#I know their heights here are changing wildly but listen

[hassians-sernuk-boyfriend]

now that I am alive and awake again: behold the secret-santa I did for @slipperhunting !! Nai'o, Hassian, Tau, and her OC, Sef!

[tokoyamisstuff]

Epiphany

18+ | 2,3k. words | Alexander Anderson x gn! Reader | not proofread

A/N: leave this man alone you horny heathens😭fucking same

Warnings: oral (male receiving), facial, porn without plot tbh

What a day...

While Father Anderson would never admit that certain aspects of his priesthood were rather bothersome, keeping the confessional was just not a task he was overly fond of.

Even if it wasn't for his thin patience and erratic temper, he was never cut out for listening to the sins of others without being able to punish them for it.

The Paladin moves his head from left to right, groaning at the cracking sound coming from his neck. He's already got backpain from having to crouch down to everyone's height at all times, and spending hours in this narrow box certainly wasn't helping his aging spine.

Noticing the time he thought about closing up and calling it a day, since usually no one visits this late...

...but then he hears the heavy door of the church being pushed open.

Someone makes his way towards the confessional with hasty steps, the almost palpable distraught in them waking his interest.

Let's see if you have something interesting to tell.

"Welcome, child" he greets you in a calm, inviting tone. "God loves you and is here to forgive you."

The voice came out slightly distorted due to a mechanism in the furniture, but you were too upset to recognize him either way. Actually you had looked up beforehand which priest was on duty - however unbeknownst to you, your beloved Paladin was covering up today's shift for his ill colleague.

Still jittery you hesistantly take a seat, shuffling around in the limited space. But you had finally worked up the courage to come here for guidance, so no matter what, you would pull through with it.

Even though it most likely doesn't make those feelings going away, voicing them to an uninvolved would at least partially lift that suffocating metaphorical weight from your chest.

Since you don't begin he initiates, patiently nonetheless. "So tell me, what brings you here today?"

There's a long pause between his question and your answer, struggling with your words even though you've rehearsed them countless times.

"I've been..." you fumble nervously with your hands in your lap, "...harboring improper feelings for a fellow member of the church."

Anderson almost choked on air as soon as he realized who exactly was confiding in him right now. For anonymity your voice came across a bit changed as well, yet the way you expressed yourself so unmistakeable you that the pecularity of the situation left him in utter shock.

Should he reveal that it's him before you say more? Knowing it would probably make you uncomfortable, since the two of you are rather close acquaintaced.

Let alone the fact that due some internal battles, he couldn't possibly stay neutral about this matter anyways...

...no. It had started already, and he wants to be there for you. Also, he's very curious what - and especially who - this was about.

He shakes off those irrational thoughts, folding his arms across his broad chest as he leans back on the small stool. "Continue, lamb. What feelings exactly?"

You bite your tongue. "Romantic ones, I guess. I think this is what love must be like. I-I've never felt like this before." At this point those long suppressed words pour out on their own like an unstoppable river. "He is kind, strong, intelligent...and wildly passionate." Putting a hand over your heart, you sigh dreamily. "I guess my admiration turned into something more profound over time, but lately I started having...improper thoughts about this man."

At this point Anderson was practically seething with hurt and rage, his heart feeling like it's been impaled with every single second of having to listen to your gushing for this stranger.

His own infatuation with you had been a constant torment in sleep and waking hours, though he knew he could never offer you a normal life that you more than deserved. So he bruied those feelings deep inside of himself, only to break free even stronger now that he learned you found someone else, someone better.

Wasn't that what he hoped, prayed for you?

In the end, he was a professional, keeping up the stoic act perfectly - at least on the outside. He merely raises an eyebrow as he nods to himself, voice not wavering in the slightest as he indifferently recites a standard lecture, attempting to detatch himself and be happy for your sake. "We're all human, struggling with temptation is part of our existence. None of us is free of sin, but we must never act upon them."

He bites back the selfish urge to talk you out of it, to somehow twist faith and logic so that you'd give up on pursuing this man. The thing is he just doesn't get the problem in the first place. You're not a nun or similar, so what was this all about?

"...but I have to admit I cannot yet see where this goes against god, my dear. Love is one of the greatest gifts from our Lord, after all. Do you mind to elaborate?"

Tears dwell in your eyes, the lump forming in your throat making it hard to continue. "It's just...I love him very dearly, but we cannot ever be together. It's tearing me apart, Father. I don't know what to do."

"And why is that? Is the man not available?" He was still blissfully unaware what you were on about. You don't seem like the type of person to go after married men.

A strangled sob escapes your throat, hoping the priest takes his oath of confidentially serious. "He never was" you joke bitterly, "He has taken on the vows of a priest, just like you."

Anderson's breath catched in his throat, hands trembling in a mixture of dread and naive hope. "If you allow me asking" he almost whines, "who is it we're talking about?"

You were slightly taking aback by the blunt inquirement, but didn't mind at all. Can't get any worse than this - if anything you were doting on Alexander for so long already, it baffled you that no one connected the dots until now.

"...please, I beg of you, never tell anyone...it's Father Anderson."

Something inside of him snapped that very moment your words drang to his ears.

The Priest falls silent for a while and the more time passes without any response, the worse your panic grows.

"Please..." you plead again, emphasizing every word. "He will never find out. Our friendship is too important for me to ever risk it."

"...and...what kind of thoughts do you have about him, exactly?"

For him to ask something like that out of the blue...but you were aware that your sins cannot fully be forgiven if you don't spill the whole truth.

Whatever helps you rid this guilt from your conscience, you guess.

"Umm...nothing too indecent..." You nervously pick on your clothes, stumbling across every syllable. "Mostly, I just...I want to be near him, but sometimes...my mind wanders elsewhere...I-I wonder what his lips would feel on mine, and I...want to feel his hands on my body, I guess. And to- you know..." Saying this stuff aloud was embarrassing, especially to a man of faith.

Why was he even making you do this?

Anderson listened carefully as he rubbed the growing bulge in his pants, but soon couldn't bear hearing those little gasps of yours anymore without wanting more more more.

"I-Is everything okay, Father?" He made some rather weird noises there, even his breaths sounded strained. "It's nothing, just...just continue..."

The Paladin bites his hand to keep himself from moaning, his other fiercely stroking his aching cock as he listens to your fantasies, having harbored similar ones - if not worse.

Your volume is barely above a whisper now, voice cracking. "I just wish to give myself to him fully, but I could never forgive myself to make a devout man like him stray away from the right path." Laughing at your own foolishness, you add "Not that he'd ever reciprocate anyways."

"Oh, you'd be surprised..."

Suddenly you hear the man in the cabin next to you jolt on his feet, practically tearing off the door separating the two of you.

Seeing Anderson here was nothing short of a nightmare, shock making the reality of your situation only gradually dawn on you.

"You- you weren't supposed to be here today!" you blurt out almost yelling, but he merely grins in a lust-induced haze. "God works in mysterious ways, my dear..."

The Priest is towering over you, face flushed and stern, looking slightly disheveled. Finally your gaze wanders down to the obvious hard-on he's squeezing in his fist, already leaking precum. Due to his height it's conveniently right in front of your face, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint in him to not immediately take advantage of this fact.

This can't be. No way. It must be a dream.

You were overwhelmed, confused, mind racing through thousand things at once. Not knowing how to react you want to avert your eyes from the sin happening right in front of you, but Anderson softly takes ahold of your chin, forcing you to keep looking.

"Oh, you sweet little temptress..." he murmurs heavily, desperately. "You want penance, right?" His cock twitches in anticipation of the idea popping up in his mind, "Earn it, then..."

"Alexander, I-"

"Father" he corrects you with a wolfish smile, the more predatory part of his personality coming through now that his desire was out of control. "Far too late to play coy now, don't you think?"

"It's not like I don't want to, I just...never did this before."

"Neither have I" he encourages you, voice firm yet balmy. He lets his thumb run over your mesmerizing soft lips, slowly leading your face towards the prize you had wanted so dearly, didn't you?

You lick your lips observing him, that small gesture alone making him shudder. He felt so vulnerable like this, presenting himself so bare and needy and downright filthy.

Unsure how to begin, your fingertips tentatively caress his shaft, earning a whimmer he was absolutely ashamed to make. When you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, his hips were bucking oh so very urgently against the skin of your palm, leading the pace.

Eager to learn you boldly let your tongue swirl around his head, briefly sliding across the slid and you could've sworn he gripped the frame of the confessional so hardly that the frame almost scattered.

Closing your eyes you place a tender kiss on the tip before leading it to your mouth, continuing to stroke him at the same time. "N-No..." he wrings out, one hand praisingly on your head. "Don't look away, lamb."

You gaze up at him through still teary lashes and he lets out a shaky breath. "Beautiful, so beautiful...you're divine."

Pushing himself between your slightly part lips, a glurrotal sound escaped his own. The feeling of his cock is foreign and heavy on your tongue, saliva dripping from the corner of your mouth as you try to adjust.

He notices how you press your thighs together, the friction an insufficient attempt at release. But as much as it pained him to see, he cant bring himself to taint you more than he already allows himself to...yet. "Poor thing...how often did you think about doing this?" You make a small sound of protest yet wont stop bobbing up and down on his erection, and he chuckles darkly at the endearing sight.

Wanting to tease him you apply more sucktion, cheeks going hollow as your pace sped up. "Bloody hell.." Your hands slide under his cassock, the foreign touch being too much to bear. "Tha-at's it, you're good, so good for me..."

His hands are restless, caressing anywhere he can reach; your hair, neck, squeezing your shoulders ever so slightly. You moan, the vibration of your throat against his cock making his head fall back in ecstasy.

It really felt like god has made you just for him.

He grabs a handful of your hair and guides your movements, basically thrusting in your mouth now. Your hands press against his lends so he wouldn't push too deeply if he gets carried away, the feeling of your fingernails digging into the flesh only adding to his pleasure.

Anderson is reduced to a puddle of lust by now, a moaning and trembling mess. He's unable to form coherent words, groaning pleas and curses alike as he finds himself completely at your mercy.

You feel him twitch inside of you before he suddenly pulls out of your aching jaw, grabbing it fiercely before giving it a few more strokes. He holds you in place with his other hand, your name dropping from his lips as he shamelessly covers you with his liquid sin.

His mind is still clouded by the aftershocks of his orgasm, wordlessly staring at the mess he's made on your body. He gasps slightly as you lick his essence from your plush lips, beaming up at him like you had just been blessed.

The Priest utters a quiet prayer as he observes you for a moment longer, a fascinated gleam in his eyes, like he wanted to imprint every detail of this image in his mind.

He quickly stuffs himself back into his pants, hands making the sign of the cross over you before letting it run through his hair. Adjusting his glasses, he lends you a handkerchief out of his pocket and speaks as if nothing happened.

"Your sins are forgiven, lamb" he declares huskily, clearing his throat with an almost innocent smile, before leaning in to place a chaste kiss at your temple. His breath is hot on your ear, lingering in the crook of your neck to dwell in your touch and scent just for a bit longer.

"Go in peace" the Priest then orders, voice dropping an octave deeper as he adds "...but feel free to come back to me, shall you struggle with that...temptation again."

[kat-is-laem-oa]

Chapter 10: I Work Here

(Previous Chapter) (Next Chapter)

Jace strutted confidently back through the NYPD doors, the rest following in confusion. When Eljah tried to catch up to the redhead, Alec pulled him back.

“Just let them do their thing.”

“What does it matter who I follow?” Although Eljah was thinking he was tired of being around the lovebirds, Clary was the only one he felt comfortable around. She was new to this world, and in a way, he was, too. He’d been so far removed from the world, without a choice, that things had completely changed.

Alec didn’t even respond, only rolling his eyes.

The three traveled down a skinny flight of stairs and walked through big, blue glass doors. This area was more packed. Eljah was slightly worried about being seen again by reoccurring employees, taking a spot in between but somewhat behind the siblings, using Alec’s height to shield him as he stood against a pillar.

“Okay, I’m guessing you’re the distraction?” Alec asked his sister. Eljah had expected the same, used to Isabelle’s natural charm even though he hadn’t known her long.

“Nope! I’ve decided to grow up, remember?” lowering her head and looking toward Alec. “No more distracting for me.”

Alec was physically tweaking, hand tapping his thigh rapidly. He knew what that meant, and so did Eljah.

“Besides, I don’t think I’m her type…” gazing at the woman seated at the surprisingly small front desk.

“Oh, crap,” Alec mumbled. It made the smaller man giggle, which Alec glared in response to. His hands were wiping down his jacket and readjusting it, a rare sight to see, as his palms got sweaty.

“Don’t worry, it’s good practice,” Isabelle encouraged. Poor Alec was not encouraged.

“Huh?”

“You know, for asking out Magnus.” Eljah also looked at a laughing Isabelle at the mention of the older warlock. It was painful when Alec turned to look at Eljah, who was covering a smile under his hand. The man just sighed.

“What are you… What are you doing?” Alec struggled against Isabelle’s attempts to make him more attractive to the female gaze. His voice wavered, and it was adorable in Eljah’s eyes. The tall man acted like a shy schoolgirl when he was around him.

“Unbuttoning your shirt. What’s it look like I’m doing?” Isabelle overpowered with strict focus, interrupted by Alec aggressively pushing her hands away. Eljah wasn’t fond of aggression towards women, but it was different with siblings, obviously.

“Izzy, this is not really my department,” Alec stressed. Eljah popped from his spot against the wall, replacing Izzy.

“Take a deep breath,” he emphasized with a hand to his jacket, “just… pretend it’s someone else.” Eljah refused to say, “pretend it’s me,” because it would be one hundred percent pretentious. Alec didn’t look like he was listening, though (despite actively doing so), eyes locked on the smaller man in front of him. He swallowed thickly, almost like he was going to choke.

“It’s easy,” Izzy chimed in, patting his back in support. Alec took a deep breath with a grasp of Eljah’s hand, holding it longer than expected as his eyes rolled back into his head. He released it, and Isabelle and Eljah stood back in awe as they watched Alec approach the desk.

“Hey,” he smiled cutely to alert the woman. She didn’t look all that affected just by looking at Alec (Eljah was envious), most likely because she was middle-aged.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, um…” he stuttered roughly, “you- you come here often?” Eljah could’ve facepalmed, but he stood completely still, otherwise he would’ve cackled. Oh, it hurt. It really hurt.

She was in disbelief, rolling her eyes before stating the obvious. “I work here. What can I help you with?” Eljah wiped the corners of his mouth to erase the smile on his face, jutting Izzy to do the same.

“Right, right, right. Yeah, um… I’m just looking for some information,” he began rattling off wildly. Eljah almost forgot they were doing all this to steal her keycard.

Alec acted shocked to see the pamphlets clearly laid out, but purposefully pushed over the officer’s water bottle and pilfered the card to Izzy with a swipe.

He apologized profusely, attempting to help while keeping her distracted. Eljah stayed put as Izzy walked forward, catching the badge with ease.

Eljah couldn’t help but repeatedly slap Alec’s arm in excitement when the two reunited, splitting off from Isabelle. “You did it!” he released in a low shriek. Alec played it off, but he was smirking with clear pride in himself, egged on by Eljah’s encouragement.

—

Alec returned to stoic as they fully regrouped. “Did you get it?”

“Theoretically,” Clary answered.

“Theoretically?” Alec repeated, already getting agitated again.

“I- I found the card. I just have to figure out how I reached into my notebook before. It’s- It’s not an exact science,” she further explained.

“Can’t you just pull the Cup out?” Alec was being annoying again and Eljah knocked his arm in light retribution, whispering, “she just told you she has to figure it out.” Alec at least feigned hurt.

“It’s not as easy as it looks, Alec!” Clary countered.

“Listen, you two can discuss theories as much as you want when we get back to the Institute. But right now, considering we just stole from the cops, I suggest we get home.” Jace was serious, and the flashing blue and red lights made his expression grimmer.

“Guys…” Isabelle whispering, her necklace (which Eljah remembered vividly) pulsing on her neck. “I think the mundanes might be the least of our worries.”

“Well, at least we have the demon necklace,” Alec appreciated.

“Thank you, Magnus,” Eljah jokingly sighed. Credit where credit is due!

“Thank you, Magnus,” Alec echoed.

Jace moved first, leading the group calmly away, saying, “never a dull day. Let’s go.” While it should’ve been simple, Clary called out to the group.

“Guys, slow down!”

“¿Qué pasa, rojo? What’s wrong, red?” Eljah called out, turning to see Clary had bumped into something; something was not the old grandma Clary claimed to have seen. As he turned to the commotion, the demon had four sharp rods of teeth extended toward his new friend, more rows at the ready inside its mouth.

While Eljah wanted to lunge to help her, Alec hooked an arm around the slighter man, effectively telling him to let Jace handle it.

“Tienes suerte de que me gustes You are lucky I like you,” Eljah hissed up at the man holding him back, who looked perplexed at the sudden anger Eljah presented, letting him go promptly.

“Te acostumbras You get used to it,” Isabelle grinned. Eljah totally forgot they were a Latinx family, unaccustomed to anyone but Raphael understanding him. Puerto Rican Spanish wasn’t vastly different from Spain Spanish or others. There were plenty of grammar rules that differentiated Boricuas Spanish, but it wasn’t impossible to understand in other Latin countries.

Alec did regain hold of him, dragging him to Jace and Clary, asking, “how did it find us?”

Let’s be real. Clary was one of the brightest redheads Eljah had ever seen… and he’s been alive for two centuries! How could you miss her?

The “cops” exiting their vehicle nearby most likely spotted her that way. Maybe she should invest in hair dye, Eljah thought. Maybe I should too. Their eyes were black, but so was their energy, the bigger giveaway to Eljah.

“I don’t know… but she brought friends,” Jace pointed out.

“How can you tell?” Clary hastily asked, looking around her, trying to spot what she was missing.

“It’s like seeing through a glamor. You just gotta pay attention to the details.”

“But I can’t see anything!” Clary seeped pure stress.

“Behind us,” Izzy called out, to no avail for Clary.

“Okay, there is too many people,” the redhead expressed, sticking close to Jace.

“I don’t say this often, but I agree with Clary,” Alec muttered. “We gotta get out of here.”

“Hey, this way!” Taking the group down a brutally long set of stairs and making for a back door to a connected building, Clary asked, “what’s the unlock rune again?”

Jace responded by kicking in the door. “Open sesame,” he said with a smirk. Gaining entrance to the building, the crew ran through, but dropped a member on the way.

“What are you doing?” Eljah huffed, irritation catching up to him.

“Holding them off,” Alec said, too casual for Eljah’s liking. “Take Clary back to the Institute.

“No, if you’re staying, I’m staying. We fight together,” Jace argued, upset at the possible parting with his Parabatai. It had happened too often lately, and despite never having had a Parabatai himself, Eljah knew it was rough.

“Don’t be stupid. If the demons get the cup, we’re dead anyway,” Alec finished, not wanting to argue anymore.

“I’m not leaving anyone behind!”

“You don’t have a choice!” Elijah felt alarmed and uncomfortable with confrontation and anger.

Clary made Eljah slightly upset when she said, “I know you guys are having a moment, okay? But we really have to go.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not like this is the first time Alec has saved your life. I doubt it’d be the last,” Isabelle added.

“Go,” Alec ordered. Eljah stepped back rather slowly, unsure of what to do. Alec sighed, readying his bow and telling Eljah, “go back to the Institute. No detours,” before raising an arrow to the entrance.

Who was he to deny orders from the Alec Lightwood?

(He wanted to…)

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

[suzy-queued]

Hey! I was wondering if you could do a handwriting analysis for Bucky Barnes from Marvel.

What a fun ask! There's not much to go on, but here goes:

The first thing to note is that he uses print rather than cursive, all caps. This is an indication that he is an intuitive person who goes in his own way rather than listening to authority.

His writing is highly legible, which denotes a deep, accurate thinker. His letters are all the same size, which means that he's steady and reliable.

His strokes are more angular than rounded, indicating maturity. The deep, consistent pressure indicates frustration and a need for control. The heavy pressure also shows a very strong drive, meaning he's ambitious and determined. He has a consistent baseline (especially on the unlined paper), which again shows that he is reliable.

His cross-strokes (lines across T and H) are the same thickness as the rest of the lines, which means he is "sensuous" to music, art, and emotion. The tightly controlled lengths of these cross-strokes show that he's repressed (ha!).

The capital "I" is the same height as the other capitals. This means that he has a reasonable amount of self-respect. He isn't overly arrogant or self-loathing. Because all of his capital letters are plain and unflourished (no curls or extra lines), he is modest and refined in his tastes.

His letters angle more toward the right, which generally is a sign or warmth and happiness. But look at the second sample, where he's listing names. Those letters tend to slant to the left. This is a more cold/heartless sample, which makes sense. He feels affection for his therapist (sample 1) and hate toward the people on his list (sample 2).

The page's left margin tends to relate to how you spend money. His left margin in the list is pretty consistent if you look at the first letters. But, man, those gaps after the period are wildly divergent. He would probably be careless and impulsive with money.

Overall, he falls into the classification of "Strong-Willed Person," indicated by his straight lines, heavy pressure, careful strokes, and consistent thickness. "This person knows exactly what he is going to do and when he is going to do it. It is unusual for him to vacillate as it is for a stone wall to bend in the wind. Has set opinions on most things which can be changed only by fool-proof argument. Has strong likes and dislikes."

He meets a lot of criteria for "Lover of Fine Arts" and "Willful Type" as well.

Hope you enjoyed this! :)

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

And I... Chapter Two, a Malevolent Fic

The bill comes due.

Final fics of Surrogate, season one: 3/4. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3

----

Hastur felt John use magic, pulling it off, and stabilizing Arthur.

Hastur felt Nibbles open a portal, and felt Faroe leave. 

But Arthur hadn’t gone with them. He was still here. What was wrong with that fool?

Hastur fought, fending off his son’s attacks, trying without success to pin him, and kept returning to one damning thought: the bill always came due… whether or not one knew they owed it.

“Stop!” he cried again, pushing back, trying to get close enough to stop this, to force a ceasefire before the ship completely sank. “Stop!”

Magic flew, shaking the ground, the walls. Torches fell, cracked free from their sconces to crash and sputter, and the braziers spilled their glowing contents across the floor.

Gokar’luh did not stop. He whipped his head back, tearing Hastur’s flesh with his teeth before he spat it bloody on the ground. “I begged you to stop,” he snarled, digging his fingers into torn flesh, “But you did not listen!”

The pain was sharp, but Hastur had been through constant, unending pain for nearly twenty years at this point. Eons of experience kicked in, and he did not flip his son so much as roll over, dragging Gokar’luh with him. “I am listening now!” he bellowed. “Mgah!”

Stop. A spelled attempt to stun, but Gokar’luh shuddered under the force of the spell and expertly parried it.

Then he stabbed.

Hastur roared as Gothar’luh wrenched his ichor-soaked dagger from his father’s side. “Fight me!” he shrieked as Hastur writhed. “You said you’d give me Carcosa? After I put on your robe and your mask, Father, they won’t even know you’re gone. You will be but a bad memory. I will erase you. I will supplant you.” He lunged again, dagger sweeping wildly. “Fight me!”

Still, Hastur would not fight to kill. “Stop!” he roared again, which was pitiful, which was pathetic, which was not enough, but he didn’t know what else to do. “Take it! I’ll elevate you! They will know you defeated me—just stop!” 

They both knew Hastur wasn’t wielding the lightning he could, the spells he could. They both knew he wasn’t cracking the earth, or compressing Gokar’luh’s lungs, or filling his skull with mold until his eyes went green and popped out one by one.

But just the same, Hastur wouldn’t stand down, either, and holding Gokar’luh off without fighting to the death was a greater insult than he had yet given.

Hastur’s severed tentacles continued screaming, all bass agony, no words, their new lives nothing but torment.

#

Arthur had to do something. There had to be something. He hadn’t been able to get close. Errant tentacles (he wasn’t even sure whose) kept slamming down, barely missing him, knocking him down and breathless.

No! John snarled suddenly. Not that way! There’s ichor fucking everywhere! You’ll burn your fucking face off!

But Arthur had heard the destruction of this room, heard part of it tumbling down. And he’d been navigating blind for a very long time now—he knew the shape had changed. He crawled. “There’s something here,” he gasped, voice shattered. “Something to climb on. Will this weapon work?”

Are you kidding? John almost sounded offended. It’s a sliver. Too fucking tiny! It won’t even pierce through his hide!

Arthur dropped it. Crawled. Reached. Felt around, moving toward that rubble—and found, at head-height, a nub of obsidian broken off from larger chunks, sticking like a handle out from the larger rock before him.

He gripped it. Felt how it fit in his palm. He pulled himself to his feet. “John. Magic. We need fucking magic. Turn this into something better than a sliver. I need a gods-damned sword.”

#

Faroe couldn’t stop crying. 

It was too much. Everything that had happened. Her thoughts were muddled, her heart confused. And everyone around her acted like this was just some game. 

She watched the mist. She clung to Nibbles. She could do… nothing.

And gods kept coming by to tell her how brave she was, or how entertaining, or—worst of all—“I see why he picked you!” with no explanation which he that was, or when, or why, and they kept coming until huge, hoofed legs like tree trunks came to form a barrier around them, warding off the others with a well placed growl or stomp.

Nibbles' siblings, lending gentle aid.

Faroe had begun shaking, and couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to Nibbles, because she hadn’t even realized her friend had been on the floor, tied down. It was all so fuzzy. Nibbles nuzzled her, all obviously forgiven.

The gods began to murmur in earnest, and she looked up.

Arthur. Arthur, gripping a broken-off knob of obsidian, to the backdrop of flailing gods. Arthur, saying… something she couldn’t quite make out, not with the roaring of her dad and her brother (were they fighting over her? She couldn’t think clearly), with the screams of her father’s erstwhile arms, with the hurled curses and trembling ground. Arthur—

This man, this broken, tortured man, who loved her, who often cried—

Who’d freed Nibbles, who’d gotten them out, who shared her name—

This man stood up.

Half the gods cheered. Strange goods changed hands, as if there’d been some kind of bet—but it wasn’t over yet. Arthur hadn’t let go of that knob of obsidian. Then John did something. She saw it flash through Arthur’s body like bright red light, like energy, like power, from his heart straight to his hand. 

The thrum of red grew brighter, flashing. He became hard to see, so vibrant, brightness like a forge lighting the air around him. Slowly, he pulled that handhold out. It kept coming, and coming, steady and true. Faroe’s breath caught.

Arthur pulled a sword right from the stone.

The audience went wild.

Long, straight, black as night, it was weighty, but somehow made for him, and his face grew grim as he hefted it. 

Faroe sobbed, the sound terrible in her sore throat, but her heart sang with a wonder more true than any she'd ever known. She knew what she had seen, and she would never, ever forget. 

Arthur held the sword. And though he was blind, he began to climb.

#

I did this.

Hastur fended off another attack, deflecting the spell, dodging cracked and falling obsidian.

I did this.

The pain from his severed limbs—still writhing and twisting in the trap—muddled with Arthur’s pain, and Hastur’s new wounds, and the old ones from when John had been torn free. And still, his son pressed on.

I did this.

He felt Arthur doing some crazy stupid thing, some surging magic on the other side of the rubble, but he couldn’t even spare an eye to see what the fuck that was. His hearts beat, leaden, because this was all on him. Every drop of ichor spilled, every tear, every cry. Every snarling lunge from his son, attempting to fell him. 

He couldn’t think. How could anyone think when it hurt this much?

Gokar’luh would not stop. Of course he wouldn’t. Hastur wouldn’t have, in his situation. Hastur would, in his shoes, have thrown everything into this attempt, and his son had done the same. But the trap had not landed; the hostage was gone; Arthur was doing some crazy bug-fuck Arthur thing, and none of it had worked as planned.

Maybe it should have, though.

Maybe this was supposed to happen.

Maybe this was the bill come due.

Hastur was no longer launching his own attacks, merely blocking, being driven back. “I did this to you,” he gasped.  What did it matter? No one would hear, would care. It didn’t matter. “I did this!” 

Gokar’luh surged into him, free hand fisting in Hastur’s robes. “I trusted you!” He wailed, the blade flashing down.

Would this make up for it? Could it repair any part of this? If Hastur fought, Gokar’luh would lose. If Hastur fought, Gokar’luh would die. Hastur caught Gokar’luh’s arms, freezing his attack.

“I adored you,” Gokar’luh screamed, writhing in his grip. “But it was never enough. I was never enough. Stop pitying me! Fight me!” Tentacles pierced into Hastur’s arms, twisting and wrenching them apart, and Gokarluh’s blade flashed down and buried itself clumsily in Hastur’s shoulder. “FIGHT ME!” 

Hastur roared. 

He let the force of the blow carry him back and fell, his son’s weight on top of him, sprawled. Images flashed through his head—doing this in play, in training, eons ago, and laughing with pride. Doing this with Faroe, play-bellowing as she ‘knocked’ him over and climbed on top.

It fit. It had to happen. The bill came due.

Hastur went still.

“After everything you did to me, I still loved you,” Gokar’luh wept, holding his blade high with both his hands. “But you chose her.”

Loved? Loved?

It was love. Absolutely love, but they had never said it, never used the word.

Hastur felt stunned. “I did not choose her over you,” he whispered.

“But you did.”

Had he?

No… but with that, Hastur knew the one thing that would push him over the edge, that would force Gokar’luh’s hand, that would make this travesty end. “Yes.” He lay his head back, exposing his throat, going still.

And Arthur appeared. Appeared behind Gokar’luh in the air like he’d bounced on a gods-damned trampoline—and he had a long, black sword raised over his head as he came down.

It happened too fast, and Hastur was too slow. He couldn’t do anything in time.

#

Faroe screamed.

#

NOW, Arthur!

Arthur jumped. The sword over his head, his entire body in it, flinging himself with absolute trust in John to aim him as surely as John had aimed his javelin.

Bring it down now! 

And Arthur did.

#

Gokar’luh screamed as white-hot agony ripped through his back, and he whipped around, hand closing around that stupid fucking human. 

How was that human even functioning? This was insane. All of this was insane, and the human wouldn’t let go, and the blade was twisting and Gokar’luh shrieked and hurled the human at the wall with deadly force.

Arthur cried out.

Hastur caught him, snagging him with a single tentacle right before he hit, tip behind Arthur’s head so he didn’t snap his neck, then dropped Arthur gasping to the floor.

Gokar’luh howled as he pulled the sword from his back. It was long and unwieldy but he wrenched it out, ichor spraying as he threw it, clattering, to the ground. “No. NO! I’ll fucking kill him! I’ll rip him apart, and then I’ll do the same to the brat, I’ll fucking kill them all!”

“Your quarrel is with me! Leave them be!” Hastur demanded, and tackled him, desperately pinning his many arms. “You are done! Yield!”

“You can’t save them,” Gokar’luh cried, twisting in Hastur’s grip. “You won’t be able to hide her! I’ll find her, anywhere she goes, anywhere you sequester her, I will find her, and I will rip her apart!” He laughed, high and cruel and desperate. “I’ll rip out her organs one by one, I’ll ensure that you hear every whimper, I’ll—”

“You will not.” Hastur’s voice was deep.

And with that, Gokar’luh knew the one thing that would push him over the edge, that would force Hastur’s hand, that would make this travesty end. “I’ll show you just how serious I am,” Gokar’luh hissed, and with a sudden burst of strength, threw Hastur off. Then he leaped for Arthur.

And he stopped, talons just inches from Arthur’s face.

Hastur sobbed once. His tentacle curled around the hilt of the obsidian blade piercing through Gokar’luh’s back, angled to pierce both of his hearts with devastating finality. “You will not,” Hastur whispered, the words broken and hollow.

Gokar’luh slumped, curling around the blade point that stuck through his chest and stained his robes dark with ichor.

No… mumbled John.

“John?” whispered Arthur. “What happened? What’s happening?”

Very softly, John began to cry.

“My son,” Hastur said, his voice soft. “My treasure. I can’t let you hurt them.”

“What?” whispered Arthur.

Gokar’luh turned, breaking off the obsidian inside himself, his movements shaky and stumbling. The strength had sapped from his tentacles and he fell—and Hastur lunged to catch him, to hold him up. But the weight of it, of Gokar’luh’s body, the injury, the finality, was too much to bear. Hastur fell back, his remaining tentacles surging around them in a familiar, protective embrace.

As if that would make any difference.

No… no… John moaned.

Gokar’luh choked on the obsidian lodged in his core, bleeding and twitching, and Hastur cradled him within his arms. Again, memories—flashing back to when Gokar’luh was young, looking up at him with admiration, with the same faith Faroe had once shown. Flashing back to when Gokar’luh was spawned, wailing and small, and seeing a weak reflection of himself staring up at him, sweet and unshapen and new.

Flashing back to the throne room, when he had passed his judgment, when his son looked up at him with betrayal, with shock.

Hastur, so gently, reached to cup his face. “I did this. I did this.”

“Oh, gods,” whispered Arthur, and fell silent. 

The howling of Hastur’s torn limbs suddenly stopped as Hastur swept them into himself, and then wrapped everything he had around Gokar’luh, forehead to forehead, rocking him as if to sleep. “My son.”

“Father?” Gokar’luh’s voice was very soft, his tattered yellow veil growing dark and sticky with every choking breath, and Hastur tenderly brushed the veil away from his face. “Father, I—”

“Oh, my son,” Hastur whispered, his thumb gently brushing across the planes of his child’s face. “What have I done?”

Gokar’luh’s breath rattled as he twitched, choking, his hand fisting in Hastur’s robes. At last he stilled, head falling back, eyes pinpointed with pain. “I want to go home,” he said. “Can I… Can we go home?”

“Yes,” Hastur breathed, brushing away a bead of golden light that welled at the corner of his son’s eye. “We can go home, my son. I…” He’d never told him. Never said it to him—how? How had he, in all their millenia of life, somehow never told him? Was Faroe really the first? “I love you.”

Gokar’luh’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” he mumbled, their breath mingling. “You… You love me.”

“Yes,” Hastur whispered. “Yes. And… look at you. So strong; so clever. You’ve defeated me.” Somehow, he kept his voice light. Somehow, he cordoned off the despair that threatened to rip him to pieces. “I knew you could, Gokar’luh, my treasure. You’ve won.”

“This doesn’t feel like victory,” Gokar’luh whispered; softly, he began to weep. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Hastur said, and his voice broke. “You’ve won. I am ruined.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and said the words he had never said in all the eons of his life: “I yield.”

Gokarluh’s breath was slowing, growing ragged. Ichor bubbled from the wounds on his chest. “I won,” he whispered, his tentacles twining within Hastur’s. “Father…”

“I yield. I love you, my son. You have done well. Rest, now. We are going home.” He took another shuddering breath. “I will take you home.”

Gokar’luh’s breath rattled as he choked, the writhing of his tentacles amidst Hastur’s slowing—and, finally, one by one, they fell still, and the fist that had tightened in Hastur’s robes fell limp.

With a final sigh, Gokar’luh, crown jewel of Carcosa, died.

Arthur could hear Hastur and John, weeping. John’s was soft, an almost voiceless cry.

Hastur’s was not. He wailed. This was no drama, no sound for show. His voice was wretched; he howled, ragged, and there was no end.

chapter three

[zeydaan-isabella]

An American Were-Isabella

Commission for and story by GreyHawk89 - based on the 'American Werewolf in London' poster- with Isabella instead.

It was getting close to ten o'clock as I left Harrod's, so I quickened my pace as I made my way back to the hotel. Fortunately it was on Cromwell Road along with all the other places I'd visited today, so at least I wasn't likely to get lost. The legendary department store had certainly had it's impressive aspects and of course history, but it was still ultimately a store. Maybe I'd have found it 'cooler' if I'd lived and visited way back when you could go buy literally anything there. Or maybe I'd have liked it better if I'd been rich enough to actually afford any of their cooler merchandise? Well, the couple of snacks I'd bought in the food court had still been nice. The Natural History Museum was alright , but in the end not really different from any of the big nature museums I'd visited in any other big city, like the one in New York. On the other Hand, I'd really liked the V&A, with it's massive collection of items, err, 'acquired' back in the glory days of the Empire. I'd passed the V&A and had mostly passed the NHM when I stopped to pull out and examine my map. Let's see, tomorrow morning was going to be a long tour of... Hyde Park. Okay. Though, why the English would name a large public park after a creep like Mister Hyde, that I didn't know. I was attempting to re-fold my map when I became aware of an odd whistling noise, then there was the cracking on many tree branches followed by a thud of impact somewhere in the garden area surrounding the museum. Once I'd stopped freaking out, I finished refolding the map and carefully started walking towards the impact site. I'd just barely entered beneath the canopy of trees when someone rushed out at me! It was a middle-aged man in ratty clothes. He stunk of alcohol and groaning something made hard to understand due to his thick rural English accent. He looked around wildly, shoving me back towards the lights and traffic of Cromwell. "Stick to the road! Beware, the maid!" he slurred, then stumbled past fearfully. "...The hell does THAT mean?" I muttered to myself, then pressed on with a shrug. Like I'd listen to ramblings of some drunk! Slowly and carefully I crept towards whatever it was had landed in the garden. I became aware of a faint pink-and-golden glow coming from the area. What could that be? The glow got brighter and brighter as I approached it's source. I was at the edge of the small impact crater, I pushed a large leafy branch aside and beheld!- I very strange sight indeed. A tall woman(?) dressed as a maid lay at the bottom of the small pit. She was the source of the glow. Well, if I was in a drunken stupor and a maid had fallen out of the sky and nearly landed on top of me, I guess I'd want to 'beware the maid' as well. There was something very odd about her but the bright glow obscured her features. There was something off about her face and she was laying on a couple of rolled-up blankets of dresses or something? Suddenly, she shifted and groaned a very unpleasant groan. The glow began diminishing, sinking back into her body, giving me a better look at her. I'll be damned. What the heck was she? All her exposed skin as yellow, her hair was pink, her face stuck out into a reptilian snout, and the things I'd mistaken for blankets laying under her were a tail and pair of wings. Did a DRAGON just fall out of the sky right near me? Maybe not a full dragon, since she was human-shaped and about my own height. That or she'd shape-changed to look more human in public? It didn't really matter which. I was no dashing prince here to save a fair maiden, but I saw a person in trouble, and felt the need to help her. But, was she injured? Was moving her even a safe idea though?...Hmm, the impact itself hadn't killed her, so... Standing next to her, I leaned down and carefully helped her to her feet. "Are you alright Miss? That was quite a landing you had here. What happened?" "I just wanted to become bees." she said weakly. Again, the hell did THAT mean? "Still not bees," she half-sobbed as I helped her walk up the slight slope out of the pit. "Never gonna be bees..." Despite making no goddamn sense, at least her voice was getting stronger and steadier. A woman's voice, but very deep and husky, deeper than that actress who played Brienne on GoT. Couldn't place her accent either, but then, I WAS just an American tourist after all. "What's your name?" I asked. "Are you hurt? What do bees have to do with how you got here?"  She blinked big pink eyes and looked around, looked at me. "I'm!-uh, who're you? Where am I? Where's Mum?"  For whatever reason, I answered the second question first. "London." I tried to remember the neighborhood. "Um, Kensington? South Kensington? The grounds of the Natural History Museum on Cromwell Road." Her eyes widened and she gulped, wings flaring out. "London!? I was with Mum at Stonehenge! How'd I get all the way, all the waaUURGH!" She clutched her stomach and doubled over. With a wet retch, she burped up a burst of the glowing energy that'd been illuminating her body just a minute ago. "Out, it wants out, I need to!-" She snapped back up straight so violently it was a wonder she didn't break her spine doing so. Her pink eyes glowed red. Her mouth opened and closed rapidly. Words were coming out of it, in an unfamiliar language, and far too rapidly to be understood even if I had recognized it. Was it even HER that was trying to talk right now? Or something else inside her? She stepped forward unsteadily, like a zombie, glowing eyes suddenly fixed on me intently. I guessed what was going to happen a split second before it did. I stepped back and raised my arm in front of my face. Mouth opened wide, she lunged, her jaws clamped down on that arm like a vice, teeth punching through my jacket sleeve and puncturing my skin. I screamed in shock, but she didn't let go, instead shaking her head back and forth, worrying at my arm like a rabid dog. She made weird, warbling noises as she did so. I could feel the teeth in my flesh, but not yet any pain. Not yet. I yelled and smacked her hard on her snout with my free arm, as hard as I could. Despite her jaws being fixed closed on my arm I could still hear the weird language coming from her mouth. I sounded vaguely like Irish or Scottish, something Gaelic, spoken by someone on helium at triple speed. The creepiest aspect of her attack was her eyes. They remained glowing red, wide open, and fixed on my face- no matter how much her head shook back and forth, those eyes shifted so as to always be locked in a stare with mine. There was nothing intelligent in those eyes. Maybe not even emotion. Just... energy. There was a loud POP, and an explosion of light in the air just above us. "MY SWEET FLEDGLING!!" shrieked a voice that sounded much like hers had. Something big (bigger than either of us anyway) and yellow dropped down next to us and stuck it's arms in-between us, pulling us apart. The maid finally let go, and me and her fell back and away.  I clutched my hurt arm and stared. It was another dragon, about the size of a pony. Less anthropomorphic. Yellow scales, black hair, wearing a blue witch's hat, pink belt, and blue.. loincloth-thing. In spite of the differences, there were enough similarities that I could clearly tell that this was 'Mum'. "What'd you do to my daughter? Why'd she attack you?" She demanded, wings flared to make her look bigger. Behind her, her daughter groaned and stumbled around on her high-heeled feet. "What'd I do to HER?" I almost laughed, but was too angry. "She landed in the trees, I helped her up, she said something about bees, tried to puke, then went crazy and bit me!" I pulled the torn sleeve of jacket back tp examine the wounds. Seven or eight small circular punctures on my forearm leaked red. The pain was starting to hit now, the adrenaline wearing off. I staggered and tried to put the sudden fire I felt in my arm out by waving it around and swearing. "That doesn't sound very much like something my Izzy would do." the dragon said doubtfully as she glared at me- but it was a worried doubt, not an angry doubt of denial. "Hmph." She turned around and looked at 'Izzy'. The dragon-maid was still wobbly, but the glow had left her eyes, which were blinking in confusion and exhaustion. "Where da FERK am I right now? Why am not bees?" She peered at the bigger dragon. "Muuummm?" she whined, then flopped forward. She would have hit the ground face-first if her mother hadn't been faster, grabbing her and holding her in her arms (forelegs? she was still humanoid enough that I guessed I could call them arms). "I never should've tried it. My poor sweet fledging. Wanted to bees, of all things, so badly. All the extra fey energy I summoned up, only for it to reject her and punt her halfway across the country!" The mother dragon gave a sob and cradled her unconscious child against her. Despite my pain, I was a little bit moved by the sight. "She went crazy and chomped down on my arm like it was her favorite food. Weird gibberish words coming out of her mouth." I winced and rubbed my wounded arm, but couldn't make it feel less bad. Izzy's mother turned back to me. "Oh dear, oh dear." She narrowed her eyes at the blood. Her eyes were red, unlike the pink Izzy's eyes had started out as, but like the red they had been when she freaked out. "Overloaded with magic, body and mind. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. Let me heal you, please?" I paused, then held out my arm hopefully. "Uh, alright?" She said something under her breath-was it my imagination or did it sound similar to the weird language that had come out of her daughter when she was ...possessed, for lack of a better word? There was light, and the pain ended. My torn jacket sleeve even repaired itself. "Huh, better than expected!" The dragon chirped happily. "Oh! I'm Cynthia, by the way. This is Isabella." She kissed the top of her daughter's head, between the horns. "Oh, well, I'm-" I was interrupted by Isabella giving a loud moan and writhing in her mother's grasp. Cynthia made a face that, in spite of being stretched out over a reptilian snout, was the picture of maternal concern. "Oh, she's still a little bit messed up. I think she expelled all the excess fey-dragon energy she absorbed though. Sometimes, you just have to accept that you're never going to become bees, and that's that." Dumbfounded, I merely nodded my head in agreement. I'd heard that dragons could be strange, but had chalked it up to lingering bigoted attitudes towards them. If I knew the full story, then maybe it would all make sense. "Well, thank you for healing my arm. And I hope that your daughter makes a full recovery from... whatever that was." I was as sincere as I could. I was still mad at Izzy for biting me, but if she literally hadn't been in her right mind, well, I was still angry right now, but could probably forgive her once I had time to cool down.  "Yes, yes, better take her home, right now!" Cynthia hugged Isabella to herself tighter, then everything... swirled. The dragons, the air, the area. It swirled until it swirled away into itself, and everything was back to normal. Except the dragons; they had vanished. I was still in a bit of shock, and remained standing there for a few minutes. "Hell of a night." I still needed to go back to the hotel, and arguably needed to get some sleep even more than before. "Geez." I pulled back my sleeve to re-examine my formerly bloody arm in the pale moonlight. Instead of red holes, there were yellow spots in my skin, but at least the skin itself was whole and un-punctured. Hope it faded away with time. "Huh." I shook my head and walked as fast as I could back to the hotel. Going inside, I went to my room, brushed my teeth, took off my clothes and practically threw myself into my bed. Hopefully, this American's second night in London would not be as wild and crazy as my first night had ended... A FEW DAYS LATER... Isabella stared at her exact double, who had a terribly woebegone expression on his... her... their... face. Cynthia sat at the nearby table, sipping some tea and watching her new 'daughter' with nervous eyes. "So you can't change back?" Not-Isabella shrugged. "I dunno. If I can, I don't know how. Don't know what 'muscle' to flex or something at the very least." Her words were slow, deliberate, and slightly slurred due to being unaccustomed to speaking with an an elongated reptilian snout filled with fangs and a long tongue to fit. "Probably lack of experience and understanding of the core magics involved with transfiguration." Cynthia suggested in a chirpy tone. "Yes, quite possibly." Not-Isabella replied dryly with a roll of their eyes. "Tried becoming a human male again, nothing. Tried just becoming a human but staying a girl, nothing. Tried just becoming male again but staying a pink-yellow dragon, nothing. The one time I did manage to change into something else, it was just this weird result that made me want to change back into a yellow dragon girl immediately." Isabella grinned and perked up. "Oh, you DID manage at least one transformation? Well, that's a start! Show me and Mum what you can do, and it'll give us something to start working with." Not-Isabella raised an eyebrow. "I REALLY don't know, it was... ugh. Just bizarre! But okay, I'll try." She closed her eyes and concentrated.  There was a hot, pink, POOF! and where Not-Isabella had once stood was now a buzzing mass of thousands of tiny bees, all with itty-bitty little yellow, pink-haired horned Isabella faces on them. Isabella blinked, absorbed this sight, then reacted with the proper amount of poise, grace, and British Stiff-Upper-Lipness that the situation called for. "Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you!" she screamed, while wildly waving around a rolled-up newspaper, swatting as many bees out of the air as she could. Cynthia spat out her tea. "DEAR!"

[casspurrjoybell-23]

Berserkr - Chapter 2 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

Alphas Suck

On the outside, Tofa was the embodiment of what everyone thought a 'perfect Omega' should be, pretty and delicate with large, long-lashed eyes and curves for days, all wrapped up in a short, non-threatening frame.

But in reality, he was just like Valie, an outsider, an outcast, made an orphan at the hands of raiders in the few years before Valie himself had wandered here.

Without a family to tie his name to, Tofa was forced to adapt to his new environment if he stood any chance of survival.

And adapt, he did.

If there was one thing that Vali admired about his best friend it was his strength, his tenacity to transcend any difficult situation that was presented to him.

The small male was constantly underestimated, a notion that filled Valie with rage when most simply chose to write Tofa off as nothing more than the 'village whore' when the Omega truly had so much more to offer to the world than the work that he had to do to survive.

"I would love for you to come with me but only if you are really up to it. If you need to rest, you can head back and use my bed at the barn for a few hours..."

Tofa's hands waved wildly in front of him.

"Oh no, no, no, I'm fine, I promise."

Sleepy blue eyes flickered down to the pail in Valie's right hand and before the taller Omega could blink, the wooden item was snatched from his palm and Tofa was running, giggling at his own, playful antics the entire way.

Valie gave chase, an excited giggle bubbling up from his own throat as he instantly sprinted after his friend, kicking up dust on the path behind him.

It wasn't like Valie was considered particularly tall at a modest height of five feet and seven inches.

But Tofa was short, the Omega maxing out at nothing more than five feet even and this mismatch of leg length led to Vali catching up in less time than it took to skin a squirrel.

"Tof, you sneaky begger," Valie playfully exclaimed, bubbling laughter still emanating from his full lips as he finally snatched one of the pails back, knowing that his helpful friend would still insist on carrying the other.

"How do you pack so much trouble in such a tiny package?"

Tofa twirled in a circle as the pair continued down the path, his bucket swinging around with him before he finally settled back around in the direction of his friend, a bright smile painting his crimson lips.

"Dunno. But I'm pretty sure that if I had a mate, they'd return me," the smaller Omega joked, waiting patiently for his friend to catch up once again.

"Oh, please," Valie bumped his friend's shoulder with a roll of his eyes,

"You're a catch, Tof. Whoever is lucky enough to be mated to you would be an idiot to ever let you go."

Tofa's face flushed a light pink hue but the Omega's words contradicted his outward display of flattery.

"Good thing I hate Alphas," he emphasized the statement with a kick at the dirt with the tip of his thin shoes.

"I hope I never find my mate."

Valie sighed as they approached the steep steps carved into the rock face of the cliff that led to the freshwater canal.

He had listened to his friend express his unfavorable opinion of Alphas for years now, each instance a little bit more scathing of the brutish gender.

It could have been a result of his chronic optimism or the fact that he yearned for his closest friend to find happiness with a mate someday but just as much as Tofa expressed his distaste, Valie couldn't help but gently push back.

"Well, I'm sure the Alpha that Odin has fated to you will be kind."

"Kind?"

Tofa immediately gave his friend a look of incredulity, staring daggers as they descended the steps.

"Ya' know Alokki, right?" he suddenly asked and the rapid change of subject had Valie's forehead scrunching up with confusion.

Regardless, he went with it.

"He's the trader whose mate is pregnant, right?"

Valie stopped in his tracks, turning around to present his friend with a wide-eyed expression of shock.

"He... he cheated on his mate?"

Cheating on one's mate once bonded was considered a high sin, akin to cursing at the feet of Odin the most high himself.

In fact, once one found their fated mate and bonded, it was almost impossible for them to desire another.

Therefore, learning of Alokki's alleged betrayal had an effect on Vali similar to being struck by lightning.

"Shh," Tofa shushed his friend, hurrying them both down the rest of the steps and checking over his shoulder to see if anyone could have overheard the scandalous conversation.

Only once Tofa towed his friend far enough away to ensure that they were out of earshot, did Valie continue.

"B-but..." Valie sputtered, still at a loss for words as he tried to figure out how this could be true.

"Are they fated mates or just informally mated?"

Tofa shrugged as they finally approached the canal, fingers pink from carrying the heavy wooden bucket all of this way.

"Does it really matter? It just proves that Alphas aren't good for nothin' but gettin' their cocks hard. "

The taller Omega deflated, dropping his pail to the ground beside the rushing canal.

"Well..." he started, trying to find a silver lining

"Those kinds of Alphas might be good-for-nothing pieces of shit but Odin would never give you a mate that would do something like that to you."

Tofa shook his head with a chuckle as he carefully lowered his pail into the rapidly flowing current of the canal, deciding that it was time to change the subject to something more desirable than his never-to-exist love life.

"Ya' keep talkin' about a mate for me, when we really should be talkin' about ye'r future Alpha," he teased, wiggling his brows and tucking a few un-braided strands of pitch-black hair behind his ear.

"What's ye'r ideal man look like?"

Valie chewed his lip as the gears turned, a part of his brain that had never before been acknowledged set alight.

Of course, the thought of having someone who would unconditionally love you for who you were would be a tempting offer to anyone and Valie was no exception.

The idea of mating was something that had always lingered in the very back of the Omega's mind, a minuscule itch that never quite went away.

But luckily, it was easy enough to ignore when one had much more important things to worry about, like staying alive and having enough food to eat by the end of the day.

Just as quickly as it came, what little excitement the thought conjured up in a long-dormant part of Valie's tender heart was nullified once he dipped his pail into the canal and spied a glimpse of his unusually colored fingers, patches of light brown and stark white reminding him of the improbability of such a thing ever happening to him.

Demons weren't worthy of the privilege of a fated mate.

But it was okay. He was used to it.

Valie would be fine just by himself.

Valie hauled his pail out of the water, droplets dripping from the bottom of its wooden surface and absorbing into the thin fabric of his sandals as he avoided directly answering Tofa's question.

"I am fine on my own, Tof. I doubt that any Alpha could fall in love with someone who looks like me."

The smaller Omega stomped his foot at once, immense frustration at his friend's response causing his brows to pull together into a piercing glare that sharply contrasted his soft features.

"Valie, have ya' even seen y'erself? Y'er fuckin' gorgeous, I wish I looked like you."

The white patch on the left side of Vali's face flushed pink at the unexpected compliment despite knowing it was simply his friend being his usual, kind self.

And, in lieu of the fact that his body had no clue how to react to such positivity thrown in his direction, Valie playfully nudged his friend's shin with the tip of his sandal.

"Oh, whatever, you're only saying that because you are my friend."

He stuck his tongue out and they both finally picked up the water-filled pails, short bodies slightly straining with the weight of the load,

"Well, at least Ahren and Sigge seem to like me well enough. They're better than any mate."

The pair fell into a tandem step as they slowly headed back toward the staircase that led back up to the village, the sound of water sloshing around in their buckets reverberating between them.

"Ya' know, ya' always have had a special way with the horses, I say. That there is a gift from Odin with the way they flock to ya'."

Valie nodded, a smile pulling at his lips at the thought of his equine best friends.

He truly did adore them, his relationship with Ahren and Sigge one of the few things that he could honestly say brought him joy in this life.

They communicated their love without a word, devotion and understanding flowing through an intangible but undeniably unbreakable bond that no one else could possibly understand.

Valie adored his horses and nothing in this entire world could change that.

The sea was steady and Valie's heart rolled with the calm waves that crashed against the far side of the cliff as a comfortable silence settled between the two Omegas.

Sometimes Valie wondered what must lay out there, beyond the horizon and past the sea.

But he was always quick to quell his curiosity, knowing deep down that he was destined to live and die here, in this quaint, coastal fishing village with its nosy neighbors, lovely horses and his one true friend.

"You go," Valie said with a gentle smile, nudging his head in a motion that told his best friend to start up the single-wide staircase first.

"What a gentleman," Tofa teased, winking in his friend's direction before beginning the long trek back up the cliff.

Valie scurried up close behind, eager to get back to his demanding manager and his thirsty equine friends.

But he made it up a couple of steps... maybe four or five... before he heard it.

The pail slipped free of trembling fingers, soaking his britches in ice-cold water and making a dull, echoing sound as it bounced down the very stone steps that he had just ascended.

But nothing echoed as loudly as the ear-splitting shriek of terror that shook the treetops and frightened away the crows resting there.

It was a wail that came straight from the heart of the village, a wail with a level of throat-splitting ferocity that could only possibly mean one thing.

'Raiders.'

[consistentlyexhausted]

I am becoming nocturnal

I wish I could say it was cool. Like I was mutating into some kind of elusive woodland creature that you only see by chance during the day.

Take out the woodland part, and you've got me right now.

I don't think it's a symptom of the medication I'm on or the fact that my sleep schedule has gotten out of hand but, here I am, its five am and I will probably fall asleep in the next twenty minutes or so if I'm lucky.

I typically see the sky change from my window in the early hours of the morning and hear the dawn chorus begin.

In the evenings I watch the sunset and hear the last few birds singing before going to bed.

It's a strange thing.

I know I'm the only one awake in my house right now. Even my plants are probably getting more sleep than me, and no matter how hard I try to settle down early, do some light meditation before bed, listen to an audio book and even do some sleep meditation, it just isn't working for me.

Its getting so bad to the point that during the day I am asleep. I miss spending time with my Dad but I can in the evenings when I'm feeling okay.

Look, I don't want another relapse in my depression. I'm just starting to get better, and I don't want to go to the places I was before. I know it's a process, and maybe I should be putting in more work, but when you lack the energy to even stay awake during the day, it's really difficult to keep to your goals.

I want to get better, I want to be able to find joy in the things I used to love to do. Right now I'm only doing things like writing and looking after my houseplants to cope

Doing it to cope and doing it because you enjoy it are two wildly different things.

The latter is a passion, an enjoyment that brings you dopamine, a happy chemical that seems to be in short supply.

The former is a survival mechanism.

I didn't think writing would be a coping mechanism for me but when I really, really admit it to myself, it has turned into one.

Fleeting moments of enjoyment and genuine pride in my work are there, or course, I have good days but, some of my first book, especially in the middle parts, were done on complete auto pilot, doing it because I just had to get it finished.

It's a hard pill to swallow, the kind that gets stuck in your throat or feels like it.

I've lost a lot to this. There were things I really used to enjoy like gardening, reading, and fishing but now those just stopped being happy things.

Gardening was what I loved to do with my Dad. We used to spend ages planning what the garden would look like, planting and maintaining, but then he got furloughed during the height of the pandemic and spiralled into severe depression. He was worse than me, a lot worse and I thought I would lose him a few times.

Instead I lost the gardening partner, the one who taught me everything I know about plants.

He's still here, he's getting better.

But now I'm not doing so well.

I'm going to keep watching sunsets and sunrises. I'm determined to stay here.

[light-yaers]

Fools in the Darkness: Chapter One

Darkling x Reader

Warnings: Death, violence, drugs (Parem), NSFW and sexual content. This content is explicit and 18+ at some points.

A/N: I caved. I am a wildly stupid individual who has no control over her actions. I know I might come to regret posting this so fast and thus forcing myself into my third ongoing x reader fic, but I also just generally don’t care. I’m still working on No Saints and Sweet Esacpe, just as a slower pace due to my mental health, but this baby here floated out of me like melted butter. I’ll be alternating between uploading this fic and my currently ongoing others! I just had to get this shit out of my system about Shadow and Bone, fr. 

Fic Masterpost

Word Count - 3.4k

Chapter One

Ketterdam covered up your secrets perfectly. It’d only been a matter of weeks since you’d fled there, after travelling the exhausting journey across East Ravka until the Fold had stood before you; brooding, dangerous, a death-wish just to look at, let alone enter it.

Maybe you had to thank him for one thing, General Kirigan, because without him—

You never would have crossed the Fold on your own.

Maybe Ketterdam was made for a person such as yourself. Dark, danger around every corner, full to the brim with power-hungry men and women trapped behind silks. You’d never warmed to anyone yet, but that wasn’t a surprise—it was easy to hate people in the Barrel, but even easier to take their kruge and send them sailing upon the True Sea without another glance.

Kerch was a merchant port, stuffed with expensive clubs and those with no money troubles, armed and ready to open their pockets if they so wished. There were two sides of the docks—Fifth Harbour; the lavishly bright sector for the rich and wealthy—and the Barrel; a breeding ground for crime, killings and losing all of your kruge in one night.

You’d made acquaintances with the Barrel rats from the very beginning, hearing stories about the destruction they caused. You’d much rather not be on the side of the wealth, but the side of fear.

“I found her wandering the harbour, Kaz,” A petite lady in dark clothes spoke to her boss. She’d dragged you from the bustling harbour, flying you through the dark streets of Ketterdam. You tried to hear her footsteps across the cobblestones, but she left no footprints, like a Wraith in the night.

Kaz approached his desk then, stepping into the small lamp light of his office in the Slat. Kaz Brekker was a man that no one wanted to cross. With his clenched jaw and unforgiving stares, the Bastard of the Barrel was cut-throat in every sense of the description.

“She’s a rat, Inej. Not our responsibility—,”

“Do you see the clothes she’s wearing?” Inej cut over Kaz, stepping towards him abruptly. He stayed in place, looking at his Wraith in the eyes, unwaveringly. He regarded her for a moment, taking all of her in, before turning back to you.

His eyes skimmed you up and down, traversing the darkened and muddied fabrics on your body.

“A Kefta,” He whispered it, his eyes widening. “It doesn’t look like the usual Second Army attire,” He added. You perked up, trying to keep your expression as blunt as possible. After your journey, it wasn’t hard not to show anything—you’d been forced to endure a quiet and agonising journey for a month, while trying to stay in the shadows at the same time.

“Because it’s not,” You spoke up, for the first time since entering Brekker’s office. Kaz turned his attention to your face, stepping forward menacingly. His crow-headed cane slammed the wooden floorboards threateningly, but you weren’t scared—

You’d crossed the fucking Fold on your own. Nothing scared you anymore.

“Who are you?” He questioned, trying to keep his voice steady. Men like Kaz tried not to show off what they felt either, but the curiosity in his tone was undeniable. You cleared your throat.

“How much time have you got?”

Fjerda, 1 Year Ago

It was a risk to take, that was for sure. But choosing whether to go through the Fold or around it was a no brainer. Evidently, it had paid off so far, as you and your sister travelled through the barren coldness of Fjerda, headed for the Ravkan border.

“How much farther?” Your sister chided. She was older than you by a year, but on this mission, you’d taken charge. You shuffled into your pack, pulling out a tattered map and a compass. You set the point to North, calculating the miles you had left to trudge to safety.

Your sister wasn’t Grisha, no—you were. A Squaller; untrained, unenthusiastic about your power and utterly afraid of the Druskelle. But you’d had no choice in getting you and your sister safely around the Fold. There was no other way to go from where you’d first found asylum in Novyi Zem; going through Fjerda was the safest route to the Ravkan army.

You smiled at the map. “Five miles. Then we’ll be in Ravka,” An exhausted but relief filled scoff fell from your lips. You locked eyes with your sister, before the two of you embraced tightly. “We’ll be safe soon,” You whispered in her ear, enjoying the small warmth you got from her bare cheek pressing against your jaw.

“You’ll be safe soon,” She replied, bringing a hand to rest on the back of your neck. She pulled away then, as the tears began to well in her crystalline eyes. “You put yourself in this danger to keep me safe. I’m the older sister—I should be keeping you safe,”

“It was this, or through the Fold,” You spoke, furrowing your brows at her. “I’d rather take on twenty druskelle than step foot in that heaping mound of darkness,” Laughter trickled from both sisters, floating over the snow-covered trees and giving you hope.

You both continued forward tirelessly, mercilessly, trudging through inches of untouched snow and praying to whichever god out there who was listening. You prayed for your sister’s safety, for a safe life for her in the First Army. You prayed that you could stay with her—

A Squaller you were, yes, but over your dead body would you be taken to the Little Palace. You knew that’s where Grisha were trained for the King, you knew it was different. Your abilities didn’t define you; Saints, you barely even used them.

They were unpredictable. And you were scared of hurting those around you without meaning to. Ever since an incident when you were younger, you’d almost been afraid of your own power. You kept it hidden from those who you didn’t know closely.

Those who knew you were Grisha in Novyi Zem called you zowa—blessed, in Zemeni. It also meant Grisha, so you didn’t know if they were simply calling you what you were, or if they were commenting upon how strong your Squaller abilities were.

You’d never even met another Sqauller. You had nothing to compare yourself off of.

With a mile until you hit the Ravkan border, you stopped abruptly. Plumes of smoke rose high above the skies, coming from somewhere further on before you. You stuck your hand out, halting your sister from walking any further.

You were silent, listening for any signs of breakings twigs, compacted snow, or other indications of druskelle being near.

“Saints, you look like a fentomen,” Your sister scoffed beside you.

“Quiet,” You hit back with.

“What is it?” She spoke again, quieter this time, but not by much.

“Quiet,” You hissed.

You both waited another few minutes, silently standing like statues in the garden of the Grand Palace. You let out shaky breaths as you eventually straightened yourself once more, clutching onto your sister’s forearm for dear life.

“It’s okay. We just need to be wary,” You whispered. She nodded in response.

You both set off once more through countless trees and untouched snow. But you didn’t get far—until two druskelle spotted you. Neither of you could speak Fjerdan, and you were a fucking Grisha. This couldn’t have been any worse, when you were so close to being free.

“Hje marden,” One of them spoke. They were both tall, with broad shoulders and the white hair and blue eyes of Fjerda. Neither had beards—they were in training to being full druskelle. The trainees were always worse than their commanders, you thought. They would do anything to prove themselves to their superiors.

You tried not to shake as they circled you and your sister.

“I’m sorry, we don’t speak Fjerdan,” You said honestly. The druskelle immediately changed. Their hands rested upon their guns, ready to fire if need be. You raised your hands to the sky as your expression dropped. “Please! Please, we are just travellers—uh—we are perjenger—,”

“Perjenger? Travellers? To where?” The second druskelle spat.

You glanced at your sister quickly, knowing that if you answered Ravka, you’d both be shot immediately. Ravka was at war with Fjerda—Grisha were at war with Druskelle.

“Kerch,” You said strongly. “We have to go through Ravka and Shu Han. We can’t cross the Fold,”

For a moment, you thought it had worked. The druskelle looked at each other gruffly, muttering some words in Fjerdan. You clutched onto your sister’s arm tightly, not planning on letting her go now until you’d both crossed the border.

“Wait here,” One of the men said, as he began trudging back through the snow. He disappeared in the white landscape, leaving you with one druskelle.

You stayed quiet, feeling the warmth of your sister next to you. You glanced at her then, traversing your gaze over her side profile. Her nose, which was the same as yours; her eyes, brighter and more beautiful than your own, mimicking your mother; her hair, lighter and softer than yours. She was shorter than you, smaller than you, getting a lot of genetics from your mother, while you took from your father greatly. His height, his broad shoulders, his darker hair.

But she was your only family left, your only love and focus and everything.

And you were less than a mile from getting her to safety. You were less than a mile from being free of this Saint forsaken country, full of killers and fascists and men who only cared about power.

It was one druskelle against a Squaller. One against one. You could do that. You could beat him.

That’s what made you push your sister back, falling into the snow slowly as you brought your hands together. The druskelle yelled as he saw your movements, trying to aim his gun at you between your eyes, but it was too late—

In a flash, you summoned a storm that whipped him off of his feet. It circled him, gliding him backwards through the trees as you kept pushing and pushing, ignoring the raging winds as they whipped your hair from your face and agitated the snow on the trees.

“Come on!” You yelled behind you, as your sister scrambled up from the floor to stand beside you. She held your arm sturdily, watching fearfully as the druskelle struggled against the rapid winds that you wielded.

You thought that was it—you could both run with the time you’d bought—but that’s when the entire druskelle camp rocketed through the tree line. They yelled and boomed as they came to aid their brother, pushing back against the furious winds you were trying desperately to wield.

“Drüsje!” The commander yelled, storming through the group as he set up the largest of their guns—a machine gun, aimed and ready fire. You gasped, and for a second the winds wavered—they wavered long enough for the machine gun round to penetrate the small snow snuffed tornado that you’d created—

Until those bullets trickled over the blanketed ground, moving steadily closer and closer—

Until one landed straight through the heart of your sister.

All you remembered was that time slowed, then, as you saw the bullet exit her shoulder blade. She fell to the floor, unclasping her hands from your forearm and collapsing into a shocked heap on the floor. You remembered the way her blood dyed the snow. You remembered the way her eyes stayed open—

And then you remembered screaming.

It was a blur, as you tensed all of your limbs to the point where they yelled beneath your skin. You mustered all of your strength into this one storm; one that was merciless and unforgiving, circling all the druskelle in the clearing around you. You knew that soon all of the air would fade from within the eye of the storm that whipped devilishly around them.

You knew that soon they’d all begin to run out of oxygen and pass out, or better yet—maybe their hearts would stop. Cease to beat, drained of any energy to fire more rounds of bullets or kill Grisha for no fucking reason.

The storm was the largest you’d ever summoned, engulfing the entire druskelle camp and uprooting trees from their homes in the cold, hard Fjerdan ground. You saw them get sucked into your whirlwind, flying high, high, high until they eventually slipped out of the storms’ gusts; then they fell back down to earth, landing aggressively and dangerously on the ground below and being spat out at any random location.

You didn’t stop the storm, not even when you saw a tree fall atop a druskelle, crushing him where he’d stood moments before. The commander was the last one standing, rising above his suffocating men to look at you, face on, menacingly.

“Drüsje like you deserve to lose that which you love,” He boomed, using his remaining energy to cast you to Hell.

You wasted no time when you adjusted your stance, focusing the brunt force of the storm onto him—you decreased the eye of the storm until it flowed over him, and only him, grunting all of your strength into the circling winds that now surrounded him utterly and completely.

You collapsed at the same time that the commander did, falling into inches of snow and crawling exhaustedly to your sister. She was motionless, cold, her lips turning blue by the second as her blood continued to flow on Fjerdan soil. Dead. Gone.

Tears cascaded down your cheeks without any indication of stopping, but you couldn’t sob. It was impossible when you were already holding your breath, too afraid that if you were to breathe, only screams would pour from your coarse lungs.

The clearing was deserted, now, as druskelle bodies laid motionless on the snow-covered ground, their camp up ahead completely destroyed. Broken branches, twigs, tree trunks were dotted around, acting as just another indication of the destruction that you were truly capable of. Saints, you wanted to know if you were a normal Grisha, a normal Squaller, since those old women on Novyi Zem had looked at you like a weapon from the first day you could summon and control hurricanes and tornados at will.

Your fingers found your sister’s forehead then, swiping the hair off of her face. You cupped her cheek, laying your other hand upon her stomach. “Vaarwell,” You whispered shakily. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—,”

“Who’s there?” A voice spoke up from just beyond the clearing. You got up from the floor immediately, feeling a strange sense of power surrounding you. You waited silently, until First Army soldiers made their way to the clearing. A few stopped and checked the pulses of the druskelle upon the floor, before continuing forward until you were finally spotted.

A young man approached you slowly, holding his gun tightly, draped against his shoulder. “Was this... you?” He asked, looking you in the eye. His gaze dropped to the ground by your feet, seeing the blood-stained snow where your sister lay dead, before he looked back up to you.

He was joined by the rest of his crew. They slowly approached you, almost as if they were trapping you within a circle of their bodies. You stepped back once then, keeping your chin high and proud. The young man at the front was trying everything to keep you calm, you could see it in his eyes, but what he didn’t know was that you were seething—

And nothing would stop that.

Without your sister, you’d be taken to the Little Palace. Without knowing she was safe in the First Army, nothing would get you through the rest of your life—

You were dead. Inside and out. Nothing would change that.

Without a word, you brought your hands together, far too quickly for any of the soldiers to raise their weapons in defence. You ignored their begs and pleads as you circled them within in your storm, slowly suffocating the air out of their lungs and seeing the way their eyes bulged uncomfortably in their skulls.

“General!” The young man shouted, clutching at his throat as he tried desperately to suck air into his lungs. His voice echoed throughout the clearing, travelling through the trees slowly, until an eery type of silence settled into the air around you.

That’s when he arrived—his horse just as black at the Kefta on his frame, the stubble on his chin and the irises of his eyes. He dismounted, ignoring the cries from the soldiers within your raging storm as he began to approach you, step by step by step, crunching through the snow broodingly.

You knew who this man was; General Kirigan of the Second Army.

The Darkling.

He got ever closer, walking around the circular storm. The gap was beginning to bridge, and the more it did, the more you faltered. He took one more step, and you lost it.

“Stop!” You yelled. “Don’t come any closer, Darkling,” He stopped on command, keeping his arms by his sides, but the corners of his mouth upturned into a smile. “You find me amusing?” You spat.

“By the looks of this,” He gestured to the druskelle. “You were trying to get to Ravka. We’re here to help, yet you’re trying to suffocate my men,” You ignored his words, but you found your energy waning slightly—or maybe your heart was finally giving in. It didn’t really want to hurt anyone else, didn’t want to cause more damage than was already on your hands. “You’re a Squaller?” Kirigan asked, and that surprised you.

“Isn’t this how all Squaller’s are?” You asked in reply. Kirigin raised a brow at you.

“Not usually,” He said honestly. “You’ve never met another Grisha before?”

“I know what you’re doing,” You furrowed your brows at him. “You’re trying to distract me, to make me let my guard down and go with you willingly. I’d rather die than work for the King at the Little Palace,” Your breaths were getting more laborious the longer you held on to the storm. You were losing energy rapidly.

“Interesting,” The Darkling muttered.

There were a few moments then, where he was simply staring at you. Regarding you, analysing you, or perhaps— waiting for you to lose all of your energy. You were in a somewhat sticky situation, losing a grasp on your power with every passing second and feeling the intense gaze of Kirigan to your left.

“Let go,” He spoke softly. “I can see you’re tired, you don’t truly want to kill these men,”

“You don’t know anything about me,” You forced your eyelids to stay open as a wave of exhaustion flowed through you.

“And you know me?” He chided. You moved your gaze to him then, as your limbs finally lost momentum. Your hands dropped to your sides, your storm dissipating into the cold air at the Fjerdan border. Soldiers sucked in breaths noisily, gaining back their vision.

You stumbled back once, forcing yourself to stay standing despite the immense urge to pass the fuck out. Kirigan stayed still the entire time, a softness on his jaw that you hadn’t been expecting.

“Everyone knows you,” You mumbled. “I never wanted to meet you, though,”

Your heart jolted then, when the General let out a scoff. You forced yourself to move. Step by step through disturbed snow, until you were back where your sister lay on the floor. You collapsed to your knees unwillingly, as your body threatened to blackout at any moment.

You laid a shaky hand on her collarbone, curling your fingers up to her jaw. Kirigan moved slowly in your peripheral, turning towards you but staying at the distance he’d always been.

“Don’t take me to Os Alta,” You muttered. “Please, don’t take me,” You looked up at the General with pleading eyes.

“Why?” Kirigan whispered with furrowed brows, as if he was trying to work out why on earth you didn’t want a life within the royal Ravkan walls, living in luxury, fighting with other Grisha and honing your power.

Your vision began to blur then, as black spots dotted the white snow that surrounded you.

You never answered the General, your body gave up before you could—

And all you saw was black.

Tag list of those who were interested from my earlier post (tell me if you want off/on the list): @notawritergettingtherethough @rbg1993 @mayallyourbaconburn @luminous-99 

[danses-with-dogmeat]

could you do the “reaction to first time being shown affection” but with the new vegas/fo3 male companions as well?

Romanced! Male! FO3 Companions and the first time they’re shown soft forms of Affection

Here is some more fluff for all of you lovlies! Man, I love doing these sweet prompts so dang much 😅  Seriously, if there’s ANY characters you want to see for this that I haven’t done, please please please don’t hesitate to ask, cuz these reactions are just good for my soul (... or Sole, eh? Get it?).

Fallout New Vegas (M! Companions) reactions are also on the way for this prompt as well, and should be done soon! 

Butch:

     Lone's eyes fluttered open, taking in the sight of the darkened vault 101 bedroom as they stretched their legs from beneath the thin blanket with a small sigh. A blush spread to their face as they felt their partner stir beside them, repositioning himself onto his back, an arm thrown up over his head as a deep breath escaped his lips. They turned to get a better look at him, smiling slightly at how peaceful he looked. Eyes still closed, mouth dangling open slightly, hair tousled about every which way upon his head as it crushed into the pillow behind him. Lone just stared at him for a while,  their heart beating insistently in their chest as they thought back on the events of their first night together… them and Butch… who would've thought? 

They would have liked to pin it on the way he's changed over the years they've known him, because certainly ten-year-old Lone would have scrunched up their face in disgust at the idea of having a crush on the self-absorbed bully. But… truth is, Lone's always suspected that their feelings towards the fellow vault dweller had been more… complicated than simple hatred, or simple attraction. No, these feelings seemed to go deeper than that, even before, when they were kids and he would get on their nerves constantly, or in school when they were teens who frequently argued with each other, they knew there was something more at play between the pair, though they never would have admitted it at the time. Now though, they couldn't believe they had ever seen him any differently as they gazed tenderly at their partner through half-lidded eyes, filled to the brim with affection for the man that lay beside them.

Lone tentatively reached up a hand, not wanting to wake him, but needing to touch him. They brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, running their palm over the top of his head and smoothing down any stray strands that stuck out. Pausing their movements briefly, Lone brought themselves into a sitting position, keeping their side of the blankets up to cover their bare body as they scooted closer to him and reached their hands out towards his head again. Though his hair wasn't all that long, they rarely had the privilege of seeing it void of product, which often made it difficult to play with. Lone decided to take advantage of this instance. They took three separate strands between their fingers, crossing them over each other a few times before twisting the end, willing the little braid to hold its shape before moving to another section and doing the same. A smile spread on their lips as they carried on with their little movements, leaving a handful of tiny braids in the wake of their gentle hands as they continued listening to him snore softly below them. 

As they grew less fond of the braided look, Lone smoothed each one out and began to thread their fingers upwards, giggling at their work as the entirety of his fawn-colored hair stood straight up over his slackened expression. Now if only I had dad's camera…

Their ability to stifle their laughter weakened, preventing them from suppressing the snort that escaped from them; the sound effectively jolting their companion awake.

"What the…?" He shook his head, attempting to expel his grogginess as he realized what had woken him.

"Why are you...? Wait, what happened? You laughin' at me?"

Lone nodded as another snort escaped them, Butch's confused expression now acting as the source of their second bout of giggling.

"Why? What happened?" He looked down quickly, trying to conceal any bare part of him that peeked through the thin Vault-Tec issued blanket. A panicked flush creeping up his cheeks as he tried to find the source of their amusement.

"No, no, it's nothing like that." They assured him, grabbing at his face with their hands to bring his attention back to their eyes, "Here."

Lone made a motion upwards, to try and smooth his hair down to a reasonable height, but Butch's own fingers followed, brushing the substantial mountain of silky locks that stood at attention atop his head before they could fix what they'd done. His eyes widened as he realized what Lone had been laughing at, shaking his head in an attempt to loosen the upright strands.

"Oh, you think that's funny, do ya?"

Lone smiled at him, shrugging as they prepared to answer him with some smart-ass remark, but he was upon them before they could utter a word. Their partner tackled them, pressing his lips to theirs as he forced them downwards against the mattress where he pinned their arms up over their head. When he had firmly secured their wrists in his grip, he released them from the kiss, now staring down at them smugly, a glint of triumph playing in his stormy blue eyes. Lone's heart beat raggedly in their chest as they breathlessly gazed up at their lover as he held them down. Though, to their surprise, he pulled further away from them and released his grip on their wrists, quickly bringing his hands down to their sensitive sides. He pinched his fingers slightly as he ran them over their ribcage, causing them to erupt into a fit of unbridled laughter, writhing underneath his cruel ministrations as he grinned wildly at them.

“How’s that for funny, huh, wise guy?”

Charon:

     “Tell me something.” Lone stared up at the stars as they spoke, Charon’s stiff shoulder brushing their own as he lay beside them at the top of the parking structure, his shotgun still lying across his chest, held firmly in his grasp.

“What?” His gruff voice inquired. Lone couldn’t tell if he was being short with them because he was still unsure about spending the night at the top of the ruined concrete parking structure, or if it was because he genuinely didn’t understand their request, either way, they didn’t mind clarifying.

“Just, tell me something about yourself. You already know almost everything about me, and we’ve been together a few months now, and yet…” They trailed off, trying in vain to coax a proper response from their companion.

“What would you like to know?” Lone sighed softly, but smiled in spite of themself, shifting onto their side so they could look over at him. The ghoul was laying rigidly on his back, his eyes remained trained on the sky, as they had been since Lone suggested he quit keeping watch and just relax with them as they stargazed. Well, he stopped keeping watch, but I don’t think he ever got to the ‘relax’ part.

“Well… what do you want me to know about you?” They asked him, attempting to draw an answer from him without using a direct order. Ever since the two had become involved, Lone had felt uncomfortable with the idea of holding Charon's contract. Well, truth be told, they had always hated the idea of him being forced to obey their every whim and order because they held some torturous piece of paper, but now it felt especially immoral.

Silence fell over the pair as Charon struggled with Lone’s request, half of him wanting to abide by what they said and begin the process of opening up to the person he felt closest with, while the other half grappled with the phrasing of their question. The shadow of his officially void contract rendered his own preferences obsolete as the years of habit continued to keep him chained to the false comfort of his own complacency. He was never allowed to want before.

Lone gazed at him, noting the hard expression adorning his scarred face as the internal conflict raged between his temples. Charon’s pale blue eyes became obstructed as his brow furrowed, his jaw clenching as he ground his teeth in an effort to force his mouth to produce any words that could possibly provide an answer to Lone’s question.

The ghoul’s body shuddered as Lone extended their hand, sliding it over his chest before it came to rest atop one of his. They flexed their fingers, a suggestion to loosen his grip on the barrel of his shotgun, but he refused to budge. They kept the contact with him for a moment more, but as he showed no sign of yielding to their touch, they pulled away, rolling over onto their back once more.

Well, it was worth a try. Lone closed their eyes as their fatigue washed over them, remaining on the verge of consciousness as they awaited any response from their partner.

Instead of words, they felt a soft brush against their hand, and Lone peeked one eye open to witness the ghoul’s action as he pressed on, drawing his larger hand to rest over their own. Though the action was miniscule, Lone felt their breath catch in their throat as Charon slid his thumb over their skin soothingly. They hummed as a small grin graced their lips, shifting in his grasp so that they could entwine their fingers with his.

Lone’s expression dampened as they felt him pull away slightly, believing that perhaps they’d pushed their companion too far with their… official hand holding; but they were surprised as they felt his nails meet their wrist. He smoothed his fingertips up their arm slightly, before doubling back, capturing their hand fully in his own again. At that, Lone resumed their own comforting movements along his roughened skin. The ebb and flow of the pairs’ dancing hands seemed to coax something out of Charon, a sort of tenderness that Lone was otherwise unfamiliar with.

“I want… ” He started, and Lone held their breath, but continued running their fingers over his hand encouragingly.

“To tell you… it is no longer the contract that is binding me to you.” His movement against Lone ceased in his effort to continue speaking.

"At first, I did not think I would ever be able to separate myself from it. But now… the paper is obsolete. I'm loyal to you. I want you to know that."

Lone's heart leapt in their chest, as they felt tears of relief fill to the brims of their eyes. They couldn't say how long they'd been hoping to hear this from him, it was getting to the point that they thought they never would; that the dreadful scrap of parchment shackling Charon to his horrendous past would taint their relationship until the end of their days, but now…

A scarred finger brushed against Lone's cheek, capturing the tear that had escaped them in their moment of relieved contemplation. They turned their head, following his hand's retreat, and their eyes met his. A once stormy ocean now seemed to resemble a calm, pensive pool as he peered at them with a clarity he never thought he could have achieved.

Fawkes:

     Lone’s eyebrows drew upwards as they gazed sympathetically at the mutant. Fawkes was hunched over, his head buried in his large hands as small grunts of frustration pushed their way through his overlapping fingers. He’d been having flashbacks all day long, the brief snippets of his time as a human tormenting him in their fragmented incompleteness.

“Fawkes?” They tested. Lone hadn’t been able to rouse him from his state of anguish since the pair had returned to their Megaton home. Three hours ago. They rose from their chair, moving to sit beside him on the couch. Thus far, they had let him be, believing that the memories he was struggling with would either come back to him fully, or slip away from his grasp altogether, as they usually did. But this time they appeared to be more insistent and less comprehensible, rendering their companion aggravated and exhausted, and leaving Lone feeling utterly useless.

As they settled beside him, they brought a hand up to rest on his broad shoulder, feeling the pulsing tenseness of his muscle as his heavy breathing forced his shoulders to rise and fall raggedly.

“Hey,” They said softly, “I know it’s hard, but you have to try and let it go.” Lone brought their hands up to grasp at his, gently pulling them away from his scrunched up face.

“That’s not you anymore. You’re Fawkes.” They told him, looking into his strained eyes, “You’re free now, free from the vault, free from who you used to be, and free to make your own choices. To be your own kind of person.” Slowly bringing their hands down towards his lap, they continued holding onto them tightly as they tried to bring him back to reality, tried to ground him back in the present.

“You’re my closest friend, Fawkes, no matter who you were, I love you now. For who you are.” Lone’s words seemed to finally draw his attention to them, his weary eyes softening at the sight of them, as the present world around him seemed to solidify. They felt his hands squeeze theirs to the brink of being too tight, holding firmly enough to keep him tethered to this reality, and when they flexed their fingers beneath the intense pressure, he became aware of his actions, and ceased them. The mutant’s grip softened as he exhaled, finally letting his taut muscles relax beneath his ravaged, olive skin.

“That’s it. Welcome back.” Lone smiled up at him, their own relief evident in their softened expression. Fawkes slumped a little lower, his fatigue forcing his shoulders to slouch and his head to bow forwards, as he blinked away the last shreds of the past that stubbornly tried to linger in his mind. Lone saw his shrunken frame as an opportunity, and withdrew their hands gently from his grasp, bringing their arms up to wrap around his shoulders. The hug was a little awkward, with his position facing straight ahead on the couch and Lone seated beside him, not to mention his much larger frame, which proved to be difficult to fully embrace; but, after a moment, he managed to bring an arm around Lone in an effort to return the gesture, allowing them to sink further into the security of his chest.

The pair remained this way for a few moments, both pressing the other firmly to them as they relaxed into the contact and grew more comfortable. Fawkes was certainly unused to the action, but his contentment was palpable in the way he slowly gave into Lone’s touch, leaning his head against theirs and clutching at them just a bit tighter before finally slackening and pulling away.

“Thank you, Lone. It is hard to feel… lost for such a long time.” His usually gruff voice came out like tattered silk as it was softened by the emotion accompanying it, and they couldn’t help but notice as Fawkes’s hand remained settled over their shoulder, still seeming to steady himself with the unwavering contact.

“Lone, how am I ever going to repay your kindness when you continue to assist me in so many ways each and every day? Your friendship is truly unparalleled.” Lone smiled at that, chuckling slightly at the sincerity of his words.

“Some people just… need more help than others.” They told him, “I’m happy to keep helping you every day, even if you can never repay me for it. That’s what people do when they care about each other, Fawkes. Love isn't a commodity to be bought and sold, at the expense of one and the gain of another; it’s something you reciprocate on your own terms, something you give to yourself and others without condition or expectation of gaining anything in return.”

Fawkes nodded his head slowly, eyes unfocused as he thought through Lone’s words.

“If that’s the case… Then, right now, I vow to love you as you say I should. Unconditionally. And hopefully that will be enough.”

Jericho:

     The ex-raider collapsed with a groan, burying his head, face first, into the plush pillows atop their mattress. His rifle and bits of armor were strewn throughout the Tenpenny apartment, and Lone strolled behind him, trying to kick his things into a somewhat organized pile as they too tried to make themself more comfortable. 

Bits of armor clattered to the floor as Lone made their way to their shared bed, smiling exasperatedly at their companion, stretched across the entirety of the mattress, preventing them from settling beside him.

  I’m tired too, you know. They thought, releasing a puff of air as they considered how to go about solving this little problem of theirs. Lone tried dropping their bag beside the bed, the loud thud sounding as close to his ear as they could get it without physically hitting him with the sack, but Jericho didn’t even flinch. They clicked their tongue, peering around the room as they searched for a way to rouse him. As Lone started towards their shelves lining the wall of the hotel room, eyes set on the plethora of miscellaneous items they might be able to use to their advantage, a raucous snore erupted from within the plushness of their pillow-clad mattress. Lone groaned, turning about to face him before starting back towards the bed. Fine, you don’t want to make room for me? I’ll make it work anyways.

Lone approached the unconscious ex-raider, poking at the firmness of his back, testing, before hopping up in the air to land, stomach-first, on top of their companion. 

“What the shit?! The fuck you think you’re doing?” He grumbled through the thick fabric.

“Just making myself comfortable.” Lone shifted their hips and shoulders, settling themself more firmly onto Jericho’s back. 

“And you’re expectin’ me to put up with this shit?” He lifted his head, straining his neck to glare back at them questioningly. 

“I really don’t see what you can do about it, old timer.” Lone leaned forward, digging an elbow into the back of his ribcage as they brought their mouth to his ear. They felt him tense at the pressure, bringing one of his arms back awkwardly as he tried to find a grip on them. Lone swatted his hand away with theirs, leaning onto their other side to avoid his flailing limb. As he felt their weight shift, Jericho twisted his body in an attempt to overturn them, but Lone instead decided to bring their arms around his shoulders, clinging to him so that their body shifted with his as he tried to roll them off. 

“Mother fucker--” Lone began to giggle at his frustrated growls, as he rose, propping himself up on his elbows, with Lone still gripping him firmly, arms wrapped tight across his chest. He paused his thrashing, and Lone felt him shifting his head downwards, extending his neck to reach for something with his mouth… 

“Ow-- Hey!” Jericho took a part of their wrist into his mouth, biting down hard, causing their grip to loosen, and at the opportunity, he decided to throw himself backwards onto the mattress, effectively crushing Lone beneath him. They felt the breath get knocked out of them as he landed, now settling himself on top of them, grinding the back of his head into their chest in an effort to make himself more comfortable in the most obnoxious way possible. 

Well… that could have gone better, but hey, at least now I’m on the bed. 

“Alright, you win.” They said, their voice coming out strained due to the pressure on their lungs. 

“Damn right I do. Old timer… fuck you.” Lone laughed at that, reveling in the way he took their name calling so seriously. 

“Alright, alright. I get the point, can you get off me now?” 

“Nah. I think I like this. It’s real comfortable. Think I’ll just sleep this way.” Lone groaned at him, trying weakly to tousle him off their body before giving up with a loud sigh, being sure to blow their hot breath of frustration straight onto the top of his head. They felt his body shudder. 

“Fuckin’ fine, little tike, I’ll get off.” 

“Uck, don’t call me that.” Lone said as he rolled off of them, falling onto the mattress at their side. They peered over at him to see his reaction, pleased at the dark-eyed glare that bore into them, a glint of humor shining in their depths. 

“Look, I’m allowed to complain,” They told him, shifting onto their side so they could see him better. “You friggin’ bit me.” The ex-raider smiled deviously at that.

“Hmm. Yeah, I did. And I’m about to do it again.” With that, he lunged at them, an arm wrapped around their waist to hold them in place as his teeth met their neck. 

“Hey! What the--?” A moment later, the sharp pain dissolved away and was replaced by something soft as Jericho pressed his lips to the tender spot, soothing over the mark he had left. Lone’s eyes fell closed as his mouth moved up to their jaw, peppering kisses as it moved across their jawline to their chin, before finally drawing upwards to meet their lips. 

“I hope you know.” Lone heard him say as he pulled away from them, “This ain’t over yet.” They felt the mattress shift as he collapsed back onto it, and they smiled at his words, scooting closer so they could throw an arm over his stomach as they pressed their head to the crook beneath his shoulder. Lone meant to say something cheeky in response, but before they could utter a word, they felt themself dissolve into sleep as the soft sound of Jericho’s snores filled their ears.

Here is the original post with the Fallout 4 M!Companions

Here is the post with Fallout New Vegas M!Companions

[anechomirrored]

Fandom: Fnaf Security Breach

Rating: G

Prompt(s): "We all have our reasons."

Warnings: chase, heights

You knew this was a bad idea. Leaving the daycare in the dead of night usually was, but you couldn't sleep and that increasingly anxious feeling that came with your it had spurred you onward.

Now you really wished you had listened to the daycare attendants.

Heart pounding in your chest you tore around yet another corner and practically through yourself up the next flight of stairs.

A nightly wander had struck you as a harmless thing. Surely a quiet walk around wouldn't interfere with security detail.

But whatever that was you had witnessed in the kitchen?

That was not security detail.

Reaching the top of the staircase you scan wildly about the dim lit halls of 80's neon and capitalism.

Photo booth.

Diving inside you hold your breath as another electronic scream of garbled static reaches your ears.

Something is seriously wrong with everyone.

You press yourself into the corner of the booth as the heavy footsteps of whichever animatronic is still chasing you approaches.

Suddenly the ambient noise that normally fills the pizzaplex changes. The electric hum of the lights cuts out and what bit of the world outside the photobooth that you can still see darkens.

The lights have gone out.

You listen as the mechanical footsteps move away from you. There is still what feels like a good stretch of time where you just sit there listening.

And then you hear it.

Bells.

A flood of relief floods your system only to be choked off as a particularly sinister laugh echoes beyond the flimsy curtain.

You take a breath.

"Moon?" You voice is just above a whisper.

The bells stop.

Silence.

The next thing you know you are being pulled from the booth.

A hand tightly grips the front of your shirt as you let out a yelp.

"Naughty, naughty." Chimes a familiar voice.

In the time it takes you to regain a sense of equilibrium Moon has cleared half the atrium with you in tow.

"Moon?" You can't keep the panic from your voice.

His voice has the same garbled static the other's you've encountered are speaking with tonight and there's something different about the way his eyes are lit.

You struggle in his grip suspended too high above the floor.

You can feel the fabric of your shirt ripping.

"What are you doing? Put me down!"

You scream as the animatronic concedes and you drop a few good three feet before he roughly catches you once more.

Dark laughter.

This time you are able to hold onto him in turn. Your fingers dig uncomfortably into the soft silicone of his back and shoulders as you cling to him like a life line.

"Moon, please." You whimper.

The two of you swing precariously. Caught up in his dizzying trapeze through the plex.

Another whimper escapes you.

"I'm afraid up here."

The hand pressed into your back twitches, making you wince. A second later the animatronic's hold becomes much gentler.

A burst of feedback escapes his voicebox and the two of you are quickly lowered to the ground.

You sink to the floor. Your head spinning and adrenalin pumping.

"What's going on?" You breath.

Moon is standing oddly still.

"It's past your bedtime." He says gently, though the static from before still stains the edges of his words.

"Moon, what's wrong?" You struggle to your feet, "Why did you grab me? Why is everyone freaking out? " you stare up into his frozen expression.

He isn't swaying like he normally does. His hands which are at his sides keep twitching, causing him to move them as if stretching them out.

"You left the daycare." He says, instead of answering.

"Yeah, I did. Better question, why did you drop me while 15 feet in the air?"

"It was funny." His voice is teasing but you get the sense its a cover for something else.

"I'm serious, Moon. What's going on?" You take a step forward and his frame tenses.

"Can't tell..." he says looking at the plum carpet under his feet.

His hands jerk before he closes them onto tight fists. A hiss of frustration crackling behind his chest panel.

"Don't know."

"Which one is it?" Your tiredness is getting the best of you and you can both hear it in your tone.

He locks eyes with you, the red glow of his are sharp.

"Both."

You shift uncomfortably and he drops his hands, letting them hang loose once more.

"Why are you out of bed?" He asks.

The static is almost gone.

You duck your head and scuff the carpet with you heel.

"Couldn't sleep, came to find you."

"You shouldn't have."

"I know."

The silence hangs heavily between you.

You bite your inner lip.

"If you don't know what's wrong...shouldn't you all be going to parts and services?"

"No."

You meet his red eyes once more. They aren't as sharp but they hold no humour dispite his constant smile.

"Why not?" You ask a bit softer than before.

You don't want to fight, you are just tired, scared and in need of answers.

You just want this to be okay somehow.

Moon turns his gaze to a nearby mural, his eyes falling from one cartoon charicature to the other before coming to rest on one in particular.

"We all have our reasons." His voice is clear, resigned.

You follow his gaze to find it rests on a cartoon purple rabbit. You recognize this one, but have never seen them.

"Can we go back now?" You ask.

Moon rocks slightly on his feet. His natural sway has slowly returned during your conversation.

It's comforting, even though you now know he's not fully in control.

"Yes, little light. It's time for bed."

You reach out your hand and after a long breath he takes it.

Answers can wait, right now you just need Moon to help you sleep.

[ryoskuna]

⭑ promised eternity | hades!sukuna x persephone!reader au headcanons (PT 1).

A/N: ... yo... i would like to say whoever threatened to send me toe pics, a-plus, bc you made me release this into the wild. * insert megumi meme face here * but this is just HEADCANONS for a hades!sukuna and persephone!reader-esque universe, and because y’all are as thirsty as I am, it includes some SFW and NSFW headcanons. grab your water bottles, and I apologize for my subconscious now. (cause it’s always on auto-pilot and giving me wild af ideas.) We shall all thirst... over OG form sukuna as well, because ,, well, big daddy, do i need to say more???  also this is some seriously fantasy like au , sort of, it takes place during sukuna’s original time as a curse, when gojo’s ancestor was after him, and hints wildly on that, and also will hit moments where the sorcerers are of course, hunting him. feel free to give me your thoughts and ask questions, because i love you all.  onward to the THIRST! ( also side note, promised eternity is the name of the potential series that may come from this. ) 

this is part one of the headcanons, and they’re all SFW.

being married to the king of curses is not easy. it’s awkward at first, and then later on, comforting at best. to have someone who believes in you, roots you on (even if he’s kind of mean about it at first), is better than having nothing. you’ve been looked at for so long as a “curse” for your untrained cursed energy, that to have someone who sees potential in your “god” given gifts instead of spite (or only useful in preventing a raid) is refreshing. and unsettling at first.

speaking of that, sukuna basically rescued you from your village. for the entirety of your life before him, your cursed energy has gone unchecked, untrained.  so it fluctuates with your emotions. it’s useful when you summon your wrath to defend your village or when your untrained reverse cursed techniques help the crops grow— but any other time, you are known as a curse. your emotions grow sad or you grow angry, and people die accidentally. ( hence your harbinger of death nickname. )  sukuna, during his many trips to your village for taxes and the occasional “recruitment” of healthy women and me, he has noticed you. and he has noticed your vast amount of cursed energy. it’s all but too easy for him to command the head of your village to hand you over — your parent(s) have no say. 

sukuna is generous enough to compensate them, and the head of village. it’s one of few kindnesses he’ll show, besides eventually to you. sukuna will never tell, not till much later on, that he noticed you in every visit he’s ever made. that you deserved better than the mockery and scorn of your people. he offers to burn them all for you, but your mercy says otherwise.

speaking of when he came to get you, he was 10 feet tall, dressed in a black montsuki kimono and hakama. all four of his arms are on display, and all four of his eyes are on you.

you, are in a shiromuku, complete with a wataboshi — you and your mother (or a village woman) made it, but it will not be the last of your “bridal” gowns as you travel through at least five villages before arriving at sukuna’s fortress-like palace. sukuna has prepared you both a uchikake style kimono (adorned with pinks and reds), a hikifurisode style kimono (black, but also adorned with whites and golds and reds)— lastly is the Tomesode, which you arrive to your new home in, adorned in pins and signs of your new status. it’s here you discover you are not meant to be a mistress, you are meant to be a wife. his wife. his first, and his only (or at least he’ll try to keep it that way).

sukuna does not make time for much. rumors of him are notorious of his over-indulgence, guided by only his pleasure and displeasure, which is slightly true.  but he makes time for you. you aren’t like the others he’s taken in his time, whether for his entertainment or to be in his service (you are not his toy as he has a habit of disposing of his playthings once they bore him); you’re his wife, but you are also this powerful being, who if trained, will become even more powerful. if you were a sorcerer, you’d rival him — but you are his equal. 

he tries to make you feel that way by shrinking down to your size. he drops his 10 ft height (even through he can grow larger), to 6′8 or 7ft (pick your preference). it helps him watch the way you fight him, and he’ll change his height to help you train to fight enemies of different sizes.

sukuna’s loyalty to you forms in the midst of gifts. he’s lavish and again, over-indulgent. before your lips ask for it, somehow you already have whatever you desire. however, he also realizes, the more that he’s around you that gifts don’t make you happy (as pleasing as they are). being in his company is what makes you happy. oh, and sukuna’s very careful to touch you. his strength knows no bounds, until you touch him. you have to be the one that touches him first. it’s a brush over the knuckles, your tiny hand wrapping around his big one.

the way you manipulate plants to your advantage as a defense will never not amaze him. the way you use vines to wrap around him to capture him is genius, and the sneak attack you give has gotten better. he’ll still tease you ask “is that the best you can do” with your hits to provoke more of your strength, and he’ll give praise at the end, in his own way. (more touches.)

sukuna’s untouched garden becomes yours as one of your wedding gifts. it’s yours, and all the servants know it. everyone on his grounds knows it is yours. 

you haven’t realized it since your arrival, but there are female servants that are your handmaidens, but for the harem that sukuna supposedly keeps — you have no idea where they are. it isn’t till one of your handmaidens inform you that he freed them with compensation. it’s not an uncommon practice for him, you’re told. he does not keep anyone against their will, and he never forced the girls he kept to do anything. for him, war and fighting made his blood rush just as much as sex could.

you and sukuna’s cursed energy manages to mingle to create a rare flower, one that turns from a gold color to red at the tips of the petals. he later tells you that beautiful things can come from destruction, and it makes you think of yourself, and who you’ve become with his guidance as you look into his eyes.

the first time you sleep in his bed with him, he lays still on one side of the bed (which is unusual for him) until you beckon him closer. he meets you halfway in the middle, where you lay your head on his chest and listen to the sound of him breathing. he’ll never admit it at first, but the comfort you give to him is startling, but welcomed. he wraps two arms around you, but it isn’t until you’re sleep that all four hold you gently against him, as if those four arms are shields to keep you safe.

He admires your strength and the various ways it shows itself. He has since your “wedding day”, when you shed no tears at being taken from your family. When you told him “do what you will”, but also in your rage he tapped into when you wrapped thorny vines around him when he provoked you by calling you “a murderous curse of a girl”.  He apologizes for this comment at some point, while you two lay together in the garden.

he presents to you a crown, shaped after the marks on his forehead (preserved through a picture painted on a fan). it is two horns towards the ceiling, made of black metal the color of obsidian. 

sukuna enjoys towering over you. and more importantly, once it no longer startles you, you enjoy the safety that his height reminds you of.

the form of trust sukuna has with you is seen by the servants when assigns advisors to you, as well as teaches you how to deal with trials when they come forth. you are his rose with thorns now, and you know how to use them.

someone speaks ill of sukuna? you are reminding them of their place: “speak ill of your king again with that tongue of yours and i’ll take it”

OKAY BADASS, and sukuna is all for it, just “that’s my s/o”

and lord, the pet names this man has for you: “my dove” “my love” “my moon” and you with: “my sun and stars” (thank u got)... he’s got a lot of pet names.

he likes to hold you on his side for some reason, whenever he can. honestly, he just likes you close.

basically, you’re tough as hell and powerful as hell and you grow into your added strength and he loves it.

can you say POWER COUPLE OF THE AGES

[yournameoneverypage]

Black Butterflies

Shawn x reader. Word Count: ~3k Notes: 1) Two completed requests in nearly as many days! Whoa! But don't get used to it; I simply had a temporary burst of writing inspiration and drive/motivation after two weeks of not being able to write at all. 2) Lu and Anna, thank you for talking me through so much of this. 3) I think it's worth listening to the song exactly where it lands in the story before continuing to read. 4) If you aren’t aware of the meaning/symbolism of black butterflies, maybe check it out. 5) This might be my personal favorite thus far of all the requests I've done. Warnings: Language. Angst (because I know you're a hoe for it, LOL) to fluff.

~ * ~

She swung the door open without looking first through the peephole, which was a mistake. Damn him, standing there looking like he was, in those gray chinos that always made his ass look amazing and a white button-down, the first few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm.

It didn’t matter that Shawn was holding a small bouquet of red camellias, she still ripped into him. “Oh, hell no. You don’t get to show up here like nothing happened!” She instinctively stepped aside to let him in before she even realized she had.

She should’ve immediately closed the door in his face, but he was like a drug to her and she could never get enough, always chasing after that next fix. Fucking dopamine and oxytocin. Even when he was gone he was always what she was wanting and she hated that she knew she would always feel that way.

“We had a date, pet. Why aren’t you ready? Not that I’m complaining,” he purred, raking his eyes over her form, appreciating every little thing about her. “We can certainly stay in.”

She went from zero to a million when he placed his hand on her waist and trailed fingertips across her stomach beneath the shirt she was wearing, his, as he brushed past her. She was regretting that now too, wearing his shirt, because it just proved that she was his and the last thing she wanted right then was to validate that for him.

She scoffed. “You really thought we would still be going out tonight after the shit you pulled?” He handed her the flowers, which she very nearly didn’t accept. “This doesn’t change anything,” she declared.

“It should. You know I don’t get flowers for just anyone.”

“We have spectacular sex followed by a ridiculous argument that you initiate, then you exit.” Yes, spectacular. He knew precisely where and in which ways to touch her and how to please her. He brought her to heights she hadn’t ever experienced before him. “And then I don’t hear from you for four days and you think flowers are going to make up for that??”

Shawn dropped to his knees. “Look at me. I’m on my knees, in pants that are way too fucking tight.” Yes, she’d noticed. “Actually on my knees for a reason other than-”

“Don’t you dare try to make light of this or otherwise even attempt to turn me on,” she bristled.

“You’re already turned on.” He couldn’t hide his smirk. “Look at that flush.”

“I’m angry, Shawn,” she puffed out, exasperated. Yes, she was also turned on, but mostly she was angry. “I fucking hate you.”

“I know you don’t mean that.”

Of course she didn’t. In fact, she was pretty sure she was wildly, profoundly in love with him. “Fine. I’m trying to hate you. At least a little bit, in this moment.”

“Baby.”

The yearning in those two syllables almost had her caving completely. “You don’t get to call me ‘baby’ when we aren’t fucking.”

“Angel, darling, my sweet baboo...”

She was trying desperately not to give in and let him off the hook. “Stop.”

“I’m groveling. Begging for forgiveness.”

In a split second of incense she bit, “You haven’t even said the words ‘I’m sorry’ yet!”

“I’m sorry.” It was genuine. His apologies always were, but he rarely took responsibility for what it was he needed to apologize for.

As quickly as her anger had risen, it dispelled. She brought her arms across her body, tucked them beneath her breasts, narrowed her eyes at him, and huffed.

“I am earnestly, desperately, honest-to-God sorry,” he murmured, crawling closer to her, reaching out to wrap his large hands around the backs of her knees. “I’m so sorry I’ll even let you tie me up,” he grinned.

As annoyed with him as she was, she had to fight not to smirk back. “You love being tied up. Try again.”

His mirth abruptly dissipated. “I know I can be an asshole sometimes.”

“That’s an understatement.”

He inhaled. Exhaled. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

“Not this time.”

If she could keep them talking she wouldn’t let her defenses down and drag him straight to her room. If they fell into bed she’d lose control of her senses. He’d have her flying and falling till four in the morning and there was too much at stake. They really needed to figure this out before it went any further, before the cycle could repeat, again, and hearts got shattered, hers especially.

“Can I at least get up off my knees?”

“You put yourself there,” she muttered.

Shawn stood and tugged smooth the legs of his pants. He reached out to entwine his hand with hers. When she didn’t pull away from him, he drew her into his arms for a hug, close and snug. When she relaxed in his embrace and wrapped her arms around his waist, he dropped his lips to the crook of her neck and breathed her in.

She tightened her arms around him and sighed. She was still upset, but in his arms was her favorite place to be. “Why do we always end up here?” she whispered. She eased away, met his eyes, and continued, “Things are good, really good, for a while. We have fun, practically cohabitate, friends with tremendous benefits, but then, out of nowhere, we fight about absurd, insignificant things and someone exits.” She didn’t add that it was usually him doing the exiting; it wasn’t necessary. “A few days, maybe a week, go by. We kiss, make up, fuck, and fuck again. Rinse, repeat. Aren’t you tired of it?”

“The fucking?” he grinned.

She placed her hand square on his chest and shoved. “If you can’t be serious for once, just leave.”

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, stepping away completely, running his hand through his curls.

“You’re so good at expressing yourself in your writing. I don’t understand how you can be so vulnerable with your lyrics but your words be inconsequential when it matters most. Enough with the foreplay and joking or teasing when real feelings get too close to the surface.” He drew a breath. She held her palm up between them. “It’s not just you, babe,” she added before he could interject, which she knew he had been ready to. “We both do it. I’m tired, Shawn. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered, rubbing the back of his neck.

She glanced around her kitchen and suddenly had an idea. “Write me a letter.”

His eyes widened. “What? Like, right now?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes. Right now.” She pulled the magnetized writing pad off her refrigerator and offered it to him, along with a pen. “What’s going on here?” she asked, gesturing to him and then herself. “Tell me how you feel about us. Is this all we’re ever going to be? Tell me what you want out of our relationship, what you want from me.”

He balked. “An ultimatum??”

“No, of course not,” she said, quickly setting aside the paper, which he hadn’t yet taken from her, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him softly. Before she could fall under the spell of his mouth against hers, she withdrew.

He tried to chase her lips. It’s what he knew best, it’s how they worked, it’s what made everything instantly better. But deep in his heart he knew that would only be another band aid over the same bullet wound. She was right, they always ended up here.

“Babe,” she nudged, seeing that he was beginning a descent into a rabbit hole of worry. “You know me too well to think I would ever do that. I’m not asking you to choose one extreme or another, to commit or never see me again.”

His heart constricted, chest tightening, and he almost couldn’t breathe with the thought of never again seeing her.

“Hey. Look at me,” she whispered, hooking her fingers in the front pockets of his chinos. “I just need to know where we stand.”

He sighed heavily, considerably, and swiped the notepad and pen from the countertop.

She leaned her bottom against the counter across from him as he settled into a stool at the kitchen island.

After glancing at her, his eyes pleading with her not to make him do this, his attention fell to the taunting blank lines while the tip of the pen top found itself between his teeth.

Time stretched before he decisively scratched a few things down on the notepad. Abruptly he ripped the page off and crumpled it in his hand. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbled, now refusing to look at her.

He began again. Even within the tension, she couldn’t help but watch the way his hand moved as he wrote. His hands were one of many of her weaknesses when it came to him. He sharply tore the second page from the pad, startling her out of her concentration, and balled it in his fist. “I can’t focus with you standing there,” he groused.

Following an unsuccessful third try and another frustrating crumple, he cried, voice wavering, “I can’t do this.” He punched the pen down and dropped his face into his hands, elbows on the granite, rubbing his eyes with his palms.

She shook her head in apology. “I never should have suggested it.” Her asking him to do that had inhibited him. “It was...wrong, and unfair. I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

In an instance, he found himself standing before her again, reaching for her. He tried once more, desperately, to draw her in and persuade her to take him to bed, where he best knew how to communicate, touching his lips to hers, encouraging her to open to him. He didn’t care if it was just one more band-aid; he couldn’t leave things like they were.

She instinctively responded before her head cleared enough for her to pull away. He pushed back, feverishly. She placed her hands against his chest to preserve the distance. Resting her forehead against his, touching the tip of his nose with hers, she whispered, “Go home, Shawn.”

“Baby, please,” he argued.

“Just go home.” She put more space between them and moved away from him.

“Give me the chance to fix this.”

“We’re not...broken.” Even though they were. But that’s not quite how she meant it. “We’re just...somewhere in between. I need some space, that’s all. And I think we both need some time.”

He dropped his eyes and then his head, dejectedly. He pressed past her, more forcefully than he meant to. It caused him to pause at the door, hand on the knob.

She thought he was going to say something and she held her breath with anticipation, but then he simply sighed, shook his head, and walked out.

///

It was the longest weekend of her life. Detox so far had sucked. All forty-six hours of it, not that she was counting. Okay, she was. Forty-six hours and neither of them had reached out to the other.

Yes, they had gone much longer without contact, and it had sucked then too, but she had always before stubbornly waited for Shawn to come to his senses after he had chosen to leave on his terms.

She could have texted or called him at any point, but she didn’t want to be that girl after she was the one who made him walk out this time. And there had been no argument leading up to it. Well, not the same sort of argument that had always separated them in the past. Somehow this just felt...different.

She had tried to stay busy, to keep her mind off him and them and what, if anything, might happen next.

Too much space, too much time, she felt the itch for him under her skin.

At this point she was nearly willing to accept him back in her bed, to go back to how things have always been, because when it was good between them, it was so damn good. Having him in any capacity was better than not having him at all.

A few more days. If she could just get through a few more days, maybe a week, she’d be fine, she’d be over it.

Who was she kidding? They’d been doing this dance for way too long now for her to get over him that quickly.

Oh God, she hoped it wasn’t another week before he came around again. She wasn’t sure she would survive it.

Before she knew it, she was reaching for her phone. Unexpectedly, right then, it chimed with a text message alert, startling her so badly she dropped it.

She nearly wept with relief when she retrieved it to see that the text was from Shawn.

Hey. I’m going to come by. If that’s alright?

She couldn’t move her fingers fast enough, causing too many errors. She forced herself to slow down, delete, and start over. She waited, for good measure, for almost two entire minutes before hitting send.

Of course it is.

It pleased her to no end that his reply was immediate.

You’re home then? Yes.

And here she was, about to relapse.

///

She knew exactly how long it took Shawn to get to her place from his. She stood before her door, waiting for the knock to come, one hand and forehead against the cool steel, eyes downcast.

Suddenly, an envelope was slid under the sill at her feet. He had done it after all. He had written her a letter. She crouched down to claim it. When she stood again, she looked through the door viewer, but he wasn’t there. Was he gone so quickly? Had he never planned to come in? Was this goodbye? Her heart constricted, chest tightening, and she almost couldn’t breathe with the thought of never seeing him again.

Don’t spiral before you even read what he may have written, she told herself.

She pivoted on the balls of her feet, fell back against the door with a sigh, and slid down to sit against it, pulling her knees up to her chest.

It took her a few moments and some steadying breaths before she could open the letter. The simple way he began was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

My everything,

I am so incredibly sorry. I never mean to purposely hurt you but I know I do every time I walk away. It isn’t fair to leave you to work through the aftermath of my idiocy on your own. I know we should be talking these things through, together. I know I have to learn how to share myself with you, all of myself, back up the honesty I’m always writing and singing about with action and allow myself to be vulnerable. Because love intensifies and is strengthened when you share your weaknesses. It’s easier for me to pick fights and walk away. Then I don’t have to face the fear of letting myself fall in love with you and, therefore, the terrifying possibility of someday losing you. I don't want to have to figure out how to learn to live without you. And what if you don’t feel the same? What if this is all just fun for you? What do I do then, as I hold my bleeding heart in my hands, thoroughly devastated? But letting you in, showing you the real me, everything I am, is worth the risk of getting hurt. I know it is, as much as it scares me. You are worth the risk. I’m starting to think you’re it, that you could be the one.

All my love, Shawn

She half-laughed, half-sobbed, letter clutched tenderly against her chest. Should she go to him? Should she call and beg him to come back?

Her phone chimed again then with another text from Shawn, as if he knew exactly how long it would take for her to read and absorb his words.

It was an audio link.

She was trembling, surging to her feet to swing the door open with an urgency she couldn’t define, a reflection of the song she had just listened to. She didn’t know Shawn had been sitting the same way as she had been on the other side of the door.

He was suddenly falling in, landing flat on his back across the threshold, looking up at her, stunned. “I love you,” gushed from his mouth.

With something between a laugh and a cry, she fell to her knees, just as he had earlier, and placed her hands on either side of his head.

“I love you too,” she breathed before lowering her lips to his, upside down, for a soul-searing, life-defining kiss.

His hand reached up, tangling in her hair to pull her closer, desperate to deepen their kiss. It still wasn’t enough. He parted from her only long enough to flip himself over and surge toward her, pulling her properly into his arms and onto his lap.

“I love you,” he gasped again before her mouth was again under his.

It may have been only a minute, it could have been an eternity, she no longer knew how time worked.

Between one breath and the next, because yes, breathing was essential, even while lip-locked with the love of your life, she could feel his grin against her lips.

“What?” she hummed, smiling reactively.

“Now, will you tie me up?”

She rippled with deep, dizzying laughter. He kissed her through it all, his happiness bubbling and overflowing.

It was inevitable. They were always going to end up in bed.

~ * ~

@mendesblurb @benito-mi-vida @shawn-is-my-giant-jellybean @silverswallow @weedangel-x @monikamendes @mendesficsxbombay (My taglist grew by two!)

[floralseokjin]

;middle of the night (m)

FIRST LOVE, LAST LOVE

After a silly argument, Jungkook wants to apologise… at 2 o’clock in the morning…

pairing; jeon jungkook x reader  genre/warnings; established relationship, domesticated goodness, fluff, they have a dog now, or as Jungkook likes to call him ‘the cock block’, smut  words; 2,150

more﹆chapter index

“You awake?” Jungkook whispered into the darkness, murmuring your name for good measure. 

You kept your eyes shut tight, back to him, pretending you were actually in fact, asleep. Damn love, all these years together had made you so in tune you both could sense when the other was awake. You hadn’t been able to drop off properly ever since you’d hit the hay at 10pm. Tired but unable to switch off. Jungkook hadn’t been beside you the first three times you’d woken, this time however, he was, and just like him, you had known he was awake too. 

You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of being correct though, so you clenched your jaw and stayed silent. You were still mad at him after earlier this evening, and if he thought he could just give you a lousy sleep ridden sorry, he had another thing coming. 

But then you heard him let out a tiny sigh, deflated if anything, the mattress dipping with his weight as he turned around. Back to back. You hated that. Even after so long you both loved to tangle up in one another right before bed. No wonder you couldn’t get to sleep properly. You were having withdrawals. Plus, you hated going to bed on an argument. You hated arguing with Jungkook altogether. 

“What do you want?” You whispered, lifting your head up a little. 

He rolled over slowly, the mattress dipping again as he thought of what to say. By now you’d settled your face back into the pillow, waiting patiently. “Can’t sleep,” he mumbled. Ever so gently he outstretched his arm, hand caressing your side as he slid closer. He was really being cautious here. Unsure of your mood. It was actually pretty comical. 

He leant in, voice a whisper. “I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere you’d give him that, but the wood in his underwear made you kind of dubious. 

“Do you mean that? Or are you just sorry because your dick is hard?” 

“No,” he insisted softly. “No, I’m sorry because I’m sorry. I don’t know why my dick’s hard.” 

He was being honest, years of being together also meant you knew when he was telling the truth. You stayed silent though, waiting for him to continue. One little sorry wasn’t enough. 

“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” 

“Hm?” You pressed. 

He tried again. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“What wasn’t my fault?” 

He sighed quietly, resigning himself to the inevitable. “The steak being fatty. It was childish of me.” 

There it was. You grinned to yourself, thankful he couldn’t see your face. He probably felt like an idiot for getting so mad over something so trivial. Although you knew why. He was stressed over work; opening his own tattoo parlour had been amazing but he still wasn’t used to needing to be switched on practically all day, every day. Being your own boss had its perks of course, but there also came the downsides. Working six days a week, getting home late. He was exhausted. And stressed. 

It was the steak with too much fat that had set him off tonight, and when you had laughed at his overreaction, it was you who’d been on the receiving end of his frustration. You’d ignored one another for the rest of the night and you’d gone up to bed way before he had. Now, with the moonlight slipping through the shades, Jungkook’s body beside you, the touch of his hand against your waist, you softened. You would easily forgive him over something so silly. 

“That’s okay,” you reassured, shuffling onto your back to get a look at him. You reached for his face, cupping his cheek. You could just make him out, eyes still adjusting to the darkness. He was shirtless, hair in his eyes. You pushed some behind his ear, wanting to see his face. “We’re allowed to be a bit childish sometimes,” you smiled. “Sorry for teasing you.” 

You weren’t exactly innocent in all of this. You admit you liked to get a rise out of him sometimes just because he was so easy to goad. You should’ve known better lately. Even if he pretended like everything was alright, it probably meant it wasn’t. He hated being a burden, and he already felt guilty for using your shared savings on the parlour – it didn’t matter how you’d agreed to it as a couple with careful consideration, it still weighed on him heavily. 

Jungkook’s mouth curved up into a small smile, you could make out that much, settling his head on your pillow as he cosied up to you. “I hate going to sleep without cuddling you.” He whined, face in the crook of your neck. 

“Same,” you agreed. Like you said: Withdrawals. You felt him kiss your skin and then began to pay attention to something else. “You really don’t know why your dick is hard?” His erection was still there, pressing into your thigh as he cuddled up to you. 

“No,” he chuckled thickly. “It’s confused.” 

You slipped onto your side, facing your boyfriend as you reached for his mouth. You kissed slowly, lazily, just enjoying the closeness more than anything, before a few pecks turned to something more. Of course it did. If his dick was hard you weren’t going turn it down. You pulled back just as Jungkook was about to slip in some tongue. “What time is it?” 

“Gone two,” he replied immediately, before reminding you of something, his mouth back on yours. “It’s Sunday tomorrow.” 

“Mm,” you hummed, tongue meeting his, arms wrapping around his shoulders to pull him over you. 

Excitement real, he was breathing slightly heavy when he broke apart to ask you the obvious. “Do you...?” You nodded wildly, yanking him to you, hands travelling all over the expanse of his back. It had been a while since you’d last had sex, maybe close to two weeks, which for you both may as well have been a year. Not that you were annoyed. Like you said, Jungkook was exhausted because of work, mind too preoccupied. Sex was a great stress reliever though, so it was about time you tried it out… 

However, not soon after, lamp on, Jungkook’s mouth on your neck, one of his hands up your t-shirt, cupping a boob, you suddenly remembered something, instantly panicking and pushing him away. “Giuseppe’s not in here, right?” You demanded, eyes wide.

“Huh?” He sounded, confused by the sudden change, needing a moment to make sense of the question. “Uh, no. No, he’s not.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure,” he chuckled, reaching for a kiss. “He didn’t follow me upstairs.” 

Giuseppe was your pet dog. A long haired golden retriever that was already the height of your house despite not even being a year old. Jungkook loved him, treated him more like a brother than a pet, and of course he had named him. You’d just rolled with it. But there was one rule. The dog did not stay inside your bedroom when s-e-x was happening, and seeing as he had his own bed at the foot of yours, this was obviously a reoccurring thing. 

“Okay?” Jungkook pressed, kissing your nose as he waited to continue. 

“Okay,” you nodded, grinning up at him. 

“Okay!” He sung cutely, jumping up to tear his boxers off. 

Five minutes later there was some very eager fingering going on, Jungkook knelt between your legs as he stroked you to complete and utter pliancy, the sinful squelch filling the room. You were trying to return the favour, your fist wrapped around his cock, but your movements were sparse, too distracted by the pleasure coursing through your veins. “Jungkook,” you moaned against his lips, trying desperately to stay attached. 

He groaned, straightening the fingers inside of you, going a little faster, loving how wet you were. “God, you sound so good.” 

You moaned louder as his thumb circled your clit, hips jutting up. “Ohh—AHHH!” Your pleasure soon turned to surprise as you roared out, something heavy and large leaping onto your bed, attempting to bound all over you. “Oh, my god! Oh, my—Jungkook!” You exclaimed, sitting up immediately, his fingers slipping out of you. “You said he wasn’t in here!” 

“I didn’t think he was!” He insisted, a hand cupping his junk as your dog practically jumped up and down in excitement. “Honest. I thought he was downstairs.”

You grumbled, moment well and truly over, but you weren’t giving up. You were having sex tonight. It may be nearly three in the morning, but you were getting laid. “Seppe, out,” you ordered, pointing to the door. “Out!” He didn’t listen. It was Jungkook that called the shots, he told you it was some type of “bond” they had. You called bullshit. “Jungkook, get him out.” 

He instantly looked put out. “Babe, I’m ass naked.” 

“I don’t care. If you want to have sex he needs to be out of here.” 

“Fine,” he sighed, standing up, not bothering to cup his dick now – free and easy. Giuseppe instantly followed. “I swear if you didn’t make such a big deal about it he wouldn’t get so excited. He can sense these things.” 

“Exactly!” You cried. “He can sense when we’re just about to do it.” 

Reaching down to stroke him, Jungkook complained. “Giuseppe, you’re such a cock block.” The dog looked unbothered. Amazing. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.” And off he trotted, listening straight away to your “ass naked” boyfriend. He swung the door closed after him, looking your way with a satisfied grin. “There.” 

You pulled a face. “Now I feel guilty.” 

“Don’t change your mind,” he whined. “He can come back in once we’re done. He’s used to it.” Like you said, it had been a regular occurrence these past nine months. Jungkook made his way over to you, caging you under his body immediately. “Now where were we...” 

This time there was no messing about with foreplay, your legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked you. Jungkook had already admitted he wouldn’t last long, unable to curb his excitement, so it was more needy and fast than skilled and indulgent. Not that you were complaining. This was the best type of sex in your opinion. Just sheer want for one another, nothing else. When he came inside you with a groan, you glowed. Felt alive. 

“I really am sorry,” he murmured a few minutes later, still a little out of breath as he laid over you, stealing slow kisses. 

You grinned, teasing him slightly. “It’s okay. I forgive you.” He chuckled and you ran your fingers through his hair, admiring him fondly. “I love you.”

“I love you more.” He sang.

You wrinkled your nose, pushing your head back into the pillow. “Don’t.” You hated when he made it a competition.

Amused, he laughed, rolling onto his back beside you, folding his hands behind his head to look up at the ceiling. You turned onto your side, propping yourself up with your elbow so you could see him properly. He looked really worn out. Not particularly tired from lack of sleep tonight, but just exhausted in general. His eyes weren’t twinkling. You hated seeing him like this. “You sure you’re okay?” You asked, needing to make sure. At least he had some time off tomorrow. 

“Mm,” he nodded, looking your way. He gave you a small smile. “You know what I’m like. I need to learn to talk more about my feelings more.” 

You agreed with that. You knew him too well to prod when he wasn’t ready. This was the most you’d gotten out of him for weeks. “Well, you know where I am when you’ve learnt,” you chuckled. 

He laughed back. “On it. It’s probably better than bottling it all up and exploding over shitty steak.” 

“Definitely better,” you agreed. “But let’s not buy that kind again. My man deserves meat not fat.” That just made him laugh harder. You loved that sound. Kissing him on the cheek, you knelt up. “Okay, I need to pee.” And you both needed to actually sleep tonight.

“Can you have one for me while you’re there?” Jungkook joked. 

“Sure thing,” you nodded, up and already walking towards the door. 

You opened it and before you knew what was happening, Giuseppe had bolted in, jumping up on the bed. You heard Jungkook yell and yanked your head to see him balled up, hands protecting his crotch. 

“FUCK!” He cursed, twisting around in agony. “My balls! Damn dog trampled my balls.” 

You definitely shouldn’t laugh. Not at all. However the visual of Jungkook writhing around ass naked on the bed with the dog bouncing around and barking in excitement, totally oblivious to the pain he’d just caused, was enough to break you. So much for that bond they had… 

“Giuseppe, bad boy,” you scolded playfully. “Daddy needs those.” 

Written 2020.  Please refrain from posting my work elsewhere. No translations allowed. © floralseokjin 2020

[potrix-the-queerschlaeger]

joy in my heart - chapter 1

Or; What if Johnny had been forced to step up? [On AO3.]

 February 5th, 2002

“What do you mean she’s gone?” Johnny glances away from the awkwardly shifting nurse, over to the empty hospital bed. The sheets are rumpled, one of the tabloids Shannon loves to hate lying open on the pillow. Her favorite mug, the tag of the tea she’s started drinking against the morning sickness hanging over the rim, is sitting on the bedside table. “To the bathroom? The cafeteria?”

“Mr Lawrence,” Shannon’s doctor speaks up, and the pity in his voice that he doesn’t quite manage to hide makes something heavy settle in Johnny’s stomach, “your girlfriend left the hospital earlier this morning—”

Johnny’s shaking his head. “No, she—she gave birth a day ago? She—”

“Ms Keene discharged herself, against medical advice, about an hour ago.”

Before Johnny can even begin to wrap his head around any of that, there’s a soft knock on the door. The nurse goes to open it, gesturing for the woman on the other side to come in. She’s got a clipboard under her arm, and a no-nonsense expression on her face.

“Ah, right on time,” the doctor greets somberly. Then, addressing Johnny again, he says, “Mr Lawrence, allow me to introduce you to Mrs Porter.”

“Mr Lawrence,” Mrs Porter says, with a curt nod. “Francis Porter, Child Protective Services. Why don’t we take a seat?”

In his crib, Robby starts crying.

(Watch out for the break!)

 February 14th, 2002

They won’t let him take Robby home.

Johnny’s sitting on the old, dirty carpet floor in their—his, now, he supposes, with Shannon fucked off to who knows where—shitty little one-bedroom apartment, his back against the couch, and a mostly empty bottle of the cheapest whisky the gas station had to offer on the coffee table in front of him.

The foster family they’ve lined up has experience with babies like Robby, they’d said.

It’s too early to tell if there is going to be lasting damage, they’d said.

We can refer you to people who know how to help, they’d said.

No one is trying to take your son away from you, they keep saying.

Yeah, right.

Johnny reaches for the bottle again.

“Happy fuckin’ Valentine’s Day, Shan.”

 April 21st, 2002

Robby is asleep. He’s asleep in some strange woman’s arms, tiny chest rising and falling steadily, looking so damn peaceful—

Johnny turns around and walks away, ignoring Mrs Porter calling after him.

 June 13th, 2002

“Please, Mr Lawrence,” the guy who stole Robby, who’’s telling him he can’t see his own fucking kid says, blocking Johnny’s view into the house, “you can’t be here, not unsupervised. You know you can’t.”

Johnny takes a step forward, swaying on unsteady feet. “I just—I just wan’ to—only for a minute. One minute, okay? ‘S all I’m askin’, okay?”

In the distance, Johnny can hear sirens.

He blacks out before the cops arrive.

 July 8th, 2002

 “Fetal alcohol spectrum disorders (FASDs) are a group of conditions that can occur in a person whose mother drank alcohol during pregnancy. Symptoms can include an abnormal appearance, short height, low body weight, small head size, poor coordination, behavioural problems, learning difficulties and problems with hearing or sight. Those affected are more likely to have trouble in school, legal problems, participate in high-risk activities and have problems with alcohol or other drugs. The most severe form of the condition—”

Johnny doesn’t bother putting  the book back before he stalks out of the library.

 July 9th, 2002

“My name’s Johnny. I’m—I’m an alcoholic? That’s what you’re supposed to start with, right? My kid, uh, Robby? He’s the reason I’m here, I guess? He’s not staying with me right now. For obvious reasons. His mom’s not in the picture. I—look, I don’t really know what the hell you want me to say? I just—I just want to see my kid, man.”

 August 4th, 2002

Robby is six months old. He looks at Johnny with big, curious, familiar blue eyes, thumb jammed into his mouth. He’s drooling all over his sleeve, wispy blond hair sticking up wildly from the nap he’s just woken up from. He’s still got pillow creases on his chubby little cheek.

“He’s been doing really well lately,” Helen tells Johnny, with a soft little smile. She bounces Robby, smoothing back his hair. “Isn’t that right, honey? Are you ready to say hi to your daddy?”

Johnny’s heart is in his throat.

His hands fumble, for a moment, when Helen passes Robby over, before he manages to settle on under Robby’s butt, and the other on his back. Slowly, carefully, Johnny lifts him out of Helen’s hold, pulling him close against his chest.

Robby makes a cooing baby noise, still staring at Johnny, and curls his free hand into the collar of Johnny’s shirt.

Johnny is holding his son.

For the very first time.

He is never letting go again.

Ever.

 October 25th, 2002

“—crying for, like, forty minutes now? That can’t be normal? Right? I’m—what the hell am I doing wrong, he won’t stop—”

“Johnny.” Helen, in Johnny’s less than expert opinion, sounds way too calm, considering the situation at hand. “We knew this was going to be an adjustment for him. First overnight visit with you, in an unfamiliar apartment, a complete deviation from his usual routine. He’s probably just a little confused.”

Confused because he’s staying with his deadbeat, piece of shit father.

Right.

“He’ll be fine, Johnny. You’re doing great,” Helen reassures him, as if reading his mind. Johnny squints suspiciously. “You’ve bathed him, fed him, changed him—”

Whatever she says after that, Johnny doesn’t hear, since Robby decides to add flailing to his sobbing, and yanks the phone right out of Johnny’s grasp.

“—some calming music,” Frank is suggesting, when Johnny manages to jam the receiver back between his ear and shoulder. “Helen is partial to ‘Stuck On You’, but anything slow will do, in a pinch. Put on some music, walk him around, bounce him. You’ll be fine.”

Music. Yes. Okay.

That’s definitely doable.

Only.

“Wait, Lionel Richie? What the hell have you been teaching my kid, oh my god, and they let you be foster parents? Unbelievable—”

“Johnny.” Helen’s clearly trying to hold back laughter, and not doing a very good job of it. And that, somehow, is enough to finally make Johnny listen. Really listen. She wouldn’t laugh at him if Robby was in actual danger. “You will be fine. Both of you. All right?”

Johnny doesn’t own anything Richie, obviously, but one of the boxes he hasn’t unpacked yet is stuffed full of all his mom’s old tapes. He rummages through it one-handed, while Robby attempts to make him go bald prematurely, until his fingers land on an old, well-loved copy of ‘Rumours’.

“Definitely beats Richie,” Johnny murmurs, and pops the tape into his cassette player.

Robby is probably just startled, when it starts in the middle of a not exactly slow song, but he does finally, blessedly, stop crying. He still looks like he’s thinking about it, though, so Johnny hugs him a little tighter, and starts singing along.

All I want is to see you smile. If it takes just a little while. I know you don't believe that it's true. I never meant any harm to you.

 February 4th, 2003

They’re celebrating Robby’s first birthday at Helen and Frank’s house.

There isn’t a huge crowd present, but Johnny had still been surprised at how many familiar faces were there to greet him.

“Like we’d miss this,” Tommy had scoffed, elbowing him in the ribs, while Jimmy’d nodded along. “Nowhere else we’d rather be, man.”

Bobby had just pulled him into an almost bone-crushing hug, and whispered quietly, “I am so proud of you, John.”

Because making someone cry at their kid’s birthday party was, apparently, a thing priests did.

Johnny is sipping his apple juice, squished onto the couch between Bobby and Tommy, when there’s a dull thud from the other side of the room. Helen is standing right by Robby, who’s looking mostly confused as to why he’s on the floor instead of toddling towards the gift table, frowning down at the carpet as if it’s personally offended him.

Then, his lower lip begins to wobble.

Helen is right there. Frank not five feet away.

Robby looks up at her, at Frank, then over at Johnny. Lifting up his arms, eyes wide and wet, he demands, “Dada?”

Johnny’s never moved faster in his life. “I’m right here, buddy. I’ve got you.”

[tepid-tea]

I apologize in advance as this is completely unedited and its probably full of errors and typos lol. I’m posting this while in a meeting for work so lol I’ll try and find time to fix anything later. 

This is a Modern AU and all of the prompts will be in the same set. If you have any suggestions let me know! So I hope you enjoy!

Oct 1st_ Fall Leaves “Uncle Caleb nooo!!” Luc shrieked, his laughter ringing high as the boy ran through the fallen leaves.  Each footstep crunched  and rustled as the halfling boy rushed through the piles before disappearing into the mountain of raked leaves.

“Oh no, where did he go?” Caleb called out, his tone playfully rough to fill his role of ‘monster’ in their game. “Come out, come out wherever you are!”

They’d been at this for a while now, the young boy ducking into the high piles of leaves that Caleb had raked up in their backyard. Luc was the perfect height to disappear and like his mother could be sneaky when he put his mind to it.  Caleb gave chase as the monster hunting down the young hero while Essek watched from their back porch; taking videos and photos as they played.

This was their first fall in this house; Esseks first fall in the Empire even, so seeing their backyard turn into a sea of golden yellows and vibrant oranges was an absolute delight. He spent several mornings waiting for his partner to wake looking out the window to watch the way the light trickled through the leaves. It was so different from Roshana, where he grew up solely in the city and most of their trees only bore red leaves. Then after meeting Caleb he had lived in Nicodranas for a few years where there were palm trees and it never got really cold enough for the leaves to change much. To now, in the first house that he and Caleb owned together, he got to experience this. 

An old two and a half story home in a nice quiet family neighbourhood with a large backyard filled with trees and space to garden. Hell, they probably had enough room for the green house he and Yasha had talked about once with Caduceus; at that time only a fun dream they shared. Now with Yasha and Beau with their apartment about a half hour into the city by the Soul, perhaps they could give it a try. He and Caleb did hope to have several years in this old house afterall, so they could try.

Soon a loud battle cry pulled back his attention, Essek watched as Luc burst out of the leaf pile with such flare it would make his mother proud and knocked Caleb to the ground. The red headed wizard cried out in defeat, splaying himself out across the grass in equal dramatics. By the exaggerated cry of defeated dying monster sounds their game was finally wrapping up; the afternoon sun starting to set now.

Snapping a few photos to send to Veth and Yeza on his phone of the pair rolling around in the leaves, Essek made his way over. The goal was to get Luc fed and tucked into bed before his parents got home from their date night. Veth would give them shit if the seven year old was still bouncing around by the time they swung by to pick him up. They had only made that mistake once.

“Oh valiant warrior, now that you’ve conquered the dangerous beast I think it's time to wash your hands and get ready for supper” Essek smiled down at the two, rolling his eyes at the groans he got in return. Both seemed to spread out more in defiance, making themselves starfish in the sea of autumn leaves.

 He playfully nudged his partner in the ribs with the toe of his slipper while their nephew had him pinned to the ground still. A large freckled hand grabbed at his ankle in warning; eyes meeting in challenge when there was a slight tug. That earned the human an arched eyebrow in return; daring the human to follow through with his game he was not going to win. When the hand let go of his ankle, the drow gave his human a fanged smirk before looking back at their nephew.

“Come on, Pizza should be here in twenty minutes” Essek waved a hand to adjust gravity then scooped Luc off of Caleb's chest and propped him on his hip. Luc ooed the whole way up, nearly wiggling out of Esseks arms in excitement over the small bit of magic.

With a squirming chatty halfling in his arms, Essek made his way back towards the house as Luc retold his tale of his battle. Sounds of Caleb groaning as he pulled himself up off the ground could be heard as they made their way up the cobbled path to their back deck. Waiving his free hand, Essek levitated his blanket and pillow to fold themselves then follow them into the house.

Once inside he set Luc down so he could grab the levitated items and gesture the boy towards their downstairs bathroom. As the boy scampered away, Essek watched him go before moving to put the outdoor bedding into the trunk by the backdoor.  Once he heard the sink running he called out to remind Luc to remember to use soap, which earned him a sassy ‘yes uncle Essek’ causing him to snort softly.  Shaking his head, he toed out of his slippers and made to head towards their kitchen.

“What do hungry beasts get to eat?” Caleb asked, keeping that same rumbling tone, arms snaking around Esseks waist to stop him. The drow was pulled flushed against the other man's chest, one long ear twitching as a cool nose nuzzles against it. Warm but also slightly cold from their time outside, the others hands toyed with the hem of his sweater.

“Pizza of course; however” Essek paused, turning to gently pluck a stray yellow leaf out of Caleb's hair and looked up at him through his eyelashes.“Perhaps there can be a dessert for him later.”

He watched colour flood his partner's face, hair loose and wildly hanging out of his once braided ponytail. Dirt was smudged over his freckled cheek, blue eyes wide as they dilated into dark pools of desire as they met his own violet. The playful mood shifted for that quick moment now that they were alone in their downstairs hallway, the back door still wide open for whoever in their neighbourhood dared to see.

“But only if he’s real good” He added after with a purr, pressing a brief kiss to the others mouth before slinking out of Caleb's arms.  Essek booped the others' noses with the leaf before disappearing into their kitchen with a sly smile. As soon as he was out of the others line of sight, he heard the human thunder up their stairs to their ensuite bathroom.

Laughing softly to himself, he flicked his journal out of his wristpock and grabbed a pen off the counter. Opening a fresh page he jotted down the date and pressed the leaf in between the pages. Pressing the book closed, he closed his eyes and held the book tightly in his hands  and up against his chest.  Essek listened to the laughter as it echoed through their old but new house and couldn’t help but smile.