#Foundation Quaking

[fives-girlfriend]

God I wish I could be on a different planet rn. @ any clone take me into your fucking arms

[fruitmouse]

the earthquake was mad funny btw. i’d been awake for one whole minute & suddenly my house was shaking and i was just like. ok 👍

[someweirdoreblogger]

Burning Spice Cookie is passion ignited, albeit not in the moral side of the conscious spectrum. He is quite affectionate, actually, more than you may give him credit for.

Do not mistake it as humane, as a blind genosity. It comes not from a moral source of obligation or even gerenal priority.

Once the deranged loin-a Beast amongst monsters-the corrupted Lord himself is invested, your scent guiding freely through the droves, to shake him off your trail will prove diffcult. Burning Spice is not so kind to let prey go by unscathed, untouched by his mighty axe; His shadow stalks the trees, quaking, a deafening roar booms in the distance.

The Hunt begins.

You dare infringe upon his heart, you invade his senses, scrabble his thoughts; you really think you can simply crawl back home unscathed?

What home have you to turn too? Who would even think to take you back with the mark of a Beast weighing down your back?

Luckily, this debt can be paid. Paid solely by your own parry and peril. Burning Spice will remember your tracks better than the back of his own hand.

Once he comes, just an arrogant march away, you will know. The world itself will alert, not you, but itself to his sudden existence.

The birds will cease their music, the ground will shake and stumble; struggling to keep its foundation stable and lively. The lakes, far and wide, the sky, the kisses of clouds and weak leaves rip itself apart, dancing in the reflection below. It ripens in sheer unbalanced tension, seemingly frightened; the water will ripple like static, wavering under a wave of immense, exotic shock, and pressure.

The wind is ecstatic, nature's personal enthusiasm; it moans, groans, and sighs heavy in your ear. Desperate to be heard.

You will taste him in the air, a suffocating sulfur and ghastly spice, it threatens to choke weaker beings. Feel him fester like sparks on your crust, hair standing up stiff, dough throbbing. Tingling and blazing hot, a Beast's presence is a neigh-suffocating weight. You will never know peace until he deems you worthy of such.

Burning Spice roams triumphant, forever hungry. An immovable glare in the sky, a blinding scorch to the people's merger eyes, looking down civilization in cold indifference; The same way a god regurds his subjects. Just ants, peasy insects, building their anthills, simply hoping to piece together a safe haven for themselves in a universe far too large to tackle alone.

The Vitue of Change, The Lord of Destruction, will stand tall alone. Boundless from any chain as mortals rise, spoil and fall. A proud witness to the beginning, present, and the end, the natural tides of history sow in the seeds of devastation he leaves behind. He is a slave to his base desires, as all Cookies are; a chaotic harbinger of endless malice and merciless strife.

But he is still yet a man. A heartless monster in a man's skin. A Cookie baked in the same oven as his fellow kin, a great Beast, seeking to completely deprive himself of sheer boredom and simplicity.

All immortals carry the burden, the smooth erosion of time is not lost even to Beasts, as the ocean inevitably swipes a wet hand over the sand. He lives long and simply withstands, and he stares at the lesser mass in a bubbling, volcanic envy, hanging loose like a knot on his shoulders; the deeper things, the pleasant things. The majority of it stems from an infectious curiosity, aching hunger boiling in the depths of a Beast.

An unstoppable force suspended in a space completely at its mercy.

Burning Spice, gerenally, is an incredibly expressive person; entertainment, living life to the fullest drives his very soul off the edge of madness and carnage. His being is a godly sight to behold, and he wears this infernal arrogance in fine silks and peakish sneers. The weak tremble beneath the heel of their superiors, the Beast of Destruction is bloody pride embodied.

And this God, this Beast will strave for your worship; shall rip it from the dying, rotting hands of the torn world.

Carnal, burnt crimson in abhorrent brutality, Burning Spice is honestly an upfront sort. He won’t shy away from confrontation, solemn. He knows what he needs, what he wants, so he will steal it if one ever dares refuse it from him.

What is inevitable is virtue, Burning Spice knows this in his very jam. He does hold some semblance of responsibility and honor, albeit it won’t make him any less immorally stubborn or hot-headed. He approaches a desired interest alike how a lion stalks his prey; the same way he approaches a potential hunt, with fierce, burning determination and endless persistence.

[1800titz]

BEWARE THE WATER | merman/siren!Harry x reader

You’ll never forget it— the time when you suggested an outing. You were sitting around in your room with beer bottles on the off hours, you on your twin-sized mattress with your knees tucked to your chest. Skinny dipping. Like a kidhood pastime under the coat of nightfall. A fuddled proposal off your liquified tongue, spurned by the alcohol simmering your veins. You regretted it the moment it slinked from your mouth (the moment the weight of the silence lodged in the rational part of your brain, clinging through insobriety), but you doubled down. “…You’re crazy, rookie,” you remember one told you, eyes listing to the side, over the rubescent smear across the bridge of his nose. “Why not?” Curse of the North Shore, they called it. Call it. An urban legend— but the circles of their eyes shrink into the framing of white when they tell the story of men strewn across the coastline. Skins. Sapped down to the marrow, hollowed bones marred with scrapes, littered across the beach, the patch of rock shed off the cliffside. Spread all over. Eaten from the inside. A fable for grown men to chase, like a monster hiding in the coal-dark nooks under their cots. You stuck the lip of the beer bottle to your mouth and rolled your misty eyes. “Bullshit.”

preview

Your self-preservation scratches up, from beneath the surface of the sea’s hymn settling into your bones. Wrong. Dangerous. Go back. It carves a nick, like a scrape from under a layer of ice across the arctic pelagic, and fractures your mindless audacity. Your foolish gall. Leaves you blinking like you’re batting a haze of smoke off with your lashes, out on the rocks with your lantern swinging in your hand. 

It hits you all at once. Anxiety like storm surge. The sense of impending doom makes your throat tight when you swallow. Dry. What are you doing? Clotting up your lungs, waves slamming against the rocks you’ve trekked. The foundation under you quakes with the hairline fracture of your risk, and something tacky oozes in. Fear. Instinct. The consequence of your recklessness—

A moment too late. Moments. A moment too stupid, too uncalculated, too rash. Ill-advised, when you left the base and stepped out from behind the barricade of the dunes. You take slow, cautious steps back into the direction of the sand across the slippery eigengrau, shaking. Stupid, stupid— counting your steps, reaching for the stretch of land out of fingertip’s length.

(And really, there’s only so long you can dangle a filet out in front of an animal before it breaks and bites. Only so long you can lure something from the sea with a soft, fleshy silhouette over the surface of the water.)

The ocean is humming. Singing. Like it’s lapping in an echo of the word that shatters the calm of the reticence— “Soldier.”

Not quite a bark. No ire. But it’s louder than the water and makes your heart lurch to your throat when your head snaps over your shoulder. Your balance is threadbare, and the plummet of your stomach makes the string ripple. Your heel nearly slips across the jagged stone—

(Not rookie. Soldier. Shedding the moniker feels like molting a worn, second skin that’s started to crackle across the stretch of your appendages.)

Hindsight laughs at your irreparable, full fledged stupidity— you, ignoring every warning they handed out to you in the cup of their palm. 

(You were supposed to cradle them close, heed like the signs told you.)

Your unease is a vicious pulse across your throat, roaring in your ears, mottling the perfect tempo of the waves, when the lantern between your fingers sways to the craggy patch behind you, where you once stood. It casts ochreous light across the slippery tar-black of the stones. 

There’s a man in the water. Your lungs squeeze. Caught. Stuck. In stasis. 

Wet skin. Slippery, slick. Burnt orange catching on sinews, even with a patch of jagged stones between you, emphasizing your distance. 

You’ve never believed in fairy tales, not as a child. Not now. Never chased legends, and myths, imaginary friends and monsters under your bed. But something unspools inside of you. Unfurls in the pit of your belly. Instinctual. Like a sixth sense to save your skin. You still have a chance, a distance, muffled echo behind your skull hisses, you still—

But you’re glued onto the stone. Stagnant. Stalemating, with a chill stinging like shards across your veins, nausea lingering from the sharp bludgeon of being swung off kilter. 

A deer caught in headlights. 

(Game, staring across the plain at the looming predator.)

Fear tastes like heme and crushed ice. Your emotions are a farrago— terror, confusion, apprehension.

Dread. 

“You’re a soldier,” he asks— tells you, it feels like a statement— over the roaring sea, cadence honey smooth. Molasses heavy. A treacle across your ears that ghosts and melts across your earlobes. The scruff of your neck, where the peach fuzz bristles at attention. “Aren’t you?”

Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth. Bloated up in your mouth. From this distance, you can’t make out his face. Not the details— only the shape, and his gaze. Liquified tar. Glinting, coruscating like the peaks of the waves. 

Uncanny. Wrong. The echo of an urban legend— a mystical beast waiting to swallow you whole. 

You should run. Sprint across the rocks, let adrenaline aid in your coordination and pray for the best—

But you're stuck. Your brows notched, your ribcage rattling with your heart bursting behind it. Bounding, in place of your stubborn feet. 

“You— you’re not supposed to be out here,” you bluster. Ever the pedant (as if you are, mouthy, little hypocrite). Shoulders rigid like the stretch of nightfall limestone, chin high in your wavering merit. A soldier— a mask you wear as a cloak that can’t hide the quake in your fingers, and the burnt orange off the lantern jumps across the waves. 

It all feels pointless. Otiose— there is no warranted explanation when the unimaginable, unforeseen myth, blurs with reality and crumbles your expectations (your rationale) out from under you. 

His arms stretch across the stone. Lax. Languorous. The delineation of ease— and you can’t stop your eyes from roving across the breadth of his shoulders, the heft, the way the musculature there flexes when he moves. The way the water sticks to his skin. Glimmering obsidian roams you. Wanders. Strays. Drifts. Across every inch, every piece. Assessing. Contemplating. Absorbing.

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” he says, instead of answering you. 

The purr stuns you. Weaves across your logic, the congeries of your emotions— the fear— in ropework. Ties to an anchor, lugging you, luring you to drift further from the coastline, closer to him. Sediment from the ocean floor dredged under your feet when they nearly shuffle forward over the stone. 

The words sound wrong. Hungry. Like an omen— and the paradox of them, their tone, against your crumbling mettle, jars you back into survival-mode. Your head feels heavy. Clogged. Wading through a mist you can barely shake off—

“How did you get here?” you demand. Your teeth feel tight.

In the lack of immediate response, you know he’s staring at you. Inkblots roaming across your shape like the eyes of a carnivore over a meal. Incisors aching. It spills your resolve across your shoulders. A wave laps across your toes. He hums.

“Givin’ me a fuckin’ toothache, just looking at you,” he murmurs. A sawtooth dodge around your questions, the anger that bubbles off you in a broken defense mechanism— a vicious cat baring its teeth, swiping out with its little claws, backed into a corner. 

[dinsbeskar]

Homecoming (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron finds his wife in Eregion when Galadriel is forced to find aid for Halbrand's terrible near-fatal wound, a thousand years after she left him at his coronation

AO3 Link

Soundtrack: a thousand years by Christina Perri (shut up, I know it's obvious!!), If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher, It's All Coming Back To Me Now by my girl Céline Dion, Can't Fight The Moonlight by LeAnn Rimes

Warnings: 18+ only!! Smut!! Tooth rotting fluff!! (Remember to floss!!) Tiny bit of angst (the rest comes later, it's a slow burn!) P in V sex, handjob, Halbrand’s glorious chest hair (I'm amused when we tag for that so I'm joining in 😂), separation anxiety lmfao (no but fr), cuddling, spooning, emotional manipulation (what a mix), tiny bit of rough sex/teeth/biting, praise kink, teasing (the guy is a menace, sorry!), male masturbation, fingering, dom!Sauron (he's a service top, okay?), big dick Halbrand (it must be done, idek at this point)

A/N: hi guys!! So finally, after so many chapters, I have for you: Sauron and Reader's reunion. I wrote In The Dark first, and promised a follow-up, and then ended up writing a bunch of prequels first. But finally, here they are!!

Word Count: 4.9k!

Quick rundown of what to read before this one for context (or don't, I'm not the boss of you!!):

Haunted, where we split them up

In The Dark of The Night, the story that started it all, where Reader fantasises about Sauron and he manages to reach out for her

Evil Will Find Her, Sauron’s POV of the above.

Y'all this is the softest, most candyfloss like fluffy smut I've ever written, what is wrong with me??

When Galadriel is sent to Valinor, you mourn the loss of your friend, of course, but there is a traitorous part of you that is secretly glad that your husband's last hunter will no longer keep you up at night in fear for his demise yet again.

You have not felt him stir in such a long time, you were beginning to give up hope. But one night you swore you could feel him, the ghost of his touch, his comforting presence. And the next night, and the next, until you'd grown entirely accustomed to imagining him beside you, atop you, beneath you.

~

The quaking in the earth beneath Lindon was barely perceptible, but perceive it you did. It must have come from afar, but what could cause the very foundations of the earth to shake so? The rest of your kin brushed it off as some natural occurrence, but you were sure deep down that these stirrings in the earth and in your heart were one and the same.

So when the High King sent Elrond to Eregion, you figured your best bet was to go with him, travelling further east in search of answers. You knew what you hoped for, but would not dare speak it even in your mind, not wanting to dispel the wish before it had even taken flight.

Lord Celebrimbor was a most gracious host, giving you both rooms and leave to stay as long as you wished. It was so different to Lindon, you thought you might stay a while, and with the building of the new forge, a tiny part of you hoped your beloved would seek out a place where he could practise his craft, and what better place to do so.

The last person you expected to see was Galadriel, whom you thought had arrived safely in Valinor, racing through the city gates, another horse in tow carrying a nigh-unconscious man who nearly falls from his seat as they come to an abrupt halt.

"Enemy lance. Six days ago. We rode without rest. Can you help him?" Galadriel's voice carries to your Elvish ears as you run to meet them, a feeling in your gut that your healing was required.

"Come, he needs rest, take him to the infirmary, I will follow." You say to the guards propping him up.

He's filthy, as is Galadriel, and the first thing you'll need to do is strip him off and bathe him.

You thought he was unconscious, but he turns his head slightly to catch your eye, winks, then allows himself to be dragged away.

A sweat breaks across your body, accompanied by wild fluttering in the pit of your stomach.

Mairon.

Your husband. The husband you thought had abandoned you. The husband you thought was dead. That husband.

You can't fight the smile on your face, the utter joy that is about to overwhelm you; even after everything you'd said to each other the last time you spoke, you still missed him, yearned for him with a fiery passion that hadn't dampened in the eons you've been apart. The utter delight of finding the other half of your soul again obliterated your momentary shock at his arrival, and you hasten to be at his side.

"I'll go see to our guest," you excuse yourself, while squeezing Galadriel's hand. "It's good to see you, mellon nin [my friend]."

She watches after you with a strange expression, bemused that in your hurry, you thought to ask no questions as to how she was back on the shores of Middle Earth.

~

"Leave us. I can tend to him well enough without an audience." You nod to the guards standing over your husband; any excuse to be left alone with him.

Thankfully they don't need much persuasion and take their leave, the room filling with tension as soon as the door clicks shut behind them.

The thrill of his presence has not faded; in fact what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder might indeed be the case. However your joy is overcast by the malice you threw at each other a millennium ago.

You have no idea what to say, now that you're face to face with him. Your last words were cruel, and you remember them as if they were yesterday; if he has brooded upon your words, he might never forgive you. You pick at a stray thread on your sleeve, avoiding his gaze, which is suddenly very alert now that you're alone.

"No greeting for me, dear wife?" His voice is different, his cadence of speech is rougher but no less silver to the ear.

"I missed you."

"I know."

You step closer, bringing a washbasin and cloth, placing it beside him. You go to feel his forehead with the back of your hand to check for infection, but he snatches it from its path and holds you in place, studying your face intently. His green eyes pierce your soul, and instantly you feel more at peace than you have in a thousand years.

You reach out once more, trembling slightly with anticipation, tracing his face, learning every new contour in case he is ripped from you again.

He leans into your touch, letting you take your fill of him, before reaching up to grasp your face, pulling you in for a tender kiss that makes you see stars, his rough stubble a sharp contrast to the way his tongue softly delves into your mouth.

He breaks away first, his mortal form forcing him to take a breath, the wound in his torso paining him more than he'd like you to know.

"I thought you'd still be angry with me." You whisper against his cheek, heart racing.

He shakes his head slightly, a tender smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Never, not with you." His voice is so soft, you barely catch it, his words meant strictly for your ears only; in Eregion, surrounded by sensitive Elvish hearing, the walls really do have ears.

"I've had so much time to think about what happened, and I take it all back. Every word. I love you and I'm so sorry, I should have been there for you." You hold his gaze, searching his eyes for confirmation of his forgiveness, that he will not just say what he thinks you want to hear.

"No, that was the only thing that saved me, knowing you were safe, out of harm's way."

"Still, I should have-"

"Hush, my love, I'm here now and I won't be parted so easily from you again." He means it, you can hear the determination in his voice, but Morgoth's curse has plagued you both for centuries, even after he was banished to the Void, and joy makes way for the dread already beginning to build in the pit of your stomach.

Relief rolls through the two of you, and the very air is lighter as you take each other in after so long. You look entirely as he remembers, perhaps more radiant, more lovely, than his memory allowed him to recollect. Perhaps it is just that he can finally touch you.

He, on the other hand, looks entirely different. Not that you're complaining. This new form is just as pleasant as any other you've enjoyed; perhaps a little coarser, rough around the edges, more hair than you're used to... but it is no bad thing, and you find yourself just staring at him until you remember why he is here.

"Oh, would you like healing, perchance?" Your tone is playful but the tiny crease in your forehead tells him you're still worried for him.

He chuckles, wincing as he does so, pain smarting in his side.

"If you'd be so kind, fair maiden." And with that, he lays back to let you work.

You let him away with a fair amount, this being only one thing of many. You know he's perfectly capable of healing himself of such a wound, and he knows you know, but sometimes it is satisfying to care, and to be taken care of. He did always enjoy your attentions.

"I'm afraid I must get these rags off you, my lord. I cannot possibly see the wound through all these layers." You pull out a wickedly sharp pair of scissors, slicing through the fabric in one fluid motion, moving it to the side to examine him.

Your gaze is already locked onto the gaping hole in his side, but you allow yourself to run your fingers methodically up his torso, marvelling in the thick black hair that populates his chest. Certainly different from what you were used to, but not unappealing in the slightest.

His wicked grin reminds you of your work, and your blush grows with your smile, enjoying yourself far too much.

A little cleaning, some herbs and a healing song render him virtually healed, as well as a little of his own power to speed the process along, but you run your hands over him long after the wound is knitted together, enjoying the feeling of your husband beneath your fingers after so long.

"Did you know I was here?" You ask him softly, your head laying on his bare chest as you nestle into his side on the small cot, running your fingers through his hair.

"Of course. I could feel you, in fact, I was on my way here," he pauses, considering his next words; you wouldn't be too happy to hear he'd used the scenic route, instead of hastening to your side.

"But?" You can practically hear the cogs whirring in his mind, trying to come up with some elaborate fabrication.

"Fate pulled me to the sea. And then it brought me back to you." Perhaps he'd regale you with tales of Númenor another time; right now, he was simply content to listen to your heartbeat, fluttering in time to his once more.

"With Galadriel and an army? That must be quite a tale." You ponder aloud, leaving him space to elaborate if he wishes, but not wanting to press him too soon.

"It is." He kisses you again, this time deeper, rougher, tongue demanding entrance to your mouth as he curls his fingers in your hair.

He has to resurface first, letting your lips part reluctantly as his lungs demand air. It's quite charming, considering how he is so used to torturing you with your bodily needs, only letting you gasp for air when you're desperate, if he's feeling particularly cruel.

"Don't get used to it," he chuckles, overhearing your thoughts as always; you muse over how that used to irritate you, but now you're so ecstatic to have him under your fingertips again, you'd unlock every door of your mind for him.

"I'm just enjoying the difference in dynamic, my love, it's delightful being the torturer, not the tortured." You laugh, as a low growl emanates from his chest.

"Don't remind me," he rolls his eyes before pulling you closer, as if that were possible.

"I really did miss you, love, it's been a lifetime and ten since we could last do this." You lift up your entwined fingers to emphasise the point, which he answers with a kiss to each knuckle, as if in apology.

"I won't be parted from you again, you need not worry," he whispers in your ear, and you want to believe him, but fate has always had other plans for the two of you, and you have no reason to assume it might be different this time.

"Besides," he continues, stroking his fingers through the hollows of your knuckles, "it's not as if I was wholly absent, especially recently."

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, confused as to what he could possibly mean. You raise your eyebrows, encouraging him to elaborate.

"Admittedly it was difficult to manifest myself in two places while I gathered my strength, but surely you noticed me reaching out for you? Touching your mind?" He pauses for dramatic effect. "...and other things?"

"Now I really have no idea, my dear husband, you will need to explain." You laugh at his bemused expression, still none the wiser as to how he could have been with you while physically absent.

"I reached out for you, I could see you, feel you, and I swore you felt me too. Did you really not feel me?" He asks, slightly indignant, as if you could hardly have missed him.

Ah. Yes, now it clicks into place; you'd thought you'd sensed something, or perhaps someone, with you on those dark nights alone. You were right. He hadn't abandoned you after all.

"It was you," you breathe, marvelling anew, "I thought for a moment- you found me, even then, even when you were at your weakest, you found me."

He kisses your palm and holds it to his chest, reluctant to ever let you go again.

"Of course, love, I vowed I'd always find you," he murmurs in your ear, his physical being aching with the reunion of your two souls, electric tingles dancing across your flesh as you trace across his unfamiliar form.

You relish in his closeness, unwilling to be parted from him until-

"Oh no! What you must have witnessed-" You go to cover your face, cheeks flushing as you recall exactly what you were up to when you felt his presence.

He takes your hands and chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. How could you still be embarrassed in front of him, your lord husband, after all this time? His heart swells, taking you in as you squirm under his gaze.

"Darling, you are mine, I am yours, we are one soul, one flesh, are we not?" He squeezes your hands, gazing at you fondly; after a thousand years, your hearts still beat as one, and you meet his eyes with relief, cheeks still heated but no longer with embarrassment.

His fingers travel across your body with the practised touch of one who knows you better than you know yourself. Even after all this time, he knows exactly where to be gentle, where to be rough, where to knead your flesh or trace it softly. He knows your body better than his own.

"You're trembling, love," he whispers against your lips, cocking an eyebrow.

"Anticipation, darling, you did always know how to draw these things out." You smirk, already over the foreplay, wanting your husband to fill you in every way he can, mind, soul, and body, each way just as delicious as the last.

"How long it's been, not an ounce of patience left in you," he teases, provoking a groan as he licks a long stripe up your throat.

"I've done my waiting," you groan against him, "I think I deserve my reward."

His grin grows wicked, as he takes you in, laid bare under him.

"And I am that reward? Surely such a beautiful maiden would prefer-"

You press your lips to his, interrupting his teasing, refusing to let him play his games for now, needing him atop you, inside you.

You roll him over, thighs pinned around his hips, gazing down at him fondly, relishing the view that you've been denied for a millennium. He smirks at you, continuing to grope and knead your flesh, grabbing your ass and thighs to steady you, leaving deep finger marks that drive you wild as you rock against his crotch.

"My lord," you chuckle as you attempt to unsheathe him, his belt proving a challenge for your trembling fingers. "There are still too many layers between us."

He sits up, reaching for your lips with his fingertips, humming against your skin, his small laugh breaking the tingles down your spine with a shiver.

"Well, my lady, we can't have that..." he murmurs into your abdomen as he journeys down your body.

His lady. A phrase that never failed to delight you, to send tingles of arousal shooting through you. The connotation of your vow to each other. That you were his and he was yours.

At the moment, you have the upper hand, pinned atop him with your body weight as leverage, but you'd sacrifice it in an instant to have him claim you.

You lean back a little, keening under his touch, wanting your skin on his, your souls already singing in a harmony you could never forget, even after all this time.

Every breath you take is from his lungs, grasping at his thick brown curls, savouring every unfamiliar sensation.

Every movement you make sends shockwaves through him; the only pleasure he has known in this body was by his own hand, but his wife back in her rightful place was far sweeter.

He's fucking desperate for you, and you can sense it despite his immaculate self control. Your favourite thing in the world is seeing Sauron lose his mind for the love of you.

"I cannot possibly continue my work if the patient is clothed. I'm afraid I need to conduct a-" you pause, pretending to consider your choice of words- "thorough examination."

He fucking growls at you, deep and low in his chest, and you can't help but grin. You roll off him, only to release him enough to help you out and shimmy his trousers off. Instead he grabs your upper arm, flips you underneath him, smirking with heavily lidded eyes, his hair falling over his face.

"How did I know you would do that?" You laugh, wrapping your legs around him as he strips bare for you, finally.

"One thing I will not allow-" he kisses your neck softly before baring his teeth- "is being called predictable."

He scrapes his teeth against your throat before yanking your head back with your hair, the pain smarting through your scalp obliterated by the feeling of his other hand between your thighs.

"You're so fucking wet for me already," he gasps, rocking into your thigh, his cock weeping on your abdomen.

"I've waited this long, I won't wait any longer." You moan against him, taking his cock in hand, running your thumb over the head.

"No, darling, wait, no-" his strangled pleas fall on deaf ears as you stroke him once, twice, before you force him over the edge.

He worships and curses you in the same breath, wanting nothing more than to spill himself inside you. But you've foiled that plan, for now.

"Too soon-" he chokes out, his pent-up orgasm pouring out of him, surging through him, but doing nothing to quench the thirst he has for you.

You stroke him through his orgasm, kissing him softly, letting him moan into your mouth.

"It's okay, I wanted you to come, love," you whisper in his ear, tracing his chest, running your fingers through his thick black hair. "You needed it, you deserved it-"

He arches his back under your praise, kissing your neck, grasping at your bare back, raking your skin with his blunt fingernails.

After so long apart, with a new mortal form with which to grapple, you had a feeling he'd need release sooner rather than later, needy under your touch after centuries only dreaming of you. Now, with his first orgasm out of the way, you could tease him for longer and get what you'd been craving during your centuries apart.

You pluck at his pleasure like an exposed nerve, drawing every groan, whimper, gasp from his lungs, until he is hard and aching for you again.

He wants so badly to be inside you, to crawl into the space between your flesh and bones, your mind and your soul, to simply relish in the feeling of being home with you.

Thankfully you have the same aching need, pulling him closer with your legs, still wrapped around his waist.

This new body feels strange under your fingers, between your thighs, wrapped around you, coarse hair brushing your torso every time he rocks against you, never mind the hardening length that presses against your core.

"That feels... different." You gasp against him, feeling his smirk against your jaw.

"Different as in bad? Or good, my love?" He raises his eyebrows innocently, as if he is asking you about the weather.

"I could not possibly say," you laugh, "we shall have to try it out to see for certain."

"My sweet wife. Moments ago, you were embarrassed that I saw you relieve your yearning for me," he groans as he circles your clit with the head of his cock, "and now you speak of me as some kind of object for your pleasure."

His faux-sincerity in his scolding is so carefully balanced that for a second, you're unsure if he is actually offended. But you quickly realise he is teasing you when he spreads your cunt, ready for his new thick cock.

A whimper escapes your throat as he teases your folds with his fingers, gathering your wetness to ease his way inside you, stroking his cock, unhurried now that you've relieved him once. You regret that decision now that he draws out giving you your own release.

"Please, love," you stammer out between shaky breaths, rocking your hips against his hand.

"Please, what? Use your words, my darling, tell me what you need." The glint in his eye is dangerous, full of promises of rich reward, but only if you can play his game to the end.

"I need you," you murmur, eyeing him through heavy lids, desperate for any touch he will bestow upon you.

The expression on his face is positively profane, lips parted, a thin ring of green lining his blown pupils, sweaty brown hair falling in his eyes. He wets his lips as you watch his tongue enviously. Oh, to be those lips, his tool for such pleasure. And pain.

"Need me how, love? Be specific." His tone becomes harsher as he reaches for your chin, to impress upon you that you will not get what you crave unless you beg for it.

You keen and moan under him, but he is steadfast, stroking himself while he gazes down at you with such longing, such fondness that even in the throes of your desire, your heart sings for him in harmony with his.

"Love, please-" you whine, your vehement desire to be one with him again overtaking your senses completely; it has been a thousand years, too many lifetimes, and he teases you like this?

"Please, what? I need you to tell me what you long for." He enunciates every syllable, the cadence of his unfamiliar accent falling like sweet summer rain around you, his silver tongue plaguing you with its sweet promises, if only you can find your words.

"Need you, need to be close to you, need you inside me, need-"

He interrupts you with his fingers at your entrance, forcing a sharp gasp from your lungs at the sudden intrusion.

"Is that better, my sweet? Is that everything you crave?" You'd give anything to kiss away the self-satisfied smirk that graces his lips, but he holds you down with one hand splayed on your torso as he begins to spread you open to his velvet touch.

You shudder as he lightly strokes your folds, delving in with a finger to make you gasp, working his way to two, then three, whilst grasping the flesh under his other hand almost painfully, grounding himself in your body.

If he could just open you up and slither into the space between your ribs, nestled beside your heart, to do nothing but listen to it beat for eternity, he is sure he would be content.

You arch your back into his touch, trying to work yourself onto his fingers, but he pulls away too quickly for you to find any relief.

"Ah, my love, that would be too easy, would it not?" A smile tugs at his lips, but Sauron fixes his expression into one more akin to concern, perhaps even pity.

"Tell me, love, tell me what you crave." He is drunk on the power he has over you, intoxicated by the goddess writhing under his fingertips, so eagerly in his thrall.

After a thousand years parted from you, it is taking so very much self-control to keep from ravaging you, but he wants to savour every moment, wants to hear it from your lips, your sweet surrender to his control.

"Need you inside me, need you, my love, it's been so long, please take me, I'm yours." His eyes blaze as you struggle through every word, as your breath hitches and your legs shake, his fingers unrelenting in his slow torture of your cunt.

"You are mine - and I am yours." His vow is made through ragged breath as he leans down to claim your lips hungrily, your wetness allowing him to rut his cock between your thighs, so tightly pressed together, that he sees stars.

Sauron kisses at your neck, sucking and biting, sure to leave dark bruises that will not be easily covered tomorrow. Claiming what is his, and his alone.

He pulls your hips to his, forcing your thighs apart, laying his cock on your mound. He is bigger now than he was all those eons ago; he is frankly fascinated as to how you will take him, but he knows you'll take it all for him.

You squirm under him, pushing your hips to his, desperate for him to take you, patience wearing thin for his teasing now.

As if he senses you are at the end of your tether, he smirks, adjusting himself to set the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Please... Mairon, please, I need you." You know what you're doing when you use his true name, know that he won't be able to stop himself from ravishing you, breaking any semblance of self-control.

With a groan, he presses his body impossibly close to yours, sliding inside you, forcing all the air from your lungs as you feel his girth fill you so sweetly, so completely. He draws your legs up to press himself deeper inside you, his hips rocking against yours, rougher and more erratic than he has ever been but satisfying every desire in your core.

Running your fingers up his strong forearms, feeling the muscles tense and flex with each thrust, you grind back into him, whimpering and pleading for more. More what, exactly? You're not sure, but you know you need everything he is willing to give you.

And he wants to give you the world.

Centuries apart, thinking of little else but each other, it is hardly any surprise that you are both ravenous in body and soul, your love and lust building to a towering inferno to spite the gods who would see you parted.

When he feels you tighten around him, he pulls back from devouring your mouth to stare agape at your blissful expression as you ride your high, awestruck that he has you in his arms again. It is that awe that pushes him over the edge again, pulsing inside you, clutching at every inch of bare skin he can reach, your torso pressed against his as he holds you both upright, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear as you quake against him.

Breathing heavily, lying entwined in the tiny infirmary cot, the two of you fall into quiet, intimate bliss. Holding each other close, you let the world fall away until it is just the two of you, the calm in the other's storm.

"I told you. Predictable." You chuckle, your laugh reverberating through his chest, sending tingles down his spine.

"Perhaps predictability is not such a bad thing. When it comes to you, at least." He continues to stroke your hair, giving you a tiny squeeze as if to make sure you were no illusion.

One thing that is predictable, even certain, is that he will be parted from you soon enough. It always happens, even after Morgoth’s defeat, and the notion is enough to send a chill down your spine.

He senses your discomfort, knows what you're thinking immediately without needing to probe your mind for once.

"I am here, beloved, let us enjoy what we have now, and worry for tomorrow when fate reveals itself." He hides his trepidation better than you do, but he pulls you closer all the same.

You look up at him, fingers tracing his chest softly, reaching for his free hand. He grants it to you, would grant you anything in the cosmos if you only asked it of him.

His palm at your lips, you breathe him in before looking back up at him, his dark green eyes alight with the love of ages. The words you whisper next shatter his heart, the edges of your souls knitting together more completely with every yearning wish woven into your plea.

"I beg you, Mairon, for the love of all that is good and pure in this world, please stay with me."

The way his eyes crease and his face lights up with the widest smile, it wrenches your heart, a pain so sweet and pure you would carry it for a thousand years more to keep him at your side.

"For the love of you then."

[general-yasur]

Egalt and his teaching methods really struck be because they directly contrast Lloyd’s teaching method

Egalt is strict, blunt, and demeaning, he isn’t going to tell you he believes in you the way Lloyd does. Lloyd is the first to pat you on the shoulder and tell you that He believes in you and you should believe in yourself.

Particularly with Arin- Egalt was actually teaching how to do the Rising Dragon technique, while Lloyd let Arin do his own thing because Arin has a Gift/Talent

Egalt would tell Arin he didn’t have enough of the foundational skills and in the next shot Lloyd is there telling Arin he can do it

You realize Lloyd hasn’t bothered to teach Arin spinjiztu and it’s probably because he thinks he doesn’t need to- Arin will just get it

Arin not getting better because he isn’t receiving the right teaching / advice fuels Lloyds fears of not being a good master and fuels Arins fears of not being fit to be a Ninja. It’s a quaking cycle

​Egalt and Lloyds methods are on opposite ends of the spectrum but both ultimately failed at helping him,, they are both out of balance you could say

Makes you wonder where Arin would be if Lloyd had taught him before. Can’t help but wonder if Lloyd being the original “gifted ninja” and the chosen one tampers with how he teaches

[the-starling-files]

A Royal Problem

(Closed RP thread for @queen-of-prophecy)

Detective Starling gripped the wheel of her department cruiser tightly, her knuckles pale as she sped through the chaotic streets of Pride. The siren wailed, cutting through the air thick with dust and smoke, but it barely registered over the sounds of devastation.

The roads were cracked and uneven, the aftermath of the supercell storm and the violent quake that followed. Massive fissures scarred the asphalt, some deep enough to reveal glowing rivers of molten rock far below. She swerved around fallen debris—chunks of stone, glass, and twisted metal—that littered the streets like the remnants of a battlefield.

Buildings leaned precariously, their foundations fractured, and others had collapsed entirely.

The ruins of a once-bustling apartment complex loomed to her left, its upper floors pancaked onto the lower levels. Screams and cries for help echoed from within. She spotted a few demons desperately clawing at the rubble, trying to dig out loved ones or neighbors.

"Dammit."

Juniper muttered under her breath, her heart clenching.

She forced herself to keep driving, eyes darting between the devastation and the road ahead. Every turn revealed more destruction. A diner she frequented on late-night shifts was now a pile of rubble, its neon sign flickering weakly beneath fallen beams. Smoke rose from a distant fire, and a frantic imp woman was running down the street, clutching a crying child to her chest.

The quake hadn’t discriminated—Sinners and Hellborns alike were caught in the chaos. Families sat huddled on the sidewalks, their homes reduced to ruins behind them. Some were bloody and bruised, others just stunned, staring blankly at the destruction.

Juniper hit the brakes as a massive crack in the road appeared ahead, forcing her to skid to a stop. She leaned out the window, scanning the path. Across the fissure, a group of imps were waving frantically, trying to flag her down.

"Hang on! Rescue is coming!"

She shouted, reversing to find another route. She hated herself for not stopping to help more, but her gut told her Witchholm’s disappearance was the key to all of this. If she didn’t figure it out fast, there’d be no one left to save.

She turned sharply down an alley, narrowly avoiding a toppled streetlight. Her cruiser’s tires crunched over shards of broken glass as she emerged back onto the main road. A fallen billboard dangled above her, its wires sparking ominously.

Juniper’s sharp eyes caught the faces of those she passed—fear, anger, despair, and a haunting sense of helplessness. She swallowed hard, steeling herself. This wasn’t just another disaster in Hell.

This was different.

Bigger.

And if Witchholm’s vanishing was responsible, then whatever came next could be worse.

Slamming her foot on the gas, she raced toward the precinct, the weight of the devastation pressing heavily on her chest. There were too many unanswered questions, too many lives on the line.

But Juniper Starling wasn’t about to let Pride fall without a fight.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Dr. Edwin Payne (Ghostcrow Art AU)

It was the only problem that there was in their relationship, the only crack that split the earth too close to the heart, threatening the very foundations. 

(And Charles Rowland had spent over a decade giving Edwin the best foundations in the world; nothing could truly shake them, Edwin knew. No doubts could ever break Edwin, because Charles’ love for him would always bolster him stronger than any quake could ever shake.)

Monty loved Charles and Edwin in other ways. He was affectionate in bed, was an absolute delight to debate with, was open enough with them to trust them with art, the one thing that he truly loved, and was so vulnerable and open in other ways, on other topics. He clearly loved Charles and Edwin outside of that one sticking point of visiting family.

And Edwin loved him. Loved Monty in such a similar way to how he loved Charles, the feeling taking root so deep in his heart that maybe the earth would never split because the roots pulled the crust so tight to itself.

-aletterinthenameofsanity, underneath the sunrise (show me where your love lies)

I don't wanna seem the way I do

But I'm confident when I'm with you

Lately, all I feel is bad and bruised

Tired of tripping on my shoes

But when he loves me, I feel like I'm floating

When he calls me pretty, I feel like somebody

Even when we fade eventually to nothing

You will always be my favorite form of loving

-Beach Bunny, Cloud 9

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

@likemmmcookies @wr0temyway0ut @thelakeswillbreakourfall

[hiswordsarekisses]

“In my distress I called upon the Lord, And cried out to my God; He heard my voice from His temple, And my cry came before Him, even to His ears. Then the earth shook and trembled; The foundations of the hills also quaked and were shaken, Because He was angry. Smoke went up from His nostrils, And devouring fire from His mouth; Coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens also, and came down With darkness under His feet. And He rode upon a cherub, and flew; He flew upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness His secret place; His canopy around Him was dark waters And thick clouds of the skies. From the brightness before Him, His thick clouds passed with hailstones and coals of fire. The Lord thundered from heaven, And the Most High uttered His voice, Hailstones and coals of fire. He sent out His arrows and scattered the foe, Lightnings in abundance, and He vanquished them. Then the channels of the sea were seen, The foundations of the world were uncovered At Your rebuke, O Lord, At the blast of the breath of Your nostrils. He sent from above, He took me; He drew me out of many waters. He delivered me from my strong enemy, From those who hated me, For they were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my calamity, But the Lord was my support. He also brought me out into a broad place; He delivered me because He delighted in me.” Psalms‬ ‭18‬:‭6‬-‭19‬

[wallwriterstuff]

The Night Before Christmas ||John Price x Wife!Reader||

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff, suggestive themes, John Price is his own damn warning. Christmas Eve preparation by parents.

Words: 2601

Taglist: For @glitterypirateduck 's CODHOLIDAY2023 challenge. Inspired by the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause" after a lifetime of watching my parents make Christmas magical for me...and annoyingly kissing every time they hear this song at Christmas. Thanks for that Mom and Dad.

Summary: On the night before Christmas, in John Price's house, a strange thumping is heard that is caused by his spouse. Or, when John finds out just how much of the magic in Christmas is created by his wife.

There’s a rumbling of jet engines plaguing his mind in the enveloping heat of a dry dessert. It’s almost suffocating, the way it presses on his chest, but there’s something mildly comforting about the familiarity of it. There’s a lull in the rhythm, a crack in the foundation. Soap’s laughter’s muffled but his smile’s bright, and the way Gaz’s eyes are twinkling makes him wonder what terrible joke Ghost has told now that he’s missed. Has he missed it? It’s difficult to tell here in the heat haze. He’s everywhere and nowhere, halfway between this world and somewhere new, somewhere undefined that his body knows but his mind hasn’t identified. It’s difficult to take a deep breath to try clear his head. He’s weighed down and weightless. He’s here and he’s gone. He’s lost and he’s found here among the family he’s chosen as the Earth shakes.

The boom is as garbled as trying to hear TV through static. The mortar strikes should be roaring, shattering his eardrums as much as the Earth but they’re not. He frowns, looking around. Why is no one running? Panicking? Another dull thud of what must be an enemy missile of some sort drowned out by the rumbling of those jet engines. He looks around in a daze. He can’t bring himself to feel even a twinge of fear. He just knows, instinctually, that there’s no danger here. The ground’s splitting and quaking beneath his feet but the smell of the Earth weeping for mercy through the fissures doesn’t come. Instead, it’s strong and clinical, almost like menthol. He inhales deeply, frown deepening as he gets closer to the crack in the Earth. Yeah…menthol. Another muffled thud and the gap is swallowing him whole, his team and the dessert all swirling away in a vortex of sand that the sandman retracts. He cannot sleep just yet. There’s work to be done.

Inhaling deeply, his nose stings at the strong smell of Vapo-rub. The tub still sits in his left hand while his right lingers on a small, rattling chest. Long lashes brush the apples of rosy red cheeks and his heart aches at the sight of his youngest, curled into his side in an effort to find respite from the flu that’s plagued him all week. Quietly, John clears his throat, lips smacking a bit to moisten his dry mouth. He gives himself a mental shake, removing his hand and carefully shifting himself off of the bed, old injuries aching and creaking as they always do when he’s given a moment of respite. He was barely home all of two days and he’s had the bedtime shift both nights, his children craving his attention now he’s finally, finally home. With a slight grimace, he cleans off the remnants of the foul smelling substance with a tissue from the nightstand, ensures that the nightlights are all turned on and slinks out of the room to let his son sleep.

He should find his own bed, he thinks. He can feel his own exhaustion in the marrow of his bones, a deep-seated kind of tiredness that robs him of more than just energy, but then he hears it again. The dull thud that roused him from his almost sleep is coming from downstairs, and adrenaline shoots through his veins like wildfire. It burns through that tiredness with whispers of ‘once more’, a drive to push through, fight back, obey every instinct hard-wired into his DNA that places survival above all else. He knows he locked the doors. Triple checked them like he does every night he’s home right before he put the kids to bed. Kids. You. Where are you? It’s automatic, no longer training or instinct but something more ingrained even than that, the way he searches room to room. Two fragments of his soul sleep soundly in their beds but you’re nowhere to be seen.

He's greased every hinge and secured every floorboard in this house. John knows exactly where to put his feet and how much weight to place on every individual board as he eases himself into the shadows. He greets every dark crevice like an old friend, one he knows intimately and has a depth of knowledge of that is unrivalled by any intruder in his home. The front door is closed, but the chain is off. His ears strain, that rhythmic clomping of clumsy boots making his brow furrow. Whoever it is is damn noisy, untrained even, perhaps even –

“What the bloody hell are you doin’?” he can’t help but snort, every muscles unwinding and the alarm bells in his mind fading in the face of his amusement. He settles it in his mind then and there. There’s no intruder, my wife’s just lost her marbles.

“Don’t, do that!” you hiss, hand clutched over your chest and foot raised, his boot dangling and far too big, in danger of falling onto the floorboards if you don’t take a step soon. John’s head tilts, a smirk twitching up his lips as he takes in the fake snow on the floor, the boot prints leading from the door into the living room.

“Since when did Santa wear combat boots?” he asks.

You scowl. “Since Mrs Clause had to throw her Doc’s away back in November...that’s why they’re on her Christmas list.”

He barely stifles his laughter, shoulders shaking as he rubs his finger under his nose. He knows better than to laugh at you right now as you continue to clomp towards the Christmas tree. He leans against the door frame, watching you navigate the sofa with keen eyes and folded arms. He can’t quite keep the grin from twitching his lips upwards as he drinks in the sight of you in his too big boots, Christmas pyjamas on and hair tied up, looking determined. There’s a peek of pink at the corner of your lips where your tongue pokes out in concentration as you try to keep your steps evenly spaced. That suffocating warmth is back and he recognises it for what it is now as he simply basks in the love you’ve woven into every inch of the house. It seeps into every grain of wood and is the stain lacquer finish of the laminate, holding the whole home together for him to return to. You’ve done it alone again, everything from presents to decorations and Grotto Visits. He can’t help his schedule but he wishes he’d been in on more of the magic you’ve woven that kept your little angels up until 10PM with unparalleled excitement.

“You could have asked for me to do that bit. Save you near breakin’ your neck in my boots.” He said. You sprinkle the last bit of fake snow down onto the floorboards and take a step, turning to look at him. John chuckles, crossing the room in three quick strides and scooping you up and away to the sofa. You grip him tight, the momentary shock of being airborne fading as you relax into his grip; trusting, always trusting. John won’t let you fall. He never has.

“I came up to, but you were asleep.” You teased. John huffed, kneeling before you and lifting your foot to his knee. His fingers made nimble work of the laces as he glanced up at you.

“Wasn’t,” his denial his half-hearted at best, “Was just restin’ my eyes.” He delicately slides his boot off your foot, setting it aside with much less reverence than he does your leg as he brings the other one up to untie next.

“Sure thing, cowboy.” You grin slyly. John looks up at you from under his brows, his focus half on the triple knot you’ve had to use to keep his work boots from sleeping off your feet. He chuckles a little as he picks it apart.

“Callin’ me a liar?” his query holds no bite to it. He slips the other boot free and lifts your leg, placing a delicate kiss to your calf. He feels the way your muscles tighten in response and he can’t help but smirk a little, does it again just to feel you respond to the touch of his lips on your skin.

“Liar? No. Big foot? Yes. How you walk in those things is beyond me.” You let your leg drop and shuffle forward. John’s left kneeling between your knees, his hands automatically finding purchase on your thighs, calloused thumbs caressing the smooth skin like it’s the safety on his rifle with a knowing, firm touch. A small smile creeps it’s way onto your lips, and John thinks that he could die happy this way, surrounded by you, kneeling at your altar. Hands cupping his cheeks, you gently rub your knuckles over the whiskers of his beard before leaning in to grant him the swiftest, sweetest of kisses.

Your eyes are bright, but there’s a small crease between them he smooths away with his thumb. John Price is nothing if not vigilant, and the only thing he knows better than the parts of his rifle are the planes of your body. Every minute twitch of a muscle and miniscule expression on your face is a well-read verse in the story of you. Your poetry in motion, and he won’t stand for your beauty being creased by worry and doubt.

“Stop worryin’ so much. Kids’ll be ecstatic to see Santa’s broken in.” He says.

“Broken in? John!”

“What? We don’t have a chimney so only logical explanation is that he’s shimmied the lock.” He grins up at you, letting you pull him to his feet with the most aghast expression on your face he thinks he’s ever seen. He swallows down his laughter because gods, you’re adorable and instead chooses to transfer his grip from your hands to your waist. “Joking, love, joking.” He assures you, stepping into your space and tilting your head up with his thumb and index finger. John doesn’t need to hear your forgiveness. He feels it in the way you let him chastely chase your lips until you push him back.

“We still have work to do cowboy.” You pat his chest and John huffs a bit, looking around the room. For the life of him he can’t fathom what else you could do to the place. Your shared house is cosy, decorated, loved. Fill it with anything else and he’s sure it’ll burst at the seams.

“Love, what could you possibly still have to do?” he looks down at you. You’ve got eyes like Christmas lights and are awash with the colours of them glittering on the tree, painted in stained glass colour like some Saint he knows he’s blessed to worship. The smell of fresh baked cookies and vanilla frosting is etched into your skin from your baking escapades with the kids today, soft and warm and inviting him to take a bite out of you.

“Presents. Had to hide them in the attic from certain sticky fingers. Can you get them down?” you ask.

John nods. “Alright. Anymore to be wrapped?”

“Ye of little faith. They’ve been wrapped since mid-November.” You scoff, crossing to the cookie plate and placing one in your mouth. As it melts on your tongue you hum in delight, and John frowns.

“Save one for me?”

“Sorry, Santa’s sent me for cookie quality control. Missed your chance.” There’s mirth shimmering in your eyes and cookie crumbs resting at the corner of your lips. John shakes his head as he slinks back upstairs, checking in habitually on his still sleeping angels before he pulls down the ladder to the attic. He’s got to admit he’s impressed at your tenacity. The bags are stuffed full. You’ve spoiled the little ones rotten. How you’ve done so much shopping and wrapping is beyond him, and he can’t quite figure out how you’ve managed to hide two very full bags in the attic on your own with two small children hanging off you while he was away. The Santa hat sitting nearby gives him pause. John knows he’s been a bit of a Grinch in the two days he’s been home. Something about coming home to a poorly babe and an overly prepared wife left little room for him to really get into the swing of the Christmas spirit. He endeavours to make a change.

Present bags retrieved, he slips back downstairs and pauses only to pluck a small sprig of mistletoe from the wreath at your front door. He triple checks he’s locked and chained the door once more. Force of habit. With your present bags resting in front of the tree he tugs on the Santa hat and waits patiently for you to return. There’s cookies missing and carrots with chunks eaten out of them in your efforts to make the children believe Santa really did come to see them, but he knows you can’t stand milk. He smiles slightly, knowing full well you’ll be pouring the milk back into the carton right about now.

When you return with the empty glass, you pause at the sight of him. John gives you a grin, lifting the sprig of mistletoe over his head.

“Someone’s on the nice list this year, deserved a special visit from the big man himself.” He offers you his free hand and you snicker slightly, eyes adoring and hand slipping into his. You let him pull you closer, and nothing feels better than his arm sliding around your waist. Now he’s really home. John leans in, eyes closing, and to his surprise there’s a strong smell of vanilla as you smear Christmas cookie onto his waiting lips with a giggle.

John blinks his eyes open in surprise, huffing a surprised laugh through his nose before he leans down and catches your mouth with his. He gives you no time to escape him or to clean off his mouth. It’s messy and it makes you squirm in his grip, but neither of you complain as you kiss and lick frosting away between you. His grip on you tightens, safe, inviting, hands sliding over the curves of you just to reassure himself your still here, still his. The best damn gift he ever did receive.  

When you pull back for air, John’s thumb swipes away the last little bit of frosting with a chuckle.

“Where did your mistletoe go?” you tilt your head at him and he unfurls his palm to show you. You take it from him with a hum, mischief dancing in your eyes.

“And just what are you planning on doing with that then?” He queries. Your eyebrows lift a bit.

“Think I know a better place for it.” You shrug. He feels your hands tugging at his belt, his eyes never leaving yours for a moment even as a smile twitches up his lips.

“I thought we only opened presents on Christmas morning?” he glances down to see the mistletoe hanging from his belt buckle. You giggle a bit, reaching into the bag just behind the sofa that has all your wrapping bits and pieces in . You place a sticky bow on your head and wiggle your eyebrows at him.

“I thought you were an advocate for bending the rules on occasion?” You teased, hips swaying as you slowly walk backwards towards the stairs. John chuckles, taking three quick strides towards you before he hoists you up and onto his hips. You don’t squeal. You know he won’t let you fall.

“Quick, before the kids catch Mommy kissing Santa Clause.”

“Underneath the mistletoe?”

“I believe that’s how the song goes.”

[anticidic]

hello! if it’s not to late to ask and if it hasn’t already been asked for, number 6 + ssk?

#6: Sweet Nothing — Calvin Harris (ft. Florence Welch)

So I'll put my faith in something unknown I'm living on such sweet nothing But I'm tired of hope with nothing to hold I'm living on such sweet nothing And it's hard to learn And it's hard to love When you're giving me such sweet nothing Sweet nothing, sweet nothing You're giving me such sweet nothing

(a lil suggestive, but it's just Dazai stealing a kiss)

Ten minutes until detonation…

“Y’know, you’re a real idiot sometimes,” Chuuya said in between breaths. “We had the enemy cornered and we were down to the last handful, and…you decided blowing them up was the way to go?!”

Dazai could feel the scowl boring into the back of his head. It had been confirmed when he peered over his shoulder to see Chuuya not just glaring but reaching out now and then to try to grab ahold of Dazai’s wrists sprinting away from him.

It became a game of cat-and-mouse. Not just against time and the total annihilation of their enemy. But with each other.

“You’re slower than I remember you being, Chuuu-uuuya,” Dazai laughed breathlessly. Almost maniacally. The adrenaline in his veins was intoxicating and he couldn’t shake the high that thrummed through his bones. He skidded to a halt around a sharp corner, the wind behind him picking up and lashing at his coat that hung on for dear life. Another grab and a miss. Under the breath, he caught a faint goddammit snarled through teeth.

“Easy for you to say when I was doing all the work!” Chuuya shouted. He sped around the corner and grabbed onto his hat to keep it from flying off. “You better know your way out of here, or I swear I’ll kill you before the bomb goes off.”

Suddenly stopping, Dazai put a finger to his mouth and waited. Their loud footsteps barreling down the warehouse were cut short by a robotic voice that filtered through the halls.

Eight minutes remaining…

Perfect. More than enough time for them to get out of there before the place was blown to smithereens and completely wiped off the face of Yokohama’s business district. Another job well done, Dazai thought, and he’d pat himself on the back for his brilliant idea when they got back to headquarters to fill out their reports.

He would not tell Chuuya that the remote in his pocket was also capable of stopping the detonation sequence. It was…more fun this way. Dazai’s blood boiled something fierce and for once, he could confidently say that he felt alive being chased by the only one who could make him feel such a way.

Maybe the bomb had a little to do with it. It upped the stakes. Chuuya otherwise wouldn’t have been as hellbent on tailing after Dazai without that threat looming over them. He saw Chuuya’s hands flex into fists and relax multiple times. That hardened gaze iced over, and he was an arm’s length away. In the blink of an eye, he could probably grab Dazai by the collar.

And Dazai would let him.

“We’re almost at the exit. What’re you so worried about, anyway? It’s not the first time you’ve come close to dying.”

Chuuya stepped closer and jabbed Dazai in the chest with a finger. “I’m not looking to die because of you. As usual. Everything had been perfectly under control, and I was about to crush the last of them until you decided to interrupt by getting in my way and announcing to everyone that you’re blowing the whole damn place up!”

“I need to keep you on your toes,” Dazai said with a glimmer of mischief and took off again. This time, he snatched Chuuya by the wrist and they ran down a lonely hall with bright lights dangling above them—swaying side-to-side from the quakes that shook the foundation. He felt it in the ground too, shockwaves rippling through the concrete with every step, and heard something crumble to dust in the distance.

Their enemy wouldn’t just be blown to pieces. They’d be buried six feet under.

“Let go of me! You’re dragging me around like I’m some kinda ragdoll!”

“But you’re starting to slow down. If you slow down too much, you’ll be buried here with the rest of them, and then what?” Dazai shot a look over his shoulder again and smiled lightly. He could barely see Chuuya, who danced in his vision between covered and uncovered eye. “Do you know how much paperwork I’ll be forced to do trying to explain what happened to you? I’d rather not hear whatever Mori-san has to say.”

Three minutes…

Digging his feet in, Chuuya yanked back against Dazai’s pull, making them almost collide with one another. Blinking owlishly, Dazai regained his composure and let go. They stood beneath a light that beat down on them uncomfortably, and Dazai wanted to shield his eyes from the sight. Even without looking directly at it, it felt like he was staring into the sun.

“That’ll be you, because you look like you’re about to pass out from running so much.” Chuuya pointed at Dazai’s reddened face as quiet panting filled the air. “This’s probably the most exercise your lazy ass’s gotten lately. If you pass out on me, I’ll have to haul your ass back. Don’t make me do it.”

Taking a deep breath to loosen his nerves—and resist the urge to wipe at the sweat forming at his hairline—Dazai stepped closer and spun in a circle around Chuuya, coat billowing with every performative step until he stopped, and they came face-to-face. He leaned in a little with his hands at his sides, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “We’re about to die in…two or less minutes, Chuuya. Is that all you have to say? I thought you’d be more afraid, but I’m disappointed more than anything that you look like you just want to punch me.”

“I have nothing to be scared of,” Chuuya said with a scoff and narrowed his eyes. “But I have a lot that I hate right now.”

In a flash, Dazai pushed Chuuya against the wall, their faces dangerously close. His eyes shifted between Chuuya’s burning glare and his lips, which twisted into an annoyed frown. Unlike Dazai who was reveling in the close few seconds they shared almost touching and all alone, Chuuya looked ready to shove him away.

And Dazai wasn’t about to let that happen yet. He swooped in and their lips connected. But just as the dare in his veins spurred him to take another thing from Chuuya like all the other times he had taken a piece of Chuuya since they became partners three years ago, he pulled away and licked the corner of his mouth.

Chuuya’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Dazai shushed him and grabbed his wrist again.

“You won’t be able to keep hating me if we’re dead. Hating me means you’re alive and human.” Dazai spun around and continued down the path. “So long as you keep hating me, it proves that you’re human, Chuuya! Humans die, but it’s not your time. For either of us.”

One minute…

Together, they pushed through the doors leading outside to the harbor. A cold gust full of salt rushed in past them. Through their hair. Through their clothes.

Spotify Ask Game!

[blackbatcass]

Hey, do you have a reading list for batman: nml. I'm so afraid of it, but I think it's time for me to read it 🙂‍↕️.

YEAHHHH im so proud of you anon. nml is long & intimidating but it is also sooo worth it and is so foundational to the batman mythos.

to start, no man’s land has a few different parts which i would highly recommend reading all of. the saga goes cataclysm -> road to no man’s land volumes 1 & 2 -> no man’s land. cataclysm is 18 issues where the quake actually happens, rtnml is kinda prequel & setup, and then the brunt of the story happens in nml proper. a lot of people kinda just skip past road to no man’s land or don’t know they’re supposed to read it at all which i think ISNT the way to go lmaoo there is some very important context and stories in there.

so the problem with finding good no man’s land reading lists is that most of them are not accurate💀 like there is just so much of it that a lot of issues slip through the cracks and it’s hard to find a truly complete thorough guide. honestly my best recommendation might be to look for the omnibus trades. your library might have them, or you can always just look up the omnibuses on rco.

cataclysm is an easy simple 18 issues found here, thank you to locg:

for the rest of nml there is a list here, which looks pretty accurate from a first glance EXCEPT for the road to no man’s land list which leaves some things out, volumes 1&2 of rtnml should be this at least according to locg

this site breaks down the issues by omnibuses which is helpful.

mem @havendance has a very helpful guide to important nml issues here along with some commentary, and also has a timeline of the whole event here which is very nice to reference.

sorry for throwing a bunch of different options at you but yeah as I said nml is TRICKY to find complete lists for. I wish you sooo much luck in your journey! and if anyone has a more accurate guide please feel free to chime in lol

[czor--t]

Oftentimes i think how audacious the Stamatin brothers are. Andrei is a wanted man, yet here he is, opening a fucking bar in some rural town in the steppe - mind you - still connected to thw rest of a country.

He is contracted by one of the wealthiest families and partons of art and yet he still does not drop his extravagant lifestyle - going as far as admitting himself to seriously harming AND ALSO MURDERING people. Big Vlad says that he lets him prospair in the workshop - but is that really true? Because he does not seem to be afraid of it. And he has the Kains covering him. Hell, he has Grief quaking in his boots, which, wouldn't be as impressive if not for their respective occupations.

And Peter? He went mad after creating something that he himself fails to understand, a happy accident - so he drinks the money he gets away, wasting in his apartment. He is the sensitive spot of his brother and a hindrance to Alexander Saburov as well - and yet he does not seem vaguely concerned by it - not unless he is directly told that someone wants him dead. He is delirious and disconnected from both populations of the town and yet he seeks refuge in Kin's gatherings (as seen in Aspity's hostice)

Most of all they murdered the only other architect in town and themslves erected a tomb for him. But oh, it gets worse. They are not even trying to hide that they did it. And from Andrey's boisterous nature you'd think that he is bragging left and right but no, it is PETER FUCKING STAMATIN who reveals the murder of Farkhad was their doing. And let's not forget that in Pathologic they LEAVE AN EPITAPH THAT RIVALS EVERYTHING THAT VLAD THE YOUNGER DID IN HIS ENTIRE PLOT. "Here lies Farkhad, the most unshakable architect. We assembled this monument on the beautiful foundation. From inconsolable brothers in arms P. et A. gemini."

They are untouchable and very well aware of it.

[lioneliness-etc]

The bat fam if Bruce had them as infant babies 🥺

Dick: the sweetest cuddliest little guy but would have the most ear-splitting temper tantrums. When he is upset it feels like the foundations of the manor are Quaking.

Jason: Bruce has to read like 10 picture books to him every night to get him to fall asleep. He was perfect up until he became a toddler and just never learned how to listen to ANY rules or commands.

Tim: impossible to get him sleep. Bruce and Alfred both run ragged on sleep deprivation. Extremely adorable and extremely manipulative with it. Somehow always looked like he is scheming something…

Duke: he’s his own nightlight. Has the most normal sleep schedule of all the babies. A little hyperactive and unhinged during the daytime, but has the cutest big baby smile so he gets away with it.

Cassandra: never cries.She’s Bruce’s precious baby girl who has never done anything wrong, don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise.

Damian: the grumpiest baby alive. Came into the the world with the attitude of a fussy old man and ready to pick a fight. They all have scars from him teething. However his perpetual pouty face is so cute that people can’t help but laugh.

Stephanie: not Bruce’s baby but an absolute terror at the local playground. Play dates with the bat boys always spiral into chaos but the kids all love her so she’s always around.

Babs also comes over for plenty of play dates.

The most chaotic era is when half are toddlers and half are still babies (Dick is like 5). There are toys all over the manor and Bruce has never been happier or more exhausted in his life.

[mythalsknickers]

For DADWC, your Lavellan and Solas?: "You have blood on your face."

TITLE: Bellanaris PAIRING: Fen'aslan Lavellan & Solas/Fen'harel, Fen'aslan & Felassan Fen'aslan / Felassan / Solas & Fen'harel RATING: Teen WARNINGS: Liberal useage of dialogue from ACT 3 of Dragon Age Veilguard, Spoilers for Dragon Age Veilguard Word Count: 1994 Author Note: Elven Cipher bits are thanks to scribeofmorpheus and FenxShiral for the Project Elvhen for filler.

Those two weeks in the Tirashan had changed everything, the haphazard plan of stopping Solas had been set aside. To outwit the god of trickery, she had needed to craft a plan where he would not expect her, or their companion. Fingers traced over the gilded edge of the mirror, her breath shaking, salt burning her eyes. It had been a trial to sit back and allow Rook to confront Solas and battle gods. Morrigan and Felassan had both been shared the wisdom of waiting to insert herself into Solas' line of sight until the very last minute. It would be the only thing that could save the people and Rook. As much as she had not wanted to grow attached to the antivan crow, she did. Teigue de Riva, was everything she could not have been during the reign of the Inquisition even down to laying the First Warden out. A soft laugh bitter tasting left her lips as opalline fingers of her dominant hand moved across the surface of the Eluvian. Flame, steel clashing, screams, and pulsing sickness of blight filled the mirror, squeezing her eyes shut, a ragged breath was forced. "Las, you do not need to face him. I can." A firm hand clasped her shoulder, as another wrapped around her waist. The wall of cold armor and muscle pressed against her back. A mournful howl echoed through Tarasyl'an Te'las, the fade quivering around the two of them.

"I must Felassan..." A howl tore past the eluvian, ripples forming on the mirror reverberating through the fade and into the foundation of the fortress. Her eyes squeezed shut. "You and Solas have much to discuss, but we will have all the time in the world, once I bring him away from the brink." Her fingers captured one of his hands giving him a slow kiss. "We will find you in the fade, and be whole again."

As she stepped out of his arms, she felt the reluctance to let her go out into war. Turning she gazed at him through her lashes. Wisdom and Determination had made it through the blood of the Elvhen, and the Inquisition had taught her, Hope was not nearly as delicate as their siblings had believed. Her lips curved into a smile as she stepped through the mirror, the ripple of magic licking around her until she stepped out of the fade into Minrathous. Her nose crinkled, the taste of raw magic and blight hung heavy in the air, her eyes shimmered for a moment seeming to be transported a Millenia into the past, the last time they had stood against the Evanuris had been different, and this time it would end until better versions of their siblings could be born. Singular howls and growls filled the air clashing with the roar of Elgar'nan's dragon, the magic of her left arm quaked to the destabilization of the veil. The climb through the rungs of Minrathous had proved trying, between those cursed with Elgar'nan's gift, the dead and the blight. She and Morrigan waited obscured in shadow and mist, it was all to familiar to a time when she stood on the edge of a battlefield with a goddess who promised the people a new era. Her eyes narrowed as she listened to the exchange, waiting until Solas gave the appearance of commiting himself to the new journey. Her steps echoed across the battlefield, and she felt the fade quake, as that singular howl was joined with a second. For a moment as he raised the dagger, she thought he felt her touch. "I cannot, to stop now would dishonor those I have wronged to journey this far." "Even if those you have wronged have asked you to stop?" Her breath held as his head jerked, some of his resolve slipped away as the dagger slacked in his hand. Her lips curved into a slight timid smile. He was so close. "Vhenan..." it was a prayer and she took another step up. Her heart ached to go to him to pull him into her her arms. "Solas, vhenan, you think you have gone to far to come back.. but you are wrong." She raised her left arm, letting the magic that held it stable slip gesturing around them. "I am here, we walk the dinan'shiral together. I forgive you." The magic mirrored them two wolves circling each other.

"I lied to you, I betrayed you!" Her heart clenched and tears escaped as she took a breath. "I forgive you, all you have to do is stop." She begged, words flooding into the fade around them.

“You love him, it burns bright, and is old. Tangled and sharp like thorns. You forgot and so did he.”

"Ir abelas, Vhenan..." It hung between them, the last words he had said those years ago as her stolen magic had tried to kill her. He stood straighter, forced to by a compulsion they all long thought broken. "But I cannot." He turned from her and she closed her eyes letting tears escape for just a moment. "Long before we met I failed my oldest friend and she died for that failure." Her world narrowed as she realized, he truly did not realize what she had done. Quietly she beckoned to Teigue stepping up, closing some of the distance. "If I leave the veil in place, I am destroying the world she wanted." Her heart tightened as he struggled for the control to maintain his purpose.

"Mythal, please you must see. You are hurting him, you are turning him from his purpose. Release him, break the bond. I will return and so will Felassan. You will have no need of wisdom with hope and determination."

Sucking in a breath she crept up another stair, this was the most dangerous part of saving her vhenan. "and I will have...She will have died for nothing!" The fade rippled around them, Pride and Despair warred for his purpose and one of the wolves stopped and howled. She would not let that happen. She would see this through, she'd see him free finally. A singular caw answered the wolf as a raven swooped in and turned into Morrigan with a flourish of feathers, pulling Solas from his determination.

"And whose fault is that Dread Wolf?" Fen'aslan let out a breath she had held as he answered her with his own question "Morrigan?" The witch wasted no time. "That is one appellation of many I wear, I have been advisor to Orlais, Witch of the Wilds..." There was no need to slow their advance and Fen'aslan allowed herself another breath, as an opaline wolf cowed the demons that clung to the edges of the memory and the the moment, as the dread wolf bristled and stood on guard.

"Daughter of Flemath.. and once, a long ago, an old friend." She saw the look in Solas' eyes, the same look she had given when Morrigan had told her. Disbelief, regret, anger, and unrelenting pain. It was a wound that had infected their trio since leaving the fade, Benevolence turned into Vengeance, thus Mythal had been made, goddess of the Evanuris and mother of the People. She let Rook take his place with the essence next to Morrigan as she moved closer to Solas. Taking the time as they spoke to take him in. Blood and swelling marred his sharp features.

The choked sob drew her attention as she gazed upon Mythal, her heart tightening, how she had tried to make it easy for him, to share the weight of the pain that she had caused but she was not as possessed by Mythal as he had been. She drew blood biting her lip as he stumbled and the choked way he said her name. They had all loved her, they had all left for her and of them all. She had only let two go. Coppery tang filled her mouth as the spoke, and her vhenan folded in on himself. The fade had echoed with the tether breaking between goddess and servant brought the spirits to a pause.

Quietly she made her way to him, steps echoed by the white wolf. Kneeling before him, much like he had kneeled before her those years not so far gone. It was a phrase she had turned in her mind so many times, the love the three of them had it was eternal, it was the way forward. His sobs felt like waves of the ocean this close. Still she stayed in the torrent. In the corner of her gaze she noticed a rich purple wolf, crawling low toward them both. A small wave of relief washed over her. He had found his way to the fade after all. Stepping back she stood as he straightened looking between them and the fade rift. The moment the dagger sliced across the fade, she felt the echo as the memory flashed in the background

"It seems you hold the key to our salvation. You had sealed it with a gesture… and right then, I felt the whole world change."

"My life force now sustains the veil, with every breath I take. I will protect the innocent from my past mistakes." She bowed her head as the fade continued to ripple. "The titan's dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help soothe its anger." She took a small breath as Felassan's wolf joined hers in slowly edging to their pack mate, their friend, their lover. The dagger was handed to Teigue as he turned away from them. "I will go and seek atonement."

For a moment she watched the three wolves, Felassan had found his way to the prison, they could find him in there. Quietly she made her way to him a warm smile easing across her features. "But you do not have to go alone." Taking his hands in both of hers for the first time since the earliest days of the inquisition and the earliest days of them being pulled from the fade. Wisdom was there, bloodied, and bruised but none the less glorious then had been all along, and finally he saw the echos in the fade. Who waited for them.

"Mh..Ar ghilas vir banal." It was whispered and she squeezed his hand as the two wolves surrounded their larger and battered counterpart. Out of the corner of her gaze she caught sight of Felassan waiting for them. "Tel banal ar ama." Her eyes shifted taking on that silver glow as for once she was the source of the raw magic. " Vir shiral ma lasa, bellanaris." she pulled him into the kiss, his hands pulling away from hers, and his arms wrapping around her, pulling her close. The kiss flowing away from tender into desperation, yearning, and desire as his knee pushed between her legs.

"Savhalla, ir Souvera iselenal! Vir shiral ma lasa bellanaris!" A very annoyed figure in the fade called breaking the moment as she clung to Solas, and even his wolf looked annoyed standing near the gateway. "Ir isala dhavemah ga'ta na!" Reaching up she gently nudged Solas' chin with her hand as she giggled.

"Fe--Felassan?" The name was whispered but the wolf howled as the arrow leaned against a pillar of golden halls. "I--I the knife..."

"Vhenan, our kind have proved harder to kill before." She murmured pulling back and taking his hand. Leading him to the gateway as Felassan's wolf entered and the elf chuckled. Glowing lavender reached out grabbing Solas' other hand.

"Sileal, what happened you could barely speak your vows." The teasing was light as they stepped into the fade, arms enfolding eachother, and wolves pressing against eachother. "You do have blood on your face Vhenan, we should fix that." she murmured pressing a kiss above his eye, Felassan mirroring her. "Sulevin....Las" the tired groan came in good nature as the tumbled into a nest of blankets. They would heal, and the veil, it would crumble naturally slowly and than the world and the titans would heal. 

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

Vhenan - my love Ir Abelas Vhenan - I am sorry my love Ar ghilas vir banal - Where I go is Terrible Tel banal ar ama.- It won't be terrible if you are with me Vir shiral ma lasa, bellanaris. - We make this journey, always Savhalla, ir Souvera iselenal! - Hey I am tired of waiting! Ir isala dhavemah ga'ta na! - I desire to kiss you both Sileal - Wisdom Sulevin - Purpose Las - Hope

[heartstringsduet]

Last week, the second winner of the poll was the Fantasy AU. I'm not sure of the final name but it consumes my every thought lately. Calling it Bargains on here for now. thanks for tagging me @thisbuildinghasfeelings @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad and @sznofthesticks

/you are bad at bargaining./

“Please,” Carlos begs. It’s all he can do now . “Please, he can’t die tonight.”

Death reaches out and Carlos doesn’t flinch, not anymore. He’s no longer afraid. There's a cold spot where Death places a hand on him and a gray tint to TK's skin where he is touched.

/carlos tomas reyes. tyler kennedy strand. both half-empty. both half-full./

Carlos swallows around a dry mouth. So he was right to look for him after all, he was led here for a reason.

/i see you want this man's soul?/

Carlos looks at the unconscious stranger, his heart beating wildly. “Yes.”

/the only way I give it to you, is to give yours to him. do you agree?/

The wind is a force making the house groan. The ground two stories below begins to rumble and shake the foundation of the house. The air in his lung is thin, singing. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was his father warning him. 

He thought Death would ask him for his own soul in exchange. This, he was unprepared for. Eyes on TK's still form Carlos forces the words out “What does that mean?”

/your life tied to his. his death tied to yours. do. you. agree?/

The earth quakes, his ancestors rebelling against the word he can’t form anymore. Death takes it right out of his mind once he made a decision.

Yes. 

Open tag for anyone wanting to participate <3

@paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @birdclowns @freneticfloetry @ambiguouspenny @alrightbuckaroo @whatsintheboxmh @inkweedandlizards @welcometololaland @rmd-writes @thebumblecee @noxsoulmate @lightningboltreader @liminalmemories21 @decafdino @ladytessa74 @lemonlyman-dotcom @bonheur-cafe @carlos-tk @louis-ii-reyes-strand @orchidscript @theghostofashton @strandnreyes @reyesstrand @kiwichaeng