#Cold Forged Heat Sink

[china-supplier]

Cold Forged Heat Sink

Cold forging, a cold working method, shapes aluminum in a closed die through press squeezing, known as cold heading. This process yields high-performance heat sinks due to increased surface area enhancing thermal performance. Straight fins, formed under high pressure, optimize airflow in various directions, advantageous for specific applications.

[wildemaven]

strangers : fog | dave york

pairing: dave york x f!reader word count: 5208 chapter warning's: 18+ blog: established relationship, workaholic Dave, soft Dave, miscommunication, Smut (slight exhibitionism, dry humping, orgasms, keeping kind of vague for the sake of not giving things away), implied/alluding to infidelity (there is none, reader just doesn��t know this), Dave’s phone makes an appearance- shocking, drinking alcohol, smoking cigarettes, conversations with bestie, reader is mentioned wearing lingerie and a bathing suit- but zero description features, no age given but it’s implied she’s at least over 30, no y/n, this is au- no Carol (at least not canon Carol) or kids, if I missed anything let me know notes: I kind of struggled with the end of this one. It felt very flat and blah, but thankfully @gnpwdrnwhiskey Is a gem and helped me, and it feels good now. So grateful for all of you who’ve been following along. Xoxo

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It’s sweet. 

But not the kind of sweet that aches and destroys your addiction. 

It’s perfect. Just enough. 

The kind of sweet that falls somewhere in the middle. Satiating that deep seeded craving that burns through your every fiber. 

Like a glass of ice cold tea under the Texas sun, sweetened to perfection. Each tantalizing drop coating your tongue, idly encompassing every single taste bud with refreshing pleasure. 

You're greedy. Reveling in your consumption. Take. Take. Take. Because it’s all you want and everything you’ve been needing. 

Finally.

You feel him everywhere. The weight of him is substantial, pressing you into the side of the pool. A secure grip onto the ledge, the swell of his biceps flexed as he does his best to keep you both suspended and unmoving from your secluded spot. 

He’s a blistering summer heatwave, one you’re fully hydrated and prepared for, but still stunned by its sultriness. 

“You think they’re watching us right? All of them so fucking jealous at how good I’m makin’ you feel.” You don’t bother to take a look when he says it, your head angled back and eyes closed as his lips work their way up your neck, your only concern at the moment. 

“Mmhmm— I honestly don’t care. Let them watch. Let them see how good you’re taking care of me— fuckbaby!” Your train of thought derailed when his hips jerk up with a little more eagerness than you expected. 

The cool water laps rhythmically against you both. The tiniest of splashes to your exposed skin as it surrounds your bodies, relieving the heat that’s burning through you. 

“Ahh!” You gasp at the sensation of his teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Nipping and pulling. The gentle glide of his tongue soothing over the pleasant sting. 

“Sorry—“ He manages to get out. “Didn’t mean to be so rough, but also been wantin’ this so fuckin’ bad.”

His lips seal over yours again, groaning where he can feel you grinding against him, discreetly hidden below the surface of the water. Your legs wrapped tightly around his narrow waist, holding him as close as possible. 

He’s unbelievably hard. Cock nudging against your aching core, the water aiding in the flow of your hips moving over him in search of relief. 

“I’m definitely not complaining in the slightest. If anything, I’m entirely enjoying the roughness— wouldn’t be opposed to more of it.” You say smiling against his swollen lips. 

Your words lure him back in, driven by a deeper sense of want forging beneath the water. Lashes fluttering shut as every bit of him consumes your senses. All tongues and teeth, tracing over every ridge and fleshy surface. A sweet delicate dance of unbridled emotions. 

It's a slow building, intensely breathtaking. Your body ignited by self-indulgent energy, so hell-bent on seeking out unrivaled satisfaction, but you don’t seem to care. Focused solely on how each and every nerve lights up because of him, desperately wanting a release. A natural response to the way he’s holding you, kissing you, his determination to bring you closer and closer to the edge. 

“Fuck— that feels so good!” Breathless and anchoring yourself to his warm body. 

“Yeah? You think you can come like this?” One of his hands settles on your hip, helping your unfaltering movements, hitting that ever so desirable spot just right. “There you go, gorgeous— just like that.”

“ohmygod!! I’m so close— don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.“ Your grip secure on his taut shoulders, unmoving even under the wet conditions. Your head falling onto his forehead, noses nudging, exchanging desperate wordless breaths. 

“I’ve got ya.” He whispers, nodding softly as your body writhes against him. “Come for me, Baby.”

“Oh fuck! oh fuck! oh fuck— I’m coming!” Everything dissolves into pleasure. Tense and blissed out as your cunt contracts around nothing. 

“Open your eyes, Baby. Let me see you come undone.”

You pull back just enough to see him. He’s beautiful, framed in a hazy white vignette. His patchy beard is both rough and soft beneath your fingertips, tracing over every little detail of him while you still can. His rich brown eyes now a golden hue as the light hits them from the reflection of the water.  

“Fuck— Joel!”

You’re floating. Further and further away. Every detail of him slowly dissolving into nothingness. 

Your body jolts awake, Oh god, That felt so fucking real. Quickly sitting up, your hand to your chest feeling where your heart is frantically pounding. 

The dry air from the vent billows out from above you, cooling as it skims over your tacky skin. 

The remnants of last night's headache still remain. Though it wanes in intensity, the throbbing pain continues. Rubbing at your temples, the added pressure doing absolutely nothing. 

There’s a faint familiar ache that catches your attention from below the sheets, prompting you to throw them off, finding a pillow still tucked tightly between your legs. The experimental squeeze of your thighs around the pillow sends a fresh ripple of pleasure from your fading orgasm, causing you to inhale sharply. Your palms clamping over your mouth, breath more constricted than the last as a strong feeling of shame begins to surge through your veins. 

The hotel room feels paralyzing, especially with Dave sleeping beside you. 

The beach. 

Needing some fresh air and some time to collect your irrational thoughts, away from this confined space where everything seems to be closing in on you. Hastily, you manage to pull on some warm clothes and sandals while throwing your wallet and phone in your purse without waking Dave.

You know the minute he wakes up to find you gone he’ll panic. It will take only minutes to have all his agent buddies pulling maps and running background checks on anyone who lives within a mile radius of the hotel. You’re already annoyed with his distant behavior, you don’t have it in you to deal with the added disgruntlement that will ensue. 

Grabbing for the monogrammed hotel stationary, you scratch out a note to leave on this nightstand for him to find when he does wake. 

Good Morning, Babe Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk down to the beach. I have my phone. Will be back in a bit.  Love you Xoxo

You two his phone screen, noting the time at the bottom— 8:00 am —a little tactic Dave had ingrained in you for matters as such, giving a starting point in the case anything were to happen to you, taking the guessing game of when out of the equation. 

A New Message glows on the screen, came in sometime last night after you both got back from dinner, he must have fallen asleep before seeing it. 

Double checking, you peek over the mound of blankets that is Dave’s solid body— still sleeping. The side of his face buried into his pillow and his plush lips parted. No worry lines etched across his forehead. No tension pulling at his jawline. His perfectly groomed hair, all disheveled and twisted in all directions. 

Your heart blooms at how handsome he is, his truest self on full display. A running joke between you, how others would be disappointed to find out his grumpy exterior is all a show, only reserving his softer side and big heart for you. 

Refocusing back to his phone, you tap the message to preview it— a message from his mom. 

Mom: Did she find out? Call me when you can, we’ll talk about it then. 

Did she find out? Find out what?

*

The beach isn’t far from the hotel. Grateful for only a few hellos and forced smiles exchanged on the shared path on the short walk.

The air is crisp the closer you get to the water, a light breeze blows over the shoreline bringing tiny bits of sand crystals through the air. You can feel the salt already crystallizing against your cheeks. 

The lingering fog adds a bit of gloom to the atmosphere as you look out over the horizon in front of you. The white caps of the waves slowly roll over into the next, pushing their way through until they’ve reached the shore. The water fanning out as it moves, blanketing over the sand as it reaches where feet are planted firmly, now surrounded by the frigid sea water. Then it slowly slinks back out, leaving you numb as you wait for it to return. 

Good Morning! Are you busy?  No. Are you okay? Yeah, I’m fine. I just need someone to talk to.  One sec!

It takes a few flicks of the small metal dial for the flame to ignite, cupping your hand around to shelter it from the light wind threatening to squash your attempt at some sort of relief. 

It’s instant when it hits the back of your mouth, swirling and stinging about as it creeps up the back of your throat. That burn is all too familiar, no longer a regular occurrence, but definitely not forgotten. It takes the edge off momentarily, it always does. You imagine blowing out all your pent up anger as your release the smoke into the oceanic air. 

The cigarette sits between your fingers with ease, secure against those first knuckles as you bring it back to your lips for another desperate pull. That dedicated drag of your favorite menthol smokes had once been a regular part of your daily life in your college days. Getting you through long days of studying and working late hours, barely keeping your head above the water. Pack after pack. Light, smoke, tension gone, repeat. 

Eventually it was downgraded to a social practice before finally kicking the habit all together. Something Dave never pushed for, but was proud of you nonetheless. 

Your phone screen illuminates and buzzes simultaneously, a picture of Jacey double fisting some beers at last year's Fourth of July party pops up. The image alone already makes you feel better. 

“Mmm… Hello?” You can tell she just woke up by the way she garbles her words into the phone. 

“Hey, Jacey. I didn’t wake you did I?”

“Mhmm— Kind of but it’s okay— had a bit of a late night, but it’s fine. How are things going?”

“Fine. Good. Things are good.” Trying hard to keep your voice even without giving away too much— but she knows you too well. 

“I’m calling bullshit. You’re seriously the worst liar ever. Spill.” 

“Ugh. Where do I even start?” You tell her, audibly groaning into the brisk pacific air. 

“I’ve got some time.” 

Jacey has always been this way. Available whenever you’ve needed her, at a moment's notice. Connecting with her in college, your friendship has been a steady source of support and encouragement through the years. She stood by you when you married Dave— having her now makes you feel less alone. 

“Well, if it’s not one thing it’s another. There were some high hopes for sex when we got in the other night,  then he passed out— which is fine ‘cause traveling and what not. But I got in my head, questioning shit about myself and our relationship. Like maybe it’s me or something. He did try to initiate the next morning but I just kind of wasn’t feeling it— so we didn’t. Plus he had phone calls he needed to make so he wasn’t worrying about them the rest of our time here.”

“Hey, it’s not you at all. Don’t ever think that. You’re a catch— Dave knows that too.” She says, her reassurance firm but delivered sincerely. 

“Thank you. I mean, we kind of fooled around at the pool yesterday.”

“Ooooh!! I love this for you.”

“Well, then he ran off right before I— you know.”

“Fucking men, I swear.”

“Only to find him on the phone when he said he wouldn’t be. Then he was all jealous over this stranger I was talking to. We got back to the room, things seemed a little tense— we still went to dinner. Don’t really remember much after that, because I kept ordering dirty martinis at dinner.”

After hearing the beginning of his phone call, the shower didn’t do much to help. You didn’t want to make a scene, deciding to just leave the hurt bubbling inside of you back in the room and make the best of the rest of the night. 

Dave seemed pretty much his normal self going into dinner. Conversation was lighter than it was earlier in the room. You both caught up on things that you hadn’t really talked about in a while— details about his latest assignments (within reason), your own latest work projects, random tidbits about things —things felt normal.

There was a slight shift in the evening, when he was checking his phone more often than usual. Glancing at the screen between bites of his steak then trying to figure out where you left off in the conversation. 

You hadn’t even planned on drinking, but the chilled cocktail in front of Dave had been taunting you, begging to help obliterate your lingering thoughts. Then it was I’ll have another, Maybe one more, Suuuuure another sounds grreat. The dim restaurant turned into hazy fractures of light. The steady buzz of alcohol had you feel giggling and sleepy, slumping back into the velvet cushion of the intimate booth. Dave cut you off before things turned into a wild evening, shifting from your introverted self into a very lively and friendly drunk. 

You don’t even remember getting back to the room, just brief glimpses of Dave undressing you and helping you into one of his shirts, then tucking you into bed. 

“Hold up. Rewind— you fucking hate martinis! What the hell happened?!” She knows you so well. 

“Jacey, you’re my best friend. Someone who will be straight with me no matter what. I think— Do you think Dave is cheating on me?” You ask meekly, inhaling another minty pull from your nearly finished cigarette. 

“What?! Babe, why would you think Dave is cheating on you? Did something happen?”

““No— I mean yes. I think so. Fuck! I don't know what to think. We got back to the room after the pool yesterday, talked for a little bit then I went to get ready for dinner. I guess he thought I closed the door or something but I could hear him talking to someone—“ You try to keep your voice steady, finding it hard to blink the tears away as the wind whips around you. 

“Okay. Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s cheating on you. It could have just been more work shit he said he wasn’t going to do. Maybe he figured he could squeeze it in before dinner— not wanting to upset you.” Jacey is all about layout the facts and details before jumping down dark rabbit holes. 

“Ashley— Her name is Ashley. I heard him say her name.” 

There’s a beat of silence on the line before you hear her sigh. 

“Oh— what else did you hear?” She says, sounding a little more somber than before. 

“Nothing. My brain kind of went blank after that and I just got ready for dinner like I didn’t hear anything. Hence the abundance of martinis I drank my way through. Which also explains the slight headache I woke up with this morning.”

“Okay. So whoever he was talking to—“

“Ashley.” Details Jacey. 

“Right, Ashley. We don’t really know much, aside from that. So it could be anyone. Could be work related— Ashley could be a last name too. You know how they always do that last name first thing for whatever reason.” Somehow she always finds a way to get you to back away from the cliff, especially when your feet are over the edge. 

“Yeah, probably.” You say softly in agreement. A flock of birds catching your attention, their wings moving in unison as they fly overhead. 

“Look, like you said before— I’m gonna be straight with you. I don’t think Dave is cheating or would ever cheat. That man loves you. Sure, he’s kind of been a little too invested in work, which is affecting things with you. I don’t think there’s someone else. I promise. But I do think you both need to talk instead of this weird dance you both are doing, that way you’re both on the same page.”

“Okay. Yeah— you’re right. Thank you, Jace. Last thing— Does it make me a bad person if I had a dream about another man last night?” You ask, feeling a bit embarrassed as you voice it out loud. 

“I have those all the time— especially with that cute actor from that narcos show we love. Dreams don’t equate to real life.” She only slightly laughs at your confession. 

“What if it was with a guy I met at the pool who’s staying in the hotel, who listened to me spill my life away about how I’m not sure if my husband wants kids or not now— and how marriage feels like a mess.” 

“Oh! Pool guy was cute— No, I don’t think that makes you a bad person. Your thoughts are just all over the place right now. It was a dream. You’re fine. Hey, I hate to bail on you— but I’m umm, getting another call. We will chat soon, then you can give me more details about the cute pool guy. Love you!”

“Love you too, Jace. Talk soon. Bye.”

The call clicks out. Waves crashing onto the shore brings you back to the beach. Your cheeks cold and feet stinging as the water recedes again. 

It's nearing 10 am now, deciding to head back before Dave does in fact worry that you’ve been gone for too long. You snuff out the smoldering cigarette in the wet sand and stick it in your bag to dispose of later. The added nicotine now mingles poorly with your lingering hangover, body in desperate need of water and a strong pain reliever. 

On your way back to the hotel, you take every bit of what Jacey said and truly let it sink in, even as hard as it is to not let your mind wander into dark territory. She’s right though, it doesn’t do you any good to dwell on situational events if you have zero proof of anything. That doesn’t mean that you’ve written off your uneasiness completely, just simply tucking it away for the time being. 

The sweet bellmen welcomes you back with a friendly smile and a wave as he holds the door open for your return. The lobby now bustles with more guests than earlier. Some checking in for their stay, others enjoying the picturesque ambience of the hotel. 

In the time that it takes to get up to your room, you’ve run through several different scenarios in your head. All feeling immensely overwhelming at the thought of talking with Dave about how you’ve been feeling since he hasn’t seemed to pick up on the subtle inklings that there’s been a definite shift in your relationship the past few months. You’re not really sure you even want to have the conversation now, let alone here— not wanting to ruin the rest of the vacation in the chance things don’t go as smoothly as you want. You ultimately decide to wait, once you’ve settled back in at home, finally address everything with him.

You can hear Dave’s voice muffled outside the door of your room as you search for your key card in your bag, sounding as if he’s talking to someone on the phone. 

The room is bright as you enter, the curtains pulled open allowing the sun to shine through the large windows. The bed is somewhat made with the pillows stacked neatly and sheets straightened in an orderly Dave manner. 

Food had already been ordered and delivered, set out on the small table on the balcony. Your favorite breakfast of eggs benedict and toast along with a fresh pot of coffee. Dave’s usual eggs and bacon sit untouched, waiting for your return to enjoy breakfast together. 

Dave’s standing in front of the window, looking out at the scenery with his phone to his ear, but the sound of you entering the room has him turning towards you. 

His hair is freshly washed, combed up and out of his face. Wearing his favorite blue jeans snug around his hips, a white patterned shirt just barely buttoned to reveal enough of his slightly burnt chest to make your mouth water. It’s his beaming smile, arguably his best accessory, that makes your chest flutter, drawing you in closer to where he’s standing. 

“It’s my mother.” He whispers, covering the phone with his hand as she continues to talk into his ear. 

Did she find out? Call me when you can, we’ll talk about it then. Still wondering what her vague text message meant. 

“Yeah, Mom. She just walked through the door.” You hear her mention your name through the speaker. “My mom says hi.”

“Hi, Carol.” You say sweetly, kissing Dave’s cheek before turning to place your bag on the ground near the dresser, leaning back on the wall, watching Dave as he finishes the rest of the conversation. 

“Okay, sounds good…Tell dad hello for us and we’ll talk to you later… Love you, too… bye.” The screen of his phone goes black and he tosses it over to the bed. 

Grabbing a glass and some small pills resting on the dresser, closing the short distance to where you’re standing and holding the water and pain reliever out to you.

“I figured your head is probably killing you this morning.” Dave says smiling at you, no sign of annoyance in his face. 

“Thanks— Sorry about last night. I don’t know what got into me.” Tossing back the pills back, gulping the water down quickly, your focus on the remaining drops of water sliding down the side of the glass, pooling together at the bottom. 

Dave takes the glass from you, setting it over on the top of the dresser. One of his hands settles on your hip as the other tilts your chin up so your gaze is now directed at him. 

“Did you have a good walk?” Dave asks. One of his warm hands now cupping the side of your neck, surely he can feel the way your pulse is quickening, elevated just by a simple touch from him. 

“Yeah. It was nice— foggy, but beautiful. We should go again before we leave.” Your hands migrate to his shirt, fingers absentmindedly toying with the top abandoned buttons and soft silky fabric.

“Umm— I can smell the smoke on you. It’s fine, I don’t mind that you were— but is everything okay?” He knows, senses something is off, because he knows you don’t just smoke to smoke these days. Senses there’s something that triggered your need for your old vice, something to dull out whatever is silently bothering you. 

Yet somehow you have almost forgotten about the cigarette until now when he asks. Feeling a bit of shame for the second time again this morning, though you don’t pick up on any sort of judgment when he does ask about it. 

“Everything is fine. Just sounded good so I bought them on my way to the beach— don’t think I’ll even finish the pack though. I’m good.” Liar. You hate the way Dave winces at your answer. He knows there’s something simmering below the surface, but he doesn’t push for more. 

“Okay— okay. There’s breakfast here and I was thinking afterwards we could go to some shops or something. I made reservations for tonight at 6, I thought you might want to find something new to wear. Maybe we can grab some lunch near the beach too.” He tells you, brushing off the small specks of sand cemented to your face. 

You find yourself on the brink of tears, swallowing the little lump that started to form in your throat. Certain the next few days would be filled with worriment and noiseless vexation. There’s almost relief in hearing how he’s planned out the day, something he hasn’t done in months. Work and meetings always at the forefront of his planning lately, leaving little to no time for dinners or regular weekend getaways. 

“Or we can stay in if you want.” His head tilts a little, brown eyes scanning over every detail of your face as you mull over his plans a little longer than he expected. 

“No, that sounds nice. I brought some dresses that I can wear though, we don’t have to buy anything.” You shake your head in response. Pushing a few loose strands that had fallen out of place, his eyes closing at the sensation of your fingers combing through his hair. 

“We can just look, and if you find something you like we can get it.” Dave suggests— a nice middle ground. 

He leans in, his nose knocking against yours, humming as you continue to play with his hair. 

“Okay.” You breathe out, his intense eye contact starting to ignite something within you. 

“You’re sure everything’s okay?” Offering you another opportunity to bare it all out for him. 

His lips graze over yours when he asks, just enough to have you wanting more. 

“Yeah. Everything is fine— promise.” 

“Alright. Let’s get some food in you and then we can get ready to head out. And there’s coffee—” His thought abandoned, his lips crashing into yours in a passionate kiss. 

You eagerly respond, wrapping your arms around his neck as he presses you further into the wall. Your head swirling with want, thrilled at the fact that he’s so keen to give you exactly what you’ve been craving. The scent of his cologne mixed with the musky smell of him fills your senses, making you weak for him even more.

His tongue explores your mouth, tangled together in a heated dance as your bodies grind against each other, arousal growing with each passing moment. 

His hands roam freely over your body, stopping at your hips to pull you in even closer has you gasping into his mouth.  

“Fuck— Dave!”

“Yeah— that feel good, Baby?” Dave’s hard almost instantly, pressing against you as you slowly grind on him. You're scorching from the friction of your bodies, the coil already winding in your lower abdomen, shivers tingling up your spine.

“Yes!! Oh god, yes!! So good, Dave!” You cry out. The heat between you unbearable, the need for release is all consuming—- more more more. 

Dave’s lips fuse to yours again, dragging one hand down between your bodies. He slips under the waistband of your leggings, deft fingers finding the damp fabric of your panties, a sticky mess because of him. He’s enlivened by the way your body writhes as a result of his touch. Fingers circling over your clit in a deliberate frenzied manner, causing you to release a breathy moan into his mouth.

“You think you can come right here? I’m not gonna last much longer.” He says breaking the kiss. His eyes are filled with a burning desire as he looks at you. You nod, encouraging him to continue his ministrations, before he’s capturing your lips again. 

You whine at the loss of his fingers moving over your aching bundle of nerves, your body in dire need of his touch now that he’s giving you all of it. 

Dave’s hands slip under your top, fingers trailing over your pebbled skin as he pulls it up and over your head. You help him, tossing it aside, leaving you in only your lace bra and bottoms as you lean back against the coolness of the wall, chest heaving with need.

“More— pl-please, I’m almost there. ohfuckyesyesyes!.” His hands explore your body, memorizing every curve and dip with a new surge of want and urgency, his fingers trailing down your back to grip your ass and pulling you closer— sparks of pleasure blazing through you nearing a fiery release. 

‘I know baby, I’ve got you’ murmured against your neck, his words riddled with assurance as he sucks on the sensitive skin there. 

Your hands grip his shoulders as he continues to explore you with his mouth, caressing every inch of you as he makes his way down to your chest, pulling the fabric of your bra down, his fingers gliding over the tight skin. He cups the weight of your breast in his hand, taking one of your hardened nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, teeth gently nipping as you moan louder and louder, while his other hand fondles and twists at your other side. 

“Oh fuck! Baby, I’m gonna come—“ You gasp, arching your back, your nails digging into Dave’s shoulders has him clamping down harder on your overly sensitive nipple. The pleasing painful sting shoots straight to your core, your velvet walls pulsating, your climax within reach.

A pleasurable ache builds for the second time this morning, except this time it’s because of Dave. All your pent up emotions forging together, building into the most magnificent wave of arousal you’ve felt in a long time. 

You pull his face up to meet yours, lips messily crashing against his in another bliss driven kiss. His hard cock straining behind the tightness of his jeans, tilting your cunt at the perfect angle while hoping Dave is reaping the benefits of your euphoric pursuit as you grind down on the rough seam of his denim that helps careen you over the edge. 

It’s like a dream— except it's not, it’s better. Real and satiating. Your orgasm is forceful as it rips through you, taking every bit of residual tension along with it. 

Dave’s movements become faster and more charged. His hips moving in a stuttering pattern— fuckfuckfuck —then stilling as a deep groan barrels through his chest. You wrap a leg around him as he collapses into you, his face nestled in the crook of your neck, holding him tightly to your body. 

A breeze blows through the open balcony door, diffusing the layer of sexual haze wafting through the room. The air is welcoming, enveloping your bodies in the crispness that comes with being in close proximity to the Pacific. 

It feels lighter. Less suffocating— even with the weight of your husband holding you against the wall. The low lying fog no longer a dense cloud looming over you, allowing the brightness to fully shine through. 

The turbulent thoughts have settled, replaced with a mildness that seems more manageable for the time being. Your headache becomes a subsiding dullness, overpowered by the replenishment of a compelling desire. 

“Shit— I came in my fucking pants like a goddamn teenager. Couldn’t even make it to the bed.” He says, post sexual vibrato etched into his voice, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone as he lifts himself up to his full height. 

Dave’s skin is glowing, a sheen of sweat glistening in the morning light. His cheeks flushed with a tinge of pink, the muscles in his neck flexing as he worked to control his breathing. The silkiness of his shirt now damp and stuck to his chest. 

“Hmm. I feel too good to even care. You have no idea how bad I needed that.” You smile at him, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth, brushing a few fallen strands of hair away from his face. 

The corner of his eyes crinkle. He’s beaming, infatuated with you as he leans in, resting his forehead on yours and whispers, “Do you have any idea how much I love you?.” 

“Love you too, Dave.”

[sp4ceboo]

CHAPTER 5 ~ VISIONS

beneath a crimson sky masterlist | ch 1 | ch 2 | ch 3 | ch 4 | ch 5| ch 6

pairing: stray kids ot8 x afab!reader

genre: apocalypse au, dystopian, dark, adventure, action, thriller, fighting, eventual smut, romance

a/n: for someone who's terrified of any sort of horror etc i sure get the urge to write it

chapter warnings: gore, lots of vivdly described disturbing stuff, illness, starvation, hallucinations

chapter word count: 2.5k

Hissing in your ears, the shadows bear you up in their arms, whisking you so high that you thrash in their shackles, screaming for them to let you down.

The whites of their eyes show as they laugh at you.

You sob, trying to grab at the inky chains they’ve fixed around your wrists and ankles, but they turn insubstantial the moment your fingers close around them, dissolving away in curls of cold smoke to reform away from your touch. Grinning faces surround you, multitudes of strange faces you cannot explain: an army assembled to mock you.

In a flash, they are gone. Bony fingers crawl over your face. Flailing, you try to bite down, but another hand clamps over your mouth as the fingers creep upwards, digging into your eye sockets and scooping. Cold envelops you, and you spasm, back arching as sight returns to you.

There’s bloody tears dripping down your face.

You weep.

Below you, a vast crowd stretches, wreathed in flames and lined up in endless rows, so far that you cannot see their ends. Dressed in rags that they treat as finery are a man and a woman, standing at the head of the formation, their faces slack and empty. Their bodies are not theirs to control.

The woman’s blonde hair hangs limp and matted around her face. There’s a glint of something metal at her waist. It’s the hilt of a knife, snug between her ribs, and though blood oozes down her clothes and soaks into her rags, she acts as if it isn’t there. Beside her, the man sways, bronzed skin pallid and coated in a sheen of sweat; he looks not entirely healthy, as if he’d just recovered from an illness. 

A figure rides up. Even from so far above, you feel the blaze of his hate. His horse is a steed forged from an inferno, red and fiery, and you catch a glimpse of sharpened iron teeth as its lip curls, tossing its flame weaved mane and pawing at the ground, the air around it undulating with heat. You begin to tremble.

The rider’s face is terrible and beguiling. His flesh drips from his bones, sizzling where it touches the horse's flanks. You are struck through with terror as his eyes find you from where you are suspended in the wine tinted sky; they are deep and endless and full of an ocean of loathing. For a moment, you are drowning in them, and fire tugs at your limbs, ripping your skin off them and gnawing through you until it finds your heart.

A wretched sound leaves you as the rider stretches out his hand and plucks it from your chest. The worst thing is that beneath the fear and the acrid scent of your burning body, there is an unexplainable elation, planted there against your will. It swells in your chest, and you begin to laugh, laugh and laugh and laugh, as the rider brings your heart to his bloody mouth and sinks his teeth in.

Pain explodes through you, and suddenly you are back in the sky. You clutch at the shadows now, pleading for them to keep you away from the rider, pleading for them to make it stop.

Again, they laugh, a chorus of shrieks and cackles, shrill, the sound boring into your head.

Though your limbs are weak with fear, you still find it within you to struggle against them. Wordless, frightened noises leave you, for below, the rider is cradling the face of the woman, close as a lover, and she is transfixed by him. You scream, begging her to pull away, to resist, but a dumb smile crawls over her face and she drops to her knees before the rider. As she falls, he grips the blade in her side and pulls it out. She does not even twitch.

You can only watch in horror as he moves onto the man. He too kneels without a fight.

Pulling the broadsword from where it is slung over his back, the second horseman draws it and rests the flat of it on the woman’s shoulder. For a panic stricken moment, you think he will behead her right there and eviscerate her beside the man, but he doesn’t.

He knights her, then the man next.

The rider gestures at them, and together, they stand, their movements jerky as if pulled on by puppet strings. You cry out when you see their eyes - deep and murky, insidious darkness leaking from their irises into their blood woven sclera.

All semblance of humanity has been erased from them.

They are nothing more than vessels.

Cool hands cup your face.

Moaning, you lean towards them, willing them to stay there and beat back the scorching desert beneath your skin. You can hear voices, but they’re far away. Your breath comes out short and laboured.

It sounds like you’re dying.

The same cool hands ease your jaw open, and water floods your parched tongue. At first, you cough, but you choke it down, so thirsty that you barely pause to breathe. Blearily, you open your eyes, but they don’t make out anything but light and dark blurs.

“She’s drinking, thank god,” the cool hands say.

You frown. It’s Minho’s voice, flat enough that you can’t read the emotions swirling beneath it, but his words sound relieved. You can’t think why Minho would be relieved that you’re alive. The room is slowly swimming into focus, and you spot two smears of black, one a little taller than the other.

A rough palm touches your cheek. “She’s still burning up, though.”

That’s Seungmin. Turning your head, you try to claw your way to lucidity, but it evades you. The cool hands sweep a damp cloth over your forehead as you begin to register his words.

“Burning,” you rasp. “He’ll make them burn everything down.”

Minho pauses, opening his mouth. The shadows sink their teeth into you before you can hear what he says.

This time, they leave you under a reddened night sky devoid of stars. No shackles bind you, but you can sense them slinking in the corners of your vision and where you cannot see, waiting to pounce. Turning in a circle, you scan the darkness, searching for the next horror that awaits you.

The sound of horse hooves rings out. You whirl around, trying to find their source, trying to ignore the tittering of the shadows as they mock you with their derisive faces.

You blink, and then the third horseman is there before you.

She sits astride a horse so black that it had blended into the circle of shadows as it approached. It is glossy and healthy looking, yet it froths at the mouth, snapping its teeth at you. The rider places a soft hand on its flank, and it calms. She smiles at you, saccharine, and it incites so much comfort inside you that you know it’s a lie.

Her extrasolar face is cold and so beautiful it cuts you, her lacy hair like cobwebs where it hangs around her face. It drapes, dripping, over her shoulders - a veil.

There’s blood on your tongue.

You take a step back, and the gentle look on her face turns ugly. Holding up her hand, a pair of scales appears between her fingers, and she places a delicate feather, white as a lamb, in the first dish.

Though there’s nothing in the second dish, the moment she releases the feather, it hurtles downwards - the scales shriek shrilly as they move, and you watch in horror as the feather begins to bleed until it is soaked red. The rider turns to you, and now there is nothing comforting about her sharpened smile. Heart pounding, you back away, but the shadows push you back towards her, and what you believe must certainly be your doom.

She raises her hand and points at you.

Immediately, you collapse, your stomach cramping. You are filled with a sudden craving, a hunger so vast you cannot think; you merely scrabble at the floor, tremors wracking your body as you cry out, needing to fill the yawning cavern inside you. It erodes you from the inside out, so acute it burns like vile acid.

Wailing, you claw your way forward until your vision is filled with the hooves of her horse. You are weak with hunger, so weak that it is a battle to raise your head and look up at her, your mouth hanging open to plead for her to release you from the pain. No sound comes out.

Caressing the horse’s mane, she leans forward and whispers into its velvety ear. You quake as you look up at her, wondering what she said, wondering if she will take mercy on you and knowing she will not.

Whinnying, the horse rears, and you scream as its hooves slam down and punch right through your ribcage.

The combined agony radiating from your crushed torso and the gaping hunger in your stomach paralyses you, locking your muscles so tight it hurts. Your body begins to spasm, and your teeth close around your tongue. Panic spears through you as you begin to choke on your own blood.

Your skin tears, your bones cracking and popping and rearranging within you. You’re aware of protrusions pushing their way out of your back and down your arms, burrowing through your muscles and forcing them to reform around them. When you look up, the rider has dismounted her horse.

Tenderly, she touches your lips.

As if it has its own will, your body bends like a tree in a gale, and she kisses your forehead, her scarlet mouth terrible and searing against your skin, yet upon its touch, the pain in your ribs recedes, reforming you into something new.

The hunger roiling and snapping like a beast within only sharpens its claws.

“Go,” she murmurs. “Slaughter awaits.”

The world shakes with how hard you’re shivering, yet you can’t help but kick off your blankets. Someone secures them more tightly around them and you lash out, but your arms are weak and all it does is flop your hand against their leg. A voice floats down from somewhere in the sky.

“You need to eat.”

“Chan?” You groan, words slurred as strong hands ease you upright. “Changbin?”

“We’re here,” one of them says, although you’re not sure which one.

A spoon is pressed against your lips, and you hold back a cough long enough to swallow - they’ve mashed food so it’s liquid, easier for you to get down and keep down. Your head spins, the faces before you blurring. You realise Jisung is also with them, crouched beside Changbin, his face pale as he watches you.

“What did you mean before, about slaughter?”

Another face swims into view. Jeongin. You stare at him, bewildered both by his question and why he is bobbing up and down in front of you like a rubber duck caught in the crashing waves of the sea.

“I - I don’t remember,” you mumble.

Chan puts his hand on Jeongin’s shoulder. “It’s fine. She’ll tell us when she’s better.”

He says it like it’s final, like he’s sure that you will get through it, like there’s no other option. You want to believe him.

The shadows craft you a leash out of the ephemeral material that clothes them. Laughing, always laughing, they secure it around your neck, so tight that only strained gasps of air make it out of you, and drag you along with them, letting your body get broken and battered by the rocks in their path. Mud chokes your lungs, settling heavy in your chest when you inhale it, and fragments of rubbish and twigs tangle into your hair.

They’re bringing you to someone.

You begin to kick and struggle then, tearing at the leash, but it sinks deeper into your flesh, and your own torn nails leave gashes in your skin. As normal, your screams fall on deaf ears, and you writhe, knowing that who they’re taking you to will be far worse than the previous you’ve seen.

The collar of shadow rings tighter around your neck. Tighter and tighter and tighter until an abyss gapes open below you, and you fall right through, and this time even the shadows forsake you, letting you descend into the blackness as they recede from your vision. Somehow, it brings you no comfort, for they too fear he who has summoned you.

Your bones crunch and snap as you land; it is certain that the fall has ended you, and now your soul is trapped in the cage of your broken ribs, fluttering and trying to shake itself free. You cannot move. You cannot flee.

A pale horse walks towards you, yet its hooves make no noise. Fearful, you raise your eyes to see its rider.

He too is pale, and wreathed in a colourless cloak that casts a shadow over his face, yet you can see his skeletal features, motionless and terribly still within his cowl. The arc of the scythe in his fingers winks at you, even in the dark, and he uses the end of it to hook you and drag you from your body. Your bones clatter as your essence leaves them.

Death holds you in the palm of his hand, and you are captivated by the darkness within his hood. You know that this is the moment that your life rests upon.

“I have come to reap,” he says, with a voice like the slam of nails into a coffin lid. “Yet your time is not up yet.”

Again, you are falling.

There’s someone talking to you. You can see his face, see his lips moving, but you don’t understand a word he’s saying.

You don’t remember his name, nor the name of the one beside him, but you know who they are: there’s the blonde angel, his eyes earnest and worried as they search your slack face, and the dark haired prince, his handsome face etched in fear as he wipes your brow with a damp cloth.

The angel clasps your hands in his small ones, and this time, his words are audible, drifting down to you as if he talks to you from the top of a canyon while you’re tied to the bottom of the gorge, straining to hear his words. You fight to pick them out from the whisperings of the shadows, the freckles on his face swirling like constellations.

“Fight it,” he says, squeezing your fingers. “Fight just a little longer.”

You want to. You want to fight it, but the shadows creep closer, tugging at your limbs, and suddenly you’re just their puppet, them the cruel puppeteers.

You watch in horror as your own hands rear up like snakes and claw at the angel’s face.

taglist: @estella-novella@0bticeo@lixies-favorite-cookie@smashleywow@realrintaro @extremechaoswarning @4l17h4 @hyunjinsjeans @insufferablyunbearable @lovemepie67 @needsumcomfypillowstosleep @loumin908 (let me know if you want to be added)

[xxdemonicheartxx]

Most common funerary burials by flight:

Putting this one below the cut due to death mentions and burial descriptions I understand this can be a topic of discomfort no matter how vague one is when speaking on it <3

Arcane: opalization, the body is taken and layed in the shallows of intensely magic rich pools in a resting position, where it will rapidly opalize in a matter of weeks or months due to the volitile arcane energy of the land, sometimes individual scales are opalized instead and the rest of the body is cremated to be scattered amid their favorite place of study

Earth: mummification, the body is taken and embalmed, richly doused in spices, oils, and linen wraps, the organs removed are in canopic jars that resemble the dragon's own visage. Some earth mages practice petrification of the body as well upon request. Another practice is glass blowing cremated remains into colorful works of art, often colorful globes of glittering glass or glass sculptures of the deceased's visage

Shadow: the body is often cremated and the ashes greatly compressed into logs or bricks, before being soaked in spores and water to allow the mushrooms the the tangled wood to reclaim them and take them home. Other practices include burials or creating wrought iron burial markers. Celebrations of life are held around these burial sites

Light: due to the.... emperor problem.... graveyards have rapidly been destroyed and the fear of merging with Luminax sits like a stone in the heart of every imperial. Cremation is the most common practice as of now but celestial burials used to be common practice where the sun would always be able to touch you even in death (also known as sky burials) a new practice adopted from the earth flight includes taking these cremated remains and turning them into glass suncatchers

Plague: plague dragons believe that returning to the land you've survived is a must, dying of old age is a great achievement!! Often the body is returned to the land, buried or laid to be reclaimed by the ecosystem. Some more sentimental dragons or close loved ones will save scales or tan parts of wing membrane to carry close to their heart

Nature: burials are the most common practice, continuing to feed the shrieking wilds, some pathways have small markers or idols where loved ones frequent so that they can continue to pay homage in the labyrinthian jungle

Ice: ice dragons actually do not freeze their deceased, instead they take parts of membranes and tan them before tattooing a depiction of their loved one into their own hide, complete with a name, date of birth and date of death, its too cold to dig in this land so they cremate the remains and scatter them amid the tundra so in spring they can help the flowers return. The tanned memento is kept with a clan's priest, shaman, or spiritual leader with the rest of them, under expert care

Fire: forge pyres, often when fire dragons die their own heat resistance can make cremation a difficult process. So their remains are given to forge masters who are capable of reaching intense heat, working bellows and feeding the flames until the body is reclaimed by the flames. Other practices include caldera funerals, where the body is taken to be sunk in the lava of volcanoes or lava floes. Sometimes blackened skeletons can be reclaimed by loved ones in doing this

Wind: sky burials. The body is taken high up and laid under open sky for the sun and the wind to reclaim, it is believed that in doing this their spirit may continue to soar. Also refered to as celestial burials

Water: sinking of the body in designated graveyards is a common practice, often referred to as a burial at sea. Tiny tiny fragments of the dragon are often kept to be artificially put into oysters so that a pearl can be formed from their loved one's remains. Another practice is water cremation or Alkaline hydrolysis is another practice that is starting to gain traction

Lightning: the desert sand is not suitable for proper burials and grave markers aren't reliable in the shifting expanse, often the body is dehydrated first before undergoing electrical cremation, with no fluid the body will burn rapidly, the ashes then mixed with sand are placed amid one of hundreds of electrical storms with a tall metal rod in the center of the remains. To be struck by lightning turning them into "fulgurites" or "fossilized lightning" these unique and intimate structures are then returned to loved ones to be kept similarly to an urn

There are always exceptions to funeral practices. Dragons like obelisks and imperials often require additional care in the event the obelisk returns to stone or cremation is not an option for the imperial but these are the common or most popular practices in each region (non cannon)

As always I'd love to hear your own headcannons and takes too!!

[shibaraki]

SOFT INTERLUDE ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

tags: AFAB GN reader (called ‘angel’ once), NSFT, established relationship, fluff and smut, bath sex, vaginal fingering (mostly clit stimulation; reader receiving), heavy petting, quirk use

wc: 1.4k

“Oi! Where are you?”

Touya’s voice carries through your apartment with an urgency that startles you. Water sloshes loudly against the tub as you sit up straight, blinking away the lavender induced haze.

“I’m in here,” you call back to him. Your ears prick up at the sound of hasty footfalls, stare fixated on the slight crack in the door where it had been left ajar. A cold draft seeps into the bathroom as it widens and Touya pushes his way in.

Taller from where you’re sitting, though hardly reaching the crest of the doorframe, Touya pauses to skim over your naked form—once for signs of hurt or injury and the second, you suspect, for the sake of appreciation. He looks comfortable. A large white t-shirt drapes easily off his shoulders, the collar dipping to expose his clavicle and naturally following the old sutured scars.

His charcoal sweatpants are more fitted. The cuffs stop just above his ankle. You know he struggles to find pants that accommodate his measurements—he’s all limbs. Lower, you catch sight of socked feet, the left one solid red while the right is patterned with snowflakes.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” you say, crossing your arms over your bare chest to rub at the gooseflesh. “Close that, will you?”

“Your front door was unlocked,” he glares, shutting out the draft with a careful kick. “What if a random dickhead tried to break in?”

You snort and look him up and down, “Aside from the one infront of me, you mean?”

The tendons in his throat flex as he grits his teeth. A frisson of anticipation settles in the back of your spine when he moves closer, dragging the nearby stool across the tile with his foot and sitting beside you.

Magnetised, your body is turned at an angle as you lean toward him. His forearms rest on the lip of the bathtub and the frustration in his expression wanes with a quiet laugh when you rest your cheek against them. Peering up through damp lashes, he cups your jaw and draws you into a kiss.

Warm, his tongue dips along the seam of your mouth. His bottom lip is rough, not that you’ve ever minded. You coax him in, deepening, swallowing your name when he groans. It tastes like home.

“Missed you,” you mumble. Touya kisses you again, this time he’s smiling, and you know him well enough to hear the ‘I missed you too’.

“Sorry. S’been a busy fucking week,” he says. Your head tips back as he noses over the swell of your cheek, forging a path to your throat. A soft peck to your pulse point. “Work been alright?”

“You would know if you ever answered my texts”.

“I answer!”

“Cat pictures don’t count,” you laugh into the crook of his arm where he holds you like a cradle, wet skin saturating his shirt sleeve. “Neither do videos of your dick”.

“Makes you forgive me quicker though,” the bath is colder, but when you shiver it is at the flash of his wolfish grin, gaze all too knowing and incendiary as he sees right through you. “Let me”.

Touya reaches. The surface breaks, a soft sound echoing as his hand slips into the water. You feel it in the next breath—his quirk. Heat emanates from his palm, syrupy and slow as it suffuses and fills the tub. Gradual, subtle turns of his wrist, encouraging circulation, warming you inside and out.

A moan slips past your lips and you sink deeper until you’re swaddled to the shoulders, and his fingertips are brushing the inside of your thigh. They’re hot, twitching at the contact, and then purposeful as he begins to knead the muscle.

“Feel good?” he murmurs, voice low enough that it barely disturbs the quiet. You hear it like cymbals crashing, and his touch moves higher. Tension wrung from your body, you’ve no inhibitions to conceal your reactions, and he gets to marvel in just how honest they are.

The water moves, ripples between your legs. Your knees fall further, now braced either side of the tub, and suddenly you are an open book without a spine. “Touya,” his name comes on the end of an exhale. What was meant to be a warning is heard as a plea, and he presses his fingers to your clit as though that was all he needed to hear.

He hums a contented little note. “I won’t even ask you to say please,” and the gentle circular motion begins, pressure light. Touya strokes around your clit, starting small and tight, widening with each pass.

Arousal pools in your belly, spreads, seeking to fill every bit of you. It prickles at the nape of your neck, pushes the air from your lungs as his tentative fingers slide through your folds and spread, deliberately teasing.

Intertwined lavender and smoke pervades the air, condensation clinging to the tiles. You grasp his wrist, the scarred skin rough and pruning. Watching through half lidded eyes, you shudder at the loving hunger in his own, lips parted for heavy breath.

“Sensitive?” he wonders aloud, tongue sliding over his canine tooth. You whine as he plays with your entrance, barely dipping in, his fingertip crooked in a relaxed come hither movement. Hips chasing the feeling, you roll up against the heel of his hand and water laps up the bath's edge. He cups you full. “Look at you, all desperate. So fuckin’ cute”.

Touya indulges. Squeezes, retreats, smooths over your soft stomach to your breasts where they perk above the surface and back. In turn, you’re kept there; in a fractured kaleidoscope of pleasure and frustration.

Your thighs press together to relieve the ache. The bath oils leave you silken, and the dulled friction isn’t enough. “Hurry up or I’ll make myself cum,” you complain, voice airy with no real threat behind it. He kisses his teeth.

“Let me have my fun,” you hiss as he pinches your nipple, massaging over the sting with his thumb. “It’s not like I can fuck you like this. You’ve put too much… smelly shit in here”.

You concede, albeit with a pout, “That smelly shit helps me relax”.

Touya bends, hiding his fond smirk in the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’ll help too,” he nips at your puckered lip, coaxing you into another deep kiss. Dazed from the heat, the fervent touch, the slide of his tongue across your teeth, you’re barely cognisant of the hand settling back between your legs.

You pulse at the first stroke. Touya’s arm settles around your shoulders to support your weight as you sink into him. Your hips jump. Two fingers brush against your clit, then again, back and forth as your arousal swells.

This time you let him play, build the bridge as he pleases, drawing out the crescendo. Your breasts heave as the feeling swells. Gradually, the pressure behind his fingers grows in harmony with his rhythm. The tension in your body follows closely behind; abdomen clenched, trembling thighs clamped either side of his forearm, toes curled as your hips start to stutter.

“Touya,” you gasp, brows drawn taut as your face pinches. The bath water rocks up and down the tub, tipping over the side. “Touya. Fuck, I’m—I’m close”.

“Yeah. That’s it, angel,” he dips, lips brushing the shell of your ear as they shape around his words. His voice is rough and wanting, erring on a growl, almost like he was just as desperate as you. “Let me see you cum”.

It’s always a little more intense when he strings you along. You crest. Searing, the tight coil in your belly releases, and you cling to him as the pleasure pulses through you in waves. He wraps around you, keeping you tethered, gently rubbing your clit in alternating motions until you whine at the sensitivity.

He hums in amusement, and the sound settles around your shoulders. The water is hot again. There’s steam dancing on the water's surface in broad, svelte movements.

Touya kisses your temple as he withdraws his hand from between your legs. You can’t find it in yourself to complain when he cups your cheek, stroking his wet thumb in an arc beneath your eye. “Better?” he simpers, tilting his head to meet your lidded gaze. “Am I forgiven?”

Fatigue is starting to wear at your bones. You inhale deeply, wearing a satiated smile, though noticeably empty.

“Bed first. Then we’ll see about forgiveness”.

[dearsnow]

SALT FARE, NORTH SEA

- when a dragon falls from the sky, decimating your ship and bringing a strange boy along for the ride, you begin to question if the some of the targaryens are really as bad as they seem. (aged up!lucerys velaryon x fem!reader, angst to fluff, ur burning hatred is quenched by time spent on the sea 🤞) MAJOR SPOILERS FOR HOUSE OF THE DRAGON! au where vhagar doesn’t kill luke, arrax just gets absolutely mauled and falls out of the sky. aged up luke because I didn’t realize he was that young when i started writing 💀. ⚠️ TW for death, suicidal thoughts, and trauma.

word count: 4,211 (jesus christ)

a/n - ohhhh my god guys i’m back!!!! this was certainly a labor of love. i don’t know if I’ll start writing consistently again, but i really hope i do. i love you guys so much and thank you for the continued support even when i’m on hiatus! also i’m sorry if luke is ooc because i choose to believe he’s quietly funny and a little bit of a menace 😭

As the waves batter the sides of your ship, you don’t feel seasick. You feel the spray, see the occasional silvery fish zip by under the water. The sun beats down on your exposed neck and the motion swirls your mind, but you are sick for an entirely different reason.

Betrothal. God, you hate how that word sits on your tongue like a hot piece of meat. You are to be sent off to their family, married into their lineage and forced to bear their children until your womb shrivels like a sun-dried date. Of  all of your options, the Targaryens are certainly the worst. 

Aemond, in particular. You’ve heard stories of his cold demeanor, how he could kill you with a look. With his hands, too. He is quite the skilled swordsman, not that you would ever wish to witness it. He is the one you are set to marry.

Oh, the misery. The horror. You can feel bile rising in your throat whenever someone mentions him or his mother, great Queen Alicent.

You figure, though, at least it isn’t his brother.

You come from a noble family. It was bound to happen anyways. Trade your Martell name for some haughty lord’s and become his sow for the rest of your life. Your short, miserable life. In some ways, you are a bit grateful. You will never want for food and you know you’ll bring great honor to your family by marrying into the Targaryens. 

You just wish you could marry for another reason, not just forging alliances and heating up old, cold ones. You could have a happy life with the person of your choosing. You could sell fish on the shores of the sea and pick flowers in a field.

You play with this notion in your head before you hear a mighty crash and the sound of splintering wood.

The screams come mere seconds later. They pierce the air as snapping bones and rending flesh ring out. You stumble back, nearly falling off the edge of the ship. Large chunks of meat have started raining from the sky, crushing everything in their path.

You feel your heart beat so fast it nearly leaps out of your chest as you scramble for friction. Fuck, what the hell?

With the meat there comes blood, great amounts of it. It trips the sailors up, sending them careening over the wooden edges and into the sea. 

You narrowly miss the giant dragon wing that splits the boat in two. The entire thing has started sinking, and your blood runs cold. 

The ship is tilted from the massive gash in the center. Water is mixing with blood, and your dress is soaked to the bone. You can’t help but think that the finest silks Dorne can offer will drag you to the bottom of the depths.

As you clamber to the top of the ship’s bow as another fast-moving figure falls into the water. You don’t notice it in the moment. 

A shove comes from behind, pushing you to the side. Your back aches where you were struck.

“M’lady, m'lady! The lifeboat, you must take the boat. Go, go! Right now, m'lady.”

It’s Finhard, the deck swabber. He has two missing fingers, a lame knee, and a million stories. He swabbed the deck of The Sandstorm from port to port, collecting any and all information he could along the way. You loved talking to him so much it made the trip almost worth it. He always helped you sneak food to the cat stowing away on board. The cat you’re sure is now dead.

“What about you?” You question, voice loud but shaky. You can’t just leave him here.

“I’m a dead man, m’lady. I don’t matter.”

“But you do!” You insist, tugging on his arm. The screams are still ringing like alarms, and your limbs feel locked and like jelly at the same time.

“No, no. I might sink it. Girl’s damaged already. Please go, girlie. Jus’ remember me when you eat your next fish, alright?”

A pit pools in your stomach as you whip around to look at the small lifeboat. He’s right. The boat wouldn’t be able to hold you and a grown man, at least not one of Finhard’s size.

“Get on. I’ll push ya off, and you better have a damn good time with that prince of yours.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes as you watch your trusted confidant steel his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Finhard. I’m so so sorry,” You sob, clutching his rough palms. “I promise I’ll think of you always.”

“Thas’ all I ask for.” His voice is rough and uncut, hardened yet soft, like a feather made of chainmail. He picks you up like a sack of potatoes and places you in the rickety boat with the gentleness of a father setting down his newborn. He gives you one final kiss on the forehead before untying the boat and shoving it into the roiling water. 

Small hairs cling to your forehead as the ship lights up in a blaze sure to be seen from the shore. Your face is so wet with tears you feel as though the ocean is the product of them.

You sob into your hands as the people who took care of you on your journey sink, their bawls leaving a scar in your memory.

It’s not even ten minutes after the foremast begins to sink that you see a dark shape bobbing along in the water next to you. You stifle a gasp, thinking it must surely be a shark or a dead man. The water around it was red and heavy. 

When it floats closer to you, you see for the first time that it’s a boy. A boy who must be around your age, maybe sixteen or seventeen. His wrist gives a little twitch, and you resolve that you must rescue him. 

He wasn’t on your ship unless he was stowing away in the barrels, as teenagers often do. No matter his situation, you grab his soaked shirt and give a hard tug. 

The effort almost tips your boat, nearly sending you spiraling into the water. You give a little huff. The waterlogged boy is definitely heavier than you expected.

You try again, managing to get his arm hooked around the side of the boat. From there, it’s just a game of strength- you pull him up, using his clothing as a sort of lever to shimmy him out of the water. You roll him over, the water streaming off of him re-splattering your already wet clothes with water and fresh blood. The boat dips a little with his weight, but it does not sink. You praise the Seven under your breath. He has a cut on the side of his head, one that requires medical care far past the simple fixes you’ve learned.

You try to dress it anyways. Ripping a long strip of cloth from the bottom of your underskirt, you wrap it up and pray he doesn’t lose much more blood. 

You can still hear the creaking of The Sandstorm, though any humans were sucked under long ago. It makes a melancholy sound, blending with the waves and the seabirds and the rain that has started pattering down. A lump forms in your throat as you gaze at the wreckage. Hot water slides down your face as you sit in your little lifeboat, waiting for death that will most certainly come for your throat. 

It’s about two hours of lonely drifting before the boy wakes up. He opens his eyes slowly, then they widen as he gives a gurgling shout.

“Augh!” You stifle a giggle, though your voice is still wobbly from sobs.

He notices you and sits up, bewildered. As he takes in his surroundings, you sit and watch.

“Who are you? Where am I? Where is Arrax?” 

“I am nobody now, and we are in the middle of the ocean,” You gesture to the water surrounding every inch of your sight. “And I don’t know who Arrax is.” He sure has a lot of questions, though you can’t fault him for it.

“Arrax, my dragon. I… I think he’s…” He doesn’t finish his sentence.

You stare at him in shock.

“Your dragon? The dragon that fell out of the sky in twenty pieces?” You question, voice heated. “The one that just killed a crew of fifty-two men?”

He’s silent for a moment. “So he’s dead?”

“Of course he’s dead, you imbecile! Did you not hear what I just said? He killed them. All of them. I’m the only survivor.”

“I’m sorry.” He mutters. He brings his knees to his chest and hugs them. “It was never my fault. It was him that killed Arrax, so it is him that killed your crew.”

“Who is him?”

“That bastard of a prince, Aemond. He and his dragon, Vhagar, chased us across the skies and attacked us in the air.”

Your hands tighten into fists as your throat constricts like you swallowed a spiny rock. You regret ever saving the boy, and you regret not slitting your throat when you heard of your betrothal to the murderer. Everything you’ve heard about Aemond is true. Your rage boils into hatred, and you swear that if you ever see him you will die and take him with you.

“So that must mean you’re a Targaryen too?” You say, trying to keep your voice level. It’s a skill you had to learn as a noble lady, but the hate building in your chest is almost too violent to quiet.

“Lucerys Velaryon, my lady.” He eyes you, taking note of your expensive yet ruined dress. He must know you’re not a commoner either.

You know the Targaryens are the only ones with proper access to a dragon, but you should have known that only someone descended from one could cause such absolute and utter destruction. It’s not Lucerys’s fault, you tell yourself. Don’t put the blame on him. Put on a smile and become your best even-tempered and kind self. But gods, the way you want to wring his neck for an event he seemingly had no control over.

“Why did he do it?” You ask. The tears from earlier start creating a pressure behind your eyes again. 

“Because I took his eye.” Lucerys’s voice is weak, but it has the strum of nobility that you know like a well-oiled harp. “He wanted revenge, an eye for an eye. So I ran. He found me in the sky and bit my dragon in half. I never meant to kill anybody.” So they’re all the same, the princes. Hardened and cruel and psychopaths. “Did you save me?”

“I suppose I did.” You want so badly to say ‘but I shouldn’t have’, but you hold your tongue.

“That is a debt I can never repay. Thank you. I’m truly sorry.” You shake your head. It’s not his fault, you repeat. You still cannot find it in yourself to forgive him. “What’s your name?”

You think for a brief moment. It wouldn’t hurt, you think, to tell him your name. That way when you both die, at least the man you’re stuck with will know the name of the woman that hated his family the most out of anyone in the world.

You speak your name, including your Martell family name, and he looks at you, eyes widened so much you think they will pop out of his skull.

“Aemond’s betrothed?” You are marrying into the greens, and Lucerys feels as though he should hate you for it. Unluckily for his honor, he cannot despise the girl who pulled him from the sea.

“Yes, what sorry luck.” You spit. “I would rather drown than go through with it.” You think of the promise you made to Finhard. “No, I would put poison in his chalice and watch him drink it.”

He laughs a bit, his voice ringing out against the repetitive sound of waves. “And I will buy the poison.” You allow yourself to smile. You hate it, but you smile.

You’ve always been the weirder daughter, yet the one that tries to talk with the lords and ladies and puts on a shining performance. That’s where the smile comes from, from all the times you’ve had to put your pearly whites on display. The morals have gone to shit, but the reflex is still burned into your person.

“You needn’t call me ‘my lord’. We’re even here, out on the sea.” He says. You can feel that’s not the only reason. A spark of guilt shimmers in the corners of his eyes. “Just call me Luke.”

“And you may call me by my name, Luke.” He’s right. There are no titles, only salt water and spray.

You watch the moon in the sky as it shines its beams down on your face. It sees everything. Every deal in secret, every promise you’ve ever made. It’s a gentle reminder that every person sees the same thing every night. You and Luke sit in silence, staring up at it. You wonder if your mother sees it too, from her ship. Can Finhard and the other sailors see it, from their watery graves? Can they forgive you for not saving them? For saving the life of a boy, whose mass is just under the weight limit of the boat? You glance over at him.

He’s staring at you, at how the soft rays of the moon highlight the curves and edges of your face. He feels a pit in his stomach, one that is not from hunger. It’s a gnawing feeling, guilt. He hates that he had to trade his life for fifty sailors. He thinks he would rather be at the bottom of the sea than see more tear tracks on your face. Another feeling eats at him, though he’s not sure what it is. It makes his insides churn and scrambles his mind.

He averts his eyes and looks at the stars once more.

You spend another two days floating in the water. You’re both sunburned and salt dried, and his skin is red and peeling. The conversation between the both of you had been dry up until today.

“May I have the flask?” He asks. You hand it over. For two whole days, all you have had to eat and drink is two flasks of water, a packet of dried fish, and some bread that has gone mushy from the water slowly seeping into your boat. You have to bail it out every hour or so.

“Do you think we’ll ever get out of here?” Luke questions, his voice rough. “Is anyone coming for us?”

You sigh. “I don’t know. I would like to think there are boats out searching, but truly, they must expect us to be dead. Besides that, we have drifted so far away from the shipwreck that we might not be found even if they were searching.” He shakes his head, hair stiff from the salty spray.

“I would like to keep hope alive.”

“You are the only one.” You hear a small laugh from next to you. 

“You know, I could not ask for a better person to be stranded with.” He screws the cap back onto his flask carefully.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you certainly know how to ration supplies. And your optimism is inspiring.” A giggle bubbles up from beneath your buried feelings. 

“Is that sarcasm, my dear lord?”

He smiles. You can’t help but notice that his smile is contagious, the kind that reaches his eyes. The kind you found yourself dreaming about, and the kind you are certain your betrothed never wears. 

“Only if you make it out to be.” He pauses. “So, what was your life like in Dorne?”

Your eyes narrow. Small talk? It brings you back to your past. Talking to potential suitors and bearing their questions as they try to judge if you’re worth their money. It’s almost nice, the reminder. Before the wreck, you had been happy. Cheerful, even. You were nothing like you are now, hardened and weak and so close to putting sand in your pockets and drowning you can taste the seawater. 

“Why do you ask?”

“I figured it would be nice to know you. To really know you.” His words bring an odd sense of comfort to you.

“It was much nicer than this. I had friends and family, that was the best part. I never wanted for much of anything. I suppose I felt out of place sometimes, and I felt lonely like nothing else, but it helped to know that I could always have a home with the people I loved.” He nods, and the waves push against the boat. The sun is setting, condemning you to another sleepless night. “What about you?”

“I love my home, my people, and my family. I never felt up to the task of being lord of Driftmark, though,” He confesses, “and sometimes I still feel like a fraud. Gods, I don’t know why I told you that.” He knows. There’s something about your eyes, something that makes him want to spill every secret he has ever had. He wants to tell you about the time he stole Aemond’s knife, causing Aemond to pick a fight with Aegon. Or when he heard an argument between his mother and stepfather, or when his older brother snuck a frog into the pocket of a handmaiden. Your eyes burn with stifled anger and buried hopes and love.

You look at him with an odd expression. “It’s alright. Might as well get everything out while you can.” You know the feeling of not being enough well. “I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully when we get out of here.” You find yourself comforting him for god knows what reason. You should be angry, full of hatred and buzzing bees, but you can only feel sympathy for the boy across from you.

“When we get out of here? Where was that optimism earlier?” He teases, making you smile.

“It was killed and brought back to life. I have decided that I’m not going to die.” His laugh rings out, showering you in a feeling that makes you shiver.

“That’s a good thing to decide. I swear it too, we are not going to die. Aemond will never kill our spirit nor our bodies.” He takes your hands, palms rough and calloused. It makes your heart pound in a way you never expected. “We will be alright.”

You nod, hope blooming in your heart. Suddenly, the world seems just a little bit brighter. That’s when you see it; the seagull flying overhead.

You gasp, pointing up to the sky. It lets out a sharp cry as it circles around, and soon Luke is looking at it too. You’re so relieved that tears well up in your eyes.

Land must be near. It has to be. 

“Praise the gods.” He grins, dropping your hands to shield his eyes from the sun. “We will surely reach the shores soon.”

“I can only hope.” You whisper.

You spend another day on the water, your hopeful eyes searching for mountains or fields. All you can see is blue water, blue skies, and Lucerys Velaryon. You found that you’ve grown to like him, as fucked as your past self might have considered it. He actually treats you like a person. 

He squints into the distance. “I still don’t see anything. Maybe… maybe the bird was a fluke. A gull straying too far from the shore.”

You hit his shoulder lightly. “Don’t think like that.”

“It seems we’ve switched roles,” He smiles, “you’re the positive one now.”

“We certainly have rubbed off on each other.” The corners of your mouth lift into a little grin. Truth be told, your own hope is starting to fade, but you will never let him know. 

You’ve begun to notice things about the sea that you have never seen before. Schools of small fish darting below the surface, the pattern of the waves, even how chilly the water is. As the sun shines down, the water is peaceful. Maybe it’s a side effect of the trauma, or maybe it’s just you growing more comfortable with the idea of salt water. In any case, you suppose you need to look at its beauty to fan the dying flame of light burning inside you. It’s far easier to love than to keep hating. 

“The day is quite beautiful, isn’t it?” You whisper. 

“I suppose it is.” He says, but he’s not looking at the sky.

You are infatuating. The way the sun glints off your eyes enraptures him and keeps him in a state of lovely drunkenness. “Do you wish to marry my uncle?” There’s a hint of something more behind his voice. It’s almost desperate, and the thought makes you shiver.

You hesitate. “Not particularly. It would bring honor to my family, that I am sure of. So I will do it, but I will likely not enjoy it.”

“I understand that. I myself am betrothed to someone I can’t see myself loving.”

“The lady Rhaena Targaryen?” You know of her. The idea of him marrying the girl painted by the gods twists your heart in a way you can’t even comprehend.

He sighs. “Yes. It is my duty, but I cannot see her as anything but a sister. That’s all she’s been to me my entire life.”

“Duty is a wicked thing,” You muse, “pulling us away from opportunities to enrich our own lives.”

He nods. “If you could choose, is there anyone you would want to be married to?”

You think for a bit but eventually shake your head. “Do you have a special someone?”

“I am beginning to discover one.” He says. What does he mean by that?

When you look at him, staring far into the distance, you start to realize.

When the days grow dim, you huddle into each other for warmth. That’s why you fall asleep tonight, softened by his touch. Finally, you sleep for more than half an hour at a time. Luke’s arms are wrapped around you, as the lifeboat leaves little room for comfort, and the rock of the ship lulls you into a dream.

You wake to a jolt. You have no idea how long you’ve been asleep, but the moon is out and there is sand underneath your hull. Sand. Ground. You scramble to sit up, pulling Luke along with you. “Sand! Luke, it’s sand. We’ve made it! Gods be good, we have made it to land.” You grab at the wet grains, letting them clump and filter through your fingers. He lets out a loud cheer and pulls you in.

Out of nowhere, as you still have earth in your hands, he kisses you. His lips are rough and dry, but so are yours. He tastes like salt water and love.

When he finally pulls away, he is grinning like a lunatic. “We’ve made it, my lady. We survived.”

“What happened to our no titles agreement?” You tease, still flustered. Your cheeks are as hot as the surface of the sun.

“We’re on land now. The rules of society apply again, I’m afraid.” His whisper ghosts against your ear like he’s almost afraid to lose the closeness he gathered over the course of the last few days.

“Of course,” You say, pressing your lips to his cheek, “I would expect nothing different from such a high-ranking and strong man such as yourself.” 

He places a hand where you kissed him. Your skin may be chapped, but that damned kiss was sweeter and softer than spun sugar.

“I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding, my lady.” A glint of humor dances in his eye.

He steps out of the boat and offers a hand to you. The ground wobbles under your feet and you almost fall, but he is there to steady you. “Wait, I know this beach!” He realizes as he gazes upon the scenery. “It’s the beach off Dragonstone. I’m… I’m home.”

“Really?” You feel hope bubbling through your body. “You know where we are?”

“I do. Dragonstone is there, above those cliffs. Come on, let’s go!” He tugs your arm just a bit too hard, sending you sprawling into the sand. You grab onto his sleeve and pull him down too, leaving you both in a fit of giggles. 

You’re both weak and tired and sore, but your flames grow brighter every second you’re on solid land. “Race me!” He yells, taking off from the ground on shaky feet. You dart after him, all your earlier burdens seemingly gone.

You probably won’t catch him, but it’s okay. Right now, your future is ahead of you, your rage is behind, the land pounds beneath your feet, and the boy with brown hair is calling for you to join him.

Reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

Taglist (bolded means unable to tag): @mmmimilan @its-halleys-comet @savagemickey03 @persephonesportal @lovelyliliya @the-jess-life @spaceandstars @bbosica @hopelesswritergall @watercolorskyy

[comatosebunny09]

Freak [ Pt. 1 ]

Genres: Smut, Modern AU

Warnings: Female Reader, Female Anatomy, Reader Has Box Braids, Explicit Language, Dry Humping, Biting, Light Spanking, Naughty Things Done Outdoors, Blue Balls, OOC Kyojuro, MDNI!

Musical Inspiration: This entire playlist.

Tag! You're it! @asirensrage @nanaoise08squad @potofstewie @cherryblossomsenpai @yeahitzally @superluckystar @goatman-againstgod

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️

It would be on the hood of his convertible, the aluminum still warm beneath the fat of your ass. 

The residual heat pales in comparison to that of the massive hands kneading, pinching, and lifting your bum off his Challenger in his haste to feel every inch of you.

Nonetheless, the warmth is a pleasant contrast to the chill of the night air tossing your hair and ruffling the polyester of your dress. The arctic wind shaking your little neighborhood on its axis does nothing to deter the Adonis nestled between your legs. He’s on a mission to brand you in every way, shape, and form, your neighbors be damned.

“K-Kyo,” you keen, light and breathless, his teeth embedding themselves into the column of your throat. 

On instinct, you crane your head back, the coarseness of your braids tickling your exposed shoulder blades. There’s a smile curving your painted lips. Carbon-black lashes fluttering, his name surfing on your tongue in a quiet hymnal. 

Your fingers sift through the delicate hairs of his nape, urging him closer. Though your jean jacket, hooked around your elbows—he’d yanked it southward in his eagerness to taste you—sadly inhibits your movements.

“A little busy here, darling,” he huffs, blazing a trail down the curve of your shoulder with his mouth. 

His kisses are wet, chaste, and open-mouthed whilst his hands embark on a journey to the swell of your hips. He sinks his canines into your collarbone, the prickle of them tearing a quivering sigh from your lips. Your hands thunk against the bonnet of his car behind you to keep you upright whilst he moves to pay homage to the other side of your neck.

The blond rubs languid circles into the bones of your hips, calloused palms continuing their excursion to your full, bared thighs as if unearthing treasure. Kyojuro hooks his hands into the bends of your knees, suddenly tugging you forward until your nether regions collide, ripping a gasp from your lungs. He cups your thighs in his hands. Isn’t at all subtle as he grinds against you, his weighted girth stroking your clothed cunt to life.

He mouths your jugular. Suckles on the meat of your shoulder, breathing the most sinister words into your flesh. How desperately he wants to fuck you. How devastatingly sexy you are, saying his name like that. 

The car rocks as he pistons his hips against you, sweat beading on his temple whilst he buries his face into the junction of your shoulder, panting wetly. 

“F-fu-huck, Kyo,” you moan, your arms coming up to encircle his neck, nails rooting into the blades of his shoulders, clinging to him for dear life. 

He holds your thighs spread eagle, fingers cratering the undersides—you’re sure blue-violet petals will bloom in their wake come morning. His breaths are choppy whilst he continues his onslaught of thrusts, his pelvis seemingly moving of its own volition.

You’ve missed him dearly. His profession often drags him to remote parts of the world, far from the safety of your arms, into the dangerous world of demon slaying. You’ve had nothing but the company of cold sheets and an empty, king-sized bed this past month. So, of course, you aren’t initially opposed to the attention. 

Outside. Unfettered. Raw.

That is until the wind picks up its tempo, and the telltale slamming of a screen door nearby brings you hurtling back to the present.

“Kyo, baby,” you plead, clawing at the lapels of his shirt. 

It’s hard to keep afloat, your cunt twitching, nipples tightening beneath the soft lace of your bra. If your lover forges on, you might just cum from the friction and heat alone.

Kyojuro hums in response, his voice like sandpaper, the undulations of his hips never faltering. 

“As much as I would love to continue,” a heave of breath, “would you mind if we took this party—hah—inside?”

You tug on his shirt to bring him to a standstill when your words don’t seem to faze him. He fitfully pulls away, hair tussled and irises gleaming like dual flames in the sepia glow of your porch light. You have to bite your lip at the sight, your boyfriend resembling a beast disturbed in the midst of its meal. When your eyes lock, your gaze flits over his shoulder, catching your nosy, elderly neighbor scuttling onto her porch, a grimace taking residence on her face.

Kyojuro searches your eyes. Needs no more indication, releasing you with a weighted sigh. Your legs slack against the bumper, the strain of your muscles ebbing into a dull throb. Your jacket pools around your wrists, and the flap of your dress falls back between your legs. Your baby hairs stick to your forehead, exhaustion taking possession of your features. With a brawny arm wound around the small of your back, he shepherds you the rest of the way down, your slick skin squeaking against the polymer.

Your chuckle stains the atmosphere whilst he pulls you into his arms. Peppers your mouth with kisses, promising the best of things into the swell of your lips. He swats your ass playfully when you maneuver past, ushering you beneath the awning of your carport into the sanctity of your home.

—

It creeps beneath the surface of your skin like a snake sidewinding through the sand, anticipation pooling in the chasm of your belly, sending little thrills careening into your center. 

You’ve barely made it through the foyer, your home warm and dark save for the subtle glow of the entryway and stove lights illuminating your path. You feel them when you bend over to undo the straps of your sandals. Polychrome eyes boring into the arc of your ass with an intensity that makes your legs tremble. 

You spin around to face him, your jacket falling into a serpentine pile at your feet, throat dry with sand at the visage that greets you. He’s a few paces off. A hulking mass of muscle, sex, and mahogany prowling towards you like a panther, loafers haphazardly kicked off by the door. 

There’s a thick finger hooked into the collar of his button-down, skillfully undoing each knob without relinquishing eye contact. He cants his head to the side, gaze half-slit, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. You could swear that you hear a growl rumbling like thunder through the base of his throat.

He sizes you up as if he intends to devour you, his shirt splayed open, bronze skin peeking out, stretched taut over pectorals and abs. Your stare wanders to the coarse, flaxen trail leading to the rim of his pants. Your eyes conclude their journey at the bulk of him throbbing between his legs. 

It takes every ounce of you not to moan. Not to chew your lip. Not to throw yourself into Kyojuro’s arms, winding your legs around his hips, begging him to fuck you senseless. 

You were raring to go earlier, murmuring obscenities into his neck over dinner, his palm wide and possessive, stroking along the meat of your thigh. But now, there is this fluttering sensation taking hold of your gut. Nervousness, excitement, eagerness, glee. You can’t quite place the feeling. Although, it has been some time since you’ve last felt him.

You stave off the moment, feigning nonchalance with a shrug of your shoulders despite the insistent pounding between your thighs.

“Thirsty?” you offer, taking a cautious step back. 

He matches you with a long stride forward. A predator homing in on its prey. And you are the lamb laid to slaughter. “No.” 

That previous feeling grows tenfold, your blood pumping ferociously in your throat and ears. Your voice grows shrill. Thin and light against the distant hum of the air conditioner. 

“H-hungry?” Another step back until your back thumps against the glacial, textured wall by your kitchen. You’re clawing at it for leverage, your head spinning, spinning. 

Two more steps forward, sinewy arms reaching out to cage you in. Kyojuro spills over you like liquid fire, blotting out everything but him.

“Not at all.”

Your breaths intermingle whilst he leans in, painting a hazy triangle between your eyes and mouth. Hair grazes your shoulder when he ducks beside your jaw, his lips red-hot as he huffs into your ear.

“Is there anything my darling needs before we retire to the bedroom?”

You shake your head numbly in reply, rooted to this spot, your voice and legs refusing to work. 

“Good,” Kyojuro drawls, bending his elbows to bring himself closer, surprise purling through you like waves upon the shore.

He blisters the juncture of your shoulder with lazy kisses. And you nearly sink to the floor, the pheromones charging the air loosening your joints and making your pussy hiccup. He hooks his hands beneath the folds of your knees, effortlessly twining your thighs around his hips. You scramble for purchase of his shoulders, eyes swimming whilst the hard press of his dick finds the apex of your hips. 

���Because when I’m inside you…unnff.” His tone is strained. Abrasive. Crackling like a fire burning through the underbrush. His forehead dips into your shoulder, his thick groan vibrating your skin. Open-mouthed against your flesh, “When I’m inside this pretty little pussy of yours, I am never coming out.”    

[balladofthewhitehorse]

Bittersweet for engport!

Night had drawn its mantle close, stars hewn across a dusky sky as England collapsed in the grass. He carded his hand through his hair (ignoring the way that his palm trembled, as clumsy as a newly born lamb), a sob bubbling in the depths of his chest. He’d not cried since…England frowned, this foreign sensation hard to put to name; It bore down on his soul like the weight of the sea (laying at the bottom of the trench, as gravity pulled on his limbs; Held him fast to the cold seabed, and told England that he was never going to rise evermore). It was a beautiful, cold night - and England felt himself slipping off the edge of the world; Melting into the embrace of dewy grass and the worms that twisted beneath, into chalk, tumbling like a cliff rushing into the sea. 

Rodent. A squeaking, scurrying thing that crept along the hems of the map and gnawed at the paper; That was how Portugal had described him, with eyes like cold steel. England scoffed resentfully, some small measure of pride putting fire to his voice where some softer part of him shivered with the indignity of it all. It wasn’t fair. Warm lips and the heat of whiskey in his chest, hands closing over hands as they lay together in the dark bedroom; Nobody was here to take this moment away from England as Portugal lifted his belly, bent low and knelt before him, drinking him in. Yet, with his breath still warm and hair ruffled, Portugal had looked him in the eyes and told him that they couldn’t do it again. ‘’Why not-’’ Hissed England, a sinking feeling in the pit of his belly. ‘’-What’s your problem?’’ He felt untouchable - and consequence was just some distant island on the horizon, a thing of dreams and of impossibility, something far away. Untouchable

‘’We can’t.’’ Portugal had replied stiffly, awkward. ‘’I don’t-’’ England snarled softly, leaning back in his chair like a young king. ‘’Why the fuck not-?’’Assumption filled his throat; A swarm of desperate reasoning buzzed in his ears, England’s eyes darting back and forth across the room. Dizzied by the smell of perfume cloying the air, he grasped for Portugal’s hand and stumbled clumsily, knocking his waist against the corner of the desk with muttered cursing. Many things came racing to his head - most of all that Portugal had found someone else, that there was some keener mercenary that would do his bidding - and England lunged forward with a gout of fire in his chest. His eyes burned like black iron, freshly forged, and his palms felt sweaty; As if he’d been holding a hammer, trembling before a forge. ‘’Portugal, I-’’ He felt his face twist in disgust (the stained glass cast splinters of colour across the floor - England wondered what those multicoloured saints thought of him now, dirty hands pressed palm to palm). ‘’-I love you. There. You made me say it.’’ The words tasted of bile and old spirits, of something that he would hack up onto the floor of a tavern at those dusky, blue hours that turned the world so crooked and strange. There, England thought resentfully as he stared at Portugal. Now say it back to me, fear welled inside him as Portugal stared back coolly.

‘’...Not now. Later’’

His friend had whispered, but it had made England deaf all the same.

It still hurt thinking about it now. A promise had lingered between them, the dog’s bone held before its nose (master’s hand a closed fist, Portugal’s heart a closed fist just the same). Want ached in his chest, England sighing as he rested his head in the wet grass; They hadn’t spoken for months since - and the weight of his words sat as a lumpen stone in his rib-cage, his tongue tracing the shapes of that single, short sentence over and over, until England began to fear that it might be burned into the roof of his mouth ever since. Later was a thirsty man’s oasis, and he wondered how much longer he might be able to sustain himself upon it; Until Portugal’s silence broke, and England could lean back into the comfortable certainty that his affections weren’t for nothing. He knew that his friend had not said no - Portugal’s eyes had flashed strangely after England’s confession (splinters of ice that betrayed something warmer). His friend would tell him someday - and although England’s pride was wounded, his sword was Portugal’s until the end.

[twistedcrumbs2]

Under the same sky

Once upon a time, there was a foolish boy who fell in love with a girl. A girl who had everything—beauty inside and out, intelligence, and great wealth... everything. Things couldn’t have gone more wrong from there.

In a world where alliances are forged through conventions and obligations, the unexpected meeting between a merfolk and a beastman defies prejudice, duty, and the pursuit of freedom. Beneath the opulent glow of chandeliers and the watchful eyes of the elite, a quiet bond begins to blossom, uncovering desires they never imagined feeling—desires impossible to conceal.

Yet in an environment where every move is scrutinized, can they break free from the chains of destiny before time runs out?

Ruggie Bucchi x reader 🍩

Chapter, 1

Gray Sky, Blue Sky

The sun had barely begun to rise, yet Afterglow Savannah was already awake. The scent of hot sand, dust, and smoke filled the narrow streets, creeping into the stacked homes that seemed to lean on each other for support.

Mornings started early in these parts, especially for those in the poorest neighborhoods. The sun had a habit of being more than punctual, blessing the land with its almost oppressive heat. But even before its light could break through the horizon, Ruggie was already up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he straightened the thin sheets on his worn mattress. The tiny room held only his essentials - a meager collection of belongings. Above him, a single bulb dangled from an improvised wire, flickering faintly as though nearing the end of its life.

─ Good morning, Granny. What’s for breakfast? ─ Ruggie appeared behind the elderly woman, placing his hands gently on her frail shoulders and peering hungrily at the day’s offering.

In the cramped kitchen, his grandmother stirred a pot of porridge on an old, rusted stove - clean, despite its worn appearance. She ate slowly, savoring the last bit of stale bread Ruggie had brought home the day before, washing it down with a small cup of black coffee.

She turned to him with a smile, her wrinkled face a map of stories and struggles long past. Swatting him lightly on the head with the handle of her spoon for peeking at the pot, she sent him off to get ready.

Laughing, the young hyena dashed to the outdoor sink to wash his face. His grandmother watched him with a mixture of pride and weariness, her smile radiant despite the lines that etched her face.

─ You look sharp today, ─ she remarked with a note of approval as Ruggie fussed with his blond hair in a cracked mirror hanging on the wall.

─ Aw, Granny, don’t start. ─ Ruggie smirked, gesturing at his freshly ironed white shirt. ─ It’s just another job... but this one’s special! I’ll be working at that fancy hotel for the whole month, helping in the kitchen. It’s some big-shot wedding. They’re paying by the hour, and I get three meals a day. ─ His grin widened. ─ You know what that means, right? More food for you and the kids.

She chuckled softly, giving him an affectionate pat on the back as she handed him a glass bowl for breakfast. It was the third time she’d heard him repeat the news since last night, but she didn’t mind.

Ruggie filled his bowl with porridge, reheated leftover meat, and a bitter black coffee to wake himself up properly. He ate without complaint, each bite a reminder of the work still ahead. His grandmother had done so much for them; it was his turn to repay her sacrifices.

Before leaving, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, right between her round, faded ears that matched his own. Slinging a secondhand backpack over his shoulder - earned from cleaning a classmate’s dorm - he took one last glance at the house. A patched-up shack with gaps in the walls that let in the wind and cold. He knew every crack, every crevice. Someday, he promised himself, he’d leave it behind for good.

Outside, the streets were a messy blend of dust and mud from open sewage lines.

The narrow alleys wove between makeshift homes, their walls of clay and uneven stones topped with rusted sheets of metal. The homes crowded together like desperate neighbors clinging to one another for stability, forming a labyrinth of chaos and resilience.

Later in the day, barefoot children would race through the streets, chasing patched-up balls, while street vendors set up stalls to sell dried fruits, vibrant fabrics, and handmade crafts. Afterglow Savannah thrummed with a unique energy, a blend of disorder and determination that reflected the ingenuity of its people, even in its most neglected corners.

For now, the streets slowly came to life. Men crept back into bed after hoering before their wives noticed their absence, and women who worked the night retreated to their homes for rest.

Here and there, groups of hyenas patrolled the alleys, their radios crackling as they kept watch over the community. The kingdom struggled to control the illegal activities that flourished in these distant settlements, separated from the capital by both geography and indifference. The strong ruled, their dominance unchallenged by the authorities.

Still, since Prince Farena had taken the throne, the government’s approach had shifted. His policies encouraged grassroots organization, though whether this was a blessing or a curse was debatable. Capital interference often escalated violence, yet the prince’s efforts - minimal as they were - offered a glimmer of hope. Schools with basic meals and literacy programs marked a small but significant improvement over the neglect of past regimes.

Ruggie, however, remained skeptical. Migraine as they were, they were still crumbs.

At the bus stop, waiting for the first ride of the day, Ruggie waved to an old childhood friend who’d survived the streets. They had once stolen overripe fruits together, running through adult shadows with childish defiance. Now, his friend carried a weapon.

Ruggie knew what it was to have nothing. Afterglow Savannah taught its lessons harshly: what hunger felt like, what exhaustion did to the body, and what despair did to the soul. He had learned that survival often came at the cost of innocence.

But he had also learned balance. His small thefts were calculated acts of survival, and though he justified them, he understood the line between necessity and greed. Walking that line was a skill, one he was determined not to lose.

As the bus approached, Ruggie climbed aboard, blending into the crowd of tired workers. He straightened his clean, pressed shirt with quiet pride. His dreams were big, but he knew they would take countless long days like this to achieve.

And so, with resolve in his heart, he set off toward the luxurious hotel where he would work that summer - a world away from Afterglow Savannah, yet closer than he dared to believe.

⚘

Many miles away, in an expansive mansion nestled deep in the heart of the savanna within an affluent estate, the sun rose slowly, painting the sky in golden hues that starkly contrasted with the cold, polished opulence surrounding it.

Standing at the window of her bedroom, a young woman, draped in a silk robe, gazed at the distant horizon. Despite the grandeur that enveloped her, her eyes betrayed an almost painful yearning, as if the vast world beyond those walls were a distant promise.

Her bedroom was a gilded cage: a canopy bed dressed in pristine silk sheets, wardrobes overflowing with handpicked designer clothing, and bookshelves lined with volumes she was rarely allowed to open.

The silence was suffocating, her constant companion, broken only by the occasional sound of the wind stirring the curtains. Every detail of the mansion, from the polished floors to the gleaming chandeliers, served as a relentless reminder of what was expected of her: perfection, obedience, and quiet submission.

The door swung open abruptly, without so much as a knock, revealing her grandmother. The elderly woman, always impeccably dressed in conservative attire, carried herself with the rigid posture of someone accustomed to commanding respect. Her sharp eyes held an air of severity, but buried deep within them lay a hint of melancholy.

─ You’re awake. ─ Her voice was low and authoritative, leaving no room for defiance. ─ Your father wants to see you in the parlor in an hour. Get ready.

The young woman nodded silently, as she always did. Protesting was never an option.

At the breakfast table, the atmosphere was as cold as the marble that adorned the walls. Her father, a man of imposing presence and carefully measured words, read through business reports, deliberately ignoring his daughter’s presence. She sat motionless, waiting for the inevitable commands.

─ The wedding is confirmed for the end of this month, ─ he said at last, his eyes never leaving the papers in his hands. ─ Tonight’s dinner will be the first official event. I expect you to conduct yourself appropriately.

─ Yes, Father, ─ she murmured, forcing a hollow smile as the weight of yet another invisible chain tightened around her.

After breakfast, she escaped to the garden - the only place where she could breathe freely. Sitting by the edge of the fountain, she trailed her fingers in the cool, crystalline water, her skin accustomed to the warmth of the dry, arid climate. Surrounded by meticulously maintained flowers and trees, each planted with deliberate care, she allowed herself to dream.

In her mind, she wandered to far-off places, imagining a life filled with discovery and purpose - something beyond the stifling silence of her current existence. But her dreams were fragile, always crushed under the weight of reality.

Her grandmother found her there, as she often did in the mornings, her footsteps firm and her gaze sharp. Approaching, she noticed the tension in her granddaughter’s shoulders and let out a heavy sigh before sitting beside her.

─ You look tired, dear, ─ she said, her tone softer than usual. ─ Today is an important day. You must remember to keep your head high.

The young woman mustered another strained smile, saying nothing. Her grandmother’s words always carried the weight of a warning - a reminder that any sign of hesitation would be seen as weakness.

The older woman studied her granddaughter’s face in silence for a moment before continuing.

─ Dreaming isn’t a sin, child, but don’t forget where you came from or what truly matters. Your mother dreamed too, you know… and look where it got her.

The words, though delivered with a veneer of gentleness, struck like a blow. The young woman lowered her gaze, her eyes stinging with tears she dared not shed.

─ Look at me, ─ her grandmother insisted, offering a solemn smile. ─ I’m old, yet I’m fortunate your father tolerates me in this house. He is a generous man, and we should be grateful. Your life will be extraordinary when all of this is over. Just trust him. He knows what’s best for you.

She nodded mechanically, swallowing her pain and mimicking her grandmother’s practiced smile. She wanted to believe those words, but deep down, she knew the truth: her dreams, no matter how suppressed, continued to churn restlessly within her, impossible to extinguish.

The sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the garden, while the young woman’s heart remained caught between submission and an ever-growing desire to break free from the destiny imposed upon her.

⚘

They were two worlds, so vastly different yet equally unrelenting, separated by an abyss of inequality and expectations.

They moved in opposite directions, like tides that should never converge. But fate, ever defiant in its unpredictability, was preparing the moment when these two opposing paths would collide - for better or for worse.

I’ve always loved those dramatic concepts of forbidden romance or arranged relationships where, in the end, the characters inevitably fall in love, and everything wraps up beautifully and happily. The last time I rewatched Titanic, I couldn’t help but imagine a premise inspired by it. While the story takes a bit of inspiration, I promise it goes in a completely different direction (or at least as far as I can manage to control it). The original plan was to post everything once I’d finished the entire story, but I couldn’t hold back—I’m already dropping the first chapter. My biggest weakness is posting things before they’re fully done and then losing steam partway through, but I’m hoping that doesn’t happen this time! If all goes according to plan, I should finish writing by the end of the weekend. I might have gotten a little too excited about this one. I’ve always wanted to try a fanfic that dives into aspects of Ruggie’s life outside of NRC. It’s a tough task, though, since we don’t have much to go on—no interactions with his grandmother, no real details about where he lives. There’s only that one panel from the manga’s Book 3 (at least so far, as far as I know), but even that gives us a hint as to why there’s so little material to work with. Let’s face it, Disney would probably never go deeper into it because the reality might be a bit too raw. I’ll admit, it’s been challenging to write a cute, romantic fanfic centered around Ruggie’s life outside of school while trying to add more layers to his character without breaking the tone or straying too far from something the remember canon Ruggie. But honestly? It’s been a really fun experience so far! If you’re reading this, feel free to share your thoughts—I love hearing other people’s perspectives on characters’ personalities. Without further ado, I’ll see youl in Chapter 2. 🍩 - also posted on A03

[the-red-thread-that-strangles]

Have a heartless bastards AU draft

There's a path in the woods.

And at the end of that path, there is home.

Its windows, glowing with firelight, serve as a beacon in the cold night. Shuuichi, in his haste, trips over a root, hidden by the snow. Before he manages to get himself back up, some of the ice melts into the gaps of his gloves, his boots. The cool, wet stains leave him numb.

He has to hurry. Mother is waiting.

Shuuichi's more careful, now, keeping to the middle of the path. In barely any time at all, he's at the garden gate. This is bad. The numbness is spreading through his arms. His frigid fingers won't cooperate, can't hold onto the keys. They fall and sink into the icy shadows before the gate. It looms above him as he kneels down and tries to dig. He must have been at it for minutes, but they're nowhere to be found. Fear siezes his heart - it took years for mother to give him the keys, and now he's lost them, just like that.

She'll never forgive him.

Cold seeps in through his pants, bites into his skin. He's forced to give up his search, if he doesn't want to freeze to death. He drags himself up, bangs and screams against the impossibly tall door, but of course, in the storm, no one hears a thing.

He's all alone.

Shuuichi slams himself against the door, but still it won't budge.

There's one last option.

His father's hunting rifle has never failed him before. He slings it off his shoulder, lines up the shot, and pulls the trigger. The bullet pierces the lock, shatters it.

Shuuichi hugs the rifle to his chest, the warmth of its barrel comforting against his cheek, and slams himself against the door. This time it gives. He falls face-first into the snow on the other side, but there's no time to waste. He pushes himself off the ground, scurries up the stairs to the house, and breaks through the living room's glass doors.

Where did mother go? She was supposed to guide him.

As he crosses the threshhold, he's hit with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. He clutches his chest, all of it too achingly familiar. The Christmas tree, the fireplace. Shukichi's stocking hanging right in front of, illuminated by the fire's glow. The warmth it's radiating draws him in, like a moth to the flame. Fire and warmth and comfort and home.

He doesn't belong here, doesn't deserve this, not anymore.

The flames hiss at his rejection, singe his frostbitten skin, dry his eyes. A spark snaps onto his chest, sets his clothes ablaze like tinder. He's forced to stumble back, drop and roll to try and extinguish the flames that cook his flesh. Searing pain cuts through all thought, through the pleasant numbness that had kept it at bay before. He's left heaving, breath too short, his heart burning in his chest.

It hurts. Why won't it stop hurting?

No matter what he does, he can't seem to douse the flames. Shuuichi can't stay; the blaze is spreading through the room. Already, the tree is set alight in scintillating red.

Charred and blackened, embers lurking beneath his skin, he creeps across the floor, a trail of ash and dust dancing behind him.

The only way out is down. He just has to endure the heat for a little while longer...

With a deafening crack, the floor gives, the structural integrity damaged beyond salvation, and he falls, face first, into the basement.

Shuuichi blinks his eyes open.

"You're late", mother chides, but her smile is one of pride, still. She gently lifts his useless body, no longer able to move by itself, and puts it in a cushioned chair. The ritual circle carved into the stone flares a brilliant crimson.

"I got lost on the way."

She hugs him - he presumes, without the accompanying physical touch. The only sensation left in his body is the nuisance in his chest, pumpinh liquid fire in his veins.

"I'm sorry. You had to forge the path yourself, or the anchor would be worthless."

His head lolls, can't manage the nod.

"It's fine."

He does his best to smile, hopes mother sees and knows it's meant for her.

For just a moment, hesitation washes across her features.

"Are you certain you want to go through with the ritual? You won't be able to go back."

His heart burns in incandescent agony.

He'd do anything to make it stop.

"Yes."

She straightens, and before his eyes, his mother disappears. In her place stands Mary Sera, arch witch of Blackpool, a statue hewn from glass and steel.

"Akai Shuuichi, blood of my blood. In accordance with the edicts passed down to us by the progenitor, do you surrender your anchor to us, so it may become the instrument of your unbinding?"

Weakly, he nods.

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

Thrice it's said, and done.

The woman wearing his mother's face squats down in front of him, and pries the hunting rifle from his grip.

"No-", whispers a tiny, weak voice in the back of his mind. "That's father's rifle, I was supposed to give it back when he returns-"

But even if he wanted to, Shuuichi doesn't have the strength to resist. It's ripped away like a band-aid, leaving his skin too raw, too exposed. He shivers.

At the witch's word, the rifle starts glowing red, orange, white, and Shuuichi's world explodes in searing pain. This shouldn't be possible. He's gone through fire, but it didn't burn this deep within his bones, didn't melt who he was, who he could be, into a single focus of possibility.

The woman bends the rifle, agonizingly slowly, compresses it into a bar of metal, the wood burnt away. From it, she forges a blade. Each strike of her hammer reverberates through Shuuichi, shatters his bones, his mind, until there's nothing left but fire.

Blessed is the moment she drops the blade into ice water; the breath stops in Shuuichi's lungs as he's sumberged with it, a brilliant clarity of mind to stare at his impending death.

The witch is upon him momentarily, knife in hand. She kisses his forehead, cold radiating from her lips throughout his body. He freezes.

Then she plunges the blade into his chest.

It hurts just once, on the way in, overwhelmingly sharp and cold. She carves a circle in his chest, and as she goes, the link between his searing, beating heart, and the rest of him, is severed.

When the witch tugs, something gives within his chest.

A mess of blood and crystal, connected to his body by wet, red strands, pulsates weakly in her hand.

Ah. So that's the tumor that was causing all his pain.

With one last cut, the witch rends his heart from his chest.

Good riddance.

Sweet relief washes over Shuuichi, and he blacks out.

It's over.

.

When he comes to, his mother leads him through the basement to the family vault.

He has no use for his heart, would've liked to toss it away. But after that whole procedure, it still must be kept safe. How annoying.

Shuuichi places the heart in a bed of crushed ice, and slams the door of Pandora's box shut.

He's got a plane to catch.

[legend-as-old-as-time]

Headcanon that for the Great Beings, one of their most important discoveries about energized protodermis and its derivatives?

It was that it can circumvent / ignore physics as they knew them and create “cold” as its own element. It keeps stable by absorbing the energy of heat and “creating” more cold.

I’m not good in physics but you can’t “make” cold. Cold is the absence of heat, and the heat has to go somewhere else for something to become cold.

This is how fridges and freezers work. The heat gets artificially removed and dumped outside.

And when something is cold, it often usually warms over time because it’s an absense of heat that will be filled.

Overheating is a huge limit for many mechanical and electrical devices and how they work. The generated heat can deform or even melt the devices.

So they need mechanisms like a ventilation system to dump the heat that they generate; or a liquid that cools the heating parts and the liquid must be constantly replaced and / or recooled.

And those systems need space which they might not have depending on the device and / or location.

You also have to consider how you remove the extra heat. Maybe it can be used for something else like heating rooms, but it can’t just spread inside a building.

Having suddenly access to something - let’s call it advanced science or magic, we don’t know - that remains at a freezing temperature for long stretches of time? A material that replenishes itself by partly absorbing the heat diffusing into its area of effect and transforming it?

That makes a lot of new things possible.

Second headcanon: Ko-Metru serves double duty for Mata Nui’s brain in a mental sense and in a physical / mechanical sense.

The Ko-Matoran read the stars = signals of Mata Nui’s brain, interpret them, and send them ahead for further processing.

Ko-Metru serves as a “heat sink” to counterbalance Ta-Metru’s massive forges. It cools the entire head and neck area of the GSR. Otherwise the systems necessary to pour out the surplus of heat into space would’ve needed to be even bigger and crowded out many other important parts that keep the GSR functional.

[thevampirelevi]

Adventureland | Part III

Masterlist

"Dive to Atlantis" (part 3/7)

cw: vampire!eddie x fem reader, drug use, angst

wc: 5k+

The excuse you first gave your aunt and uncle - proud owners of Hawkins’ very own Motel 6 - when you’d shown up on their doorstep in the middle of the night, for the first time, was that you were “homesick.” Not a total lie, but given the fact that your mind was still reeling with mixed emotions from your encounter with a certain and unforgettable doe-eyed individual, you just couldn’t come up with anything better on the spot. You certainly weren’t going to tell them where you’d just been. Instead, you’d fibbed that you wanted your visit to be a surprise when your aunt asked why you didn’t call ahead, and indeed a surprise it was - even to you. In all honesty, you didn’t want anyone to know that you were back, at least not yet.

You are well aware of the fact that your aunt, uncle, and eventually the rest of your family including your father - whenever he finds out - are all going to start asking questions you really don’t want to answer but will have to, sooner or later. For now though, there’s questions of your own occupying all of the space in your brain and demanding your full attention already.

As you toss and turn that first night, only one question remains solved; where you’d recognized Eddie from after all this time. Then comes morning, and in walks so many more, newer questions when you finally stir awake from a dream about him. The first of many to come.

A hungry haze of fiery orange spilled all around you, its fluorescence hiding any hint of where you were. A burning sensation licking at your ribcage and up to your jaw, reminding you of the feeling of being a fish out of water like when you hid in school bathrooms. You wished for water again as you finally made sense of the flames around you, taunting and daring to come closer. It’s almost hypnotic the way the inferno flickers to life and dances to an inaudible tune without missing a single beat as if long awaiting to enchant you from the moment it ignited.

You looked around you in a trance, transfixed from the place where you stood in the eye of a firestorm, paralyzed in fear or smoke inhalation - or maybe both. Nothing tells you to hold your breath, your mind thoughtless.

As you’re taking it all in, you feel yourself being lifted off the ground by hands that are so cold, so unmoving, as you’re then cradled to the chest of something very statue-like.

You both look at one another alike a reflection in a mirror, an equal but opposite reaction as the strange man looks down at you while you must look up at him.

Making his way into the ninth circle as if his skin is alabaster carved from moonstone and forged by the fire that dances in his eyes. A devilish grin eclipses his face as he holds you in his arms and walks straight through hellfire.

You hack up a lung as your eyes snap open, heart racing against your thoughts. You can practically feel the smoldering heat kissing your skin still as you try to make sense of the dream, watching the popcorn motel ceiling. Once your nervous system is sure that the room is in fact not on fire, you crawl out of bed in a tired stupor, making way to the bathroom through blurred vision.

You turn on the faucet and splash cold water on your face, an attempt at extinguishing the imaginary - but still lingering - blaze. You’re staring at the porcelain of the sink, still piecing things together, when you finally fully wake to the feeling of being watched. In a quick movement you’re flicking on the harsh light of the bathroom and ripping back the shower curtain, exhaling when you find only a dripping shower head and toiletries your aunt brought you yesterday.

You rub your eyes as you walk back to bed, peeking at the clock on the nightstand. 3:13am.

You climb in under the duvet and try to close your eyes, but still restless despite being woken up in the middle of your sleep cycle. You toss and turn, unable to completely shake the feeling of being watched still. Repeating your actions from before, you press your fingertips to the brass of the floral panel touch-light next to you, pressing again to rid the darkness of the shadows in the corners of the room. You look around you in every direction but up.

Nothing’s there.

The next time you wake up in a cold sweat was a few days later and that time, you’d dreamt about being pulled out of the wreckage of a car crash by two cold, dead hands.

Now a week later you find yourself being thrusted awake yet again, falling from a dream (or maybe it’s time to refer to these as nightmares, at this point) of being followed by an omnipresent, raspy voice darkly chanting, “Are you lost?”

You let out a hoarse groan, not even lifting your head off the pillow as you look over to your side at the time, glowing red numericals blinking back at you. 3:06am.

Knowing there’s no hope of going back to sleep, you decide on a different approach this time.

You shuffle around in the drawers you’d only unpacked into recently, fingertips touching around to separate fleece pajamas from your Levi’s. As you fumble around in the dark, you assemble an outfit warmer than what you’d worn to bed and grab your keys from where you’d last touched them a week ago, stepping into the cold air of dusk and locking the door behind you.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───── ⋆⋅˚ʚ♡ɞ˚⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Eddie held your hand that night until you finally broke away, saying that it was time for you to go. You hadn’t gone into too much detail, but he now knew at least part of the reason why a girl as pretty as you was crying all alone on Valentine’s Day.

He’d walked you all the way to your car counting every step of the way, sad to see you leave and unsure if you’d ever even come back, but not letting it show. Instead he told you he’d see you later with a smile, and you returned the favor, even though you really weren’t sure yet of that being the case.

But Eddie sure meant it. Way more than he ever knew at that time.

While he’d spent most of your first interaction together hoping the night would never end, he’d also secretly been waiting for you to leave. In all his second life, Eddie had not known hunger quite like he did meeting you. Not since he first woke up in the ‘Upside Down.’ He just knew, from the very moment he first started tracking your scent, that it would take at least a catamount to satiate him.

It was the longest he’d ever hunted, in part because he just kept needing more and partly because he’d been distracted - for the first time ever since rebirth. Usually he was something lethal ever since he first learned how; where to hide, when to attack. But when it was your voice and face in his head as he pounced, his prey just seemed to slip away.

He wasn’t even aware of where he was walking (though to him it felt like flying) when he’d finally retreated from the forest. Merely he was just going through your entire conversation in his head again, greeting to goodbye. Worried he’d scared you off, either because you’d last seen him before at a funeral of all places (not a good omen, he thought) or because maybe it would always ring true: Born a freak, die a freak.

Eddie never fully made peace with the new changes he’d undergone, after all. No matter how indiscreet or possibly very noticeable they may actually be to the outside world, Eddie felt eternally trapped in Adventureland funhouse mirrors. All stark white and black eyed, looking like he hadn’t slept in centuries, he was sure he looked as dead as he sometimes felt. Under your gaze especially, the first to actually look his way in ages it felt - the first he’s let really look at him in so long - Eddie, on a scale of ‘Eddie Munster’ to ‘Evil Ed,’ was feeling more like ‘Nosferatu.’

As long as you knew nothing yet about “Eddie the Freak” though, Eddie could learn to live with it. Being treated like a murderer, now that he might actually be considered one by some definitions, was not a thought he would ever like to face.

So he’d gotten lost in thoughts of your wonderful face instead. Lost, all the way to the Motel 6.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───── ⋆⋅˚ʚ♡ɞ˚⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Turning the key to the ignition of your car, the engine roars to life. As you place your hands at ten and two, you realize you have no idea where to go. You switch the ignition off again, pondering your extremely limited options in silence. Just as you consider going back to bed, something makes itself known to you in your rearview mirror and catches your eye.

“Eddie?!” you shriek, to no one in particular, heart now slamming in your chest. Seeing his figure suddenly standing there, almost like he just appeared out of thin air, makes you question if this is another dream of yours. Maybe you’d become so sleep deprived that you’re now dreaming while awake.

At the mention of his name, Eddie’s eyes meet yours in the reflection, both wide as full moons. You freeze, as does he; him not expecting to hear your voice and you not expecting to be heard.

Your eyes dart around, mind tangled with a million more thoughts than it tends to as of late - the forefront being to lock your doors.

You only let your focus go back to your rearview for a split second, just in time to see Eddie’s figure as he turns and walks the other way. You don’t know exactly why, maybe his cowardice - maybe your insomnia induced irritability and irrationality, but your blood begin to boil suddenly. This puts you in enough of a frenzy to light a fire under your ass and nearly send you flying out of your car with smoke blowing out of your ears.

“Hey!” you yell, stopping the man in his tracks. “Are you following me?!”

He doesn’t move, not expecting to be confronted. The sight of his back turned to you only angers you more as you march straight up to him, tugging on a chain webbed into the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“Face me,” you spit.

He obliges, letting you turn him but he looks past you, emotionless. You stare at him hard, unsure what your next move is. The longer he remains silent, the more the fear creeps back in as you feel less and less in control.

All of a sudden he’s moving you, the cold rings adorning his fingers pressing against your lips before you have time to scream.

“Shh,” he whispers hurriedly. “Someone’s over there-”

Just as you're considering whether or not his rings will crack your teeth if you bite him, you see it.

A bustling of leaves in the wooded area where the Motel’s veranda ends, which you just barely catch under the shrinking light of the blade ‘Vacancy’ sign as Eddie carefully walks your bodies backwards and out of sight without a sound.

A second man steps out from the trees. Great, you think, of course you’re being kidnapped.

But the second man falters where he is, looking around with dramatic whips of his hood-covered head searching for something. Searching for you. Eddie releases his hold on you.

“I can explain everything,” he swears, still whispering. “But please tell me you know who that is?”

You shake your head, all bravery you’d mustered earlier now gone with your voice in a freeze response. You both watch silently for a moment as the man makes his way through the parking lot and over to your car. You squint from your spot peering over the side of the building, still unable to make out his face or any features distinct enough for a police sketch. What you can see is the hooded figure leaning down to your driver’s side window, hand over his eyes as he spies inside before finally, he turns right around and walks back into the trees he came, disappearing.

“Shit,” you breathe, forgetting Eddie’s there until he gently grabs your wrist with a warm hand for a change.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. “I really had no idea you were staying here.”

You remain silent, waiting for him to continue and weighing out the idea of believing him or not.

He points with one finger embellished by a ring you recognize has a cross, leading your gaze down the street. “Forest Hills, I was headed home when I recognized your car.”

You blink up at him, “Walking home at three in the morning?”

He shrugs, “Smoking in the park is perfectly legal at this hour.”

You try your best to suppress a laugh with a cough, wired from your nerves and just glad the other man is gone, but of course Eddie still hears it.

Suddenly you remember your growing collection of eerie dreams, now seeming like a warning in hindsight. You sigh exasperatedly, “I probably shouldn’t stay here anymore.”

Eddie nods a single time, puppy eyes looking down at his laces. “Where will you go..? Back home?”

You scoff, “Not a chance. My aunt and uncle live in Hawkins, they own the motel. I’ll just stay at their house,” you yawn, “S’not far.”

“I’ll take you,” Eddie states matter of factly. “Just in case whoever that was comes back or something.”

Tired as you come down from the adrenaline rush, you don’t argue and begin walking back toward Room 7. “Good, you can help me with my bags.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───── ⋆⋅˚ʚ♡ɞ˚⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

For the rest of February, Eddie becomes something of a personal bodyguard after the incident at the dark, desolate, dingey motel - the unease still nipping at you from time to time makes it so that you don’t mind the pebbles he sends to your window every night for two weeks straight. Eddie never dares crossing paths with your family, not wishing to conjure more questions. That night you’d showed up on auntie's doorstep again, Eddie stayed behind watching from afar as you simply and truthfully told your aunt that her motel was kind of creepy, no offense.

Every night the rocks came a’knocking, you’d creep outside to your car and remind Eddie the doorbell works fine, like clockwork. No matter the clandestine nature of your meetings, necessary or not, you’d either stay up a few hours past bedtime in your car talking like old friends catching up and sifting through your collection of tapes - or you’d actually make use of the vehicle and drive to whatever was still open (usually 7-Eleven.)

Sometimes, he whisks you away before your aunt and uncle return home but as the weather gets warmer, he only makes his way to you well into the graveyard shift. Tonight is one of those nights.

Today had been a particularly summery day of spring, feeling somewhat out of place for Indiana. You’re curled up to a book you’d checked out some time ago, thankful to find your old and battered Roane County library card wedged in the confines of your finite suitcase that you’d stuffed practically your whole life into - now a month ago. You’re sat on the footboard bench perched under the open window, still-warm wind turning a page for you every now and then.

You ignore many sounds in the house as your aunt and uncle come home, and ignore the darkening of night as they make and finish dinner. Your eyes not yet willing and not yet able to look anywhere but your open book, you figure you’ll get leftovers later. Your mind’s eye paints with blood from the hands of a betrayer; a scene you’d seen/read multiple times before, cataclysmic skies between the words of a whispering sword.

“Y/N,” your head shoots up from the broken spine of the book you’d now read thrice - without ever hearing your name before - realizing the whispering is coming from outside. “It’s me, Eddie!”

“Door bell still works. Or you know, you could try knocking, too,” you whisper-shout back, leaning your upper body over the sill and looking down at your friend who’s now grinning up at you like a Cheshire cat from a story below.

“Not gonna wake the whole house up just to borrow you,” he motions for you to follow him as he turns and treads the manicured lawn all the way to where your car is parked on the street.

Bending an ear in your page, you quickly dress and tiptoe downstairs missing almost every creaky plank of wood along the way. You noiselessly shut the front door until it clicks, letting out a breath to find every front facing window still unlit, sleeping.

“You up for a little adventure this fine witching hour?” asks the brunette leaning against your passenger side door.

You raise your hand, jingling your keys, “Who am I to refuse?”

You both climb into the station wagon (now referred to as ‘Falco’ after a tape got stuck in the player, causing Rock Me Amadeus to blast from the speakers everytime if you’re not quick enough) instinctively turning the volume dial all the way down before you power up the engine.

“Where to this time sir?”

“Seven Eleven,” states Eddie. “And then Lover’s Lake.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───── ⋆⋅˚ʚ♡ɞ˚⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You have a hard time keeping your eyes on the road, every cell of your body jittering and making you feel slightly unsteady, suddenly acutely aware that you’ve now snuck out of the house (for the millionth time) in a manner strangely alike a pining teenager breaking curfew to go to the lake alone with tall, dark, and handsome himself. Not to mention, it’s Lover’s Lake. Obviously the most platonic lake there is.

You still hadn’t quite been sure if it was time to admit the meaning of the electricity you still very much felt in passing moments where your body made even the slightest amount of contact with the body currently sitting next to you (which might not be passable as a symptom of early frostbite anymore, now that you were both literally warming up to one another) and that same electricity hangs in the air you currently breathe. You also weren’t sure yet about admitting the meaning of Eddie crossing the threshold from waking life to your dreams, either.

“So,” you clear your throat, deciding not to dwell. “Remind me again why we’re going to the lake?”

“Oh,” Eddie smiles calmly, clearly dragging out one more second before clueing you in on whatever he’s got up his sleeve. “We’re meeting up with my old friend Mary Jane.”

You nearly slam your foot down on the breaks, switching from looking at the road ahead to looking at the profile of his mischievous, dimpled smirk in rapid succession. You laugh nervously, “I- What? Eddie I haven’t smoked that stuff in years-”

“You don’t have to of course,” Eddie is quick to reassure. “I just thought it would be fun, and I have to admit I’m pretty intrigued by the idea of seeing you high after that story you told me the other day. What did you trip over again?”

You attempt to silence his teasing before he can utter another word of that memory, “I told you that story in confidence,” you pout. “And I didn’t trip, the cat just so happened to get in my way, for the record.”

Eddie breathes a hearty chortle, “Of course, Y/N, of course. Man, I’d hate to get in your way. Poor Mittens…”

“Hey he was perfectly fine I’ll have you know,” you try to declare between your own laughter. “Mittens running away was completely unrelated.”

“Oh I’m sure it was, sweetheart.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───── ⋆⋅˚ʚ♡ɞ˚⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Eddie lights a pre-rolled joint with a zippo lighter from where the two of you are stowed away in the rear-facing seat in the ‘Way-Back’ hatch of Falco, door open since the midnight air is still warm. You watch the glowing ember of the butt of the joint.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Eddie reminds you again. “But, if you do decide to partake, I’ll stop you before you green out again. I promise.”

“You’re not participating?”

Eddie shakes a head of shadow-dark curls. “Nah, not my thing nowadays. Besides, someone has to drive you home.”

You ponder it for a moment, “And you’re not gonna try anything funny, right?”

“I’m just here to provide a safe environment for recreational activity,” ash falls as he holds his hands up, palm-facing in innocence. “And babysit, that’s all. Scout’s honor.”

You take the J from him then, fingertips grazing his lukewarm skin and sending butterflies to your stomach for multiple reasons. You twirl it around, smelling the skunk-y incense. The last time you did this was two or more years ago, after you’d first been told your mother’s prognosis. You’d needed a distraction then, much like how you need one again now.

Bringing it to your lips, you inhale a cloud of bittersweet smoke, feeling deep eyes on you. Eddie, hearing the cough born in your lungs, brings his hand to your back almost instinctively, tracing comforting spirals in your spine in a way that reminds you of the Adventureland bench talk.

It only takes a few pulls for you to give the joint back to Eddie, cursed with infectious laughter and reduced to a pile of giggles as you lean on Eddie’s shoulder to support your jell-o body - not even sure yourself what’s so funny.

“You okay, Smiley?” Eddie beams down at you with adoring eyes, clearly getting a kick out of your current state.

“I think it’s workinggg,” you sing, the vibration of your own voice adding to the tickle in your throat and making you giggle some more. “I told you I’m a lightweight.”

“S’Okay sweetheart, as long as you feel good.”

“Sweetheart,” you giggle once more, sighing. Both of you are looking up at the sky, but only one of you feels like an astronaut tethered to the moon as you float nearly high up enough into the stratosphere to whisper a wish to a star, weightless.

“What’s that?” The rasp of Eddie’s voice surprises you, having already forgotten he was there but feeling safer he was.

“Hmm?” you hum.

“You were saying something,” Eddie looks at you, giving you his full attention. “About a wish?”

“Oh,” you turn, unaware you were thinking out loud, and affirm with your mind as you study the man before you that if stars could take on human form - they’d look a lot like Eddie. Your voice drops to just a whisper, “I just wish time would stop for a little.”

“And why is that, Y/N?”

You blink up at Eddie, cottonmouth slowing your train of thought as you worry for a moment about sharing too much, with what little inhibition you have left. “So that I could have more time with my mom. More time to just be a kid. Maybe I’d go back in time and never leave Hawkins at all. Or maybe I’d just stay here, in this moment forever, with you.”

He nods in agreement, eyes twinkling under the moonlight. “I’d go back in time, too,” he starts to smile softly, “Or stay here forever, with you.”

“Back in time to when?” You ask curiously.

Eddie shrugs, “1984. Get it right the first time and get the hell out of here while I still could.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Get what right?”

A dimple appears in Eddie’s right cheek, corners of his lips pulling into a smirk that doesn’t all seem genuine as he laughs lowly, “I dropped out of high school. After many attempts I just finally admitted I’m allergic to makin’ my old man proud, or something. If I could go back, I’d make him proud the first time.”

“Your dad?” You ask.

“My uncle. We aren’t as close anymore, but he’s the only family I have.”

After a moment of silence, you tell him, “It’s never too late.”

Eddie shakes his head, sighing. “I think that road ended for me long ago.”

For a while, you can think of nothing to say. Eddie climbs out of the hatchback and rises to stand. You silently watch as he approaches the water’s edge, taking a rock from the ground where the lake’s peak is. Shoulder blades tug at his jacket as he throws his stone, and then another, skipping the surface of the now defrosted lake with ease. This gives you an idea, albeit maybe not a good one, you’ll just have to see.

“Eddie?” He turns at the sound of both your voice and your sneakers crunching the earth below. “You ever heard of ‘Dive to Atlantis?’”

Eddie scrunches his brows beneath his bangs, you don’t wait for his answer.

“Adventureland is home to only a few water rides. I was always too scared as a kid.

“And my mother,” you continue, undoing the button of your jeans as Eddie’s face only twists further into confusion. “She was the only one who could make the time to take me to Adventureland majority of the time. But she never wanted to get her clothes wet.”

You chuckle, watching a blush creep across Eddie’s face as you kick off your socks and your jeans, trying not to trip. His eyes are avoiding your entire direction now. “Y/N-”

“I’m making a point, I promise,” you laugh, doing away with your top and tossing your clothes into the car. “Anyways, I never did get to go on that ride, or really any water rides, as a kid. I just never got over my fear of water.”

You break out into a run, winding past Eddie as his head snaps in the direction of the water as you come crashing into it. You dip in deep, adrenaline coursing through your veins and your heartbeat in your ears. Eddie hears you gasp before your head disappears under the water.

Your eyes are closed, but you can hear the muffled sound of Eddie tussling around before he comes diving into the lake behind you. Out of breath, you pop your head up and out from underwater, coughing as you cackle loudly.

“What the hell, Y/N?” exclaims Eddie, eyes wide.

“See,” you pant between another guffaw. “I told you, it’s never too late!”

Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, raining droplets of water from his unruly hair, making you laugh contagiously. “...No more drugs for you,” he’s laughing now, still in shock, “You’re crazy.”

Both of you tread water for a cold moment, nebulas forming from your breath and drifting smoke signals to the sky as the temperature starts to seep into your bones.

“Shit,” Eddie laughs fully this time, starting you up again. All that can be heard is the cacophony of laughter between the two of you that snowballs, sheer puerility as you splash cold water in turns against each other. Your polar bear plunge sobers you only for a moment long enough to wonder how you ended up here, what tide brought you together.

“Let’s get you home,” Eddie grins. “S’Gonna rain soon.”

You each come ashore, sneaking hidden glances at the other. You cover your chest, adjusting your bra strap as you shiver back to your pile of clothes. Eddie’s doing up the laces to his boots, faster than you, shirt riding up thanks to the droplets trailing off the ends of his darker hair and onto his back when you glimpse his way again - trying your best not to stare at the tattoos you’d never noticed before, littering his now bare arm.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” sneers the man without ever looking in your direction. Though he can’t see you, he can tell you’re blushing even as you turn your head an odd angle to hide it.

Falling raindrops pepper the ground, threatening to ruin what’s left of your dry clothes just as you’re ringing out your hair. You toss the keys to Eddie, both hurrying back into the car just as it starts to come down hard. Rushing to peel out of the oncoming thunderstorm, Eddie starts the car with an abrupt eruption of that song blaring into the enclosed space of your car. His hands cover his ears reflexively as he groans in pain, you try to stifle your giggling as you cut the sound (but failing miserably.) You blink at each other, unable to contain the snorts you both choke out, howling in your car like a pair of wolves, thick as thieves.

“You’ve really gotta get that fixed,” Eddie’s smile is so wide it looks like it hurts, wide eyes glinting. You’re still laughing, of course.

Eventually, after what feels like an infinity you’d happily spend busting a stitch in, you both gradually quiet down with aching ribs. Eddie watches you, hair pushed back out of his face.

Maybe it’s the high adding a soft haze to every instance around you, or maybe it’s the afterglow of yall’s laughter, but suddenly you can’t seem to pry your gaze from Eddie’s face - now not hidden by his mess of curls, supple with rosiness as he stares back at you. You inch closer for a better look, millimeter by millimeter, sharing a breath. You never noticed how soft his lips looked until his tongue swipes against the equally pink flesh there, the sharp edge of his canines peeking under the pillow of his top lip for a nanosecond. Rain drums down on your car and you bite your lip.

Suddenly the car is moving, Eddie’s face now away from yours and staring straight ahead without a hint in your direction, knuckles blanched white as he grips the wheel.

The ride home is silent the entire way there as you fight back a tsunami of tears, dam about to break, eyes stinging from three things at once; smoke, saltwater, and the heaviness of your heightened emotions. Your heart threatens to crack under the weight of repeated rejection.

[stardust-in-my-mind-blog]

a bittersweet difference in states

heat is destruction and consumption

it is the energy that rises from

the tree sacrificing itself to ashes

heat disappears once it is satisfied

once there is no longer something to destroy

I'm greedy for something everlasting

like warmth

and warmth can become heat

it can burn and rage as any fire

but warmth collapses after the highest release

the arms that hold you after lovemaking

the lips that smile against the neck they nibble

the taste you take in small doses

so it lasts and lasts

I've known the fire

I've known the water

every night I sink into a salted bath

grateful for the heat that holds me

makes my naked skin crimson

as blood rises to every surface of me

there is pleasure in the cooling

every melted and forged sword

hammered and glowing in heat

has to be submerged into the water

as it hisses and steams and solidifies

warmth is the cloth and the caress

that polishes it to deadly silver

the sheath is what protects the sword

bejeweled and magical to place it within

King Arthur dropped his scabbard and was slayed

though we often focus on Excalibur hitting the ground

it was the sheath that allowed him to keep

the heat and current of his blood within his body

the warmth of his life everlasting

until it ran cold and his corpse became a tree

for another funeral pyre fire

lost in the heat of the everlasting

I want warmth to last

because I can always inspire heat

[tadhgoftheforest]

"Munson!" Steve hollered from his living room, voice echoing slightly in the empty house.

Eddie swallowed, blinking a few times at the baby blue sink and the edge of the mirror in his periphery, wide eyed gaze locked on brass doorknob, fist clenched tightly around it.

"Yeah!" He shouted back, hand frozen on the knob, ready to turn.

"You joining us?" Steve said, voice raised. It sounded like he'd moved through his living room and was standing in the hallway or just inside the living room, not quite close enough to the bathroom.

Eddie swallowed again. Blinked a few more times as if it'd help clear the anxiety from his gut, his chest, his bloodstream.

"Yeah!" He called back, swallowing the strangled edge the end of his 'yeah' had before trying again. "Be out there in a sec!"

"Alcohol and snacks're in the kitchen!" Steve yelled one more time.

Eddie's ears strained, trying to hear if Steve was coming closer or moving away. He couldn't hear any footsteps. And then he heard the backdoor shut.

He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, grounding himself in the feeling of his body. His hair tickling his cheekbone and his jaw as it fell in forced permed waves, skipping the hollow of his cheeks, felt it laying thickly against the nape of his neck, sweaty from nerves and the fading heat of the summer sun as it set. The sweat that had gathered on his lower back, between his shoulder blades, and across the tops of his shoulders, making parts of his shirt stick a little wetly, cold in the interior of the house. He could feel it between his pecks, beading up and threatening to roll down his scarred stomach. The slight stiffness he felt in his right leg, skin and scar tissue stretched tight, muscles rigid. The way he could feel a similar stiffness as he breathed deeply, stretching across parts of his chest, sections of his abs, down his sides. The now warm metal of the door handle clasped in his hand, rings pressed against his skin.

He was here. He was alive. He was breathing.

He had been through fire and flame, forged in the embers of Hell, and had come out stronger on the other side.

He was Eddie Munson, the Banished, the Merciful King of the Shadowed Throne, the Siren of the Rust Belt.

And he sure wasn't fucking scared.

Read the rest on Ao3.

[finnritter]

Rog's evening off

@mckellerton I am so sorry this prompt took me a million years to finish, I still don't know why?? I needed like three attempts of getting Rog's POV right, but I'm pretty happy with it, now! Hope you see this and still enjoy it!

Also idk how Egalmoth managed to smuggle himself into this so prominently?? I wanted him to just quickly stop by, but he was being clingy and just… stayed. But I love their friendship a lot so it’s okay. Hope you don’t mind!

...

Only when Rog let the huge hammer sink down to place it on the floor and consequently felt his arms shake in strain did he register that it was urgent time for a break. He still took care to set down the heavy tool lightly, its contact with the stone floor only producing a quiet clink that was immediately swallowed by the familiar roaring of a forge amid busy activity.

He stretched his arms above his head and while the pull eased some of the tension in his strained muscles, he winced as the movement shot a sharp thrill of pain through his spine. 

It was definitely time for a break.

He wrapped up his work, taking care to orderly put his tools away and clear his workstation before calling out goodbyes to the few who heard him over the clanking of metal and their own razor-sharp focus.

Then he stepped outside, gratefully breathing in the fresh air of a mild, early evening and let the gentle breeze cool off his still forge-heated skin. Maybe not only time for a break but to retire for the day. He was so quick to lose track of time while encapsulated in work like he had been.

Not far from the entrance of the forge a fountain was placed, not one of the fancy ones artfully spraying sparkling water over several platforms like they could be found all over the city, just a small one that allowed tired blacksmiths to wash their hands and face in after a long day between metal cuttings and furnaces.

And so he did right now, splashing the cool, fresh water all over his face and shoulders and trying to carefully stretch his crooked back into an upright position that didn’t hurt again. He could feel the old scars that were ridging his back pull at the strain. He was grateful, every day, that he was still able to move, to walk, to work mostly unimpedent, a fate not all of his fellow former thralls shared. And yet, moments like this one, when he wished his body to be flexible and strong enough to easily abide a couple hours of slight overextention, made it hard, sometimes, to keep his positive mindset.

He felt the water run down his back, focused on the cold trickle and determined to not let his mind slip into darker places, when a voice, cheerful but mellow, and very familiar, brought him the relief of distraction.

“Working hard, my dear Lord?”

Rog slowly turned to find Egalmoth standing halfway across the narrow forecourt of the forge, equipped with a huge bag, a gentle smile, and a wave. He was hard to look at, as usual, if only because his fine robes and the elaborate headpiece he wore were both weaved through with tiny bright jewels that glittered blindingly in the sharp evening sun.

Rog smirked and lifted a hand in greeting.

“I’m actually just done”, he replied, when he had crossed over to him.

“Oh good”, Egalmoth said with a genuine smile and then very lightly poked his shoulder. “You are slouching again.”

“How else am I supposed to look a titch like you in the eye?”

Egalmoth laughed at that, always mindful to reassure him that his playful teasing did not accidentally strike a nerve, but his brows drew in in a more serious way after that.

“Are you hurting?”

“Not much. I might have overworked myself a little, but the festival preparations are not going to finish up by themselves.”

Egalmoth nodded sagely at that, the spark of concern overshadowed by a gleam of overacted annoyance, as he began to effortlessly rope him into light conversation.

“I feel you, my good Lord. I have been drowning in administrative work all day, and would still be, hadn’t I fled the scene half an hour ago. I’m dreading coming back to the mess I left, but if I have to put my signature under one more request for diamond cladded strings of tree decoration, my hand will fall off.”

He shook both of his hands in a demonstrating gesture and slowly began taking steps into the direction of one of the bigger streets leading further into the core of the city, giving Rog the chance to follow his guide.

Rog hummed in amused sympathy and stretched once again; the sensation painful but not as demotivating this time. Then he easily fell into step with his friend, who seemed to lead him somewhere, purpose in every one of his long, light-footed strides. 

“And what does the Lord of the Heavenly Arch plan to do with his so valiantly earned free time?”

“Simple. Go to the market, stock up gratuitously on the best ingredients this blessed city has to offer and kidnap my best friend to cook me a meal worthy to make me forget about my work until tomorrow morning.”

Rog raised his brows in mocked offense. “So here you come and pry me from my work claiming I need a break, just to let me slave away in your kitchen? What a sensible best friend you make.”

Egalmoth, whose almost childlike excitement every time Rog cooked or baked for him was one of the most pleasant social interactions he had ever encountered, pressed a hand to his heart dramatically.

“Naturally you would be gratefully invited to share aforementioned meal with me after”, he clarified. “And additionally, I will make sure you are rewarded generously with the pleasure of my company and conversation making skills.”

Rog gave a quick laugh and Egalmoth let his hand sink and smiled, his exaggerated countenance slipping into a more genuine expression.

“I was thinking it might help both of us clear our heads a little. Naturally you don’t have to come if you would rather rest.”

Again, that lighthearted reassurance that Rog would have hardly needed after decades of friendship and knowledge of Egalmoth’s bantering playfulness. And yet, exactly those tokens of mindful care were what he liked so much about his friend. Of course, he wouldn’t choose hardly necessary solitude over dinner and jovial conversations with him – although his past self from two ages ago would never have imagined to ever reach a point of such lighthearted trust again.

So he smiled and attempted a shallow bow, ignoring once more the stiffness in his back, that already felt more tolerable again.

“It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

…

Gondolin had two marketplaces, the Great Market near the city’s eastern borders, and a smaller one in the South.

The former was home of the busy, bustling week market on most mornings, but able to transform into a festival ground, meeting place or the stage of an equally busy jumble sale at will. If the palace and the impressing height of the King’s Tower was the core of the city, the Great Market was its heart and soul, for royalty and common folk alike.

This late into the evening, it must have already glowed with hundreds of lanterns, and filled with the chatter of everyone sitting down at the numbers of tables and benches spread over the place, or just plain on the stone of the great steps that led up to some of the elevated rostras. It was a common place to gather for elves of all ages, who, often wine or pastries in hand, enjoyed letting their day come to a well-deserved peaceful end among their fellow citizen’s joy and laughter.

The two of them were, however, clearly headed towards the Lesser market, as they directly crossed over into the city’s Southern half.

Being a true marketplace first and foremost always made its name ring out a little unfittingly, in Rog’s opinion, even though it was notoriously a much smaller space.

It was home to a farmer’s market that lived up to its name with ease, the stalls of Gondolin’s agricultists alternating day-by-day in a well-thought-out rotation plan that allowed them to sell their wares directly, accept orders of greater quantity in an orderly fashion, and enable a stunning variety of ingredients and delicacies.

By this time of evening, there was not much fresh product ecpected to be left, but it was the perfect time to buy all sorts of cheeses, pasties, pickled or brined vegetables, endless varieties of sweet or sour fruit jams, jars of honey ranging from herbal and dark golden in colour to the almost white, mildly sweet clover honey, and much else that any elven stomach could desire. And famously, the late afternoon and early evening hours were also when all of Gondolin’s best vintners were touting their wares, often enabling the one or other spontaneous impulse buy from people who made the mistake of crossing the market later in the day.

Not so Egalmoth and Rog, who arrived at the narrow but invitingly crowded square with full intentions of going on a spending spree.

They did not stop until Egalmoth’s bag could not carry much else, by which time they had also made conversations with at least half of the vendors, as they were both well known (as Lords of the city) and well liked (as famous enthusiastic costumers as well as easy to rope into small talk) amongst the farmers.

Egalmoth was beaming on the way back, his smile brighter than his clothing, even, and he was quickly caught in speculations of what kind of dinner they might conjure out of their findings.

Rog gladly let himself be pulled along the conversation, keeping it light-hearted and full of laughter, although he realised, not by any means for the first time, how often evenings like this one still felt like a very precious, very fragile gift.

The luxury of being able to buy good food that he would be allowed to cook with what he wanted. The friendly words and smiles exchanged, the peaceful air of the evening behind safe, protective walls. The friend at his side, who chose to spend time with him just for his sake.

He had come a long way from the whips and fires of the Enemy, a long way even from spending time among people who even after escaping did not believe themselves safe, a long way from not believing he himself was safe, either.

But this evening was his, just like any other day of his future life would be, and if it took a good meal and a friend to remind him of that, sometimes, well, he was lucky that he could count on both.

[secondclassfangirl]

the touch of a hand lit the fuse

(A lil ficlet I wrote for Silverusso Day. Also on AO3.)

Daniel would be lying if he said he didn’t know what he was doing.

Though in truth, he hadn’t really known—not at first. Not back then. Back then, he hadn’t quite understood the depth of his feelings—what he felt whenever those cold eyes pierced him. What part of him knew, even subconsciously, that he wanted from the very start, and would soon become determined to get. No matter the cost.

As a kid, Daniel never quite felt in control of his own life. From shitty apartments spanning East Coast to West, his father being ripped away far too young, and his mother’s inescapable cycle of working her ass off just to live paycheck to paycheck, Daniel internalized at an early age that the world wasn’t kind to people like him. If you want something, you have to pull teeth to get it—and sometimes that isn’t even enough.

But this—damn it, he’s going to get this. Even if it destroys him.

Daniel knew from that first glance in the garden all those years ago that he wanted Terry, even if he wasn’t exactly sure how. At first it was idolization, almost: Terry was everything Daniel wasn’t. Pale eyes. Perfect body. Not to mention that quiet confidence he possessed, that effortless ability to capture the attention of everyone in the room without lifting a finger. Daniel wanted that—craved it.

But as time crawled by, and the feeling never ceased, Daniel learned that his fixation was so much more than sheer jealousy.

He wanted Terry—on a level deeper and with more ferocity than anything he’d ever felt. Beneath that smooth, perceptive gaze, Daniel felt seen for perhaps the first time in his life. He felt…alive. Every clandestine brush of their fingers, every lingering, wanton gaze, fanned a flame deep within him, lighting up parts of himself that Daniel didn’t even know existed.  

Back then, he didn’t have the capacity to understand that fire. But now—now, he does. And he’s the one with the gasoline.

Even after the betrayal, and the heart sinking realization that he’d been nothing more than a piece in some sick game of chess orchestrated by Cobra Kai, Daniel’s obsession lingered. He knew by the heat in Terry’s eyes, a mirror of his own desire, that he meant so much more than he let on; that even though they met under false pretenses, the connection forged between them was unbreakable. Daniel wanted him, and like it or not, Terry wanted him just the same.

So when Terry waltzes back into his life, so many years later, there’s no question of what to do next. Terry may have used him as a pawn once, but in this rematch, Daniel’s going to make damn sure he sees him as a queen.

It’s simple, really. Daniel’s always had a way of charming people. Captivating them. Casanova, his ma would tease, but it’s deeper than that. Daniel knows how to flirt, but even better, he knows how to get under people’s skin. He knows how to make them feel. Especially Terry.

Daniel did it back then, even if he was unconscious of it—Terry wouldn’t be so hung up on him now if he hadn’t. He’d walked into their first meeting with no intentions other than securing revenge for Kreese, but by the end of it, there was real interest in his eyes. That much Daniel picked up on, even when he was too naïve to understand the rest.

Terry always looked at him like that: like Daniel’s every breath was the sole object of his attention, everything else be damned. For someone of Terry’s standing, Daniel got the feeling that was quite the accomplishment.

Hell, Terry still looks at him like that—and Daniel wonders if he ever stopped. If in passing the billboards, in seeing the commercials, he paused, transfixed, and remembered the way it felt back then when it was just the two of them in that dark dojo, tiptoeing just along the edge of that precarious cliff without ever quite taking the leap.

It never went beyond heated glances and fleeting touches—not then. But now…

Now, things are different. Daniel’s spent too long denying himself this indulgence, and he’s going to make sure he gets a taste.

So when Terry’s around, he lets himself be coy. Flirtatious, even. Not outright, by any means—their relationship always flourished in shadowed corners, not broad daylight. Every parting of his lips, every sidelong glance, is carefully planned, as are the heated remarks that spill from his mouth during each confrontation.

Terry did always like his temper—carved it out of him, after all. So Daniel’s more than willing to let his spitfire side take the reins.

And despite his impassive façade, Daniel knows by the haze in Terry’s eyes that he’s falling right into the trap. That old tension between them, so palpable it could be cut clean through with a knife, mounts beautifully, coming to a head at last in a clash of tongues and teeth, a flurry of wandering hands and panting breaths more devastating than Daniel ever could have imagined.

And as those lips press into his, seeking not just to taste, but to devour, Daniel doesn’t miss the smirk that graces them.

Like he knew what was coming all along.