis hamilton x rosberg!reader

Word Count: 9.3k 

Warnings: cursing, crying, drinking and mentions of alcohol, mentions of brocedes (rip), kissing, unprotected sex (you shouldn’t be surprised at this point), oral (m receiving), hand kink, praise kink, minors dni!!

Request: “hey, Merry Christmas 🫶🏽 I was hoping I could request a Lewis smut fic where the reader is Nico Rosberg's sister (with a age gap of around 6-8 years with him and Lewis) and before 2016 they were just really close friends who just kissed once but chose to pretend it didn't happen. after years, they run into each other at a club or a party and they're pretty snappy at each other but there's a lot of tension too and they end up having sex where Lewis is really cocky and also the reader has a hand kink and praise kink? I'm so sorry if I made it too long, i love your writing <33” + “oooo please could i request something w lewis?! something gut wrenchingly angsty? sorry i don’t really have a plot in mind hhhh thank you heheh”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! HAPPY NEW YEAR, i started this fic last week and i honestly didn't think I'd finish it this quickly but here we are. don't let my words fool you, i got the request last christmas but if you know me then you know that i am not quick when it comes to working on requests (i'm working on this i promise), not that this fic is even remotely christmassy, but let’s just appreciate that it is supposed to be set during the holiday period lol. this was supposed to be a shorter one but here we are, lol, i'm not even surprised at my inability to keep things short at this point. i posted this fic and realised i forgot to copy and paste a big chunk of it so oh well. as always, feedback is appreciated, and i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee 

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Lewis decided he doesn’t like cold a long time ago. That’s why, being the ever-decisive person he is, he chooses to spend his winter vacationing in places like the Maldives or Bali. His decisiveness is an important part of him, given what he does for a living. When he is on the track, in his car, there is no room for hesitation – he needs to be able to make split-second decisions under intense pressure, what’s not to love about that? So, once he decided he’d rather spend his time off basking in the sun rather than freezing to death somewhere else, he never looked back. He enjoys spending his time off in someplace tropical with his family, or without his family; most of the times away from the prying eyes and camera lenses of the media. 

But this time, it’s different – he's alone. 

Or rather, he thought he would be alone. The villa he rented out for the duration of the month is isolated, just how he likes it. He wakes up to the sound of waves crashing against the shore right outside his windows, and the distant chirping of tropical birds to accompany him as he lounges on the large deck, overlooking the infinite expanse of blue. There are no spectators around to gauge his reaction, try to get him to speak out about his plans for the next year when he moves to Ferrari, or what he’s going to do when he eventually retires one day. He hasn’t seen anyone from the racing world for weeks, and it’s been a much-needed break. He’d usually love to spend Christmas with his family, the only time he would ever tolerate the cold being when he is with his family, but this year he just wanted to get away on his own. 

There is no one around that expect anything from him. Just peace. 

He’s not a hermit, of course, but he enjoys spending his time by himself mostly isolated from all the other guests of the touristic area he’s staying in. The chef that works at the villa is on call for when Lewis decides that he wants to stay in for the night, the housekeeping staff come every morning to clean up around the house, then promptly leave, providing Lewis with the privacy he so desperately needs. But other than that, and a few nights spent outside in a restaurant or a club? He is all alone, and he is not complaining about it. Another thing about Lewis Hamilton is that he doesn’t believe in fate. He believes in setting and achieving goals; after all, that’s what he’s done all his life. His success isn’t some cosmic coincidence. It’s years of sacrifice by his parents, relentless effort, and unwavering determination. So, when things happen that feel serendipitous, like running into someone from his past, he doesn’t chalk it up to destiny. He chalks it up to the sheer unpredictability of life. 

And yet, as he steps out of the villa to head to a nearby beach club after dinner, he doesn’t expect to run into you, especially not after how the things ended last time, but there you are. His eyes find you at the bar with some guy next to you – he has to do a double take. Just to make sure, he tells himself. But no matter how many times his attention reverts to you, he knows it’s you. Of course, it’s you. Though he’s not a believer in fate or destiny, or whatever you might want to call it, there you are – dressed in a flowy linen dress. His first instinct is to ask the server to seat him somewhere else so that he wouldn’t have stare at you and your ‘date’ for the night. His grip on the glass in his hand tightens momentarily, and he exhales slowly, forcing himself to look away. This is not the moment, he tells himself. It’s not his business, not anymore. But still, his gaze drifts back to you. You’re laughing at something the guy says, your head tilted slightly as you sip from your drink. He can’t hear your laughter, no – but what a sound that would be to hear, he thinks for a moment. 

He knows he shouldn’t care who you’re with or what you’re doing; it’s been years since the two of you shared anything beyond... well anything, really. But something about seeing you here, in this place he thought was his private retreat from the world, feels like a twist of fate – or the kind of cosmic joke he claims not to believe in. But his eyes watch you as you throw you head back in a laugh and he can practically hear the sound in his head, his mind taking him to years ago when he used to be one of the people who got to hear it first hand; when he joined your family on karting days, or when you celebrated with him when he won a race, or even back to that one time when him and Nico were trying to drive those unicycles and you kept doubling over in laughter when they fell down – something your brother did not appreciate, but Lewis couldn’t help the smile that crept on his face as he watched you from the ground.  

Somethings never change, he thinks, as he notices the smallest of smiles that has crept its way onto his face, quickly disappearing the moment he catches himself. He knows it shouldn’t matter to him – let alone bother him. But old habits die hard, and the sight of your smile, that easy laugh, stirs something in him that feels like both longing and a pang of annoyance. You’ve always had a way of getting under his skin. Back then, it was teasing remarks that somehow felt more genuine than any praise he received elsewhere. He catches himself glancing your way again, his jaw tightening when the guy beside you leans in a little too close. It’s irrational, this surge of jealousy that claws at his chest. He knows he has no right to feel this way, but that doesn’t stop it from burning through him. He looks down at his drink, willing himself to focus on anything but you. But memories have a way of sneaking up on him, unbidden. The days spent at karting tracks, the shared dinners with your family, the quiet moments when it was just the two of you, talking about everything and nothing at all. Back then, it was easy. Natural. Like you were two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly, until you didn’t. 

Just then, you glance over, your eyes scanning the room before they land on him. For a moment, everything stills. The laughter fades from your face, replaced by something unreadable. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. His breath catches in his throat, and he curses himself for the way his chest tightens under your gaze. He watches as you excuse yourself, heading towards the restrooms, and he swears he has never gotten up so fast and walked so fast in his life. He doesn’t think, he just moves until he spots you in the hallway, queued behind some people waiting for the bathroom line. What kind of a club only has one bathroom? He thinks, but that’s not the point. 

He clears his throat. 

You turn, eyes widening in that familiar, guarded way. “Lewis.” Your lips open in shock as you glance behind him and then focus on him again, “Did- did you follow me here?”  

“Were you on a date with that guy?” The words come out of his mouth before he can stop himself, his voice colder than he expects. 

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Excuse me?” 

He stands there, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but that doesn’t stop the irritation from creeping up his spine. His gaze flickers to the bar behind him, where the guy you were with is still talking to the bartender, oblivious to what’s going on. “I asked if you were on a date,” he repeats, a little sharper this time as he emphasises the last word. 

You raise an eyebrow, the surprise on your face melting into something more guarded, a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “What if I was?” You cross your arms, your eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just out enjoying my night. Ever think of that?” 

He feels a rush of heat in his chest. “It’s not like I care,” he mutters, though it’s clear from the edge in his voice that he does. “Just curious.” 

You scoff, your lips curling into a sarcastic smile. “Sure, Lewis.” 

“So?” He inquires, “Are you? On a date with that guy, I mean.” 

You raise an eyebrow, clearly not amused. “Are you serious right now?” you snap, your arms tightening across your chest. “You’re standing here, in the middle of a hallway, asking me about my love life? What is this, high school?” 

Lewis feels the heat rise in his neck, irritation mixing with a sense of frustration he doesn’t quite understand. “I’m not asking for your life story, just... just an answer. Is it that hard?” His voice is tight, but he doesn’t back down. 

You scoff again, your lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “You really think you can just waltz back in and start demanding answers like we’re still... You know what? Yes, Lewis, I’m on a date.” You throw a glance over your shoulder at the guy still sitting at the bar. “We met on the beach at the hotel I’m staying at, and I thought I’d let him treat me to a dinner and a couple of drinks before I’d let him fuck me six ways to Sunday.” You roll your eyes at someone on the queue gasping at your choice of words. “Not that it’s any of your business. Are you happy now?” 

Lewis’s hand grips your wrist, a little too tight, and without warning, he’s tugging you away from the bar, his jaw clenched. “Come on,” he mutters, his tone low and urgent, as he steers you towards the back exit. You’re caught off guard, stumbling to keep up with his forceful pace, your heart hammering in your chest. 

“What the hell, Lewis? Let go of me!” you snap, yanking your arm free once you're outside in the chill night air. The chill hits you like a slap, the heat of the club’s atmosphere fading behind you as the door slams shut. 

“Seriously?” he spits, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and frustration. “You’re gonna play it like that?” 

You take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t know what game you're playing at, but I’m not interested. What the hell was that back there? Dragging me out like I’m some kind of... of property?” 

He glares at you, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’re unbelievable.” His voice rises, sharp and cutting. “I ask you a simple question, and you throw that crap at me? What the hell did you think I was supposed to do? Just stand there and pretend like I didn’t care?” 

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Pretend like you don’t care? That’s rich coming from you. You don’t get to just waltz in, after all this time, and act like you can demand answers, Lewis. Like you have any right to know what’s going on in my life.” 

“Your brother would be so disappointed in you right now.” His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the air between you two freezes. The breeze picks up, but the sudden silence makes the world feel too loud.  

“You don’t get to talk about my brother,” you seethe, as Lewis's face hardens, his jaw tensing, but it’s the look in his eyes that hits hardest — it’s a mixture of hurt and fury, both so raw, you almost feel sorry for what you’ve just unleashed. 

“What did you just say?” His voice is low, almost dangerously so, the words slipping through clenched teeth. 

You swallow, but it doesn’t help the sharp edge in your voice. “You heard me. You don’t get to talk about him, you don’t get to fuck up my life and you don’t get to come back here acting like you still have any claim on me or my life.” You’re breathing heavily now, the anger and hurt mixing into a bitter cocktail that you can’t quite swallow – funnily enough, Lewis can smell the cocktail you had earlier. “You left. You made your choice, Lewis. And now you don’t get to barge back in and pretend like I owe you anything.” 

Lewis stands in front of you, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His eyes are dark, his jaw tight as he processes your words. He doesn’t know when the two of you got closer together, he can practically feel the anger radiating off you, “You think I don’t know that?” he spits, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You think I don’t know what I did?” His voice cracks slightly, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. “I fucked up, alright? I fucked up more than you’ll ever understand. We all did – me, Nico, you.” 

“You don’t get to make me feel guilty about this, Lewis. You don’t get to act like I’m the one who fucked everything up.” Your voice shakes, but you keep going, the words coming faster, more bitter. “You kissed me and called it an ‘accident’, a fluke. You fought with Nico every chance you got. I had to pick up the pieces on my own.” 

Lewis flinches at your words, but his anger doesn’t dissipate—if anything, it only sharpens. His hands remain balled into fists at his sides, but there’s something else behind his eyes now, something raw, something almost desperate. “We wouldn’t have worked out,” he mutters, it’s something that he said to himself time and time again to convince himself of it, “I am– was your brother’s friend, you–” 

“You were my friend, too!” You exclaim, your hands swatting at his arms, chest – anywhere you can reach. “You left me, as if I meant nothing to you! You stole my first kiss and shattered my life to pieces on the same day!” You manage to get in some good hits despite Lewis’ attempts to calm you down, and the lump in your throat makes it harder for you to continue talking, “Do you know how many times I wondered if you kissed me just to piss Nico off? Do you know how that feels?” 

“What?” He asks, his voice low. Each hit, each accusation, it stings. But nothing hits harder than the raw emotion in your eyes – hurt, betrayal, and the weight of everything he left behind. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat. “You think I kissed you to get at Nico?” he says finally, his voice quieter now but no less intense. There’s an edge of disbelief, of hurt, as if the idea itself cuts deeper than your accusations. “Do you really think so little of me?” 

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, holding yourself together in the face of his raw honesty. “I don’t know what to think, Lewis. What was I supposed to think back then? You shut me out. You made me feel like it never happened – like I never happened.” 

“You were twenty-three years old,” he points out, “our age difference–” 

“Oh please,” you scoff, pushing at his chest one last time, “you’ve fucked girls younger than that.” 

Lewis flinches at your words, as if they’ve struck a nerve he didn’t even know was exposed. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. “You don’t get to throw that in my face,” he finally says, his voice low and clipped, tinged with a kind of frustration that feels different from before. 

“Why?” You ask, head cocked to the side. “I can’t comment on you fucking other people, but you can question my actions because I want to fuck–” 

“Say ‘fuck’ one more time and I swear I’ll–” 

“—what, Lewis?” you snap, cutting him off before he can finish his threat. “You’ll what? Walk away again? Pretend this conversation never happened, just like you did last time?” 

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face tightening as he tries to rein in his emotions. “Don’t push me,” he warns, his voice low and taut, but there’s no real menace in it—only desperation. 

“Oh, I’m pushing?” You laugh bitterly, throwing your hands up. “I’m the one pushing? You’re the one who showed up here, dredging up every memory I’ve spent years trying to bury. Don’t you dare put this on me, Lewis.” 

“You think this is easy for me?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “You think I don’t hate myself for what I did? For what I didn’t do? I’ve lived with this every single day, and you—” 

“Fuck you!” you shout, stepping closer, your finger jabbing into his chest. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck–” 

His hands shoot up, grabbing your wrists – not harshly, but firmly enough to stop your movements. You don’t even fully register how quickly he pushes you against the wall, “You think I ran off and lived some perfect life?” he hisses, his face inches from yours as he inhales deeply. “You think I didn’t miss you every goddamn day? You think I didn’t lie awake at night, wishing I’d had the guts to ask you to stay?” 

His words hit you like a tidal wave, the rawness in his voice leaving you momentarily speechless. For a moment, the anger in his eyes softens, replaced by something else – something that feels far too close to the hope you’ve been trying to suppress. “Well... yeah.” You inwardly cringe how your voice sounds so weak, but Lewis tilts your chin back to make you look at him.  

“Is that so?” He mumbles, thumb caressing your chin as his eyes hungrily take in how your chest moves with each deep breath your inhale and exhale.  

Your breath hitches as his thumb lingers, his gaze dropping to your lips like he’s fighting every instinct to close the distance between you. “Lewis...” you start, but his name comes out softer than you intend, more of a plea than the warning you meant it to be. 

“What?” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, but there’s a softness to it, an undercurrent of vulnerability that sends your heart racing. “What do you want me to do, huh? Walk away again? Because I can’t. Not this time.” 

You shake your head slightly, but his grip on your chin keeps you from fully looking away. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t even know how to feel about you anymore.” 

His eyes darken, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in, his forehead almost brushing yours. “Then let me remind you,” he says, his voice a low rasp. 

Your pulse quickens, every nerve in your body screaming at you to push him away – or pull him closer and he tension between you is suffocating. “Don’t,” you whisper, but your voice wavers, betraying the battle waging inside you. 

“Don’t what?” he asks, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “Don’t do this?” You don’t answer, your throat too tight, your mind too clouded with memories, anger, and something else you’re not ready to name. He waits, his breath mingling with yours, his patience stretching thin. “Say the word,” he whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “Tell me to stop, and I will. I will let you go back and take him back to your room and do whatever you want.” 

But you don’t say it. You can’t. Because as much as you hate him, as much as you want to scream at him, cry, and push him away... you also want this. Want him. 

And Lewis knows it. 

His hand releases your wrist, sliding down to your waist as his other hand stays on your chin, tilting your face toward him. The kiss that follows isn’t soft, isn’t sweet – it’s desperate, raw, and filled with years of unspoken words. It’s anger and longing, heartbreak, and desire, all crashing together in a way that steals your breath and sends your heart into overdrive. A softer kiss might have been what you wanted, but Lewis knows this is what you need. His body presses against yours, and your hands instinctively find his shoulders, clinging to him as if letting go would leave you falling apart. His lips are warm and insistent, the taste of him intoxicating. Every move, every touch, feels like he’s trying to make up for everything he never said, everything he left behind. 

The kiss deepens, each second unravelling more of the carefully constructed armour you’ve built around your heart. His fingers grip your waist tighter, grounding you even as everything else feels like it’s spinning. You can feel the heat radiating off him with every press of his body against yours. Your mind screams at you to stop, to think, to pull away before you lose yourself completely – but your body betrays you. The years of hurt, anger, and confusion dissolve into the fire burning between you, ignited by a kiss that’s as much a battle as it is a surrender. 

Lewis pulls back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still hovering close, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is hot against your skin, his voice low and rough when he finally speaks. “You still want to go back and fuck your little lover boy?”  

“Who?” You mumble, breathless as a result of the kiss as your eyes become heavy with something you can’t quite describe. 

Lewis smirks, a glint of triumph flashing in his dark eyes. "Exactly," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your waist in slow, deliberate circles. His confidence is maddening, but the heat between you makes it impossible to summon the indignation you’d usually feel. 

You try to muster a response, something sharp and cutting to put him back in his place, but the way his gaze drops to your lips again makes the words dissolve before they even form. “Don’t do that,” you manage, though your voice lacks the conviction you intended. 

“Do what?” he asks innocently, though the rasp in his tone betrays his intent. 

“Act like this changes everything.” 

His smirk falters, replaced by a seriousness that roots you in place. “It doesn’t change everything,” he admits, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “But it changes something. Doesn’t it?” 

Your heart pounds against your ribs as his words sink in. You hate how easily he disarms you, how effortlessly he pulls you back into his orbit no matter how much you’ve tried to escape it. But deep down, you know he’s right. “I hate you,” you whisper, though even you can hear the weakness in your words. 

“I know,” he replies, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “And I hate myself for making you feel that way.” 

The sincerity in his voice cuts through the haze, making your chest tighten. But before you can think about it, you find yourself tugging on the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, pulling him closer to yourself as you mumble, “Kiss me again.” 

Your hands, which moments ago were pushing him away, now find their way into his hair, pulling him closer, as if to anchor yourself in the storm he’s unleashed within you. Lewis doesn’t hold back. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, the wall at your back the only thing keeping you steady. The kiss deepens, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that borders on desperation, as though he’s afraid this moment might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. When the need for air becomes undeniable, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you are breathing heavily, the space between you charged with everything unsaid. “Tell me you didn’t feel that,” he says, his voice hoarse, his thumb brushing against your cheek. 

You can’t answer right away, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest it drowns out any coherent thought. But eventually, you manage to find your voice. “I hate you,” you whisper, but there’s no conviction behind the words. They sound hollow, even to your own ears. 

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “No, you don’t.” 

“Don’t tell me how I feel,” you snap, but the edge in your voice falters. 

“I’m not,” he murmurs, his gaze unwavering. “I’m telling you what I see. And I see you... still here. Still looking at me like that.” His hand trails down to your hip, his touch light but grounding. “If you hated me, you would’ve walked away by now.” 

You close your eyes, willing yourself to regain some semblance of control, but it’s impossible with him standing this close, his presence overwhelming. “This doesn’t change anything,” you say, though it feels more like you’re trying to convince yourself than him. 

“Maybe not,” he concedes, his voice softer now. “But it’s a start.” You don’t say anything to agree or refute his statement, and after a brief pause, he straightens, fixies your dress and tries to fix your hair as well. “Come on,” he says, “I’ll take you back.” 

“But, my bag,” you mutter, pushing out your lower lip in a pout when you realise your bag is on the floor. Lewis has to restrain himself when he sees your lips all puffed up because of him. Your voice is whiny, and he realises you’re slurring your words a little bit when you tug on his shirt, “I don’t wanna leave my bag here.” 

Lewis looks at you for a moment, his expression softening as he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing against your skin with the same tenderness he’s shown all night despite all your fighting. With a soft exhale, Lewis bends down to pick up your bag, holding it out to you with the same quiet care. “Don’t make that face,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but laced with something tender. “You really wanna go back to that room, after everything that just happened?” 

You look at him, a mix of confusion and desire swirling inside you. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the honesty slipping out before you can stop it. The words feel raw, vulnerable, but there’s something about his presence, the way he’s here, still so close, that makes you feel safe enough to say it. 

Lewis doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, his eyes soften, his thumb grazing the strap of your bag as he watches you closely, as though he’s searching for something in your expression. Finally, he steps closer again, the space between you narrowing once more. “I get it,” he says quietly. “But I’m not letting you go home alone tonight.” 

The words send a shiver down your spine. You want to protest, to push him away, but there’s something in his gaze, the way he’s looking at you now, that makes you second-guess everything you thought you wanted. You hesitate for a moment longer, the weight of your thoughts heavy in the air, but the pull between you is undeniable. It’s the kind of pull that’s magnetic, that doesn’t let you escape even when you try to resist. 

Finally, you nod, the decision feeling both like a surrender and a choice you can’t take back. “Okay,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. “Take me back, then.” 

You don’t even remember getting into his car, but you do remember the smug look he shot at your date – Carl, you think – when he helped you through the club with a firm hand on your back. The villa Lewis rented for his little getaway is entirely what you expect it to be – modern, grand, and secluded enough so no one uninvited would know he is there and bother him. The couch in the living room looks way too inviting and you make a mental note to avoid it for now. Sitting on it might make this whole situation feel too real, too comfortable, and you’re not ready for that. You glance around the space instead, taking in the clean lines of the modern furniture, the polished wood floors, and the sprawling windows that offer an unobstructed view of the moonlit ocean. You walk towards the windows, eyes taking in the view from inside the villa. The ocean stretches out endlessly before you, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. The soft sound of the waves crashing against the shore is faintly audible even through the glass, a gentle hum that seems to echo the turmoil in your chest. 

You wrap your arms around yourself, partly to steady your nerves and partly to shield yourself from the vulnerability creeping up on you. The view is breathtaking, but it does little to quiet the storm of emotions swirling inside you. You faintly hear Lewis calling out your name, but as if you are in a trance, you can’t take your eyes off the view in front of you. His voice calls out to you again, softer this time, closer. “Hey,” he says, and you feel the warmth of his presence before you even see him. Lewis’s reflection appears in the glass, his dark eyes fixed on you as he stands just behind you. 

You finally tear your gaze away from the ocean and turn to face him, your arms still wrapped protectively around yourself. “It’s beautiful,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment. 

Lewis nods, his expression unreadable as he follows your gaze back to the window. “It is,” he agrees, but there’s a weight to his tone, as if he’s not just talking about the view. His eyes flicker back to you, searching your face. “But it doesn’t seem like it’s helping much.” 

You let out a shaky laugh, more to fill the silence than anything else. “It’s not that simple, Lewis.” 

“Nothing ever is,” he replies, stepping closer until there’s only a breath of space between you. “But I’m here. You don’t have to deal with whatever this is alone.” 

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into it. “I don’t know what to do with you,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “With... us.” 

He exhales deeply, his hand lifting as though he wants to touch you but hesitates. “You don’t have to figure that out right now,” he says, his voice steady. “I just want to make sure you’re okay tonight. That’s all that matters to me.” 

Something about his words, his presence, eases the knot in your chest, if only slightly. “I don’t even know where to start,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. 

“Then don’t,” he says simply, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance. “Just be here. With me.” 

You look up at him, your eyes searching his face for any sign of pretense or ulterior motives, but all you see is the same man who’s managed to undo you with a single glance. “Show me your room.”  

“We don’t have to do that.” His eyebrows furrow as he reaches for your cheek, “That not why I brought you here.” 

“Isn’t it?” You try to joke, but his deep sigh is a sign of his disapproval. “I know that’s not why you brought me here, but it can be one of the reasons you brought me here.” 

“Can it?” He drawls, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  

“For God’s sake, Lewis.” You sigh, turning your body towards the man standing next to you. “Do I need to beg you for you to fuck me?”  

Lewis’s smirk falters, his expression shifting into something deeper, darker, but undeniably tender. “Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with restraint as he steps closer. His hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You don’t need to beg me for anything. Not now, not ever.” 

The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch, and for a moment, the air between you feels electric. “Then fuck me,” you whisper, your voice trembling with equal parts frustration and desire. “If you want me, show me.” 

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s steadying himself, and when he opens them again, the resolve in his expression takes your breath away. “You think I don’t want you?” he asks, his tone low but firm. “You don’t know how hard it is to hold back, to stop myself from–” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening as if even admitting it is too much. He reaches for one of your hands, freeing from your hold and places it on his crotch. “See what you do to me?” 

The crude act manages to steal a gasp from you, your eyes widening at how hard he already is. “Lewis,” you mutter, he responds with an affirmative hum, “show me your bedroom.” 

He takes your hand, his grip firm but careful, and leads you down a sleek hallway. The sound of your heels clicking against the polished wood floor echoes softly, a counterpoint to the pounding of your heart. When he pushes open the door to his bedroom, you’re momentarily distracted by how much the space reflects him. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft, ethereal light. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft light.  

You walk towards the centre of the room, the corner of your lip trapped between your teeth as you glance at Lewis over your shoulder before you run towards the bed and throw yourself onto the soft bedding. Lewis watches you with an amused smirk as you sprawl across the bed, your carefree motion starkly contrasting the simmering tension in the air. “Comfortable, baby?” he asks, his tone teasing, but the heat in his eyes betrays his calm façade. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, giving him a challenging look. “Very.” Then you narrow your eyes at him, “But don’t call me baby, I am not your baby.” 

He chuckles, low and throaty, as he steps closer, loosening the top button of his shirt with a deliberate slowness that sends a shiver down your spine. “No?” he muses, stopping at the edge of the bed. His eyes roam over you, drinking in every detail as if committing you to memory. 

Your breath hitches when he leans over, placing a hand on either side of your body, effectively caging you in. His face is so close to yours now that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “I like seeing you like this,” he admits, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Relaxed, it suits you.” 

A flush creeps up your neck at his words, but you refuse to let him have the upper hand completely. Your fingers trail up his chest, over the defined planes of his torso, and then slide beneath the open collar of his shirt. “I could say the same about you,” you reply, your voice soft but loaded with meaning. 

His response is immediate. His lips crash against yours with a fervour that steals your breath, his hands gripping your waist as he pulls you flush against him. The kiss is raw and consuming, years of tension and unspoken words pouring into the connection. When he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged, he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. 

You smile, your hands slipping down to the waistband of his pants. “Why don’t you show me?” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In one smooth motion, he lifts you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you to the centre of the bed. He chuckles at the sound of your giggling, as he carefully lays you back down on the soft bed. His fingers work diligently to get you out of your dress, pulling the linen garment over your head as Lewis lets his eyes hungrily take you in. When your dress finally falls away, leaving you in nothing but lace and skin, Lewis takes a slow breath, his eyes scanning over your body with a mixture of awe and hunger. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with admiration. His fingers trace the curve of your waist, his touch sending shivers of desire through your body. 

You arch slightly into his touch, your breath coming faster, and you meet his gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “Are you going to just gawk at me, or are you going to actually do something?” 

He smirks, a flash of cockiness in his eyes. “Patience,” he teases, but there’s no mistaking the hunger in his voice as he lowers himself over you. With one hand bracing himself above you, his other hand slides down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His touch is slow, almost teasing, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as his fingers inch closer to where you need him most. “You like this?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, his lips just inches from yours. His fingers find the lace of your underwear, his touch deliberate as he pulls it aside and slips a finger inside you, making you gasp. “You’re fucking perfect,” he groans, his lips crashing against yours as he deepens the kiss, his finger working inside you with a slow, steady rhythm. You can feel the heat building between you, the tension in the room thickening with every passing second. 

“Don- don’t say ‘fuck’, Lewis,” you tease him with a small smirk as your breathing becomes deeper, “it’s unbecoming.” 

“You’ll see who will be coming in a few minutes, baby.” He chuckles at the way your expression changes at the mention of the word, his fingers moving in deeper as your let out a disapproving moan, “What? You don’t like it when I call you that?” 

With another dissenting hum and a raise of your hips to meet his hand, you let out a long exhale. “I’m not your baby Lewis, stop calling me that.” With the patience that only he can tolerate, he continues the leisurely movements of his fingers. “I want more, please.” 

Lewis tuts at your words softly, chuckling as he takes in your reactions. “I think you have a very important decision to make here,” he murmurs, his eyes suddenly painted with something more serious, “because once I fuck you, I’m not letting you go.”  

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” The words come out choppy as your breathing gets more erratic, his fingers stubbornly keeping to the slow rhythm he’s set.  

Lewis's gaze sharpens, the challenge in your tone sparking a flame in his dark eyes. “Oh, you’ll see it, alright,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety promise as his hand withdraws briefly, leaving you breathless and aching. Before you can protest, he moves with deliberate precision, tugging his shirt over his head and revealing the expanse of his chest – sculpted, strong, and utterly captivating. “Get on your hands and knees.” 

The command leaves no room for debate, his voice firm but laden with heat. Your heart skips a beat as you meet his gaze, a mixture of defiance and curiosity flickering in your expression. “Bold of you to assume I'll listen,” you quip, though the slight tremor in your voice betrays your anticipation. 

Lewis smirks, leaning down until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Oh, you'll listen,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Because you know exactly how patient I can be, but the same can’t be said for you.” 

A shiver runs through you at his words, and before you realize it, you’ve complied, shifting onto your hands and knees in the centre of the bed. You can practically feel his gaze on you, then all of a sudden, you can actually feel him behind you, the bed dipping slightly under his weight as he moves closer. “Good girl,” he says softly, his voice rich with approval, and the way your body reacts to the praise is almost embarrassing. “Oh, my beautiful darling.” His hands skim over your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your hips. The grip is firm, possessive, sending a thrill through you.  

The sounds of him taking himself out of his trousers and pumping cock in his hand is pure debauchery, yet you find yourself pushing your hips back against his thighs. Lewis's low chuckle reverberates through you, a sound full of confidence and desire. His hand tightens on your hips, steadying you as he leans in, his chest brushing against your back. The heat of his skin against yours makes you arch into him instinctively, earning another throaty laugh from him. “You're eager,” he teases, his voice dark and dripping with amusement. “I like you like this.” 

You bite your lip to suppress the needy sound threatening to escape, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe you're just slow,” you retort breathlessly, glancing back at him over your shoulder, a challenging look in your eyes. 

Lewis growls low in his throat, his hands sliding across your back. “Careful,” he warns, though there's a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Push me too far, and I won't be nice.” Your breath catches at his words, but before you can form a response, you feel him guiding himself to your entrance, teasingly dragging against you. The deliberate slowness makes your frustration peak, and you push your hips back, a wordless plea for him to stop teasing. 

“Patience, darling,” he murmurs, his voice a husky promise. But even as he says it, he shifts forward, entering you with a deliberate motion that steals the breath from your lungs. 

The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve in your body alight as he holds still for a moment, letting you adjust. “Lewis,” you breathe, your voice shaky with need.  

His hands gently caress over the skin of your back and hips, soothing over the sharp feeling of Lewis easing himself into you in small movements of his hips. “You’re doing so well,” he shushes your whiny moans, his hands tracing your sides, grounding you. “You feel perfect, we’re almost there, darling.”  

“A-almost?” Your voice cuts his words off, voice shaky with need, “It’s not going to fit, Lewis, I can’t-” 

He leans over you, his lips pressing tender kisses along your spine, each one sending a ripple of warmth through you. His voice is a soothing murmur in your ear. “Relax for me, darling. Let me take care of you.” Your breathing steadies under his touch, the initial sting giving way to a fullness that leaves you breathless as he pushes himself fully into you. You arch your back slightly, pressing into him as his hands continue their gentle exploration of your body. The tenderness in his actions contrasts with the raw desire in his voice, creating a heady mix that leaves you yearning for more. “That's it,” he praises, his tone soft but laced with heat. “You’re incredible. See? We made it fit.” 

“I feel so full.” You manage to let out, voice whiny as the moan is ripped from the back of your throat. “It feels so good, Lewis.” 

He begins to move, a slow, steady rhythm that builds gradually, allowing you to feel every inch of him. The friction ignites a fire within you, and you can’t help the soft moans that escape your lips, each sound spurring him on. His grip on your hips tightens, his pace increasing as he finds the perfect rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. “You feel so good,” he groans, his voice low and thick with desire. His hand slides up your spine, tangling in your hair as he pulls you back slightly, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re mine, you know that? Only mine.”  

The moan that comes from you is dissenting, causing Lewis to slide his hand down your throat to use the leverage to pull you up on your knees, pressed against his chest. “No,” you say, hands extending backwards to keep holding onto him in an attempt to keep up with the rhythm in which he is fucking you now. 

His words send a shiver down your spine, the possessiveness in his tone igniting something primal within you. “Say it,” he commands, his voice rough as his movements grow more urgent. “Say you're mine.” 

Your breaths are shallow, punctuated by soft whimpers as you cling to him, trying to keep pace with his movements. The way he pulls you against him, his hand firm on your throat, sends a jolt of heat through your core. His hand is firm around your throat, but not uncomfortable to the point that you can’t breathe. 

“I’m not yours,” you gasp defiantly, your voice trembling with every move he makes.  

Lewis growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your back as his hand tightens slightly around your neck—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you in place. “We’ll see about that,” he says darkly. 

His hips snap against you harder now, his rhythm relentless as if determined to prove you wrong. The overwhelming sensation leaves you gasping, your fingers clutching at his forearm for balance. His free hand slides down your body, gripping your waist to hold you steady as he drives deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. 

“Still not mine?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. His tone is equal parts teasing and commanding, daring you to resist him. “Still think someone else can fuck you better than I can?” You bite your lip, trying to stifle the moans spilling from you, but the way he moves, the way he claims you, has you crumbling. “Say it,” he repeats, his voice a low growl that echoes through your very core. 

Torn between defiance and surrender, you meet his challenge with a shaky breath. “I’m-” you begin, but he cuts you off with a particularly deep thrust that has you crying out his name instead. 

“Hmm?” Lewis chuckles darkly, clearly enjoying your struggle. His grip on your neck softens slightly as his fingers trace the column of your throat in a soothing gesture. “Come on, baby, just say it.” 

“I’m-” The word catches in your throat as he shifts slightly, the angle of his hips hitting a spot that sends a jolt of pleasure through you. A broken moan escapes your lips instead, and Lewis smirks against your ear, clearly revelling in your unravelling. 

“Say it,” he demands again, his voice low and demanding. His hand slides from your throat to your jaw, turning your face just enough that his lips can brush against the corner of your mouth. The gentleness of the gesture is at odds with the raw intensity of his movements, leaving you breathless. 

“I’m yours,” you finally gasp, the words tumbling out in a mix of desperation and surrender. 

Lewis freezes for a heartbeat, his chest heaving against your back as the admission settles between you. Then, with a triumphant growl, he resumes his pace, his grip on you tightening as if he intends to imprint himself into every fibber of your being. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. His lips trail along your shoulder, leaving a path of heat in their wake. “Say it again.” 

“Yours,” you whisper, the word coming easier this time, though the weight of it still sends a shiver through you. 

His rhythm grows more urgent, his body moving with a single-minded purpose as he pushes you both toward the edge. “Never forget it,” he groans, his voice rough and ragged, “now come for me.” You blame the singular cocktail you had three or so hours ago for your compliance to his words, as you feel the wave of pleasure crash over you, obliterating any coherent thought. Your body trembles uncontrollably in his arms, your cries of release echoing in the room as he whispers sweet words of praise in your ear.  

There are a million other things Lewis expects you to say, but you surprise him with a, “I wanna taste you.”  

Lewis's movements still, his breath catching at your unexpected words. He pulls back slightly, his dark eyes locking with yours, filled with surprise and a flicker of intrigue. A slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face. “Oh, is that so?” he murmurs, his voice tinged with amusement and undeniable heat. 

You nod, your cheeks flushing under his intense gaze, but there’s a spark of confidence in your eyes. “I really do,” you say softly, the tremble in your voice betraying both your boldness and your eagerness. 

He studies you for a moment longer, his expression shifting to one of reverence laced with desire. "Well," he says, his voice low and gravelly, "who am I to deny you, darling?" With a gentleness that contrasts the fervour of moments ago, Lewis guides you to sit up, his hands warm and steady as they support you. He shifts to the edge of the bed, leaning back slightly, giving you room and letting you take control. His gaze never leaves you, his dark eyes glinting with anticipation. You settle between his thighs, your hands skimming over his skin, marvelling at the way his muscles tense under your touch. There's a sense of power in the way his body responds to you, in the way his breathing hitches when your lips brush against him. You look up at him, meeting his gaze with a small smile before leaning in. The moment your mouth closes around him, Lewis groans low in his throat, his head falling back as his control begins to slip. His hands find their way to your hair, his touch gentle but firm as he guides you, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Just like that,” he praises, his voice rough with pleasure. “You’re perfect, baby.” 

The sound of his voice, the way he says your name like it’s the only thing that matters, spurs you on, and you lose yourself in the moment, intent on unravelling him the way he did you. Your lips move with deliberate intent, your tongue tracing teasing paths that have him groaning your name like a prayer. His fingers tighten in your hair, a gentle tug that makes you glance up at him through your lashes. The sight of him – head tilted back, his lips parted as he struggles for breath, sends a thrill through you. 

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice ragged and filled with awe. His eyes find yours, and the intensity of his gaze makes your pulse quicken. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Encouraged by his reaction, you take him deeper, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself. The sound he makes is primal, his control slipping further as his hips jerk involuntarily. He tries to hold himself back, but you can tell he’s close to losing himself completely. “Baby,” Lewis rasps, his voice thick with need, “you keep that up, and I won’t last.” You hum around him in response, the vibration pulling another groan from his lips. His hand slips from your hair to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek in a tender contrast to the raw passion between you. “Look at me,” he whispers, his tone almost pleading. 

You meet his gaze, and the connection between you feels electric. His chest heaves as his breaths come in quick, shallow bursts, his control hanging by a thread. “I’m so close,” he warns, his voice a low growl. “Do you want me to stop?” The shake of your head is all the answer he needs. With a curse under his breath, he lets go, his body shuddering as he gives himself over to the waves of pleasure crashing through him. He holds your gaze the entire time, his grip on you tightening as if anchoring himself to the moment. 

When he calms down, he collapses back against the bed, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths. You sit back after swallowing, a triumphant smile playing on your lips as you take in the sight of him, utterly undone. “That was fun,” you rasp as you take in the sight in front of you. 

Lewis chuckles softly, the sound low and breathless, as he drapes an arm over his face, trying to regain his composure. “Fun?” he repeats, his voice laced with amusement and lingering satisfaction. He peeks at you from under his arm, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of adoration and disbelief. “You’ve got no idea what you just did to me.” 

You tilt your head, feigning innocence as you crawl up the bed to lie beside him. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” you tease, your voice light but with a hint of pride. 

He turns toward you, propping himself up on one elbow, his free hand reaching out to trace lazy circles along your arm. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet filled with a reverence that makes your cheeks flush. “And I’m completely at your mercy.” 

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, as you nuzzle into his touch. “I think you like it that way,” you reply, your fingers grazing over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. 

“More than you know,” he admits, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your temple. The tender gesture contrasts with the raw intensity you’d just shared, and it sends a warm flutter through your chest. 

For a moment, silence falls between you, the only sound the soft rustling of the sheets and the slowing rhythm of his breathing. Then Lewis shifts, his arm slipping around your waist to pull you closer. “You know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair, “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.” 

The weight of his words settles over you, and you glance up at him, your heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his gaze. “Good,” you whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips.  

He smiles back, a look of pure contentment spreading across his face as he tightens his hold on you. “That’s all I get?” 

“We’ll see how you feel after we get home,” you mumble as you run a finger along the curve of his jaw, “you might be bored of me by then.” 

“Home,” Lewis muses quietly, breaking the silence and ignoring your words. His voice is softer now, contemplative. “I like the sound of that.” 

You glance up at him, his face so close that you can see the faintest hint of vulnerability in his expression. It stirs something deep within you – a mix of tenderness and longing that takes you by surprise. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “Me too.” 

[reorientation]

I'm very late to this kink but I think I've been in it for years? Not even on purpose.

I live with my roommates, me and my three guy friends 💗 which is funny because it just worked out that way. Anyway, years ago I went through this awful break up and we'll just leave at that. I was crazy about this girl and it like actually messed me up when she broke up with me. So in a really weird mental space but just trying to move on from it, I keep getting crazy drunk with my friends, partying through the pain lol

One in particular, we're pretty tight, I'll call him Zach here. So Zach and I were really close at that time, like really really close, and one night we start doing kind of sexual stuff while really drunk. This wasn't a thing between us at all before that night and I can't remember exactly what lead to it, but yeah we're doing some fool around stuff and then more and then more. I'd never done stuff with guys really, not beyond little party game things, like spin the bottle. He knew that and at one point that night he put it inside me and to be honest I wasn't sure what to think.

I remember at the time wondering if I should stop him or something? I don't know it's kind of funny to think about now, but I was thinking maybe he shouldn't do this, maybe I need to tell him this is too much? It felt really weird and I guess I didn't know if it was in a good way or a bad way yet. But he was saying things like "I can't believe you're letting me do this" and "you're letting me ruin you" and it was so hot that I let him fuck me. Those things he was saying were making me so wet and I guess that's this kink.

He never says that stuff anymore I just remember that being the point where my mind just silenced all the "should I tell him not to?" thoughts and it just went blank while he fucked me. It wasn't crazy good sex, we were really drunk, but it was hot and it was very different from what I was used to.

So all and all this made my other friends jealous because both of us told them. At the time it was really odd! No one saw it coming! So they all wanted a turn lol and I had told them that I found it weirdly hot so of course they both wanted to prove something. Okay one of them, we'll call Tom, wouldn't say that but it's kind of true.

Anyway all three of them got their chance and it just became a thing that would happen pretty frequently. Maybe a few times a week? I'm a very horny person so being single has always been hard on me and on top of that I'm an attention whore. I wouldn't say I'm not a lesbian because I'm still not attracted to men but I am definitely a big enough attention whore that it doesn't matter lol I just like that they all need to get with me.

So over the years this arrangement has been a thing I guess, when I'm single they can just fuck me whenever because my libido is really high. They don't talk about me being a lesbian while we fuck but I notice every once in awhile I find it kind of hot that they might think about getting to fuck a lesbian yknow like they think it might change something? I think about how Zach said that stuff and it still makes me wet, I think I should bring it up to him maybe? But that might be weird.

One of the really juicy things that happened recently was that Tom fucked me really hard. Tom has always been a very sweet kind of guy and he definitely is that guy in bed, but he also hasn't been fucking me at all for the past... five months maybe because he has a serious girlfriend. But a few weeks ago he came home and we were chilling and he got very intense and held me down and fucked me really hard from behind. Like toe curling hard. It was so hot and I had already found this kink so I kept thinking about it as like him trying to "break" me.

He hasn't done anything with me since but I wish they would get in on this kink without me saying anything. I feel like I can't say it because it'd be embarrassing and weird, but it'd also kind of ruin it to ask for it? Or maybe it'd just turn my brain off again when they actually said something and it wouldn't matter?

What a pure, sweet example of lesbian sexuality: a girl who's been maximum-convenience, any-time-you-want pussy for three different men for years, but "wouldn't say that I'm not a lesbian because I'm still not attracted to men".

As if it matters! As if your little categorization criterion means anything when you spend your life taking cock whenever men decide you will!

The very first time a man fucked you, he said the right words to get your mind blank and your pussy wet - and now it's years later, and you've been fucked hundreds of times.

And the funny thing is, they don't even have to earn it by playing with the dykebreaking kink. That's your idea, that you use to get off, and you're hoping that they'll indulge you in it. Countless guys get off to the idea, but I don't know if it even really occurs to the men fucking you anymore: how do you see a girl as a lesbian when you and your buddies have been emptying your balls in her for years?

But if you're too shy to ask them to think of you that way, the solution is easy enough. Have you ever spread your legs for them on top of a lesbian flag? Worn a "This is what a lesbian looks like" shirt until they took it off?

Just remind them what you claim to be, as you keep being a good fucktoy for them. With any luck, they'll laugh at you for it, as they fuck your little "lesbian" brains out.

[road-kill-eater]

The storybook tone of your last post is really great. I hope you do feel up to sharing more of your writing with us some day because I think it's genuinely wonderful, as is the artwork you've paired with it. If it were a book I could buy, I'd do so in a heartbeat ❤️

I have received this request before, so here, I've polished up this opening chapter somewhat. Keep in mind, it is still a very rough draft, and I write only as a nighttime hobby, and have only rarely shared any of my work, and it is very much amateur quality, but I am proud of it.

Boots sighed as he laid his arms upon the edge of the stone battlement, staring lazily out across the village that stretched beyond the castle. It was not his, and would never be his, what with his two older brothers and father still in good health. That, at least, was fortunate, for while he was a prince he had never once desired to rule anything, not even an anthill, and especially not his fathers kingdom.

It was early spring now, and the city was bustling just the same as the swallows that were building nests in the castle towers, and the bees that were scouring the meadows for the first clover and honeyberry. He watched as ox carts filtered in through the front gates, bearing grains and textiles and fruits and metals and wood and all manner of trading goods. At first it had been just a passing fancy, but now the thought of dipping into the crowd to live amongst them was increasingly attractive.

Surely there would be a lot to learn, the townspeople would scoff at his ignorance, and any work he found would be grueling and difficult compared to his rather leisurely life in the castle, but at least it would be different. He wouldn't have to always run when summoned, have his clothes and appearance constantly fretted over, nor have to worry over his fathers bitter approval and mothers jovial rejection.

Boots sighed and rested his chin upon his hands, they were but the thoughts of a fool. Then he suddenly felt the back of his shirt pulled up and forwards, yanking him along with it. He cried out as the great void yawned out below him, and his legs kicked out wildly in the empty air.

His brother laughed before pulling him back over the battlement and letting him drop onto the cold stone. He landed in a heap, his teeth clicking on his tongue and cheek smashing against the ground.

"Careful, brother, if you lose yourself you might fall." The tall man guffawed, slapped his friend on his shoulder.

Boots sniffed and sat up, bringing a shaky hand up to investigate his bloody lip. He was regrettably used to such disgrace, and past experience had taught him it was easier not to fight back at all, no matter how he wanted to. Often he wished to wring his brother's thick neck, though his own hands were hardly large enough to wrap around it.

"If you do then they'll feed you to the monster under the castle." His brother jeered, "I heard it likes prince's best."

"There's no monster." Boots grumbled, pulling out a pebble embedded in his lip, "You think I'm a fool."

His brother reached down to ruffle Boots' hair roughly, "You weren't even born when they brought it in but I saw it. All chained up and bigger than a bear, and just as hungry. It used to terrorize the countryside and eat the traders, carts and all."

"Why not just kill it then?" Boots stared at the ground.

"To let it loose on our enemies, should we ever be sieged." His brother proclaimed, "Try to use that little brain of yours."

Boots scowled as the two men went off, sure to leave chaos in their wake. Despite his resentment he still felt quite curious. It was not the first time he had heard of such a monster, but he had passed it off as a mere rumor, like a story told by his mother to keep him from misbehaving. But his brother hardly engaged in such fanciful thinking, and Boots knew there must be something locked away, even if it was just a kenneled lion, or perhaps a cockatrice.

After his near brush with a lethal plunge he was happy to descend the many staircases and get down to ground level. Here there was little that had ever attracted him, nothing but old cobblestone and stray cats yowling for their mates. He would much rather sit and practice his flute in the bailey, with its beautiful oak trees and small pasture, or take his horse out for a jaunt. But he was so curious he couldn't help himself and trod about the inner walls of the castle, even if he was half sure that his brother had been lying, and would surely hunt him down to berate him for being so gullible.

Boots paused when he realized he had passed right by an old grate, though it looked to be nothing special. The bars were rusty and worn with age, and thicker than he had ever seen, wider than his own forearm. He could not think as to why such a grate would be there, for the prison was well on the other side of the walls, so he crouched down and narrowed his eyes to peer into the dark.

"Hello?" He asked, raising his long ears up as far as he could. He repeated the greeting once, a little louder, then felt foolish and decided he must give up this venture altogether before he humiliated himself.

Just as he turned to leave, he heard the creak of metal on metal, then the unmistakable sound of chain links clashing as they rose.

He immediately dropped back down to his knees, hesitant to get too close. He had no clue of what manner of beast this could be, perhaps a great dragon that could spit fire upon him, or an eagle that could carry away a horse, or something he could hardly imagine. He supposed next time he should bring a torch to drop through the bars so he might catch a glimpse. But perhaps it was only another prisoner, simply kept apart from the others due to some exceedingly dangerous nature.

"My brother told me there was a terrible monster kept beneath the castle." He said, his tail curling around his leg nervously.

"That is I." Came a voice like a mountain breaking in twain, like the sea crashing upon rocky spires, like the rumble of a hundred heavy hooves shaking the earth.

Boots gaped, "Of w-what manner of creature are you?" He asked, his own voice sounding so very small in comparison.

"Lonesome." The voice replied, "All my own." And in it he could hear the things sorrow, that of utter despair and consignment to its miserable fate.

"Why were you locked up, lonesome thing?" Boots felt his tail twitch with excitement.

"I did terrible things, I was very cruel, it is in my nature," The voice mourned, "All I have to think on is my many misdeeds."

"I suppose that is fair." Boots shrugged, "Do they feed you down there?"

"Never enough. Only to keep me alive, but I am so much less now than before. I cannot even break my chains." The voice replied.

"Oh, I have some snacks." Boots pulled out a bundle of shortbread he had been munching on throughout the day.

"I do not deserve it." The monster rumbled, its cadence flat and monotone.

"A little treat cannot hurt. My brother said you've been locked here for years." Boots stuffed a piece in his mouth then gently tossed the sack through the bars.

"So long I have forgotten the sun, it never passes by this place. I am ever in the dark." The unknown creature continued, and he heard the sound of its chains rattling as it investigated the sack.

"I cannot believe you are real, I was sure my brother was just tricking me again." Boots said, and realized he was surprisingly elated by this discovery. Life within the castle walls could be so dreary and monotonous, but here was something unlike anything else, something almost no one knew about.

"I must go now, or I'll be missed at my lesson. But I'll come back another day." Boots stood back up and skipped away.

"Don't leave." Came the voice behind him, sounding so muffled and weak now.

--

Boots was so distracted during his lesson he was admonished for not paying attention, and so excited he could hardly sleep the whole night, nor wait for a chance the next day to steal away to the monster's window. This time he came with a load of shortbread cookies stuffed into his shirt, as well as a candle so he might catch a glimpse of it.

"Good evening." Boots greeted, not feeling half so hesitant as before. He was fairly sure now the monster couldn't hurt him from behind the bars.

In response he heard only the sound of chains being dragged along a stone floor.

"It looks like it might rain tonight, does it ever flood your cell?" Boots asked, sitting down next to the bars. Try as he might, it was just as dark as before, and he could see nothing of the beast.

"Sometimes." The ragged voice sighed, catching in its throat as if it was still getting used to speech once more.

"That's a shame. How much longer will you be kept?" Boots tilted his head, "My brother said that he saw you locked away when I was but a child."

"Forever." The dark voice spoke, "There can be no punishment terrible enough for what I have done. Here I shall stay until the sun burns out."

"Oh," Boots frowned, "Do you want some cookies?" He began pulling them from his shirt and stacking them between the iron bars.

He didn't get a response and twitched his tail impatiently, "Do you have a name?"

"It is long forgotten." The monster said, his voice a thick growl.

"Oh, well I'm Boots, the king is my father." He bent over to light the candle.

"I am hardly fit to entertain royalty." Said the monster.

"Ah, I am hardly such. I'm the youngest of three brothers, I'll only ever be a prince. Luckily." Boots shrugged.

He caught sight of a glimmer of something sharp rising from the darkness to snatch up a cookie from the ledge. The flicker of his candle illuminated it just enough so he could recognize it as the hooked tip of a beak. Then he heard horrible gnashing sounds as the monster ate.

"Might I see you? I am rarely allowed to venture from the castle. All day I have to learn about the practicalities of my station, and it's very boring. My brothers hunt salamanders and jaculus, while I am shuttered at home." Boots sighed wistfully, "I did see a sea serpent once when my brother took me fishing, though."

"First tell me of the serpent, princeling." The monster requested.

Boots leaned back against the cobblestone wall, "The weather turned sour, but we were hooked onto a great fish with a nose like a spear and fins like kites. When it breached it flew nearly as high as our mast. I had to strap my brother down so he didn't go overboard, and still it pulled our boat to and fro, so great was its strength it pulled us against the current, so waves broke over our bow."

"I have never been upon the sea." The monster said softly.

"It is a beast unto itself! Like being on the back of some great stallion, which rears and shakes and lashes its wild mane across ships. And when it takes off you can only ride it out and hang tight upon the lines. As we did as we battled this fish, until my brothers' arms shook and he begged me to take the line but I couldn't, it would have drawn me right into the brine, but at least then he could have blamed me for it all." Boots laughed, "And then the clouds parted, a shaft of light turned the sea to frothing amber, and I saw a great head spear up through the waves, the fish between its jaws. It was scaled with gold and green, and its body went on and on, piercing through wave after wave. Steam shot out from its nose and it coiled about and made to sink back down. Then I had to cut the line lest my brother's arms be torn off for his stubbornness, but he still hated me for it, he never even saw the serpent."

"Is such a fish so valuable to you? Don't the merchant carts I hear every morning deliver everything you could desire?" The monster asked.

"Yes, but they can't deliver renown or victory. That is what my brother seeks, he is always out hunting and dueling. Last week he brought back a cockatrice and had it mounted above the fireplace before our mother had it taken down and burned. He was so mad he started a terrible fight at a tavern that same night." Boots laughed lightly.

"I thought your sort did not fight amongst themselves." The monster growled, "Yet you say your brother may have drowned you in the sea to save face?"

"Well we usually don't kill each other, only duel until mercy is called for. But the northern streets are dangerous, I hear. The cooks were talking about a masked killer that jumps from roof to roof, and steals in through open windows to slit throats!" Boots thumped his tail upon the ground, "And you must know we have our enemies, the kingdom to the east is forever starting trouble, raiding villages on the border until we send our soldiers to make them run off. I would love to see such a battle."

"Once this land was very different from where we now sit. Another kingdom, another castle. I think you must have killed them all." The monster said.

"Oh," Boots grimaced, the thought made him a bit uncomfortable, "But that was long ago. And it is the way of things, is it not? But perhaps if I was king I would find a way to end all wars."

"It is the way of things!" The beast raised its voice and he suddenly heard the chains rattling as it were rising upwards, "There is nothing that lives without conquering another. No sapling grows tall without choking out its siblings, no stag grows fat without devouring insects with its leaves. Even the most pampered lapdog demands blood."

"We are hardly stags nor dogs." Boots puffed, "Have some more cookies, I'll have to leave soon for my own dinner."

He watched as the beak snatched up a few more morsels from the ledge, and he caught the glint of a long tooth, so sharp he could immediately imagine how easily it could hook into his flesh.

"I brought you a candle, perhaps some light would be nice?" He pushed the candleholder upon the ledge as well, though he really just wanted to catch sight of the monster.

"To see my own ruin?" The monster groaned, "I'd rather languish in the dark."

"Well, I should like to see you." Boots said, his voice trembling, "You said you are alone in the world."

"Then I shall see you too, princeling." The monster growled with a voice like a storm that brought down forests.

Huge talons clicked as they set upon the stone, wickedly sharp and curved like an eagles, each the length of his middle finger at least. Then a long face burst forth from the dark, its sharp angles illuminated by the flickering candle. It was like a vulture mated with a wolf, its tapered, crooked snout ridged with wrinkles and beset with jagged, irregular fangs. Its eyes were narrow and seemed alight with mirth, or scorn, or sheepishness. He couldn't tell for the monster had no pupil nor iris, only a solid band of gold between its eyelids, dull and lightless.

The monster looked down at him for a moment, then took in a great breath and snorted, the gush of warm air killing the candle instantly.

--

Boots came again in the evening, but this time it had taken many days before he dared to meet the monster once more. Its terrible visage had struck him with such fear that he had sworn the entire venture off as ridiculous and obscene. But he simply couldn't get the thought of it out of his head. Unlike so many, it had seemed invested in his conversation for its own sake, and he still had many questions to ask. So when the rest of the castle was merrymaking at a lavish ball he stole away through the long shadows, careful to make sure no one truly noticed him. He was just the youngest of three brothers after all, and neither the smartest nor the strongest, and the lack of expectations or much responsibility gave him a certain level of freedom, in truth his absence would be a blessing.

"Good evening." He announced, "I'm sorry it's been so long."

The chains rattled and grinded in response.

"Are you lonely? Or would you rather I leave?" Boots asked trepidatiously, aware that he could very easily inflict himself upon others without a care for their desires.

"My loneliness has worn a hole through my chest and now I am a hollow thing." The monster keened.

Boots felt his heart tugged by the words and huddled up next to the window, "Don't worry, I brought snacks again." He fished out the pastries from his shirt and set them on the ledge.

"Did you bring a candle? The night is very cold." The monster asked.

"I forgot. Next time I will bring you the biggest blanket I can find." Boots thumped his tail on the ground, "I came because I must ask you a question."

"Yes?"

"You said that there used to be another people who lived here. Are you so old as to remember them? Or did you learn of it?" He asked.

"I have long forgotten how old I am. A year to you might be a day to me, but within this cage an hour feels as eternity." The monster mourned, "I am old enough I have seen many of your kings rise and fall, each the same as the last."

"Oh, they didn't impress you?" Boots rested his cheek against the stone.

"Little does. Once I could topple houses and trees like toys, I could rip a horse in twain, I could eat a hundred kings, and a thousand princes." The monster thundered, it's usually monotone voice now crackling with passion.

"How were you ever caught, then?" Boots wondered.

"Your king sent an army of horsemen to find me. For every one I slew, two more came with arrows to pierce me through, until I laid upon a mound of corpses and breathed blood." The monster gnashed its teeth and shook its chains, "The arrows were little more than needles to me, but they were dipped in poison that made me ill. I was not used to such trickery, and I was too proud to flee."

"Such a sight that must have been!" Boots gasped, "Whatever did you do to deserve that?"

The monster lowered its great head against the bars, its hooked beak sticking out between them, "I was very bad. I devoured sheep and cattle, I stole whatever I had need for, and slayed any who would stop me. Farmers and hunters and woodsmen and soldiers alike fell beneath my claws."

The monster paused and a long, shuddering breath sloughed out through its bared teeth, "I did not need to do such things, it was a madness that had taken hold of me. Now the regret torments me, I have long meditated upon my crimes."

Boots wanted to reach his hand out and pat the twisted beak that rested upon the ledge, but soon thought better of it. The monster's misery seemed so deep and pitiful to him, but it had been so shy in simply revealing itself. To be touched would surely be a shock.

"I'm sorry, lonely beast." Boots whispered.

"I am gentled now." The monster sighed, "I only wish to lay in the sun once again, or drink from a clear stream, or feel the wind in my fur. If I stay here much longer I shall surely perish, never to hear birdsong again."

"Oh, I have something close." Boots said and pulled his flute from his knapsack. He knew the instrument so well it was easy for him to lay his fingers in their familiar places along its length, even despite the dim evening light. Then he began to play, at first the notes were uncertain and wandering as he worried he would embarrass himself, but he soon found his footing and grew more confident as he focused on the music. He played one song and then the next, transitioning between them with little stumbling.

"Much prettier than a simple bird." The monster drawled, its huge, gnarled hands now laid out between the bars. Boots could easily imagine such hands reaching out to wring his neck, and yet they also seemed so placid, as if the monster was just another feral horse to tame.

Boots played until the last light had faded from the sky, like a solemn lullaby for a beast. Then he rose to pick up his things.

"Don't leave." The monster pleaded.

"The servants will notice my absence, it isn't becoming for a prince to be skulking about after dark, and if I raise too much suspicion they might seek to follow me." Boots replied.

"I do not want to be alone anymore." The monster insisted.

"I'll return again soon, you'll see." Boots consoled, and leaned down to pat the monster on the tip of its sharp snout. It was rough and weathered, and hot to the touch, as if the beast had a fever.

"If I am ever freed I would like to take you to dance." The monster called, trying to continue their conversation and draw Boots into lingering.

"Maybe. Farewell." Boots said as he left, and felt such a heavy weight in his chest he could hardly hold it.

--

Boots didn't return to the monster for another week, though every night he thought of it, alone in the dark with nothing but its memories to keep it company. He tried to imagine living so miserably for so many long years and the very thought made his stomach churn. Surely it had suffered enough by now, and the thought occurred that he could entreat his father of its discharge, but he knew that would be in vain, and they would both be punished for his trouble.

When he did approach the beast's window again, he almost ran off before greeting it. His chest fluttered, his head swam, but he couldn't bring himself to step closer, nor could he turn away.

The monster must have heard his footfalls, for he saw its snout stick out from between the bars, its deep exhalations kicking up clouds of dust over the cobblestones.

"Are you there?" The monster called out, unable to see him past the obstructing stone walls.

"Yes." Boots sighed and slowly approached, feeling all the more flighty for the monster's eagerness.

Then the glinting golden eyes watched him closely, and now seemed to have their own faint light within them.

"What is the matter?" The monster demanded, running its beak up and down the bars.

"Oh, nothing." Boots sighed and pulled off the blanket he had worn as a shawl, "Here, I brought you this."

The long talons yanked the blanket through the bars, then the monster shuffled and in the evening glow Boots could see that it had affixed the quilt about its shoulders just as he had worn it, though it hardly fit.

"I look quite handsome now, yes?" The monster clacked its jaw and seemed to laugh, the sound coming out as a ragged rumble.

Boots smirked with mock amusement, though in truth he felt hollow. He had been unable to get these late meetings out of his mind, but now that he was here he felt conflicted. No one, let alone a prince, should never involve himself with such a creature, no matter how pitiable. And yet he returned, with gifts to win its favor and soothe its misery.

"Something is wrong, princething." The monster rumbled, "I am old enough to know."

He tugged on his long, velvety ear, "My brother was quite mean to me today, but that's not unusual."

"How so?"

Boots sat down with a sigh, pulling all manner of fruits and pastries from his shirt, "He likes to push me about, make me trip or tug on my tail, never anything cunning. But I daren't try to retaliate or he will hurt me badly."

"Bring him here one night, I could swallow him whole." The monster snarled, its expression far too serious to be jesting.

"You'd get a stomachache!" Boots placed the snacks upon the ledge, "Have these instead. And don't worry, I'll be alright, I have lived with it long enough."

"Such a tyrant he shall make one day." The monster grumbled between bites of apple turnover, "I expect he will have me executed before a cheering crowd."

"I won't let that happen." Boots huffed.

"How so?" The monster demanded, and Boots handed it back a pastry it accidentally knocked off the ledge.

"I'll figure that out when the time comes." Boots shrugged.

"I would rather you slay me now than make me stay here for untold years." It said, voice so low that Boots felt the vibrations resounding off his own ribs, "You must free me, or kill me."

Boots stiffened, he had known it would all culminate in this request. He could gift the monster all the fine luxuries in the world, but the only thing it truly desired was to be free of its prison. He couldn't blame it, having been locked up in complete and utter solitude. And Boots did wish for its freedom as well, and pitied it greatly.

"Please." The monster scraped its beak against the stone, "Please."

"What if I am caught? I don't even know where the key is." Boots said, staring at the ground.

"The last I saw, it was in your fathers coat pocket." The monster whispered, "The one with stoat fur about the trim."

"Then I will have to sneak into his room at night. I cannot do such a thing, what if I am caught?" The very thought made his chest tight with dread.

The monster seemed to shrink, if that was possible, and sunk back into the shadows. Its face was unreadable as ever, but Boots could sense how its mood had darkened.

"Maybe I will try. But I'll have to be smart about it." Boots said urgently, suddenly feeling as if he couldn't let it down.

"I promise to be good once I am free." The monster rumbled, "I will go far away, and never again hurt another."

"I believe you, and I should very much like to see your misery end." Boots replied, "But I am a sort of coward. This is why my brother hates me after all."

"In all these long years, you are the only one who has come to talk with me. You are the only one who could do this thing, and how perfect you are for the task." The monster leaned in towards him once more, "You are a prince, and permitted within your family's wing. And you are as small and light as a feather, and as cunning as a fox. And your reputation will cloak you, they will blame some unknown saboteur, but never you."

Boots forced himself to laugh lightly, "Perhaps I should consider a career change, then."

"What does your heart long for, sparrow? What empty maw yawns inside you? What has your lofty station and the long arm of your father failed to deliver? Set me free and I will grant it unto you." The monster whispered, as if its words were a spell.

Boots didn't answer, couldn't answer, shouldn't answer. The pathway of his life was preordained, the tracks already set long ago. He was meant to live out his life within castle walls, or upon carriages or cobblestone roads, and never should he stray without reprimand, for he was the youngest and the weakest, the one that must be protected and swaddled and derided until his legs crumbled out beneath him for want of use.

"What could a monster provide me?" Boots sighed, wrapping his tail about his midsection.

"I am not just the lowly thing before you who dwells in the darkness. Once I may as well have been a king myself, with nothing in the land to rival me. Do you wish for gold? I can bleed mountains. Do you want a woman? I will bewitch the prettiest maiden with stories of your gallant nature. Do you seek fame? I can find you tomes from dead kingdoms beyond recall, or make you a magic flute with notes that ring clearer than a meltwater surge." The monster insisted, its chains scraping as it shifted with excitement.

"I don't wish for any of that." Boots said wistfully.

"Then what, little thing?" The monster's snout strained between the bars.

"I am not even sure. If I were to wish to be as strong and confident as my brothers then I would be wishing to no longer be myself. If only my father could look upon me with anything but disappointment I might then be satisfied." Boots rested his chin upon his crossed arms.

The long, twisted jaws split apart, lips wrinkling to bare teeth as sharp as needles, "That is beyond me."

Boots stood up and wiped the dust off his pants, "I will think upon your request, but I cannot promise you anything."

Despite the monster's limited ability to emote in the traditional sense, Boots could sense the mournful longing that nearly burst from it as it stared at him. It gnawed and scratched at the bars, then sank back down into the dark.

--

Boots ran headlong towards the monster's dungeon, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. He fell to his knees before the iron bars and clutched at them, panting heavily, and his tail lashing wildly.

"Hello," He whimpered urgently, "Are you awake? Hello?"

At once heard the familiar jangling of the chains, the heavy body unfurling from its long rest and rising to his level. He felt a burst of hot breath wash over his face and flinched as a sharp beak poked him right on the nose, its massive fingers curling about the bars just shy of his own. Without thinking he grabbed the snout in his hands and hugged it to his chest, as if the caged creature could somehow protect him. The fur that grew from its lower jaw was rough and wiry, the ridges along its beak jagged and sharp, but to him it may as well have been the softest embrace.

"What is wrong, thrush?" The monster asked, and he could feel the rumble of its voice passing right into his flesh, melting him.

He tried to answer, but his voice crumbled into a sob, and he pressed his cheek against the monster's snout, the only comfort that could be afforded to him.

"I smell blood." The monster growled.

"My father," He gasped, "struck me."

It didn't reply to that, for nothing could be said of the matter. It was already done, the accusations long shouted, the disgrace already seared into him. Boots cried until his face was red and puffy, his body trembling like a newborn fawn, and he was able to slowly reign in the cadence of his breaths.

"They want to send me off to be married. I have never even seen them. Whatever shall I do?" Boots whispered, the pitch of his voice spiraling like a worm caught in a robin's beak.

"I like to eat my troubles." The monster said softly, its snout extended as far as the bars permitted. Boots could see the faint outline of the rest of its head, its hairy, arched ears and two horns that grew outwards from its narrow forehead. One was broken and shattered at the base, the other tall but withered and misshapen.

"What happened to your horn?" Boots asked, and with a shaky hand he reached out and touched the broken stump. It was knobbly and bony, like that of an antler that had grown wrong.

"I broke it upon a dragon's scales when I was young. You cannot pierce a dragon's hide, I learned, but whatever is put in their jaws they will swallow without hesitation. So I filled its belly with stones until it choked." The monster recounted.

"Clever." Boots sniffed and laid his arm upon the monster's skull, his fingers splayed as he petted the rough, wiry fur. He pressed his chest over its face, resting half of his weight upon it, the motion coming far too easily to him. 

"There is no such victory to be had for me." Boots lamented, tears flooding his eyes once more.

"Then you must flee." The monster urged, "As I should have when I was poisoned. Not all cages are iron and stone."

"I'm sorry lonesome thing, I think you're my only friend in the world." Boots said, breathing deeply to try and master himself. The monster smelled musky and harsh, like the stuffed bears in his fathers hall, their snarls far fiercer than any they had sported in life. He also smelled the layers of dirt and dust upon the fur, the neglect of many years like a moth eaten sweater tucked under a bed, to be forgotten until it was unrecognizable.

"Come away with me." The monster purred, grasping Boots' hand between its own and utterly engulfing his, "Let us both be free."

"Perhaps I should." Boots shuddered, "But to leave my entire life behind?"

"I have a cottage in the woods far from here. There you might make music until your heart is full." The monster soothed, "There you will never be found, and I will protect you from all harms."

Boots curled his tail about himself, and was loath to think of the moment when he must detach himself from the warm thing in his grasp and return to his cold bed. He had not thought he had grown so fond of the creature, but the prospect of running away with it did not daunt him so much as he had expected. In fact his chest fluttered with tremulous excitement, but also fear and sharp anxiety.

"Tonight I will fetch the key." Boots whispered.

--

He woke to the cold stone beneath him, and then great beasts snout resting upon his chest. It nuzzled him gently, long snaggleteeth tugging at his shirt until he was roused.

"The moon is high, time to go." The monster crooned, nudging Boots even as he curled up and hugged the snout even tighter.

"Maybe I should wait until tomorrow night, I'm so tired." He groaned.

"You must go now, or you shall put it off forever." The beast spoke into his flesh, then poked him in the stomach with its beak.

"Alright, alright." Boots sighed and the monster used its jaws to help him to his feet, tugging the back of his shirt like a cat carrying her kitten.

"Be as quiet as a mouse and swift as a fox." The monster hissed, "Then I shall be in your debt forever."

"There are no debts." Boots patted the monster's nose then stepped back, his fingers lingering upon its curled and creased beak. It was a rather ugly thing, all sharp angles and wrinkles and teeth and ragged fur, but at the right angle it also had a strange magnificence about it, like an old proud lion with a face full of scars.

He made to leave before he lost his courage, and marched back into the keep. At such a late hour it was entirely empty and quiet, like seeing the world standing on its own head. He crept down the halls like a ghost, entered his own room to pack a small bundle of his own belongings, then headed for his parents room.

He trembled at the door, his entire body crackling with electricity, his hair standing on end, his tail twisted about his leg like a viper. He wanted to run away, to bury himself in his own bed and sleep this all away, then maybe never visit the monster again for his shame. But then he thought of it wasting away, its last hope failed, the bitterness of betrayal making its bondage all the worse. He couldn't fail it now, not after he had made a promise. And not when the spectre of an arranged marriage loomed before him. All that he was would be undone.

He held his breath as he twisted the doorknob, cringing at every slight creak of the metal hinges as he swung the door open. Then he padded inside on bare feet, feeling the warmth of their dying fireplace and their sleeping breath, and to his relief his father continued to snore fitfully, the ragged sound drowning out his own light murmurs.

It was so dark he could all but feel the shadows resisting him like a warm fog, and he walked blind with his hands outstretched, until he was able to navigate by touch. Their ornate dresser, the paintings on the wall, and then the tall metal hanger from which his fathers impressive coat hung. As he searched for the pocket the hanger scraped along the floor and he froze, his own heartbeat booming in his ears, his blood cold as ice, his body stiff as a statue. The snoring paused momentarily, and then resumed with great volume, until he heard his mother rouse and bid his father to roll over.

Boots was rooted to the spot for a great age as he waited for them to fall back into a deep sleep, not daring to budge an inch. His feet fell asleep and his arms ached, but he refused to move and risk being caught in such a terrible circumstance. Eventually he relaxed somewhat, sure that by now they were both asleep once more, and slowly lowered his hand into the inside pocket lined with silk.

The key was smaller than he had expected, silver and inconspicuous, and he suddenly doubted it could be the right one. He wasn't about to go about searching for another, though, and stuffed it into his own pocket before shuffling backwards, tiptoeing as lightly as he could. Then he finally exited the room, gently closed the door, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then he rushed back through the halls, flew down the stairs, dodged the sleepy guard, and ran through the courtyard and towards the edge of the castle walls where the monster kept its long vigil.

He realized now it might be the last time he would see these stone walls in some time. He was sure he would not be gone forever, only long enough to be sorely missed, for the betrothal to be abandoned, for his family to perhaps come to appreciate some quality of his in his absence. Though he could hardly count upon the latter.

Boots crouched before the iron bars, "I have done it, look!" He grinned and twirled the key about his finger, then caught it in his palm.

"Such a shadow, you are." The monster rumbled, and then its snout suddenly struck between the bars, snapping up the key so quickly Boots could not have dodged it.

"You'll take me with you, right? You promised." Boots called into the dark as he heard the mad thrashing of chains. His chest felt tight, his thoughts raced, and for the first time a gnawing doubt began to rear its head.

He ran again through the courtyard, taking the passage that led beneath the wall, then popped out the other side. Here the night wind was chill, and rats darted out from beneath his steps. He hurried towards the huge entrance to the cage, then skidded to a frightful halt. A sharp cry broke into the night, and was cut off prematurely.

The dark, hulking form of the monster held a guard beneath its foot. Though the man in chain mail and padding writhed and struggled, he couldn't hope to free himself from the great weight that crushed down on him. Boots thought the guard barked at him to run, or it was only the remainder of his breath being driven between his teeth before ribs crunched.

He was so shocked he couldn't speak nor move, though he should be crying aloud for the monster to stop, should retreat and sound the alarm. Instead he could only stare at the wicked thing before him, all vestiges of its gentleness and promises of absolution long gone.

From head to toe the monster was crowned with wiry, coarse fur, darkening about its belly and back. A long, three forked tail lashed to and fro, beset with rows of spikes that traveled their length, and then all the way up its broad back.

After ripping off its shackles and licking the patches of angry red flesh about its wrists, the monster leaned back and sighed, stretching its limbs and cracking old joint after joint. It seemed to marvel at the freedom of movement afforded to it, and shook itself gladly, sending up a cloud of dust and shed fur and fluttering moths.

Boots coughed, then shrank back as the monster whipped around and stalked forwards to loom over him. He recognized in it none of the sympathy and sorrow from before, and while it should be thankful, its eyes were alight with a cruel kind of glee. He could see now just how formidable this monster was, why it had been such a threat that a host of knights were risked to capture it. Though it was as tall as two men, its frame was filled out with solid muscles that rippled beneath its dark fur like a prowling wildcat. Its arms were as thick as tree trunks, its chest as wide as a barge, and each finger and toe was set with claws as long and sharp daggers.

"Come away with me now." The monster purred, its narrow head set upon a powerful, sinuous neck arching down to peer right at him. Its hands reached out and Boots suddenly came alive again, dashing behind a stone pillar to put some barrier between them.

"You killed him!" Boots cried and held his face in his hands. For all the waxing and moaning the monster had done for its own misdeeds, all the talk of regret and of bettering itself, it had wasted no time in shattering the facade.

"He sat fat and happy while I languished." The monster lashed its tail, the spikes scraping furrows in the stone flooring, "And if he could have, he should have slayed me, should have made me rot for a hundred more years." Its lips curled, baring its evil rows of sharp teeth.

"Liar." Boots wept, "You could have only held him down, could have locked him in behind you."

"He does not matter." The monster scowled, "Now come, we must be quick."

Boots fell to his knees, knowing he couldn't run from the monster should it seek to restrain him. The enormity of its betrayal shattered him. When the beast approached him once more he buried his face in his hands.

The beast snarled in frustration and spun around to stalk into the dark like a lonesome tiger. Boots watched as it disappeared, and felt such a sharp pain in his heart he had to feel himself to make sure he hadn't been wounded.

He heard screams arise into the night, alarm bells rang, their clamor making his head ache. Soon enough a squad of guards arrived to investigate the scene and tend to their fallen comrade. Boots fell into the rising crowd, becoming as nameless and inconspicuous as all the rest in his common night clothes. As soon as his father arrived he took his leave, and found himself running up to a battlement on the wall to peer down.

A fire had broken out in the city, and he could make out the small specks of people fleeing their homes and filtering through the streets, confused and panicked and terrified. Huge plumes of smoke billowed into the sky, and he wondered if he was breathing in charred bone and flesh with the smell of it. He felt like a dead thing himself, a corpse brought up to stand like a marionette.

[yesbutmakeitgay]

No One Breaks My Heart Like You

GIF by dailyflicks

Carol Danvers x Reader

We’ve Loved A Thousand Lives

Same beginning, different story every time.

Part 7.5 | (Part 7)

Angst, Injuries, Divorce.

A/N: Best of luck to all of us...

Beta'd by @cordeliasdarling 💜

Word count: 6.7k

Masterlist | This collection | AO3

It’s been weeks since your disastrous break up with Carol, and she has spent every moment of that time trying to reach you unsuccessfully. She can’t track your devices, and you won’t answer any of her calls on your phone or at work.

In a deep moment of defeat, she decides to contact Fury, "Are you missing any agents?" she asks him suspiciously.

Fury doesn’t show any emotion, "Are you asking me if I've misplaced a whole person lately?"

Carol is unsure how to phrase her question without admitting to breaking the rules, "Have you?"

"There is an agent who hasn't come in for a while, is that what you're referring to?"

"Perhaps," The Captain gestures with her arms, "she's about this tall, great at her job, gorgeous."

"Carol, did you lose your wife?" he deadpans.

"My—what?" She tries to play it cool as nerves take over her entire body.

"Oh, come on, I’m not a fool, and you're not that sneaky."

"I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Fury still seems completely unbothered, "She’s always with you when she's off work, you take your vacation at the exact same time, and there's a picture of her in your house."

"It's not a picture of her, it's a picture of us," Carol mumbles, avoiding eye contact.

"Whatever, I already know."

"So, you're not gonna tell me off?"

"She doesn't work for you, it's okay."

Carol shoots him an angry look, "Why didn’t you ever say anything?"

"I figured I'd let you keep it up for as long as possible."

"You could have saved me a divorce!" That certainly catches Fury’s attention.

"Wait, what?"

She shows him two wedding bands, "I have both of these, I’m only supposed to have one!"

"That bad? What did you do?"

"Why do you assume it was my fault?"

"You're the one holding the rings."

Carol puts the bands on the table and responds in an aggressive tone, "She said I don't have enough time for her, which, did she not know she was marrying the single Avenger in charge of protecting the entire universe?"

He squints his eye, "What did she say exactly?"

"Something about my availability to everyone else."

"Did she give you a whole explanation and that's all you got from it?"

Carol remains silent, trying to remember your last conversation, "That's not the point, help me!"

"What do you want me to do?" he responds bluntly.

"I don’t know, page her? Say it's an emergency."

Fury sighs and looks at her with sympathy, "For you, I will try, but you should know that once she's off the grid, she's impossible to track down."

"That's gotta be an exaggeration."

"Like you just said, she's great at her job," he pauses, "my best spy doing desk work, that must have been a tough choice for her, I wonder why she did that," his tone is taunting, making Carol’s features turn to guilt, "I would hope that whoever pushed her to make that decision made up for it by spending lots of quality time with her," he suggests not so subtly.

"That's bullshit, if I had known we didn't need to hide from you—" Carol is interrupted by an alarm going off in Fury’s office.

"Hold that thought, I have to go. I will page her, but I'll stop at five attempts, if you don't hear from me, that's because I didn't hear from her."

He hangs up, and Carol is left alone once again.

A few days later, Carol arrives unannounced to New Asgard, she confidently makes her way to The King’s office and demands, "Take a walk with me."

Valkyrie’s eyes reluctantly travel away from her work to look at Carol, "You think you can just show up and ask for whatever you want? I am a King, I have responsibilities." It is clear in Valkyrie’s voice that she is still not on the best terms with her.

Carol completely disregards Val’s displeasure in favor of getting what she wants, "Like what?" she challenges.

Valkyrie looks around trying to produce a response and coming up empty, "…A walk then."

They take a stroll around the palace, mostly in silence, Val knows Carol just wanted an excuse to look for you in every corner of her Kingdom. After rounding the entire building, they return to The King's office.

"You're missing a ship," Carol points out as they enter.

"I know exactly where all my belongings are, do you?"

"She doesn't belong to me," The Captain murmurs.

Valkyrie swiftly sits on her chair and crosses her legs, "But you learned that the hard way."

"Can you just tell me where she is?"

"Why? So you can piss her off again?" Val bites.

"You have no idea what happened." Carol’s eyes bore into Valkyrie’s, but The King isn’t fazed by the action.

"I have no idea where she is," Valkyrie asserts smugly, "as your friend, let me just tell you, sometimes you can be really stupid. I say it with love," The Captain huffs at the hypocrisy, "and she's not here, at least not anymore."

Carol feels her heartbeat race, "But she was?"

"She stayed for a few days after I picked her up, didn't tell me where she went." The king's assistant knocks on the open door to announce their presence, Valkyrie nods to them and directs herself to Carol, "You should go."

Carol leaves the palace, but decides to stay in New Asgard for a bit, having nowhere else to go.

After a few hours of mindlessly roaming the town, Carol gets a call, "Fury, did you find her?" she answers hurriedly.

"There's been a strange object hovering Earth, can you check it out, please?"

"On it," she accepts, thinking it’ll be a good distraction. She flies to the coordinates and finds a spaceship.

Captain Marvel enters the familiar ship carefully, she points her lit up fist in a general forward direction as she scans every inch of the vessel with her eyes.

She feels someone jump down and land behind her, "What took you so long?" she immediately turns around startled, her mouth slightly agape with surprise, "Did anyone see you come in?" you mock, making her features flatten.

"Very funny," she deadpans, "how long have you been here?"

"Since I left New Asgard."

Her brows furl, "You’ve been here for four weeks?" you simply shrug in response, looking anywhere but at her, "Does Val know you have her ship?"

"Obviously, I wasn't about to steal from The King."

"How come nobody knows where you are?"

"I’m a trained spy, remember? And a damn good one," She walks in, putting her fist and guard down as she relaxes into her surroundings. "Fury called you." It's not a question.   "He thought you were a threat."

"I had to unveil the ship, I was getting bored up here."

"How was I supposed to know you were hiding somewhere outside the Earth's atmosphere?"

You eye her daringly, "You don't recognize the coordinates?" she stares at you in confusion, "Look down, Captain."

She peeks out a window and realizes what you mean, "It’s our home," she barely whispers.

You nod, "When was the last time you went home?"

Your words strike a nerve within her, "Don’t try to guilt trip me, what I do is important," she says between gritted teeth.

You didn't even mean it like that, but her aggressiveness has always been contagious, "Shut the fuck up, Danvers!"

"Hey!" she warns, "I get that you're angry, I get that I hurt you, but you cannot speak to me like that." She takes an offensive stance.

You cross your arms and give her a challenging look, "Why not?"

"Because we have a relationship based on respect."

Her response makes you loudly scoff in disbelief, "Respect? Since when? Since you visit your convenience husband more than you visit me? Since you spend 99% of your time buried in your work somewhere in the middle of space? Since you don't even have the decency to tell me you're coming to Earth to see some coworker's family?"

"They are my friends!" she objects.

"And I am your wife," you retaliate.

Carol drops the power trip, "You are?" she hesitates.   You feel all your confidence disappear, "I hardly think what I did counts as a real divorce."

"But, you want one?" Her voice only grows smaller.

"I don't know, it's not like I wanted to leave you."

She can’t believe she used this reunion to start a fight with you again, "I’m sorry, I don't know what's been happening to me." She gently hugs herself.

"You bit off more than you could chew." You follow her example and compose yourself, your gaze fixated on a wall.

"I promise to be better, what if we don't have to sneak around anymore, what if we could just be together in public? Would that make a difference?"

You respond by giving her a silent look, pleading with her to not toy with your heart anymore.

She approaches you and tries to hold your hand, "Angel."

"What are you doing?" You immediately back away from her touch.

She stops her movements, "I thought that's where this was going."

"It certainly is not."

She hides her face in her palms in shame, "I’m sorry, I’m just gonna go, it's fine, we're fine—"

"We're not fine," you interrupt.

"Right, whatever, bye." She exits with no destination in mind and simply remains floating in space at the mercy of the stars.

Carol has never felt like such a failure before, not when she harshly yelled at Kamala prior to being properly introduced, nor when she couldn't reach Monica, resulting in her being stuck in another universe. Even when she fails, she always knows exactly what she needs to do to fix everything, except for this, except for you.

You decide to turn your brain off and get some sleep, you think you might have to return Valkyrie's ship after this fiasco, but that's a problem for tomorrow.

A while later, Carol’s comms ring, and she picks up out of habit, still zoned out.

"Carol—" a small, quivering voice calls out through the device, followed by heavy pants, it sounds completely terrified.

Carol's eyes shoot open, "Kamala?"

A loud knock on the door wakes you, "Please, open up!"

"Carol?" You murmur under your breath as you get up. Her knocks only get louder and more desperate as you make your way to let her in, "It's four in the morning," you croak, rubbing your eyes.

She quickly enters, "If you choose to live in space you don't get to work in a time zone." It is only once you close the door that you realize she is carrying an unconscious body.

"Tell me you sang her to sleep," you hope, already dreading the scene that’s about to unfold, Carol only stares at you impatiently.   "There's a medical room in the back." You guide her to the room, and she lays Kamala on the bed. You immediately take charge of the situation.

You were always the one patching Carol up after rough missions, and she felt some guilt every time she was unable to return the favor, "What the hell happened to her?" you ask.

"I don't know." Her tone is somewhat apologetic.

You get to work on the girl to the best of your ability. Her injuries, although nonlethal, are enough to give you goosebumps, they seem to have been caused by a weapon, but not any human weapon that you know of. You doubt Ms Marvel was just hanging out in the streets past midnight when an emergency alien attack took place, which leaves you with a single theory, this was a planned mission that went horribly wrong.

"I think she should wake up on her own, I just have to clean her up," you tell Carol, gesturing towards the numerous bruises and cuts on Kamala's body. She chooses to wait outside to not obstruct your work with her pacing.

"Why didn't you go to the Avengers?" you question Carol once you come out of the room, wiping some blood off your hands with a rag.

She halts her movement, but doesn’t make eye contact, "It seemed easier—faster to just keep going up," she couldn't think of anyone else who could help her in the moment, "her mother is going to kill me."

"No more dinner with the Khans for you," you fake a pout, when you see she's genuinely distressed, you clear your throat and straighten your tone, "is this your fault?"

She shakes her head, "It was already too late when I arrived."

"If they didn't call you, then it's not on you," you reassure her. It is only now that you actually take a good look at Carol, her eyes are red, her skin pale, and her back is hunching, "Have you slept? Or eaten? Or sat down in the past month?" There is genuine worry in your words.

She silently stares at you for a moment and mutters, "What does it matter."

"I'll take that as a 'no.'"

"I’m invulnerable." She tries to stand up tall with the little energy she has.

"Which means you can't die, not that you can go on living like…that."

"I’m doing fine," she argues, but you know better than to believe her.

"You're on the verge of tears, this close to collapsing," you gesture with your fingers, "but you are much too stubborn to do anything about it." Your voice remains velvety soft, you can read her like an open book, and she doesn't like that.

"You were always so good at reminding me to take care of my human side."

"You're all human, down to the fuck ups," the small smile that formed on her face flattens, "sit down," Carol looks toward the medical room tentatively, "she's gonna take her time, sit down," you repeat gently.

She obliges, "Are we gonna pretend you didn't just tell me off earlier?"

"We don't have to, but you can't leave now, so there's no point in being hostile." She nods gratefully.

You offer her a cup of tea and a snack, and invite her to take a warm shower, "If you wanna go through the closet, Val has a good selection of sweaters."

You didn’t even realize you fell asleep again, until a beeping sound wakes you up. You open your eyes to see it's Carol's comms, which prompts you to search for her from your spot on the couch. As you focus further, you hear her voice coming from the med room talking with Kamala, and a subtle smile tugs at your lips.

You're about to ignore the sound and go back to sleep, when a thought occurs to you, nobody calls Captain Marvel just to chat, your sense of duty insists you pick up, "Hello?"

The Avengers director recognizes your voice immediately, "Where’s Danvers?"

"Fury?" You panic, he can't know Carol and you are together.

"Is she with you?" he presses, making your palms sweat.

"I, uh, um—"

"I know about you two, you can calm down."

His words make you freeze in place, "You do?"

"Yes, she's not your boss, it's fine." He glosses over it like it’s nothing as he doesn’t have time for this right now. You find such information difficult to process, but you try to leave the implications for later.

"Okay, why are you calling?"

"Do you know where Kamala is?"

You had momentarily forgotten about your impromptu visitor, "Yes."

"Where?" he demands.

"What’s it to you?" you sass him, deciding to be uncooperative given the circumstances that brought the girl to you in the first place.

"She works for me."

"That’s what I thought, but then, it makes no sense how you assigned her a middle of the night mission without any intention to send backup."

"She wasn't alone, she had Bishop!" he argues.

You feel your body’s temperature rise, "Oh, she had Bishop? Another rookie? And where is your archer now?"

Fury remains calm in the face of your anger, "Right here, too shaken up to actually tell me anything that happened."

"Good news for you, if Kamala's mom doesn't have your head on a stick by morning, Belova definitely will," you warn him, "better sleep with your eye open. Kamala is in good hands, I'll send her your way once I decide she's ready." You aggressively end the call.

Carol comes out of the medical room right as you're setting her comms down, "Who was that?" she asks.

"Fury, he wanted to know where Kamala is, but I’m not telling him." Your jaw is stiff with residual rage.

"Why?"

"He put her in danger, I don't trust him with her." You pull both of your legs up on the couch and cross them.

"But he’s your boss," Carol objects, making sure to maintain a gentle tone so as to not anger you further.

"Yeah, and apparently you aren’t, he knows about us." She meets your gaze and gives you a subtle nod.

Your response comes out louder than you expected, "You knew?"

She breaks eye contact, "It’s recent, I asked him about you."

"So what? We never needed to keep it a secret?"

She kneels on the floor in front of you, "That’s what I've been trying to tell you, we don't need to hide anymore."

"You had many opportunities to hide with me, but you always chose to hide from me." Your voice cracks as you feel your skin cool down.

"You should have said no, you should have pushed back," you search for the meaning of her words in her eyes, "when I asked you to quit your job," she clarifies, "I had no right to do that."

You sigh deeply before responding, "The moment you brought it up I decided I would, because I worry the exact same way every time you go on a mission, I figured it would be better if only one of us had to go through that."

Carol’s eyes travel to the ground, "So, are you gonna get back now that we…?"

"I haven't really thought about it," you confess, "about not being with you anymore."

A few hours later, Kamala calls for Carol, and you go check on her. She looks at you as you enter the room with what you can only describe as disappointment.

"I forced Carol to take a nap, so I’m gonna be looking after you for now," you feel the need to explain, she gives you a light nod and a smile, "how are you feeling?"

"Like an alien used my body to mop the floor." Her smile doesn’t go away.

You chuckle at her words, walking fully into the room and closing the door behind you, "I know what that's like, you're doing great, though."

"I didn't know you were a doctor."

"I’m not," you shrug.

"Carol said you're really good at patching people up."

"With Captain Marvel as your partner, you kinda have to get good at it." You inspect Kamala's bandages, they're sloppy, barely hanging on.

"Did she do these?" you ask rhetorically,

"She means well."

"I really should have checked on you sooner, I'm sorry." You get to work changing them all out for fresh ones.

"Are you guys done for good?" she blurts out as you wrap up her arm, making you shoot her a stern look, "Sorry, it's the painkillers," she quickly apologizes.

"I really don't know." You don't know the answer and you don't know if you wanna talk to a kid about it. You continue to patch her up as an awkward silence takes over.

When you’re almost done, she speaks again, "Can I tell you something?"

Her timid tone makes you worry, "Sure."

"After my first unintentional mission with Carol, Fury asked her to take me in for a few months to train me," her eyes fixate on her lap, "I lived on her ship, and we went on lots of missions together. Once a month, she would make a point to bring me back to Earth, so I could be home and see my family, I thought maybe she became exhausted of having a teenager in her home all the time, so she would use that break to rest, but I think she actually used that time to spend with you."

You nod while listening to her, you knew about this already.

"Eventually, I joined the Young Avengers and moved into the compound, I would constantly ask Fury to let me visit Carol, and I guess he found it cute, so he would help me show up unannounced in her ship, I thought I was doing a good thing, I thought she must get lonely…"

You did not know about that, your mind starts racing.

"What I’m trying to say is, I think Carol stopped spending time with you for fear I might show up at an inconvenient time," your features change abruptly into something she can't quite recognize, she starts to ramble, unable to stop herself, "I’m really sorry, I didn't know, I was just trying to be a good friend. On mother's day, I had to practically beg her so she would accept my invitation, please don't be angry." Her eyes meet yours again and she looks so scared for her life.

You cover your mouth with both hands to avoid saying anything impulsive and take a few deep breaths as you collect your thoughts, your delay only making Kamala grow more nervous.

"Thank you for telling me," you hesitate, carefully measuring your every word, "you couldn't have known, of course I’m not mad at you," your heavy breathing and your nails digging into your palms exposing your real feelings, "I’m gonna bring you lunch."

She mouths, "Okay," trying to calm herself down, and you exit the scene as fast as your feet allow you. When you come back, she's dozed off again.

Carol comes out of the bedroom after her much needed nap, you’re sitting on the couch and don’t bother greeting her before demanding, "I spoke to Kamala, is it true?" Carol becomes instantly alert, "You stopped letting me come visit you for fear of her showing up?"

"Yes," she simply concedes.

"You never said anything."

"I didn't want to seem ungrateful, and she hangs onto my every word, I felt like I had a responsibility towards her."

"And, when I confronted you?"

"She was right there, I couldn’t." To both of your surprise, this conversation plays out a lot more civilized than you expected, given the topic.

"What about earlier?"

Carol exhales heavily, "She's just a kid, she wanted to spend time with me, I don't think she should be blamed for that."

"Hold on," you stand up, the gears in your brain turning, she's confused but decides to let you go through your process, "Fury was the one helping Kamala in and out of your ship, right?" you continue.

"Uh, yeah."

"And he knew about us all along?" Carol nods, trying to catch up with your train of thought, "He also knew when I was with you because I wasn't at work."

She takes a few steps closer to you, "What’s your point?"

"There is no way Kamala and I would have run into each other unless he wanted us to, and we never did." The puzzle pieces finally fall into place.

Carol flares up, "That son of a bitch!"

"Calm down, Captain Marvel."

"He was messing with me, on purpose." Her voice goes up an octave.

You have inadvertently unleashed a monster with your plausible deductions, "You don't know that, I’m sure he has better things to do."

"Like sending his teenagers on a midnight run to get their asses kicked?"

"Okay, that wasn't his brightest moment, but still."

"Who’s side are you on?" Carol’s powers only become more aggressive.

"I’m on the side of 'this is Valkyrie's ship,' and if you throw a fire tantrum I’m gonna be the one paying for it." You set your foot down on the very real implications of her behavior.

In an instant, you both snap your neck in the direction of Carol’s comms that still rest on the couch, you reach for the device, and she slaps your wrist out of the way, you grab her arm with your other hand, and she lights it up so you immediately let go, "That's cheating!" you yell, making her laugh. Taking advantage of her distraction, you kick her arm sending the device flying into the air and catching it behind you, stuffing it in your back pocket.   Carol follows your movement with her eyes and stares at your ass for a bit afterwards. A month ago she would have reached for the device without a second thought, but today, she wouldn't dare, still, that doesn't stop her from being a tease and biting her lip at the sight.

"Perv," you snark, knowing exactly what she’s doing.

She cocks a grin, "When you have something for so long and then lose it all of a sudden, you're bound to miss it, I’m all human, after all," she uses your own words to taunt you, "come one, give me a little spin."

You give her a death stare instead, "Are you sure you want those to be your last words?"

"Sorry." She feigns remorse, her grin still plastered on.

You turn around and walk to the kitchen with a huff, knowing you’re giving her what she wants. In times like these, it's nice to be appreciated. Her smirk turns into genuine delight, underneath her depraved ruse, she's happy to know you're still willing to play along with her.

You start slicing some veggies, much to her confusion, "I thought Kamala already ate?"

"It's for us, you dumbass."

"Oh," she's pleased, 'us,' sounds so sweet coming from your lips, "let me help you," she offers, and it’s now your turn to smile as you observe her every move.

You fall into a good rhythm cooking together until the ship’s door opens, triggering you both into combat mode, Carol's fists light up, and you grab the biggest knife you can find in a vice grip.

King Valkyrie waltzes into her ship, making you exhale in relief and put your weapon down.

"Val?" Carol calls to get her attention, Valkyrie turns in your direction, and you can immediately tell she’s pissed.

"I need my ship back," she orders.

"You promised you weren't gonna track me," you protest in return.

"And I didn't for a whole month," Val interjects, "that’s how good a friend I am, but your boss is on my ass about getting you back home, something about a double assassination attempt," she explains as she closes the door.

"A what?" Carol utters.

"Don’t worry about it," you mumble, knowing what Val is referring to.

"And I could really live with not having to deal with your shit for once," The King continues with a weak snark.

Carol can’t help but tease her, "Since when do you let Fury push you around?"

"You see my face?" Val asks rhetorically, "Do I look amused?" She is not in the mood to be messed with.

You bite the inside of your cheek, watching their exchange, "Do you wanna—?" you gesture for Carol to continue working in the kitchen and guide Val to walk further into the vessel, "Double assassination? That's a bit much."

"He may have been exaggerating," Val shrugs.   "If it were up to me, we would be out of here in no time, but we have an extra passenger." You open the door to the medical room to reveal a sleeping Kamala.

"Shit! What did you do to her?" Valkyrie exclaims.

"I saved her life," you hush with pride.

Val lowers her voice to match yours, "She looks awful."

"You should have seen her when she arrived."

"Poor thing," Valkyrie slowly closes the door so her shock doesn't wake Kamala up, "so, are you two working together for little Marv's sake?"

"Yeah, Carol seems convinced that everything is Fury's fault."

"This?" Val points to Kamala’s door alarmed.

"Well, yes, but also with us," you hesitate.

"How so?"

_____

Carol, Valkyrie, and you are sitting at the table eating together, Val agreed to have a taste after you reassured her you did most of the cooking.

"Explain it to me again," The King asks, still unable to grasp Carol’s reasoning.

"Fury has been letting Kamala into my ship at random times so I grow paranoid of sneaking around with my wife."

"That makes no sense, did you talk to him about it?" Valkyrie responds, prompting Carol to shoot you an angry look.

"I took her comms," you tell Valkyrie, "she’s so livid, there is no way for that conversation to end well, regardless of his answer." Val hadn't noticed Carol's temper, she's good at concealing it, but she can't keep anything hidden from you, you know her much too well.

Your meal is interrupted by a beeping sound coming from Valkyrie’s pocket, "Speak of the devil." She silently excuses herself as she gets up to answer, walking towards the bedroom for some privacy, "What do you want, Nicholas?" despite your efforts, you can only hear half of the conversation, "Yes I am here."

Carol and you follow Val with your eyes until she's out of sight and you can no longer hear her voice.

"We can't leave until Kamala gets better," Carol almost commands you.

"I know that."

"We’re gonna need to stall." Her tone turns suggestive.

A devilish smirk forms on your face, "You got it, Captain." A rush of excitement takes over your body, it almost feels like old times, plotting and sneaking around.

With a loud swing of the door, Val comes back out and announces, "Alright, that's settled, I’m bringing you all home and then taking my ship with me."

Carol leans in to whisper in your ear without taking her eyes off Valkyrie, "Distract her, I have an idea."

You stand and get really close to Valkyrie to take her undivided attention, "But, what about Kamala?" As soon as you speak, Carol stealthily makes her way to the ship's engine.

"I am awfully sorry, but I really don't have time for this, her parents will have to forgive me," Val responds with no real remorse.

"What would Thor think about your decision?" You try to provoke her.

Val scoffs, "Do not bring the beefcake into this."

"So, you're really just gonna let Fury tell you what to do?"

"Whatever allows me to be back home and out of this mess the fastest."

"You’re growing soft, King," you mock.

"You’ll get old one day, too."

"I bet, how old are you this year? Five thousand and three?" Valkyrie begins to make her way to the control panel when Carol comes back up, panting.

"Oh, hey, you're still here?" Carol loudly asks, Val eyes her with suspicion as she keeps walking, "I was just making sure that your ship was all set to return home, turns out we're really low on gas, won't even make it halfway." She fights to catch her breath.

Valkyrie stops with a huff and turns to stare at you both, she's not stupid, "Look at you two conspiring assholes, almost made me forget you're in the middle of filing for divorce." Carol and you look at each other and smile.

"I’m sorry, Val, but we can't go back yet," you state in the firmest tone you can manage.

Valkyrie crosses her arms and sucks on her teeth as she realizes you’ve outplayed her, "Fine, do whatever you want, but I’m not dealing with this anymore," she takes her comms and gives them to you to add to your now growing collection of other people's devices, "I need a drink and a long bubble bath, do not even think about disturbing me." She takes a brand new bottle of Scotch from the kitchen and enters the bathroom.

Carol hadn't felt this good in a long time, the rush of pulling a half thought out plan followed by the satisfaction of it working out just right, with the added bonus that she got to do it by your side, "Good job," she congratulates you.

"Likewise." You have that smile on your face, the one that made Carol fall for you all those years ago, the one she has missed so dearly, not just in the past month, but long before that.

You go back to finishing your lunch in a somewhat comfortable silence. After a moment, Carol speaks, "It wasn't all about Kamala visiting at random," you look at her with a frown, "every time I saw you, I couldn't shake the fear that it might be the last."

"And not seeing me at all was a better choice?" you retort.

"Everyone else could come and go, but I could never deal with losing you, I don't know what I was thinking, I made you a vow and I couldn't keep it, I feel like such a failure." There is something in her eyes that you can’t fully identify, woe, perhaps.

"Why were you so adamant about blaming Fury for this?" You find some respite in knowing that, deep down, she didn’t actually believe it to be true.

"It was easier that way, I didn't have to admit that I’m scared that way," you give her a flat hum in response, "I’m really sorry, I don't expect you to forgive me, but please know that I am very, truly sorry, it's all my fault and I’m owning up to it, as soon as Kamala is better we can go home, and you don't have to see me ever again, if that's what you want."

It would break her heart if you said you didn’t want to see her anymore, fortunately, or not, you refrain from responding and finish the rest of your meal quietly contemplating her every word.

There is so much you wanna say, so many questions you want to ask her, but, would it even change anything?

As much as you want to lift her chin up and reassure her that you can work things out and everything is going to be okay, as much as wish, and hope, this isn’t something you can do on your own, you learned that the hard way, and it hit you like an alien mopping the floor with your body.

Despite your aching chest, you can’t just give her what she wants, it would come at too high a price from you, and you know you deserve better than that.

A few days later, you check on Kamala and conclude that she is stable enough to sustain the trip back. You come out of the room to an awaiting Carol, "I think she's ready to go home," she nods in response, "what did you do with the fuel? Because we're gonna need it about now." With Valkyrie having politely locked herself up in the bedroom since the night she arrived, it’s been on you to take charge once again.

Carol begins to think of all her options, "I’ll figure something out, don't worry about it."

"I worry about a lot of things when it comes to you." You tentatively walk closer to her on the couch.

She looks up at you with curiosity, "Like what?"

"Like if you're eating the right amount, or working too hard, or whether I'll ever be able to trust you again," you mumble the last part.

"I said I’m sorry, what more can I do?" she sighs.

"'Sorry' is not enough, Carol," you no longer have the energy to yell at each other, "what if Dar-Benn had said sorry, would that have made it all okay?"

Her features turn stern as she objects, "She tried to destroy every place I call home."

You look at her with sadness in your eyes, "Sometimes, I feel like that's exactly what you're doing to me." You slump on the other end of the couch and rub your temples.

"What if I took some time off?" she blurts out, making you snap your neck in her direction and you heartbeat race.

"What about your job?"

"I could ask Monica and Kamala to take over for a bit," she suggests nonchalantly.

"That doesn't sound right."

"I can talk to Val."

"She’s a King, she won't just take over because you asked." She seems too comfortable delegating the duties of the strongest Avenger.

"What about The Guardians?"

"The Guardians?" you repeat, "yeah, right."

She runs out of people she’s willing to sacrifice for you, so she gets a better idea, "Then, move into my ship with me!" Your brain stops working and you're unable to respond for an instant, "I don't hear a 'no,'" she insists.

"I didn't say 'yes'"

"What would it take?" you remain silent with a piercing gaze, "I’ll do anything, please." She turns her whole body to face you.

You feel very privileged to be seeing Captain Marvel begging, it makes you feel special knowing she's doing it just for you, so you give her a chance, "Soundproof your room."

"Done," she responds immediately.

"I wanna meet Yan," you continue.

Carol is taken aback with surprise, "Really?"

"He’s the most beautiful man in the universe."

That’s all it takes to convince her, "Okay, yeah, sure."

You worry your lip between your teeth and take much longer to speak this time, "I still want a divorce," you whisper, almost able to hear her heart breaking all over again, she nods sadly and her eyes travel to the ground.

Without any fuel left, Carol’s solution to get you back on Earth is to push the vessel from the outside herself.

You arrive safely to the Avengers compound and help Kamala into the med bay to let an actual doctor treat her for the rest of her recovery. Once you make sure Kamala is taken care of, and Carol has refueled Valkyrie’s ship, you get back in to make your way to New Asgard. All too quick for Fury to intercept.

As soon as you arrive to the Kingdom, Valkyrie exits her ship and all but kicks you out along with her, "I would love to say it was a pleasure, but it really wasn’t," she deadpans, retrieving her comms from you, much too exhausted to make her annoyance noticeable.

Carol and you both know she’s exaggerating, but you also know that you exhausted her trust, you’d better not need anything from her for the next three to five years.

It is only now that Carol realizes a flaw in your trajectory, as you take in her frown, you begin to work things out yourself,  "We’re stuck here," you say her thoughts out loud.

She hesitates slightly before responding, "There is one option…" It’s almost like a pre apology.

"Seriously?" You squint your eyes in dread, succumbing to your faith.

Carol picks you up bridal style and flies off. It only takes a few minutes for you to land on the front lawn of your shared home. She gently puts you down on the ground, and you step away from her, taking a moment to recompose yourself from the intimacy of being carried by your ex.

"Thanks," you say awkwardly, stretching your neck.

She gives you a tight lipped smile, "No problem," you both stand there in silence, unsure of how to act, "so, is this goodbye then?" she crosses her arms, bracing herself for your departure.

"No, I’m moving in with you," you state matter of factly, the confusion in her face is evident.

"What about the divorce?"

"Oh, yeah, we gotta do that." You had forgotten for a second, flying at Captain Marvel speeds always renders your mind hazy.

She retreats further into herself, lowering her gaze, "We can go first thing tomorrow."

You cradle her face with both hands, gently caressing her cheeks until her eyes meet yours, "I am giving you another chance to offer me that ring in the future, to help me trust you again."

Her eyes glimmer like the brightest stars, she turns her face to kiss one of your palms and leans into your touch, "I won't let you down this time, I promise."

@wolf79

[wastelandlovingscenarios]

undeniable | porter gage x female! sole survivor

a/n: am i finally back on my bullshit, uploading on a random sunday night? this is different from what i usually write, but hey! im definitely writing something. im too tired to revise or edit this bc its 12 AM, so ill look it over in the morning. just thought i'd post something silly.

♡ based off a modern au where gage and the sole survivor are childhood bestfriends in another life.

For as long as Gage can remember, she’s been a burden. Being nearly five years older than her and her guardian -- or her best friend, as she likes to call him -- he’s always felt inclined to watch over her. He doesn’t know why, he knows he doesn't necessarily need to, but the thought of abandoning her feels wrong. So he tries to find reasons as to why -- was it because they both grew up in terrible conditions together and only had each other? Or was it because he knew the moment he let her dumbass go into the real world alone, she’d somehow get herself killed? 

He shakes his head. Finding a reason was nothing but a waste of time, his mind overworking itself more than it already was. He dumbs it down to simply getting used to the routine of caring for her since they were children. If he fucks up his schedule now, he’d have to go through the trouble of rearranging everything around once again and readjust to his new lifestyle. 

‘Yeah,’ he thinks to himself, unlocking his apartment door, twisting the knob, ‘It’ll be nothing but fucking trouble.’ 

Once he pushes the door open, his boots thumping against the tiled floor of his apartment, he sees her sitting on the couch, distracted by the show playing on the television. His eyes darted over to the coffee table in front of her, papers and open textbooks strewn across the poor thing, obviously untouched and just displayed prettily to mimic the idea that she was being productive. 

With a low grumble, he tosses his bag on the counter nearby and takes off his boots before grabbing the remote lying on the couch. She’s so invested in her little show that she barely even notices him walking in with a scowl and an annoyed sigh. Sole jumps when the television shuts off suddenly, a gasp leaving her lips before turning her head to the side. 

“Hey, I was watching!” she whines, already rising from the couch to pick another fight with him. He doesn’t show any reaction and instead, crosses his arms with an unimpressed expression while he holds the remote hostage. 

She tries her best to grab it from his hand but he rolls his eyes, gently pushing her back down onto the couch. 

“Quit watchin’ and start studyin’. Yer not gonna get shit done like this.” 

She huffs angrily, her eyes narrowing at him, “Gage, a little break wouldn’t hurt every once in a while.” 

“And what have you accomplished since I left for work this afternoon?” 

Sole swallows nervously, her mouth going dry at his questions as she opens and closes it, trying her best to stand her ground. He raises a brow, giving her a chance to respond and redeem herself, but he already knows. She was a fool for thinking she could get away with such a lie, knowing that Gage knew her better than anyone else.

“Thought so,” he stuffed the remote in the back of his pocket, “Now be a good girl and finish yer damn work. I’m not paying yer tuition for you to fuck around.” 

Sole groans but listens obediently, pulling the coffee table closer to her. She grabs her laptop and unlocks it, opening her notes before reaching over to snatch one of her textbooks. 

“I don’t understand why you’re on my ass about my studies so much, Gage,” she complains, highlighting something in her book a bit roughly, “You didn't even finish high school, so why does it even matter?” 

He doesn’t spare her much of an answer, walking over to the kitchen to find something to cook for them, “Exactly my point. You wanna be better than me.”  

“But you make so much money, you’re able to provide for both of us!” she throws her hands in the air, desperately trying to prove a point to her stubborn roommate, who seemed to be firm on his words.

“That’s only because I got connections. Now shut your mouth and study.” 

He doesn’t find much in the fridge nor the cabinets, silently setting a reminder in his mind to do a grocery run first thing tomorrow before work. Eventually, he decides to heat up some leftovers they had for lunch and cut up some fruit for her to snack on while she did her work. It’s shit, he knows, but it’ll do till tomorrow. 

He makes his way back to the living room, plopping on the couch next to her and setting the food on the coffee table, maintaining a good distance between their dinner and her work. The last thing he wanted was to spill anything on her laptop and notes -- it would only give her another reason not to be productive. 

He doesn’t say much, but his eyes flicker over to her for a moment, a small smile on his face at the sight of her seemingly focused on her work now, a sense of satisfaction overcoming him. Gage leans back on the couch, pulling his phone out to distract himself while he kept her company in the living room. He takes a few bites of his portion of the leftovers, glancing at Sole here and there to ensure she was still on track. 

It’s a peaceful few minutes, he can’t recall how long, as they both sit in silence, her music playing softly in the background to fill up the white noise. Suddenly, he hears a sigh, sounding a bit defeated, and his eyes set on her sulking figure. 

“Gage, I know that you want the best for me, but I’m nearly twenty-three and you still treat me like a kid.” he stares at her, not showing any reaction but notices how she refused to make eye contact with him, her eyes glued to the screen of her laptop. 

When she doesn’t get a response, she closes her eyes before turning her body towards him, her expression serious, but he can see right through her. She’s pleading, but not in an annoying bratty way like she usually does, so he decides to listen to her troubles. 

She scoots closer to him and he watches, his phone long forgotten in his hand, “I’m really grateful for you and all that, but you need to trust that I can do well in school and balance my time. You can’t take care of me forever.” 

Instead of getting a response like she’d hope for, she was met with the usual silence he often provided her when she tried to set her boundaries. With an irate expression, she turned back to her laptop, her face flushed in embarrassment, feeling like her words vanished into thin air. 

She should’ve known better than to talk to Gage — he was a man of few words and she didn’t know why she expected him to at least say something to show that he at least cared about her feelings one way or the other.

Before she could continue studying to hide her embarrassment and anger, she hears his voice and freezes. 

“I know.” his voice is gravelly, a bit of exhaustion mixed into it, and her head shoots to him, a bit stunned at his broken silence. Her eyes are wide, body paralyzed at the sudden response. There’s a slight flush on his face but she convinces herself it’s the lighting. 

Definitely. 

He knows she’s waiting for more than just that and he sighs, crossing his arms as he makes eye contact with her the best he can without losing his shit, “Just want you to have a good future. Want you to live a better life than what I’m giving you right now before I send you off.” 

Suddenly, she’s overcome with guilt and she immediately leans over to him, her hands finding his as she cuts him off, “No, that’s not what I meant!”

With another breath, she composes herself before speaking. 

“Gage, you’ve given me everything I’ve wanted and needed, the last thing I’ll ever do is criticize your care for me. I don’t plan on leaving your side, even when I get a better life.” 

His heart twinges and his feelings for her resurface, but he pushes it down. 

She pulls on the sleeves of his hoodie, playing with the fabric with her fingers, “I just want you to trust me more. I know I’ve been slacking a bit, but I’d never fail school, especially when I know you’re working hard to provide for both of us and paying for my tuition. I’d never do that to you.”

“Wouldn’t say I’m working hard,” he downplays it, not wanting her to fret about such a miniscule matter. 

She groans, “You work twelve hour shifts everyday. Sometimes fourteen!”

He shrugs nonchalantly and Sole pouts at his stubbornness, smacking his arm with annoyance. Gage bites back a smirk, amused by her behavior and catches her wrist midair, her eyes rolling. Instead of providing her with a response, he digs in his pocket and hands her the remote to the TV and her eyes light up, a smile forming on her pretty face. His heart aches at the sight. It was such a small action but it was more than enough to validate her feelings. 

“Thank you, you’re the best!” she jumped over, throwing her arms around his neck as she embraced him tightly. 

His face flushed heavily and tried to seem annoyed to cover it up but the stutter in his voice and the tenseness of his shoulders gave it away. Gage pushed her away with his hand as he groaned quietly, “I get it, don’t need to be so damn happy about it.” 

However, she pecked his cheek and he froze instantly, his body paralyzed and his voice raising in embarrassment, “Q-Quit it!”

She giggles and doesn’t take much offense to his words, knowing that he was nothing but a big softie for her. As she released him, she smiled at him happily once more before turning to the TV and putting her show back on. 

Gage rubbed the spot where she kissed, his face a deep red as he tried to regain his composure. Suddenly, he pushes down the real reason of why he refused to leave her side for the millionth time, reminding himself that there were several other possibilities other than that. 

‘What a damn burden,’ he thinks to himself, desperately trying to fight back his feelings for her, his eyes glued to her gleeful form next to him. 

Suddenly, her kiss lingered on his skin a little too long, the feeling of her arms around him marking his skin, and he’s left absolutely horrified, realizing that he could no longer convince himself otherwise. 

Maybe accepting it was better than constantly running and Gage thinks it over for a moment but ultimately shakes his head, wanting to do anything but that. 

‘Just a stupid thought. Some stupid fucking feelings,’ he settles for that answer but knows deep down that he’s already lost the battle, his heart hammering in his chest. 

[dontfindmerain]

hotel room

summary: about 800 words, short little drabble on the one bed trope with wilbur. Wilbur and reader are very close friends. for the lovely @toiletwipes <3

not proof read sns

a/n: sorry if the formatting is weird, I wrote this at work on mobile :')

Wilbur was an idiot. Plain and simple. An absolute fool. What other explanation could there be for this situation he had put you both in?

Wilbur had been the one to suggest booking a hotel room instead of driving a few hours back to your american friend's apartment. He found a nice enough place and all for a pretty good price. He only made one mistake.

There was only one damn bed. Even worse, it was just a tad too small for you to both fit comfortably without being rather close.

"Wilbur, what the hell are we going to do now?" you laughed at him, his face was proper flushed, muttering something about how he was tired when he booked the room.

"I didn't think to check, I had assumed there would be two beds," he glared at you as you continued to giggle, "It's not that funny darling, if you keep laughing I might just make you sleep on the floor." You stopped and gaped at him.

"Uh-uh, nope, you fucked up, you're sleeping on the floor. It's either that or we'll have to share it.." you trailed off as your face heated at the thought.

It's not like it would be the end of the world. Only it was. As much as you hated to admit it, you liked Wilbur a lot. Much more than the friendship you currently shared. Wilbur didn't need to know that, though. Him and his stupidly cute face..

He smirked at you and teased, "Oh yeah? I'm sure you'd like that a lot, wouldn't you, sweetheart?" He stepped closer to you, and your eyes focused on the ground, finding it very interesting at this moment.

His hand lifted your chin up to face him before leaning in to whisper in your ear, "Go on darling, use your words."

Your face became impossibly flushed, stuttering while attempting to find the right thing to say. Wilbur had always been flirty with you, but this seemed different. He stepped back, laughing and shaking his head.

"I'm just teasing you, my love, I'll sleep on the floor since it was me who-"

"No, we can share. It's fine," you cut him off speaking quickly. You covered your mouth as soon as the words escaped. Shit. There is no way you just said that out loud.

He smiled at you a little confused, "Alright then, whatever you like. I'll take the bags while you get changed, yeah?"

Your mind was racing, but you managed a nod, grabbing a large t-shirt and some rather short shorts. After practically running to the bathroom and changing, you headed back over to Wilbur.

He had already gotten ready for bed and was scrolling through his phone, waiting for you to join him. You cautiously slid into bed beside him, trying to give him enough room, but barely having any yourself.

"Seriously, love?" Wilbur chuckled, motioning for you to come closer, "Come here, you're going to fall." You obliged, scooting next to him and getting comfortable as he wraps his arms around you. You were blushing intensely, his scent enveloping you. He tangled his legs with yours so that neither of you were hanging off the edge and brought you even closer to him.

If that wasn't enough to make you flustered, what he did next definitely was.

He squeezed you gently and pressed a kiss onto your forehead, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He chuckled when your breath hitched, knowing the effect he had on you.

"Darling, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you might have a fever from how warm you're getting," he spoke lowly, teasing again, "Would you like to explain yourself?"

Once again, you were at a loss for words, as if he had stolen them from you. The butterflies in your stomach were going crazy as he pulled back to look at you again.

"Hmm, struggling, are we? Gods, you're adorable, you know that?" He smiled, glancing down at your lips.

Somehow, that snapped you out of your speechless state. "I am not adorable! I am a menace to society! How dare you even sugg-"

He cut off your ramble with a kiss, cautious at first and then confident when you kissed him back. His hands traveled from your back down to your hips and squeezing. You gasped, mouth opening and he took the opportunity to explore you further.

When you finally pulled back for air, looking up at him, his pupils were blown wide, face red and lips swollen. He smiled so big his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do that, my love?"

"Yeah? I dont know, maybe you should kiss me again just so I can be sure," you smiled back at him, closing the short distance between the two of you once more.

You guessed it was safe to say he liked you back. He was still an idiot, no doubt. But he was your idiot.

[whitedarkmoonflower]

to give you that little push; I'd like to request a modern!Sihtric x reader where they are reunited after a long time apart. the rest is all you! ;)

Authors note: it all started with the ask, whether I accept modern!Sihtric requests, that left me deeply thoughtful whether I am really up to it. So thank you so much, my dear @sihtricfedaraaahvicius for giving me that little push and setting me on this short, but very intensive journey.

My very first Modern!Sihtric x reader fic.

Warnings: fluff, quite suggestive on the borderline with getting smutty, heartbreak, abuse of alcohol

Summary: see the request, although I have a slight feeling you had something different in mind, when you requested this.

Word Count: 3,748

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

“Please, fasten your seat belt; we are landing,” a voice intruded upon your tranquil nap, jolting you awake. You rubbed your eyes, struggling to comprehend the source of the voice and your whereabouts.

“Thank you,” you murmured slowly, fumbling around trying to locate and secure your seat belt, your head still dizzy. You flinched as the airplane thudded onto the runway with a slight bump, rebounded gently, and then smoothly taxied to a stop at the parking position.

“Fuck! So fast…” you swore silently to yourself. In truth you did not want to get off that plane. You remained seated until the final passenger had exited before rising to retrieve your hand luggage. The irritated looks, masked under a polite smile, that flight attendants were casting at you, did not make you to move faster. You had no reason to hurry, so you took your time. Your head was tucked into the collar of your oversized sweater, its sleeves engulfing your hands. Your rucksack hung haphazardly over your shoulder, giving you the appearance of a turtle, save for the fact that even a turtle might have traversed the distance to the front door more swiftly.

“Have a nice evening, ma’am,” the flight attendant beamed at you as you walked past. Lost in your own thoughts, you didn't respond. It had been five years. Five fucking years since you left on what was meant to be a two-week summer course in the other part of the world and ended up staying there for a half decade. This had been one in a million opportunity, a scholarship and admission to one of the world’s best design schools combined with an offer to work for a renowned fashion house after graduation. Only a fool would have rejected it, and you were so close to doing just that.

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

“Hey, sweetheart, I’ve missed you! How are you doing? How was your flight?” Sihtric’s smiling face greeted you from the screen of your phone.

“Everything’s fine, I’ve missed you too!” you replied, your smile tinged with sleepiness. Glancing at the clock, you noted that it was 9 a.m., which translated to around 7 p.m. at Sihtric's location. Jet lag hadn't quite released its grip on you yet.

“I love you sweety and I miss you terribly. It is so lonely without you here,” Sihtric’s voice never failed to send shivers down your spine.

“I love you too, handsome! Just two weeks to go and I’ll be back home,” your drowsy gaze drifted once again to the clock. "Damn! It's already 9:00. I've got my first classes in thirty minutes! I need to hurry!" With an exclamation, you leapt out of bed, nearly dropping your phone in the process.

You had met Sihtric just a month before at a party hosted by your best friend Gisela, who was celebrating the opening of her very own studio and art gallery.  You had never believed in the love at the first sight, deeming it ridiculous and impossible to fall for someone you hardly knew. Yet, that’s exactly what had happened to you the moment you laid eyes on Sihtric. Seated on the sofa, gingerly sipping your gin and tonic, you nearly choked on your drink as your gaze widened, registering a striking dark-haired young man entering the room. The slightly snug black t-shirt and skinny jeans he wore accentuated his remarkably well-built body. Swallowing hard, your eyes remained glued to his face, tracing his sharp features, pronounced cheekbones, straight nose, and big expressive eyes. His moustache and short beard, covering his chin, only added to his rugged and strong presence. Gisela introduced you, and before you knew it, you had spent the entire evening sitting on the sofa with him, joking, laughing, telling anecdotes from your studies – you had studied fashion design — and raptly listening to his tales. He was a photographer and had journeyed across the globe for his job and passion, collaborating and doing shootings with various celebrities and amassing countless amusing stories to share. With each passing minute, you marvelled more and more why on earth this intelligent, breathtakingly handsome, and evidently talented man had decided to spend his evening chatting with you.

You lived just a few blocks away from the gallery and after the party Sihtric immediately offered to accompany you home, unwilling to let you wander the streets alone at such a late hour.

“Thank you for the stunning evening,” Sihtric said, taking your hand and lifting it to his lips, placing a delicate kiss upon it as you both stood at the entrance of your apartment building.

“Stunning?” you raised your eyebrow in disbelief. The idea that someone could describe an evening spent chatting with you as stunning seemed far-fetched.

“Yeah, stunning. I can't even recall when I last had so much fun," Sihtric's face drew near, his breath grazing your skin and quickening your heartbeat.

“Fuck, does he want to come upstairs?” a thought raced through your mind, but there was this age-old rule on not having sex with someone on the first date lingering in your consciousness. “To hell with the rules, I want him – even if it would be just a one-night stand. Common, handsome, kiss me!” you silently urged, feeling a shiver tracing your spine as Sihtric’s thumb gently caressed your cheek. His gaze bore into you, as if searching for a sign.

“You’re incredibly sweet and beautiful,” Sihtric whispered in your ear. His lips touched yours in the most gentle, tender kiss – the softest, you’d ever had. You closed your eyes, letting yourself melt into that delicate kiss, a pleasant lightheadedness enveloping you.

“Sweet dreams, lovely!” Sihtric’s voice brought you back to reality as he hesitantly pulled away. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“What?” your mind slowly registered the words you just heard, “No, wait!” you wanted to speak, but as you opened your eyes, he was already gone. “What the fuck? Was it a dream? Why did he leave? What did I do wrong?” Countless thoughts and emotions whirled in your mind as you ascended to your apartment, disappointment prevailing. You were convinced, you’d never see him again. He didn’t even have your number; how could he call? You were angry at yourself, believing you’d ruined everything, not knowing what exactly you have done wrong, but being sure it was you.

The greater was your surprise, when you received an early morning call from Gisela the following day.

“Hey there! How are you?” your friend’s ever cheerful voice came through the phone. “Guess what? I just gave your number to Sihtric. You must have made quite an impression on him. He woke me up at 6.00 a.m. today, to ask for your number, miserable that he hadn’t asked you for it. Can you believe it– 6.00 a.m.?”

“What?” you weren’t fully awake yet.

“Don’t mess this up, honey! He’s a catch! See you at lunch tomorrow; I want all the details!” Gisela hung up, leaving you staring at your phone, trying to grasp, what you’d just heard.

So, Sihtric did call, and the next day you had your first real date. You fell for him swift and hard. Being with Sihtric felt like a wild ride on a rollercoaster. He was impulsive and spontaneous breakneck, loving extreme sports like kiting and skydiving. Spontaneously embarking on a mountain photoshoot idea and heading there within minutes, leaving everything else behind, was totally normal for him. Yet, toward you, he was the embodiment of care and sweetness, a stark contrast to his impulsive, daring nature.

You had never had a lover like him before, so attentive, gentle, and eager to satisfy you. With him you felt like a goddess each time. You could still recall the tender touch of his lips on your skin, the delicate kisses covering every inch of your body. The brush of his fingers against your breasts, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer. His ragged breath against your neck as he purred sweet praises into your ear, while holding you tightly and thrusting deeply into you, evoking the moans of delight and pleasure from you, arching your back against the mattress.

You’d never been so deeply in love with someone, nor had your heart ever before been so broken as you read the message on your phone exactly one week after your arrival in your destination for the long-planned summer courses. The previous day had been already quite a mess. Your call with Gisela ended up with a quarrel. You had never expected her to react like that. You had shown your sketches to classmates, one of whom turned out to be the daughter of a renowned designer, just moved here to work for a major fashion house. This had led to you being invited to a meeting with the manager of the fashion house, offering you an admission to a top design school along with a scholarship in exchange for a five-year post-graduation contract as a designer for the house. You had declined the offer and just shared the whole unbelievable story with Gisela.

“Are you out of your mind” she shouted at you, incredulous. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you’re considering giving it up for what? A guy, you’ve been seeing for less than a month! You must be insane! What’s his take on all this?”

“I haven’t talked to him about it, and I don’t intend to. I don’t want him to be involved or to feel responsible for a choice that’s solely mine to make. He might try to convince me to accept the offer, but I don’t want that. I don’t believe in long-distance relationships, and we’re not at that point to experiment with something like that.  I love him, Gisela. I don’t want to lose him. I want to go back and see where this relationship takes us,” you tried to argue with your friend, receiving only and annoyed scoff in return.

Gisela was not in a mood to give up. She was resolved to put some sense back in your love blurred mind and kept arguing with you, until you were completely fed up with her.

“I’ve made up my mind, and it’s final, Gisela!” you shouted, ending the call frustrated.

Next morning you woke up with a throbbing headache. You had slept badly, your mind twirling around Gisela’s words. You knew she meant it only good, but you stood firm in your choice. A message notification jolted you, making you smile. It was from Sihtric, you knew it instantly by the ringtone you had set for him.

As you read the message, your smile froze mid-blossom. The words hit you like a freight train: «I’m sorry, but it’s over. It’s time for both of us to move on. I’ve found someone else. » Your phone slipped from your grip, clattering onto the floor. You couldn’t believe what you saw. It was impossible, it couldn’t be real. You snatched your phone back up, your fingers trembling as you pushed the call button.

No response.

You called again, and again, and again. Still no answer. With a loud scream you hurled your phone against the wall. Face buried in your pillow, you started to cry uncontrollably. You lost track of how many times you'd dialed, texted, and cried, but there was no response. He did not even read your messages. Finally, you gave up. Your world had crumbled into thousand small pieces, your silly dreams shattered, and your heart ached. The next two days you spent crying in your small dormitory room. You did not care for the courses, you were unable to make yourself get up and dress, not even speaking about seeing other people. It was on the third day that you were sitting at the table and sipping your umpteenth cup of coffee, that your gaze landed on papers strewn in a corner. The admission letter and scholarship application form lay there, untouched. A rush of emotions urged you to rip them apart, yet something held you back. Tears coursing down your cheeks, you seized a pen and hastily began filling out the form. There was nothing left to return to. The mere thought of returning home, potentially encountering Sihtric and his new love interest, churned your stomach with disgust. Thus, you stayed.

Five years immersed in studies and working as a designer in your dream fashion house. And now you were coming home, although you did not think of it that way anymore. You had been sent to overlook the opening of the new shop and had to stay there for at least half a year to make everything set and running. Half a year felt like an eternity, especially as just before boarding the plane, you learned the name of the photographer that had been hired to shoot the first catalogue – Sihtric Kjartansson. With a heavy sigh, you took a tentative step onto the bridge and began the slow walk toward the exit.

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

“You have to do something about it!” Gisela rushed into Sihtric’s apartment in complete bewilderment bursting out the whole story about the scholarship and contract in one single breath, “It is her chance, Sihtric! She is so talented, and she’s ready to give it all up because of you. Can’t you see? She’s sacrificing her entire future, everything she has ever dreamed about! If you truly love her, you can’t let this happen. Please, tell me you won’t let it happen,” she sank onto the sofa and looked at Sihtric with pleading eyes.

“You know I love her, Gisela, but what are you expecting me to do?” Sihtric asked taken aback by Gisela’s sudden intrusion, attempting to piece together what she was telling him.

“You have to end your relationship with her,” the response was so unforeseen that Sihtric found himself speechless for a moment.

“Excuse me, I have to do what?” he finally managed to articulate, still trying to comprehend Gisela's proposal.

“You have to break up with her. That’s the only way. She will not listen to you otherwise. She does not believe in long-distance relationships and will refuse to stay there anyway.”

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

Sihtric’s phone vibrated again, signalling an incoming call. Seated in his kitchen, head resting on his hands, he wrestled with the urge to answer. It was the fifth time already. He was aware who was calling and knew that, if he did pick up, he wouldn’t be able to repeat the words he’d typed to you just an hour ago. It was a lie. A lie, he immediately regretted upon hitting the send button. But it was done, and you had read it. He knew he had broken your heart, something he'd been so certain he would never do to you. There was no turning back now. Even if he did answer and tried to explain his motives behind the cruel message, there would always be a crack between you, caused by the pain he knew his message had inflicted. He had lost you. He had pushed you away and had done it willingly, for your own good. He loved you too much to allow you to through away your future for him.

As silly as it might sound, he’d fallen for you from the very first moment he saw you. He hadn’t wanted to come to the party. Gisela had hinted that she wanted to introduce him to someone. Her persistent obsession to fix the love life of her friends was sweet but annoying. Yet, the instant she introduced you, Sihtric felt a rush of gratitude for changing his mind. He liked everything about you – your delicate and captivating face, the sparkle in your eyes, your full and inviting lips, your thick, curly, dark brown hair cascading onto your shoulders, and above all, your stunning and breath-taking smile. You were funny and smart, your demeanour so natural and unpretentious, as he found out within mere hours. He did not even notice how the hours passed, as he was slowly drowning in your beautiful eyes, listening to your infectious laughter and your soft voice.  

Desire raged within him, his jeans chafing painfully as he leaned in for a kiss that night. However, for the first time ever, he didn’t wish to rush events, fearing he could scare you off and ruin everything. He was not into a single night crush, he wanted to truly get to know you. It was your third date that he realised he couldn’t suppress his longing anymore.

“Can I invite you for a drink at my place?” he asked upon leaving the cosy Italian restaurant he’d chosen for the evening. It was so obvious what was on his mind, his look so full of desire as his eyes slowly undressed you. He licked his lips lustfully as all he could think in that moment was how you will look naked on his bed, him placing soft kisses down your body. His lips almost did not leave yours from the moment you both got into the taxi until he unlocked the doors of his apartment, his hands starting to pull up your dress as soon as you stepped into the room.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, drinking in the sight of your almost naked body, his fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra.

A gratifying groan escaped his lips, his breath literally taken away by the irresistible pulchritude before him, as moments later he had you fully undressed on his bed, exactly as he had imagined it before. Pinning your arms above your head, he planted fervent kisses, tracing every contour, every curve and line of your body with his tongue. He’d imagined this every night since you first met – how he will ignite and arouse you, how he will kiss and pleasure you, making you crave for him beyond imaginable. Your response to his touch, fiery and eager, trusting and passionate, intoxicated him. As he finally pushed his hard length into you, he felt there was no greater delight in this world than feeling your walls clench around him, observing ecstasy pool in your half-lidded eyes, your hips dancing against his, your body quivering under his touch, and your spine arching against the mattress in pleasure he and only he was able to bestow upon you. And as you fell asleep in his embrace, nestled against his chest, he was sure he wanted to keep you, keep you forever.

But it was over now. Sihtric poured another glass of whiskey and downed it in one gulp. He was heavily drunk by now. His phone lay on the table, vibrating again. A message from you. He could see it appearing shortly on the locked screen. The fifth one this evening, amidst the dozen calls, he’d ignored. It was overwhelming. He couldn't endure it any longer. He had to respond, to clarify that the message had been a terrible misunderstanding. That absurd message was his fault, and he was ready to atone for it, whatever it would take, but he craved you back urgently, desperately. Sihtric reached out for his phone, but it slipped out of his numb fingers, landing on the kitchen’s stone floor with a resounding crash. When he finally managed to retrieve it, his face contorted in despair. The entire display was fractured, resembling a spider's web, and was unresponsive to his touch. A loud curse erupted as he flung the useless device against the wall before collapsing back into his chair. Reaching for the whiskey bottle, his fingers closed around its neck, bringing it to his lips. The fiery liquid surged down his throat in relentless gulps, until the bottle was empty and in the next moment it also flew against the wall, shattering into countless shards.

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

"Good morning!" your assistant's cheery voice welcomed you as you entered the pavilion, now transformed for the photo shoot. "Everything's set. The photographer arrived early this morning and had us reconfigure the entire pavilion, but you'll be pleased with the changes. We're quite fortunate – we managed to book Sihtric Kjartansson. He's truly the best and most sought-after fashion photographer right now."

The sound of that name sent a shiver down your spine. Images of Sihtric's face, engraved in your mind, surfaced – the memory of your last goodbye at the airport, thinking that you will meet again in two weeks. His gentle kiss on your forehead, the warmth of his hug, his soft words in your ear, "I'll miss you, sweetheart. You mean the world to me." How foolish you had been to believe it all. To think that you were more than just a fleeting diversion, discarded and replaced after just one week apart. Anger surged within you, wrapping around you like an armour, giving you the strength, you needed to endure this day, as you entered the shooting hall and saw the familiar silhouette behind the camera, his back turned to you.

“Good morning, everybody!” you called out, straining your voice, but it was not necessary – there was nobody else there in the whole hall. Sihtric turned, his expression shifting from annoyance to utter bewilderment, his eyes widening as they locked onto you.

“Hi!” you managed to force through gritted teeth, your body stiff in tension that was taking over you. Those five years hadn’t changed a thing. He was still painfully handsome, and you couldn’t tear your eyes from him. Worse yet, you still desired him. You both just stared at each other unable to say anything until Sihtric finally found his voice.

“Hi, sweetheart!” Sihtric greeted, a mix of surprise and embarrassment colouring his face. “What a surprise! Haven’t seen you in a while. Precisely five years, two months, and five days,” he added, his face flushing as he realised, he had unconsciously used his favourite nickname for you and his precise time calculation felt so awkward and out of place, that he instantly wished to dissolve into the ear if that would only be possible.

You did not notice anything of it. You barely registered his words beyond the unfortunate "sweetheart," that made your heart skip a beat, stirring an overwhelming blend of love and hatred within you. The conflicting emotions surged through your veins, blurring your vision, and before he could see the tears forming in your eyes, you turned on your heels and stormed out of the hall, knocking over a coffee table in your path, and never once looking back.

[rpmemecentral]

Sookie Stackhouse Series by Charlaine Harris Sentence Starters [Part 2]

“It's time to pull my moral socks up and behave myself.”

"I wish I could save orgasms in a jar for when i need them, because I think I had a few extra."

“It wasn't enough to be kidnapped, I had to be insulted too.”

“Fiction just makes it all more interesting. Truth is so boring.”

“Oh come on, they're funny. They're like humans but miniature…tea cup humans!"

“Life had sure been simpler when I didn't date.”

“Men are incomprehensible assholes."

“A piece of happiness should never be taken as due.”

“Self-pity is like chocolate; as you get older, you can only afford a little bit.”

“We might be on the same page, but I'm not happy about reading it.”

“You’re too unique to waste.”

“You just don't want a vampire pissed off at you.”

“Sometimes, instead of going down the road less taken, you just charge down the beaten path.”

“It was one of God's jokes that such a dumb mind had been put in such an eloquent body.”

“Bring it on, fur-ass!”

“There’s no way you can kill someone and get to the other side of the experience unchanged.”

“People don't change, but they can learn to behave differently.”

“And you are mine, and you will be mine. They will not get you."

“Once again, I have that feeling of drowning when I hadn’t even known I was in the pool”

"Appreciated women are happy women.”

“So, what, you just decided to sack out here and seduce me when I walked in the door?"

“And that's your fantasy? That I come into your house naked and have sex with you?"

“Life should imitate romance literature far more often.”

“It's hard not to respond when a master of the art of kissing is laying one on you.”

"Ladies are not responsible for the bad manners of fools.”

“You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.”

“No matter how we suffer, we have an obligation to others. We have to be unselfish enough to try to live in the right way, so others can get through their own lives without us fouling them up.”

“God bless the American spectator. ”

“Softie is not a word you could use in the same sentence as ___.”

“I never set out to be a one-night-stand kinda person. I want to be sure, if I have sex with you, that it's because you want to be around for a while and because you like me for who I am, not what I am."

“No blame, no hate - why no communication?”

"Lord save me from sarcastic vampires.”

“I held on to my better nature by my fingernails but I held on.”

“It was like being around a particularly irritating two-year-old.”

“There's not much I dislike more than being addressed as "Hey you" and being poked with a finger.”

“No matter what happens in public—no matter what—don’t doubt that I love you and care about your welfare . . . as much as I am able.”

“Okay I've been stupid in the past. Not consistently stupid, but occasionally stupid. And I've made mistakes. You bet, I've made mistakes.”

She's a whore, that one."

“It's always possible for human beings to spoil their own peace of mind”

"Come to help me dig a body up. That was what a boyfriend should do, right?"

“Do you sometimes wish you could fast-forward a week? You know something bad's coming up, and you know you'll get through it, but the prospect just makes you feel sick. "

“It wasn't often you ran into bondage/Elvis/whorehouse-themed vampire club”

“But in my book, it' was basically's bad taste to stare at someone's assets, no matter how much on display they were.”

“I didn't see what was in front of me until I thought it might be taken away."

"You watched me undress last night, you ... you ... damn dog!”

“He looked like he'd just seen the Ghost of You Better Shut Your Mouth...”

“I want to call you all those gooshy words you use when you love someone, no matter how stupid it sounds.”

“Was this the second body I'd found in a closet, or the third? I wonder why I even opened closet doors any more.”

“Then I happened upon a whore.”

“Maybe I felt like I'd come so close to death that I'd better step back and take a look at my life. Maybe I didn't like a lot of what I'd done with it so far.”

“Those words are not a magical formula. They're not going to open my heart to you.”

"I love you. Your heart, your mind, your soul… you have brought light back into my life”

“You, on the other hand, are a sweet little éclair on the outside and a pit bull on the inside.”

[gjorg-of-drangleic]

Dark Souls lore is like being given 100 pieces to complete a 500-piece puzzle with no guarantee that they even belong to the same puzzle in the first place. I say this lovingly – it's an essential part of what makes this series so compelling to me.

On a loosely related note, Creighton the Wanderer being Schrödinger's Serial Killer is so fucking funny to me and I need to share my thoughts.

For those who don't know who I'm talking about, Creighton is an NPC you first meet in a location named Huntsman's Copse, in DS2. He's locked up in a cell and somewhat pissed off about it. When you free him to initiate his questline, he says:

"[...] I am Creighton, of Mirrah. I travel from land to land to hone my blade. [...] I joined forces with a man on the way, but he was no more than a back-stabbing knave. He took the first chance he had to try and off me. I decided to set a trap for him here, but then I got trapped myself. I can't believe that I was so dense. Thank the stars that you came along. You be careful of him. Pate, I think he said. [...] I've seen his type before. He kills entirely for the pleasure of it. I'm sure I won't be his last victim. The man's better off dead, I tell you. He's a slick talker, so don't let him fool you. [...] Watch out for the slimy rat. And don't you believe a word he says. I'll find the common footpad, and put an end to his roguery. Heh heh."

If you've played DS1 before, this might sound familiar to you. Indeed, you may think of Pate as DS2's stand-in for Patches. By this point in the game, there's a good chance you've encountered him already, and while you haven't been pushed down any cliff this time, you did end up locked up and surrounded by hostile hollows. I'd argue that this being the likeliest order of events is the game priming you to feel sympathetic towards Creighton once you reach him, as by then, the both of you would have been tricked by the same man. You might even feel so sympathetic as to overlook how immediately eager to kill Pate he is. And, if we're going down that route, metacontextually, you might have thrown Patches off that cliff as retribution yourself back in DS1.

You then find yourself speaking with Pate and Creighton back-and-forth at different locations, with Pate indirectly putting you in additional danger, and Creighton sounding more and more eager to kill the guy. The questline ends when you reach the Brightstone Cove of Tseldora, where you find them both fighting, and are given the opportunity to intervene to save either one by killing the other.

Now if this was all the questline was, there wouldn't be much to it, would there? Creighton is a bit bloodthirsty but, you could reasonably argue that his motivations are understandable. Why ever side with Pate in this? He almost got you killed twice! The man's clearly dangerous! Well, you see – after you're done helping either one, they both gift you a key leading to a trapped chest which explodes when you open it! That's right, even Creighton. "Ooh, that'll leave a nasty scar!" he says, if you survive the explosion. Now why would Creighton who remained friendly throughout end up doing this to us? Another DS2 character, Cale the Cartographer may be the key to understanding his motivations. Here's what he says.

"Ah yes, there is something I wanted to tell you. I was born in the land of Mirrah. Mirrah is also the home of an infamous killer, a 'knight' in name alone. He was locked in the dungeon for multiple murders. But shortly before his execution, he managed to escape. And the other day… I saw a fellow with a striking likeness! And then! And then… Wait… Well… I think he looked rather similar… N-no, it's true! I saw just such a man, I swear! I believe his name was…Cr…Cr…err Cray-something… I believe… They shared…some resemblance, I… I think…"

Cale tells you this back in Majula – the Firelink Shrine of DS2 – after you meet Creighton at least once. Our wandering friend has been a serial killer this entire time it would seem. DS3 would also agree with this statement. He is featured there as an NPC invader who attacks both the Ashen one and Sirris of the Sunless Realms. Here is what his armor set and weapon descriptions from DS3 tell us.

Creighton's Steel Mask: Attire of Creighton the Wanderer, a notorious deserter who fled an order of Mirrah Knights. Despite the mask's being a symbol of a criminal sentenced to death, Creighton never removed it.

Mirrah Chain Mail: Formal attire of the honorable knights of Mirrah, featuring their heraldry, a stag set against a blue field. Oddly, it was a dishonorable deserter who wore this attire most religiously.

Dragonslayer Axe: Axe favored by Creighton the Wanderer, infamous deserter of the Knights of Mirrah. Called Dragonslayer's Axe for the lightning that pulsates within its blade, but Creighton used it to slay men.

This all seems pretty damning. Helping Creighton in Tseldora means helping a serial killer. Pate may have tried to kill us before but, it's not like we were ever actually in any danger. What's a couple of hollows to a big strong undead like us, right? Helping Pate it is then? Killing them both? Walking past them and leaving them to it? At any rate, not helping Creighton! There. Problem solved.

You fool. You think we’re done? We haven't even started. I present to you his DS2 armor set descriptions.

Creighton’s Steel Mask: Atypical steel mask. Belonged to Creighton the Wanderer. Its design resembles that of the knight order of the eastern land of Mirrah, but with some odd differences that catch the eye. Perhaps it is a finely-crafted imitation.

Mirrah Chain Mail: Belonged to Creighton the Wanderer. Its design resembles that of the knight order of the eastern land of Mirrah, but with some odd differences that catch the eye. Perhaps it is a finely-crafted imitation.

Now, reading this, you might point out that this seemingly contradicts part of Cale’s statement as well as the DS3 item descriptions. I wouldn’t say so out of hand. One could reasonably argue that Creighton could very well have infiltrated the Knights of Mirrah by wearing a replica, thus in a manner of speaking, indeed belonging to that Order, or at the very least, being perceived as such by the wider public. Though I will admit that wearing a replica of a mask marking oneself for the death penalty, even in a different land, is rather shortsighted. Anyways, what of his axe, which I have conveniently omitted here? Well, I did so for a reason. We stumble across DS2’s Dragonslayer Axe nowhere near Creighton unlike in DS3 where we would obtain it after defeating him. In fact, until DS3, the Dragonslayer Axe being Creighton’s was unconfirmed. Besides… Have a look at the item description for yourself.

Dragonslayer’s Crescent Axe: The beloved black axe of the gallant Shieldless Lothian, formerly of Forossa. No warrior matched the ferocity of unbeatable Lothian, but he abruptly retired from the battlefield and was never heard from again. Some say that he grew tired of the frailty of human foes, and set off to slay the legendary dragon.

“Who in Gwyn’s name is Shieldless Lothian?” I hear you ask. No worries, I got you covered.

Ring of Giants: [...] Lothian was born a peasant, and died a general. His determination and diligence were unmatched, especially on the battlefield, where he earned his name by choosing to fight without a shield.

Annnnd, that’s it. That’s pretty much all we know. Let’s unpack all of this, shall we?

The Dragonslayer’s Crescent Axe belonged to a certain Shieldless Lothian of Forossa, a man who abandoned the battlefield to go chase after dragons, but also somehow still died a general. And this axe is seemingly now in the hands of Creighton of Mirrah, serial killer. Are we to understand that Creighton is actually a man named Lothian? That he faked his death? Or that he killed Lothian and took his weapon for himself? Or that he merely wields a replica of Lothian’s axe? Yea. Remember what I said about the puzzle pieces and all that? 

I’d like to briefly move the focus back around to our cartographer friend. I may have omitted to tell you earlier that, prior to speaking to you in Majula, Cale was actually located in a location called the Forest of Fallen Giants, which Creighton never sets foot in during the events of DS2. However, it does happen to be the location you first meet Pate in. Speaking of Pate, here is what his spear description has to say.

Pate’s Spear: A long spear wielded by Pate. This appears to be a very ordinary spear, but seems to have accumulated power over the course of countless battles. It is not always advisable to stand out. Especially if you have something to hide.

Now, this is so vague it could mean anything. But if one were to decide for whatever reason to have the most charitable read on Creighton’s character, they could conceivably argue that Creighton is an – albeit strangely revengeful – innocent man who was framed by Pate, who is the true serial killer of Mirrah. We know that Pate and Creighton have traveled together a while. We know that Pate is a dangerous manipulator who seemingly has a pattern of purposefully leading people to their death. Creighton meanwhile only shows resentment towards Pate, who supposedly almost killed him. He is also consistently friendly to us, up until the last moment, with the chest, though who knows if that was intentional? Maybe Pate is the one who boobytrapped it! Speaking of Pate, he’s the one to be present in the Forest of Fallen Giants, while Creighton isn’t. Pate might well have met Cale there who’d have recognized him, and in turn, he’d have introduced himself as Creighton to protect his own identity, with the lie still not cleared out by the time of DS3. One might also point out that Creighton has a distinctly Cockney accent which isn’t shared by other Mirrah characters like Lucatiel or Cale, which could hypothetically make sense should one accept the idea that Lothian and Creighton are the same person. Whilst speaking to us about Pate, Creighton says “[...] For the good of the world, and for my own honour. I won't let that bastard live another day.” One may wonder what good a serial killer would have to present himself as honorable and selfless, all the while not bothering to tone down his bloodlust at all when speaking to us. It’s stupid, in a weird authentic sort of way.

Do I believe this theory? Not really, no. I don’t think Dark Souls has the kind of character-driven narrative that thinks so deeply about its characters beyond how they best serve the overarching themes of the story, how they best contribute to building that specific “Dark Souls” atmosphere that makes those games so special. Ultimately, we have no evidence of Cale and Pate actually interacting with one another. Cale calls Creighton a killer, and it’s later on confirmed by his DS3’s weapon description. I can’t think of any reason why the game would lie to us over what is ultimately a very minor character, even within DS2. The slight discrepancies between DS2 and 3 can be explained away by time, or just, different people having worked on the games. I’m just a bit too pragmatic to believe that there would have been such a convoluted process involved for building up this non-character into a complex double fake-out innocent man. I think both Creighton and Pate were intended to be awful in DS2, probably as a way to hammer home that the world is broken, and good people, like your friends in Majula, are a rarity to be cherished. Still, I appreciate that the series allows for the above kind of badshit thinking to emerge to be honest. It’s fun! Trying to rebuild the puzzle with much of it missing is fun! People coming to different conclusions is fun!

Anyways, we all know Creighton was hired by Licia to kill Pate as part of an intense multidimensional war between the Covenant of Clerics and Patches.

[louisa-gc]

a (not-so-)little note

since my post about reading now has over 2000 notes (wow! i know it's not much for some but to me it's a lot!), i wanted to add to it a thought i hoped would be apparent from between the lines but this is the internet and one can never be too sure, so:

while we all know why reading is important, it's not a competition, and reading or not reading is not a judgment of a person's character, values or virtue. i don't think maximising the amount one reads through whatever methods should be anyone's goal at all, though perhaps my wording made it seem so. i would always encourage to rather read two books a year with thought instead of reading and listening to two hundred books a year just to have gone through two hundred books.

i appreciate all the additions and replies to my post and, while i'm not an audiobook person myself, can see how they could be very valuable to some people. however, i do listen to podcasts and video essays when cleaning or walking, and at least in my case, the amount of attention i am able to pay to what i'm hearing is not at all similar to the way i can concentrate on reading a physical book.

we all read differently, and i would not want to dictate what kind of reading is or isn't valuable; some books are quick, almost mindless reads, others take a long time and a lot of concentration. our circumstances are different too, sometimes we might not be able to either read or listen to a book. what i would encourage us all to avoid though, is the trap of trying to do as much as possible of everything all at once.

you don't need to optimise your time, you don't need to be reading or listening to books at all times to be a reader, you don't even need to be a reader(!).

if you like audiobooks, that's great! sit down, knit and listen to one. but if you're using audiobooks just because you want to go through as many books as possible, feel "productive" or whatnot, if you listen to books as background noise and then fool yourself to think it's the same as actually reading, i would advise you to just find fifteen minutes in which to sit down and read a physical book. it trains a different muscle than listening and it forces you to focus on one thing at a time and to go at your own pace, whatever that might look like for you.

there is no right or wrong way to read or be a reader, and i love to see how something i've always loved has suddenly become "cool". on the other hand, i'd be very wary of reading sliding under the umbrella of "things we must do as much of as possible to be good human beings". there is nothing inherently wrong about audiobooks, but the way some people seem to think of them hints at a culture of overconsumption and excess. quality over quantity, always.

[coldshrugs]

this fic is turning out much longer than i was expecting so i don't think i'll have much to show for it for Some Time. but i wanted to share a few things as a little boost :>

very into this description:

In an instant, Saint Valeroyant's Forum takes shape around her. Imposing spires of charcoal stone and metal meet the snow-bright sky above, but on the ground, folks pick their way around crumbling rock and rickety boardwalks. Half of Valeroyant still reclines against the edge of the fountain. Io assumes this courtyard was once elegant to behold, but in its current state, she sees only a fitting metaphor in the fallen statue: how much the nation demands of her soldiers, and the kind of rest they might find in their futures. The air is thicker in Foundation. Smoky, colder, and colored by the scents and sounds of the Forgotten Knight: brewing ale, smoked meats, and rowdy laughter. It is only midday and the tavern is already in full swing. She remembers staying in a dingy Cloud Nine room that was never quiet enough to rest soundly, but Gibrillont made sure she, Tataru, and Alphinaud were warm and fed. That was plenty, after what they'd fled. Nostalgia's inviting whisper almost pulls Io into the tavern... but a soldier clinks past, reminding her why she's here. She bears straight ahead, into the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly.

positioning edmont as a jerk lmao:

Io stares into the flames as she listens to him. His hospitality seemed freely given but she cannot help but recall something he said moons ago: 'How quickly we forget the petty nature of men. I'd wager your friends are no more than pawns in another of my countrymen's games. Such is the way of things between the High Houses...' House Fortemps is no different, she supposes.

then i'm trying out something of a written greek chorus/found "footage" thing that adds a little extra context here and there:

"–daresay it was one of the more awkward sessions of my career. The bride sat beautifully while her soon-to-be husband fidgeted, though I hear he is an energetic man with a racing mind. They did converse during the sitting, as well-acquainted friends; his lordship is a veritable jester and his humor seemed to keep his lady at ease. I had been told they were a love match. Alas, I would liken the flame between them to a bedside candle instead of the roaring fire usually found in the betrothed... " –Renowned portraitist Duremert, overheard while shopping in the Jeweled Crozier

"Ser Varlineau (as I am apparently expected to address you), Your arrival comes as the most delightful surprise. I expected you to stay away for far longer. I forgive you for not seeking me out, but I think you will enjoy the fact I've made a fool of myself in looking for you. Please do come see me. It's been too long. Your friend, Io" –A note found while cleaning the desk of Lord Commander of the Temple Knights.

finally. some angry flirting sjdfjkls:

She is a far more recognizable version of herself tonight. "How come you never sing to me, Gany?" she asks her bird. Ganymede responds only with huffs and chirps, his midnight feathers ruffling as if he finds the idea distasteful. Estinien watches her soothe him. "More keen to claw than sing, that one," Estinien says. She startles, whipping to face him, as deep and blue as the night around them. It only takes a moment for recognition, or memory, to warp her expression into a glare. "Something else you have in common with him." Io throws the cloak around her shoulders and fusses with a hasty knot. "I thought it might just be the pompous strutting." She's angry at him, yes, but she is still herself. Amusement tugs at his lips. "I don't strut."

[velvetvexations]

I think Velvet Nation has their heads screwed on tight and would understand that "I'm prone to attention/praise-seeking behavior" is not mutually exclusive with having some kinna "genuine" moral framework. Like, you could say that literally everyone only ever does something good because it makes them feel good. Ever act of charity either results in dopamine or prevents guilt at not having done so. Everything a human being does is selfish when you reduce the action to it's most basic, chemical level.

But with narcs it's different, there's this assumption that if a narc does something good they're standing there actively thinking "haha, you fool, I don't care about suicidal queer youth at all! I only donated five hundred thousand dollars to The Trevor Project so you would give me praise!". But consider that maybe, like, someone with NPD wants to be the best person they possibly can be? That they might not be satisfied with themselves if they didn't feel they were moral enough?

Some people go hard on being outsiders with rough edges. And you know, why the fuck shouldn't they? Even trying to do good gets them accused of being predators specifically for trying to do good. No shit some of them decide "then let me be evil" and embrace the fact that they're perceived as self-centered assholes. Yet, even then - they're talking openly about it all the time, it's a core part of their identity, that makes it difficult to fly under people's radar to secretly break them into being a worshipful slave.

But guess what? Having been raised by my mother, I can understand why someone with undiagnosed NPD can be a really fucking bad time for someone close to them. I'm so sympathetic to anyone who's actually suffered abuse from someone with NPD, because it sucks, it's bad.

It's like how I feel whenever TERFs complain about trans-identified males appropriating the pain of menstruation - I'm so willing to give any and all people who get periods that that fucking sucks and regardless of gender identity or anything else I understand and appreciate the fortune of not having to go through that. A transfem friend once told someone she was jealous of them menstruating and I was thinking like "I get how dysphoria is complicated and that can be something you have a valid desire for but holy fuck please please please never say that to a cis woman again", not because she was "appropriating" anything, but because shit like that is a miserable time for the people that go through it and it's desirable to respect that. So it sucks when I see TERFs pushing that line as though my respect in that regard isn't worth anything.

(to be clear, people who think I'm a crypto-TERF, I mean respect towards menstruating people generally, I have no respect for TERFs in any regard and am happy for them specifically to just cope and seethe about it)

The point of this tangent is that I'M REASONABLE. I CAN WORK WITH YOU. If anyone comes to me in good faith I'm not ever going to dismiss that sort of thing. Hell, I said the other day that if someone thought "Mormon" was a slur above simply being disrespectful I'd tell them to touch grass, but if that hypothetical person actually was like "yeah I get why you feel this way but I have these reasons it hurts me and I wish people wouldn't use it so it feels like a slur to me and it sucks that my situation is automatically so irrational to everyone else" I'd be like...I'm probably going to keep saying it because everyone else said it wasn't a problem and it's likely to come up in the future, but I'm really sorry, if you're a follower of mine maybe there's a tag I can use?

My own immense charity and grace in writing that is literally bringing a tear to my eye, which is what being a narc is like. Or maybe that's just because I'm also autistic and get moved by things like that very easily without making a distinction as to if it's coming from me or someone else. But either way, I guess, there are people who want me to just not fucking bother, lest I cloak my narcissism from my helpless prey.

[ryuichirou]

Replies

And an update on Ko-fi situation: our page got republished and is once again available! Thank fuck Jesus yikes.

Alright, replies replies! Some related to our drawings, some related to our hcs about Lilia and the Tweels …

Anonymous asked:

Finny is such a cute puppy 😭❤️

He really is <3 He needs more appreciation, I think, he’s a good pup.

Anonymous asked:

I'm gonna be a huge perv and feel free to ignore this. But when Ciel said come....I thought there would be something else in his hands instead 🫣

After all good puppies come when told!

Also I'm not super familiar with how you see SebCiel but I also thought of another place where he could 'come' 😔

I KNEW IT I knew someone would comment on that! Thank you, Anon lol There are several ways to interpret this command, so Ciel really should have known better!

We ship these two! So who knows, maybe if Finny wasn’t present……… 🤔

 (also to address your other ask: no worries whatsoever! <3 )

irregardlessly-tish asked:

What was the first twisted ship that caught your attention and which one would you say is your most recent ship in the fandom? 👀

Oh good question!

Our first twst ship is Azul/Idia. These two were pretty much the reason we fell into this fandom in the first place. Our very first twst posts here are fanart of these two, and we weren’t even sure we’d be getting this invested in twst back then. We kind of thought we’d just post a couple of things and move on 😭 Who knew.

Our most recent ship… has to be Crewel/Deuce, right? It’s hard to tell because this is one of the ships we’ve been talking about here and there, but it’s been just about a month since we’ve posted them for the first time.

Anonymous asked:

A little critique for fem!Lilia, I think there’s not really much physical differences between fem!Lilia and original Lilia, so as a way to avoid confusion, maybe you could try giving fem!Lilia a different hairstyle like short pigtails, cause I always imagine fem!Lilia having them, or maybe a low tied bun similar to the three good fairies from sleeping beauty. Don’t get me wrong, I love your fem twst art, but it’s just a bit tricky to tell fem!Lilia and male!Lilia apart.

But that was the entire point, Anon. Even before posting the sketches of the girls I’ve said a couple of times: I really like the idea of fem!Lilia looking pretty much the same as the original Lilia. It’s supposed to be confusing – that’s the comedy and the interesting part of it, at least to me. I love that it’s tricky to tell them apart, just like with Idia, whose baggy clothes hide her entire body.

Who knows, maybe she used to have a low tied bun when she was living in a forest with Silver. But maybe she didn’t 🤷 I feel like Lilia���s hair isn’t a commitment – she does whatever she feels like doing, just like the original Lilia. And I just happen to love it when her hair is identical to male!Lilia.

Funny enough, I think I drew the original Lilia with pigtails a couple of times lol

m1lk-n-cook1es asked:

Any Lilia/Epel headcanons?

Sorry, Anon; while we don’t mind them as a ship, we are not into them enough to have a proper hc list :( 

Anonymous asked:

So, i was wondering what would happen if someone were to break the hearts of Floyd and Jade. Like, imagine the Tweels (either together or separated) genuinely falling in love with someone, only for that certain someone to break their hearts.

Why am i mentioning this? Easy, i would love to see how "Dark" and "messed up" the situation would go if that were to happen, like what would happen to that poor fool who broke their hearts?

Remember that one infamous line jade delivered  in chapter 4? "If i were to be betrayed by someone the way you were. I'd lash out with torrent of unmitigated verbal abuse to break them down mentally, then bind them and drag them beneath the waves." I would LOVE to see that, honestly.

Anon! Sorry for the late reply.

That Jade quote still lives in our heads as a reminder that we should definitely do something about it, because this is such a juicy piece of Jade’s personality, but we never get to using it to its full potential. One day we will..! Still, we think about it pretty often. It’s a pretty good indicator of just how much Jade (and presumably Floyd as well) would hate the feeling of betrayal. We always talk about Azul being the most yandere-coded because of how petty he is and how unforgiving he is, but Jade and Floyd probably aren’t much better. Their only advantage is that they don’t get as attached as Azul does (and he isn’t someone who gets easily attached either, so that’s saying something). Which in a way makes the betrayal scenario even worse for these two: if they end up actually getting attached to someone and that person backstabs them, well it’s over for that poor fool indeed lol

It could happen to one of them or to either of them, and honestly a lot of it depends on who betrayed them. How close they were, what kind of relationship they had… But in general, I feel like Jade didn’t lie when he said about dragging someone beneath the waves. I think these two might actually drown a person, then force the guy to drink a potion that allows him to breather underwater, tie him to a pole in an abandoned ship and leave him there in the cold darkness of the ocean, unable to die or move. And then they would come back from time to time to torment this person, maybe torture him, maybe just bully him a bit, maybe rape him. But always, always come back just in time before the potion’s effect wears off to force him to drink more of it. And then, after a couple of months of this life of nothing but loneliness, terrifying underwater ghost haunting and eel torment, they would suddenly stop appearing, as if they got bored and got over it. Just so that person doesn’t get too used to relying on them bringing the potion to keep him alive and all.

I can see this type of scenario for either Idia or Riddle, but it would be a bit different for both of them, I think. And of course, this is just one of millions of other options…

[strangerstime]

✨Time to talk!✨

I watched the gameplay of Security Breach: Ruins without words, caught several screamers, and was shocked by what was happening several times. I can say for sure that the DLC is made much better and more interesting than the main game. However, the search and disabling of security protocols was still not so exciting, but it did not spoil the impression of the game at all!

But I would like to talk about something else, about what I could call the origins of this franchise, namely about the history from the first to the sixth part of the FNAF. Why do I want to talk about this? Well, the thing is that I am, if not an old-timer, then someone who watched the development of the FNAF franchise from the very first game and who was terribly afraid to play these games until 2020 (😂).

And what has happened in these almost 10 years amazes me. From the concept of a soul enclosed in the body of an old robot and suffering in agony, we have come to highly intelligent robots behaving almost the same as humans! Isn't that amazing?

And I'd be a fool if I said I didn't understand what was going on. Since the appearance of the fifth part (Sister Location), it was clear that Scott intended to add smart robots. Was it interesting? - Undoubtedly it was. Was it stupid? - Well, no, some got even more interesting details and a riddle: "How were such smart killer robots created in such early years?"

I remember the times when people wondered what kind of souls were inside animatronics; thought about who was hiding behind the guise of a security guard; looked for Easter eggs and secrets to finally unravel the plot of FNAF. To some extent, this happened: everyone was able to unravel the plot in their own way and a bunch of alternative universes appeared where people shared their vision. I think it was pretty cool! My favorites to this day are 'Springaling' and 'Springtrap and Deliah'.

And I didn't mind what was happening at all. Yes, people (including me) quarreled on the basis of different theories, but everyone was somehow waiting for them to reveal the true plot of all these games. But that's just not what happened. Books happened, a trilogy came out, and then other parts, and there were no fewer questions. The whole plot, which was pieced together from different games, finally disintegrated, because that part of the fandom appeared, which began to say that books should be combined with games almost completely.

I won't say anything about books, because I simply haven't read them (seriously, do I need to read stories about how smart killer robots kill people, or about how stupid people kill themselves with robots?), but the fact that history has broken into separate universes is very confused. Someone was looking for answers in the trilogy, saying that the characters there are the same, just with different names; someone, like me, brushed the books aside, trying to focus only on the games. And so, FNAF 6 is the end of the story about William Afton and his victims. A beautiful end to the story and a new beginning in the form of FNAF 9, in which a completely new villain and heroes! Smart robots, a huge complex, underground catacombs! That's the scope!

But it just didn't work. Why? For one simple reason: under the Pizza-Plex there was an old pizzeria from FNAF 6, where once everything burned down. Why is this important? Well, because in this very pizzeria there was Burntrap and Molten, who were also present in FNAF 6. Why is IT important? For another simple reason: it connects two stories into one. That is, the whole story of William Afton smoothly flowed into a new history of Pizza Plex.

(And yes, I've heard about a mimic; that it's not William, but a mimic that imitates him, but let's be honest, in the game I see an endoskeleton with meat and bones in a springbonnie's suit and with purple eyes. How am I supposed to understand, without reading the book, that it's not William Afton who's back again? If you give me an answer to this question, I'll shut up.)

What's the matter? Big deal, Afton has risen. What's the difference? That's the freaking problem. If William is alive, then other souls could not rest.

Michael won't rest because he didn't finish off his father; the missing children won't rest because they didn't take revenge on their killer; Charlie won't rest because she will have to protect these children; Henry won't rest because his daughter is still here and so on. And then the question is: where are all these souls? Inside Molten? Perhaps, but still it is not said about it. You can tell me: "The souls have already rested! They don't care that William is back!" And they should care! Otherwise, why didn't they rest all 40 years before?

You can tell me, "This is not William Afton! That's why they didn't come back!" Even if it's not William Afton, but a mimic… There is still a Glitchtrap here, which was obtained from William's chip (although what chip could have survived after such a fire?). Why haven't the chips of others been scanned? Are you saying they haven't been preserved? Or did William, in the form of a barely moving zombie, make a copy of his chip?

I'm not asking these questions to show how FNAF 9 is bad! Perhaps this is just a cry from the soul of a fan of the first 6 parts, who hoped to see someone from the old band, at least in the form of small memories…

Sometimes it feels like Scott is ashamed of his first parts. Perhaps he didn't like the story that he himself can't put together…

But I am warmed by memories of bygone days. I still remember how touched I was by the ending of FNAF 6, when Henry in a few words was able to show all his love for his daughter and their fatigue. And at the sight of an old pizzeria in FNAF 9, in which my favorite characters once burned down, the thought arises: "What if they are still here?"

Of course, the last thing I want to think is that Michael, Charlotte and others are still trapped in these piles of metal underground, where there is no chance of getting out, but… I so want to see my favorite characters in a new beautiful shell, at least for a few seconds...

Thank you for reading my thoughts. I think, I'm too much as always xD

(a few sketches of my fav FNAF girls)

(About Blob possessed by Henry, it's just me and my thoughts about plot, don't mind)

[jon-withnoh]

Hello! Hope this isn't a bother, but do you have any tips for thinking up plots? I mean for the whole story. Reading Nie Wirst made me want to try to write something longer, but I'm a bit lost since all I've ever written are short one-shots or drabbles. Again, hope this isn't bothering you, feel free to ignore it! Also, this goes without saying but I'm looking forward to the sequel if you do write it

Hi! I love this question, thank you for asking it 😊 I'm pretty sure you'd get a variation of answers depending on who you ask, so my way might not necessarily work for you. (I'm thinking of this as a fun Pick&Mix of things that work for me and might work for others.)

My strategies differ for different kinds of writing. When I'm working on a poetry collection, it sometimes takes years to accumulate enough individual poems that fit together for me to start working on the arc or through-line of that collection. This just for context, since you did ask me about prose.

Whether for fanfiction or original fiction, I've found that I can only keep up my motivation for a longer piece if I am absolutely obsessed with it. Was wird aus uns was born from the immediate aftermath of me seeing Rebecca in Vienna, reading the book and pretty much every single fic on Ao3 and just needing those two fools to be okay. That one really came out of pure obsession. Nie wirst Du was a lot more considered and since the plot is quite complex, I did plan things ahead of time.

I'm going to try and sum up some of the things that I need in order to sustain my focus for a longer piece of writing under the cut!

I need to be absolutely obsessed with the initial idea. No matter how interesting a concept or fic idea is in theory, if it doesn't have that spark of obsession I might toss it around in my head for fun, but I won't actually write it. If an idea doesn't grip me enough that I'm constantly looking forward to the next plot point I'm "working towards", then I'll get bored and abandon the piece. This is especially true for fic. For Was wird aus uns, the first plot point everything was moving towards was their first kiss. Then Christmas, and then, finally, Danny's collapse and the changes that it brought. With Nie Wirst Du, I was constantly hooked, tbh. It's a little bit like a soap opera in that it has many twists and turns, very complicated relationship dynamics and many big feelings. Some plot points I was working towards there were the tea party and the costume ball. Once I knew what the fallout from the ball was going to be, I had a much better idea of how things would continue to escalate develop.

I figured out how I need to approach plot. A friend of mine is a hardcore plotter with detailed outlines, diagrams and everything. I used to try and approach plot like that with the result that by the time I'd thought everything through, I was bored and didn't actually write the story anymore. The thing I do is apparently called pantsing. It means I know the inciting incident of the story, maybe a few major plot points and I have at least a vague idea of how I want it to end. There is an overarching structure, but it's loose enough that it keeps me interested. I can decide to add or take away smaller plot elements without having to do major rewrites.

There needs to be a drive to the story. I need a sense of movement when I'm writing. Even if a story is set entirely in one place, there needs to be some undercurrent of change or development. If the story feels static, I don't have any way of getting a character from point A to point B.

I write the things I want to see. If you find yourself looking through Ao3 thinking "I wish someone had written about xyz", then that might be a sign for you to write the fic you're looking for! For example, I needed a happy ending for Danny and Ich, so I wrote one. Then I became really interested in learning more about Rebecca as a character. Who is she outside of the stories being told about her? To find that out, I needed a story where she was alive and since I didn't want to write a prequel, the idea for Nie Wirst Du was born.

I hope this was somewhat help or at least interesting! It also really helps to have a person who's just as excited about your story idea as you are. They might ask you questions you hadn't considered and give you a whole new insight into what you're writing. Feel free to ask more questions about this if you want. This was really fun!