#I remember that line burning itself into my mind when I was still single digit years old

[jortsaaaaaaart]

To Be Forgotten Amongst Friends chp1

Omega! Reader x avengers

Hello all! I revamped my story "ikaros" and this is the new story! Also the name is long rip.

Trigger warnings (later chapters mostly)- ptsd, noncon, kidnapping, human experimentation, Stockholm and lima syndrome

The following chapters will be posted on- https://archiveofourown.org/works/33890977     (seriously- may not post here that often cause i hate the tagging system- go check out ao3)

It's a beautiful day in New York and you're a terrible, no good, thief. 

You were considered New York’s very own Robin Hood. Two hundred ATM robberies in two years, the money flying out of the machines and into the hands of people who needed it. The banks, collectively, had lost over $300,000 from the ATMs alone. But of course, it wasn't just the ATMs. A rash of robberies had spread over the East coast. Most were digital, companies funneling their own money to offshore accounts that wanted nothing to do with U.S. intervention. The FBI were notified, then the CIA, and eventually- after a daring cyber attack against the DOD- SHIELD itself turned it's one eyed gaze onto you.

Nick Fury saw something the other agencies didn't. You had certain gifts that made your line of work incredibly easy. Whether they were natural mutations or some sort of superpower, they allowed you to break into some of the most secure networks known to man. He had almost found you when SHIELD fell and his resources vanished. After the dust cleared he was forced to start from scratch. Hunting you and the remnants of Hydra down at the same time wasn't easy, but, in a strange twist of fate, he found someone else that was searching for you too.

+++

New York was filled with so many people. Most of them were good, in your opinion. (Well, maybe half, actually.) You spent most of your off time working on "projects" or walking around the city. You had become a fixture at the local Bodega. Single omegas were extremely  rare, marked single omegas were almost unheard of. The mark gave you certain freedoms other omegas, sadly, didn't have. It drove away most potential suitors and the ones who were particularly bold would be given a taste of your powers. Once the burrow had gotten used to your presence they saw you as a generous person, but a secretive one. Someone who took no shit even with their designation. You gave to the community and different Omega rights groups in the area. After years of watching you quietly go about helping people you had been welcomed into the burrow's heart with open arms.

You loved helping people in your own way. You loved it just as much as you hated corporations and the police, but when you could make an ATM spew it's contents out into the poorest streets of Brooklyn or make Fox News send a million dollars to Planned Parenthood, you could have the best of both worlds.

At least, for a time. All good things had to end, right? That's what you told yourself as the redhead picked her way through the crowd towards you. 

Seeing an avenger in your neighborhood was an odd occurrence. It was a poorer part of town, untouched in the battle of New York, and too out of the way for any super villain origin stories. In fact, you seemed to be the only mutant in the entire block. You'd always thought, if someone was going to come for you, it would be a couple of FBI agents and not the fucking Black Widow. Your brain and heart went into overdrive as you tried to remember doing anything worth the avenger's time. But there was nothing. The DOD hack had been almost a year ago and all you did was release government files showing attacks on civilians overseas. It hardly seemed like an avengers worthy crime, especially when Black Widow herself had leaked government secrets before.

Any hope of her not not looking for you was dashed when her eyes locked onto yours. She tilted her head, asking a silent question. 

The burst of adrenaline sent you careening through the lunchtime crowds. You couldn't feel anyone on the rooftops but there was a large form blocking your path, trying to box you in. They were stronger and faster but you knew the environment. You ducked into Charlie's, your sneakers skidding on the asphalt as you took the sharp turn. The person behind the counter lazily looked up as you walked to the back. They knew you well enough to not care, they also weren't paid enough to care. The alley would open up into a busy side street. More people meant a better chance to blend in and get away. You were almost to the end when the door opened behind you. Black Widow and fucking Captain America stepped into the alley. For a moment the three of you stood in something akin to a standoff. 

You felt wildly undressed for this life-threatening situation.

"We just want to talk, (Y/N)" Captain America told you, hands raised. The unmistakable stink of an alpha radiated from the captain. You were momentarily thankful for your mark dulling its effect on you. Though, the blonde's scent was tinged with something hauntingly familiar. Something you didn't want to recognize.

Behind him, Black widow's free hand went to her ear. "Target is in the alley between 31st and 32nd," A twitch of your finger and the line went dead. Her hand dropped to the gun at her hip.

"I'm feeling pretty under equipped for this 'conversation'," You replied, slowly raising your hands as well, wondering if they could feel what you were doing. They didn't react and you slowly let your power seep from you.

Natasha was the first to react, drawing her gun and spinning around. Steve looked at her with confusion as her wide eyes scanned the alley as if she was seeing ghosts. She was afraid he realized, a cold feeling settling in his stomach. He moved towards her and you took off running. You felt him hesitate then take off after you, gaining on you with an embarrassingly low number of strides. You tried your powers again, stronger this time, but his focus was unwavering. He was almost to you now and you were running out of options. That’s when the alpha in him came out.

“Omega!” He snarled, “Stop!” Your feet slowed down immediately. It wasn’t as strong as your own alpha’s command would be, but the super soldier certainly commanded respect and obedience. You were forced to stand still, eyes burning holes in the asphalt, as the alpha’s footsteps grew closer. You really didn't want to do this but it looked like you had no choice. Your jaw clenched, and you spun around when his hand grabbed your arm. The blonde's eyes widened as you placed a palm to his chest. 

He barely had time to glance down at your hand before the electricity hit him.

The 1,000 volts you sent into him were supposed to stun him or send him flying, allowing you to escape. However, his muscles spasmed just a bit stronger than you intended. In an instant his grip crushed the bones in your arm and sent the two of you careening backwards into a brick wall. Natasha would find you a moment later, passed out on top of the super soldier, a sizable hole in the wall.

You woke up in an unfamiliar bed, a few blurry white shapes milled about in the corners of your vision. You couldn't remember how you got here, or where here was. All your senses seemed to be dulled. Your wrist was throbbing and each time you opened your eyes the room came in and out of focus. You closed your eyes, opting to ignore the funhouse effect and focus on the sounds around you. The beeping of the monitors, footsteps on concrete, and two low voices.

"She's alright, Buck, I promise." Steve's voice wavered in and out of your consciousness bringing with it the memory of how you got into this bed. "She did something to Nat and ran before I could explain. I wasn't expecting her powers to be so strong."

"I should have come with you," Another voice snarled. Your heart skipped a beat at the low growl. You knew that voice. It evoked a sickening combination of need and terror and you couldn't remember why. "She wouldn't have gotten hurt if I had. What idiot doesn't know omegas are fragile?!"

"It was an accident!" His voice raised slightly before sighing. "I know you're worried, but she's fine."

The scent you had smelled on Steve earlier swirled around the room. Metal and burning pine, it affected you just like the voice had, triggering both panic and yearning. You knew it somehow. The memory was there somewhere, tucked away where it couldn’t hurt you. Where it should have been forgotten.

The scent grew unbearably strong as he leaned over you, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. When he pulled back he wasn't expecting his eyes to catch yours. 

His expression softened as soon as he realized you were awake. "Omega," Bucky whispered reverently. Stormy blue eyes stared down at you with love and adoration, watching the color drain from your face. "Doll?" 

Somewhere in the back of your mind you could hear the panicked beeping of the machines and Steve trying to calm you down. But it didn't matter. All that you could feel was the need to get far, far, away from this man. You didn't know how you knew him but you knew he was dangerous. You knew he had hurt you. That's why, as he reached out to gently cup your face, you slapped his hand away. 

"Get away from me!" You gasped, voice breaking. You scooted back and tried to back up as far as possible. Your shaky legs barely held your weight as you slid off the bed. Pure terror coursed through your veins, it was the only thing keeping you on your feet. You found yourself pressed into the corner of the room while the men stared at you in shock. Steve and Bucky gaped like you had just told them the Germans had actually won WWII. Eyebrows knit together, blue eyes wide and frantic, Bucky looked like he was in emotional turmoil.

“(Y/N), doll, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s your alpha.” Bucky reached out to you carefully as a low purr rumbled from his chest.

You felt the purr relax you and dull your senses even more. It was nauseating. “I don’t have an alpha! And I don’t know who the hell you are!” You tried to shout and grit your teeth but the words came out in broken sobs, betraying your weakness. Who was this? Why was he the most terrifying thing you had ever seen?

Your teeth were bared at this point but the man kept coming towards you. The tunnel vision and rapid shallow breaths were the only warnings your body gave you as it reverted to its animalistic omega framework. Bucky watched as, in slow motion, your eyes went blank as your body gave out. 

+++

Your alpha held your body to his chest in disbelief. He had expected some shock at seeing him but this went far beyond his expectations. It had been over three years since he'd last seen you. Since he'd last been able to drink in your scent. He'd figured you might not recognize him at first. He had changed a lot over the years. No longer under Hydra's control his physical appearance, demeanor, and scent had changed. But your body should've known your alpha. 

"What was that?" Steve asked. "Why did she react like that when she has your mark?" The two alphas were on edge. Seeing a vulnerable omega drop triggered their protective instincts. Steve desperately wanted to take you and hold you close, ease you out of the drop. If the alpha holding you was anyone other than his closest friend and packmate he would have ripped you out of his grasp immediately. For now he'd have to hold himself back.

"She didn't remember me." Bucky nuzzled his head into your neck, nursing your mark softly. After a moment he pulled back and gazed at your unchanged features. He couldn't wake you from this drop that easily. He pressed in harder this time, teeth lining up with the scar perfectly, but there was still no change. No purr, command, or bite was waking you up.

"We should let her rest, Buck. The pain meds will wear off soon and we'll try again. . . Bring her to the den. She'll need to get used to everyone's scents sooner or later." Steve laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. It was a gentle but firm suggestion. He knew tensions were high, the den, with it's heavy curtains and plush blankets, would calm down his friend and the omega. With little argument the brunette lifted you up and carried you to the den. It was aptly named and extremely well constructed thanks to Stark. Curtains blocked off all light from the windows, mattresses were inlaid into the ground, and the temperature was always cool. It was one good thing about being in a pack with that narcissist, Bucky thought dryly.

Steve led them into a cozy corner of the room. The captain hummed happily as they moved the pillows and blankets, creating a makeshift nest for the three of them. The feeling of the omega pressing into his chest was addictive. He couldn't wait for you to remember your alpha.

The sooner you remembered your bond with Bucky the sooner the rest of the pack, Steve included, could court you.

[1997devil]

deals with the devil

pairing: mingyu x reader

w.c.: 2.8k

includes: incubus!mingyu, mentions of alcohol, unprotected sex, dirty talk & degradation, daddy kink, oral (fem receiving), fingering, creampie

a/n: this is me being self indulgent because that’s what got me 1k after all 🥵😛 i promise i’ll work on requests after this! i just needed to get this out of my system 🖤  also to clarify some things that may appear dubious, the drink the reader is holding is a potion by mingyu that he uses to lure her towards him! a lil fantastical touch i added to upkeep the demon theme lol

-

you mutter expletives under your breath when the dj hollers and shuffles to the next song on his shitty playlist of trashy holiday remixes. 

you’re only here because your friend had begged you to come along with her, pleading with such vigor she might as well had just dragged you by your wrist. she ditched you the second she set foot in the house, latching her arms around her boyfriend’s neck, the one throwing the party and the one who hired said dj. it really just reaffirmed how your best friend had a shitty taste.

when you entered what appeared to be a bar area someone had shoved a solo cup into your hand, the inside sloshing with a liquid you knew was strong, would blow your mind away from the scent that wafted from it, and would leave you with a killer hangover tomorrow morning. you didn’t dare take a sip from it, though you held onto it so that your hand wouldn’t look so lifeless, hanging by your body.

the shitty music didn’t pound against your still sober mind on whichever floor you were currently on, which you were thankful for. you wander through the house – perhaps the one thing your friend’s boyfriend was good for was the expansive mansion his family lived in – stumbling past locked bedrooms and powder rooms. people who were already trashed, no doubt from the same drink that remained in your cup, lingered about in the hallways. you gingerly stepped beside them, getting further away from where the party was mainly situated, not really having a concrete plan in mind or any sense of direction in what appeared to be a labyrinth standing as a house.

a bedroom you happen to pass by left its door ajar, and something called you from within to look in. it didn’t hurt to take a rest for a bit from the killer heels your friend shoved your feet into. you’d call a cab from there and you’d finally return home, within your safe space underneath your duvet.

there appeared to be no one, and you braced yourself to let yourself in fully. your heels sank into the carpeted floors as you slowly headed towards the bed. it was still clean and neatly made, and you wonder how no one has stepped foot in this bedroom amongst all the other ones you just passed by. you heave a sigh as you gently sat down on the plush bed. you hadn’t had a single bite or drink since night befell and painted the sky pitch black. the cup that’s in your hand still remains untouched, and you take a small sip, the alcohol burning like fire down your throat as you swallow.

something in the corner of your peripheral vision catches your attention, flickering, appearing transparent then returning to opaque in a moment you’d miss if you blink. it appears strange, fascinating, and you sense a stirring sensation throughout your body the more you rest your eyes on it. a voice that begins to resonate in your mind beckons you to come closer.

it feels like you lose all your senses as you face the man standing before you, and your brain eventually feels more muddled when you try to recall just where and you’d seen him before.

“had my eyes on you since you walked in,” the unnamed man hums, stepping closer to you, an arm circling around your waist. it presses you closer against him, letting out a soft gasp. your arms seem to move on their own accord, resting on his chest as he looks down on you. “wanted to taste you so bad,” he mutters, voice dropping to something lower than a whisper like you were the only one meant to hear him.

“w-who are you?” the lump that’s lodged in your throat since you swallowed whatever had been in that cup clears up just enough for you to brokenly rasp out words. you meet the man’s eyes, dark as midnight, glows and keeps your attention on him. you feel as if all your senses are heightened as he runs his warm hands on your body.

“call me mingyu, angel,” he smirks, a wanton intonation lacing his voice, “though you’ll call me many other things later.”

“l-like what?” you whimper when his head drops to your neck, gently sucking on your skin, fierce enough for you to feel but not enough to leave marks yet.

“are you gonna stay to find out?” his lips tickle at your ear, nibbling on your earlobe, placing a kiss to the skin right below it. it hits a spot you didn’t know felt good, a high pitched whine leaving your mouth. you nod frantically, and mingyu lets out a dark chuckle at how desperate he’s already gotten you.

it feels like mingyu controls all your movement, taking over your senses as he leads you around the bedroom and slams you to the door. his hand places itself firmly on your waist, and the other hand goes to circle your neck, almost like a priceless accessory that decorates the clean space of skin, like an empty canvas. it’s tight, hot, and you’d happily die like this, under his hands.

tears line and spring from your eyes, rivulets tracking your cheeks and dripping from your jaw. mingyu laughs, a snarky sound that is lined with fire and hell.

“haven’t touched you at all, pet,” he purrs, leaning closer to you, his tall figure towering over you. it is only fitting that the title of the king and ruler of the underworld is crowned to someone built like him. he commands attention, creates control in any space and room he enters, and right now he was playing with yours. “what’s making you so needy?”

he gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ears, a contrast to just how rough he’d been with you before.

“you,” you whisper in response. the smirk that remains on his lips is taunting. “what about me? i haven’t done anything to you.”

he continues. “what would you like me to do with you, angel? would you like me to make you feel good?”

the affirming nod you give is all the permission he needs as he presses his lips to yours, licks on your bottom lip as you easily grant him access.

–

“you wanna know a secret, angel?’ mingyu teases, slow and relaxed, unlike you who’s the spitting image of desperation and need for him. he’s been teasing you for what feels like hours now, reducing you to putty in his hands, just begging with whatever energy you have left for him to fuck you already.

you nod, masking your sounds as the pillow underneath you swallows your whine. you feel mingyu’s hand return to your body, slowly tracing a path of its own on your thighs, inching closer to your wetness but not quite reaching it yet.

“i’ve known you since before tonight, darling,” he mutters as his legs bracket your legs, fingers carding through your hair. “i’ve seen and watched you, even when you thought no one could see you.”

his gentle touch on your locks turns into a searing grasp as he pulls you up by your hair, making you stand on your knees. your hands try to grasp at something, until it travels to behind you, pressing your back to his chest.

“even when you thought no one could hear you as moaned and whined until you made yourself cum.” he bites out directly against your ear, hot breath fanning on your skin until the hairs on the nape of your neck arose.

“so damn pretty when you got your fingers fucking yourself fast and hard, hm?” he continues, punctuating every few words with a wet kiss to your jawline. “or when you think that dumb little toy you have can make you come. it’s comical, darling, that you think anything can make you feel as good as i do. you’ll come to know it, angel.” his hand comes down to your ass, gentle for a start, though mingyu knows you’ll beg for him to go harder. you let out a little yelp at the contact, and mingyu just feels even more fired up as he sees the red mark deepen on your skin.

he pushes you back down onto the bed. “m-mingyu-ah, d-do it already, pl-please,” you brokenly mutter, and mingyu delights in the way your voice cracks at every other syllable.

“do what, angel?” your hands firmly grasp on the sheets as you feel his lips travel downwards, tracing down your spine and the small of your back. he moves back just a bit so he isn’t sitting atop your legs anymore, then holds you by your hips to pull you up. your knees are barely strong enough to hold you up, and mingyu scoffs at what you’ve become under his touch.

“this?”

he runs a finger on your sopping wetness, and you loudly keen at his touch, finally. you momentarily remember that you’re nowhere near your own bed, yet you continue to release loud noises, not caring if anyone can hear you from outside. 

his mouth falls onto your pussy next, accompanying the ministrations of his fingers weaving in and out of you while he sucks and licks until you’re shivering. the anticipation that finally erupted with him pleasuring you produces moans and groans that mingyu absolutely revels in.

“what do you want, angel?”

you keen loudly with your eyes shut, taking deep breaths to not come early even though it seems mingyu wouldn’t even mind.

“w-want you in me, gyu.”

you feel mingyu’s grin deepen as he eats you out. “good girl.”

he lifts his mouth from your wetness, though his fingers don’t pause. he adds another digit, your wetness coating them up to their knuckles, dripping down to your inner thighs as well. you whine, impatient, and mingyu calmly shushes you, his other hand traveling up your body to pinch and play with your nipples.

“need to prepare you first, angel. you need to be able to take all of me, right?” he quickens the pace of his fingers, three of them now fucking you. your response is cut off by a whine. his feels better than when you do it yourself, going in deeper than you ever would’ve reached yourself.

“look at you,” he mutters in disdain, “can barely even take my fingers. d’you think you can take my cock?”

“pl-please, no more teasing, f-fuck me already!” you snap at his teasing, though mingyu seems unbothered, barking a familiar mocking laugh as he slowly pulls his fingers out, sucking on them, letting your sweetness coat his tongue and whole mouth, savoring your taste. he smacks your ass once more for good measure.

“demanding. be fucking grateful i’ll let it slide,” he growls, running the head of his cock on your entrance, as he slowly pushes in. he chokes on his own moan as he can barely push in up to the head of his cock. you’re so tiny underneath him, barely even fitting his dick, yet your pleading drips out of your mouth so easily.

your impatience takes over as you fuck back on him, and mingyu groans at how more of your tight cunt is enveloping his cock, warm and feeling so good. a gasp leaves your lips at how big he is, and mingyu’s hands bracket your waist, seemingly trying to stop you from going further.

“angel, y-you’re too tight,” he choppily huffs, a light sheen of sweat perspiring on his skin.

it appears to be your last straw. “please, please, i need you! n-need your cock,” you gasp once more, “please, d-daddy!”

you don’t even seem to notice the name falling off of your lips, but it reinvigorates the fire within mingyu. all his composure, the control he’d worked so hard to maintain so he doesn’t just fuck and break you, ebbing out of him and traveling far.

“you asked for it.”

he finally fully pushes in, his cock fully inside of you, your ass pressing against his hips. you gently swivel your hips, easing the stretch when it feels like his dick is splitting you.

“sweetheart, you’re driving me insane. what a greedy ‘lil slut, huh?” he grinds up against you once, and your arms feel like they’re about to give out. “getting off on daddy’s cock like this.”

his hands leave your waist, traveling to your nipples, flicking and pinching down on them. your whole body feels like jelly, letting out what you think are the most pornographic moans you’ve ever heard in your life. all your senses have been overtaken by the demon hanging above you, reveling in all the energy he’s feeding off of your pleasure.

mingyu bends over to press his body against yours, then straightens back up, bringing you with him. his hand tangles into your hair, keeping you upright as he finally begins fucking you, building up a pace. the sounds of skin slapping against each other resound in the room that feels larger than life, like no one can bother you.

he feeds dirty praises to you, and every syllable he bites out is almost competing with the noises you make. he tells you he loves how dirty you are, how wet and warm your pussy is, how soft your breasts feel, how you’re such a whore who so easily breaks when daddy fucks her.

his words tether back and forth between praising and mocking you, telling you that you look so gorgeous like this, brokenly sobbing at the pleasure, wetness dripping onto the sheets.

“do you like it, angel?” it is an understatement, and you can only express it through your dirty whimpers. “i l-love it, daddy. love it so mmm-much, ah, daddy, m-mingyu, ah!” you hate how mingyu keeps his composure so well, a sharp contrast to you, ruined and wrecked beyond comprehension.

“fucking you stupid, hm?” mingyu taunts.

then, in a smooth stroke, he pulls out of you, and you gasp at the loss of contact. mingyu leaves no time for regret. he moves back, turning your body around, letting you rest on your back. his fingers wrap around your ankles, pushing your legs up until he’s got you practically bending in half. he enters you again, easily picking up the pace he set beforehand. the new position easily leads him to the spot that makes you see stars.

your jaw falls as he continues to prod at the spot, hitting it perfectly every time. “right there, baby?” you deliriously nod, head lolling to the side.

mingyu’s lips on yours are soft and gently prodding, overwhelming you with the different sensations he’s subjecting your body and mind to.

“f-fuck, break me, daddy!”

mingyu’s lips stretch into a devilish smile.

mingyu slams even harder into you, pushing you to your limits. you see red, hot, and you know you won’t last much longer. you whimper, trying to work your voice up to warn mingyu, though you fail. he reads through you, his pace unforgiving as his hand comes to play with your clit, and you howl at the surge of pleasure that throbs through your body.

mingyu tightly grabs onto your thigh, pressing it down to keep you in position. “where do you want me, angel?”

“mmm, inside. f-fill me up, yeah, feels s-so good,” you’re completely out of it, slurring your words, not registering anything but mingyu’s warm hands running on your body and wetness, completely enveloping you until you’re teetering off the edge, ready to let the winding coil in your stomach burst.

mingyu groans, long and drawn, and makes the tension in your boy snap. you come from him coming, feeling him fill you up with hot spunk and pushed in deeper from how he doesn’t stop thrusting. sparks and sensations overflood you until you’re left with a gaping mouth and dripping pussy, as mingyu finally pulls out.

he coos as he watches you clench around nothing, his come dripping out of you. he bends down, using his tongue to clean up whatever had spilled out of you, then fucking the remnants back in with his finger. the overstimulation makes you keen once more, and mingyu finally takes mercy on you.

his lips gleam in the dark light, coated with the liquids dripping from your wetness. he kisses you again, and you taste the way yours and his come mix together in your mouths. your eyes flutter shut, feeling as if you’re suspended in mid-air as mingyu transforms from the ruthless dominant earlier to something much more gentle, lazily clashing his tongue with yours and pressing his digits down on your thighs to soothe the strained muscles.

it takes a while until he separates from you, and you can barely keep your eyes open as he smirks at you.

–

(you wake up the next morning in your bed, a sated soreness plaguing your entire body so great you feel like such pain would’ve only erected if you had thrown yourself off of a cliff.

a sigil that would’ve been invisible to anyone else but you brandish itself on your right pinky finger.

a feeling sinks into you, one that tells you he’d return soon.)

[alexseanchai]

Fanfic 2020 in Review

I got tagged by @kasienda @noirshitsuji and @marvelousmsmol and I am tagging whoever wants to play!

1) List of fics completed this year in the order they were finished:

*filters own works to complete and updated in 2020*

1 - 20 of 57 Works by AlexSeanchai

nope. *adds filter to include only works of at least 1000 words*

unless otherwise indicated, these are all Miraculous Ladybug:

“don’t bake it lying down”, post-reveal Marichat vs Felix Graham de Vanily

“veracity”, canon divergence from “Ladybug” featuring Mister Bug and Verity Queen (so also Marichat, I guess)

“(no request is too extreme, if) your heart is in your dream”, in which Hawkmoth wins, for the thirty seconds or so before Emilie saves Ladybug and Chat Noir’s lives

“tell me you love me and make me believe it”, in which trans girl Chatonne Noire ropes Ladybug into helping plan her civilian self’s escape slash social transition

“kingmaker, oathbreaker”, in which Hawkmoth wins and Emilie watches her son remove himself from the family

“stay and let me watch you break it down” (Twelve Dancing Princesses), a modern setting

“set a course for winds of fortune”, in which trans girl Chatonne Noire has already escaped and Gabriel and Nathalie are trying to bring Gabriel’s son home

“we ground love in a hopeless place”, in which post-reveal Marinette’s attempt to remain resolutely not in love with her partner dissolves like sugar in coffee when they start a pun war

“ring the bells that still can ring”, in which Alya is deeply confused about why Adrien and Marinette are planning a wedding when last night both were single

“burning wishes at both ends (the cold wind and long loud wail remix)”, in which Gabriel made a monkey’s paw wish and Emilie makes another

“words cannot espresso”, in which Marinette’s OC roommate is justifiably worried for Marinette’s safety, and meanwhile Adrien takes care of Marinette

“the compromise of truth” (the chronologically second-earliest part posted to date of nine lives, snake’s eyes), in which Adrien tells his friends how he won some freedom and respect from his father

“At The Present Time”, the Ladrien/Ladynoir marriage proposal follow-up to @art-deco-shrimp‘s  “Your Presents Required”

“j'ai rêvé (so I don't have to dream alone)”, in which the events of canon must just have been a series of dream sequences, Marinette and Adrien both think, until they both arrive at Chloe’s Halloween masquerade dressed as themselves from the dreams

2) Number of words written:

ahahaha no. I am not counting all my scattered fic drafts and trying to figure out what I did and didn’t write in 2020. I refuse.

AO3 says I posted 162K in 2020. it is counting all of keeps you guessing (like any real love), which (a) I started posting in 2019 (b) is co-written by @galahadwilder​; it is counting all of my meta snippets collection, much of which was written in 2019; it is counting the Vimeo passwords for my vids. but I probably cleared 150K by a safe margin.

3) Your most popular fic:

“veracity” has a four-digit kudos count, wow, when’d that happen? this is also the 2020 work with the most hits and the most bookmarks, but “tell me you love me” has four-thirds as many comments as its nearest competitor.

4) Your personal fav:

“cannot break us, not with a thousand swords”, no question about it. this is the one in which Ladybug proposes marriage to Chat Noir via Princess Bride meme on Tumblr. (if you intend to download the work or otherwise to consume it with creator style off, you want the accessible version instead of the primary version.)

5) Your fav scene:

aaaaaaaaa

—okay so this is cheating and I know it, since Uncertain Humors (the one where Marinette/Adrien is both Orpheus/Eurydice and Theseus/Ariadne) is nowhere near finished, never mind posted (maybe I'll get “Sanguine” done to post on my birthday?)

but it is still my favorite of the year. as you might guess from that description of the story, this scene has content notes for character death:

Hell is a maze. Marinette walks.

This acrid passage has little to see but damp stone, seeming blood-stained in the dim carmine light. At about the height of her heart, the faintly glowing thread cuts through the not-clammy air; it ought to be pulsing at the same rate as the heart it's bound to. She might be able to see her own reflection if she looked down at the open sewage pipe, or at one of the puddles that now and again she splashes through, dampening the canvas of her shoes. She might see reflected what's behind her.

She remembers Mme. Mendeleiev lecturing on human physiology. In healthy humans old enough to have learned how, urination is a voluntary action: one may not know which muscles one tenses and relaxes in order to do so, and probably isn't paying attention to those details when one is doing, but one has conscious control over whether one does. Usually. Stress and anxiety mean some people are unable to relax the relevant sphincter muscle and others are unable to stop themselves. It's voluntary for cats, too: it's one way they mark their territories. Cat-boys have other ways.

There is a moment in every human life when all one's muscles relax at once. Some Parisians have had several such moments.

The thread is braided with itself around her left fourth finger, rows of tiny red half-hitch knots, and falls loosely over the back of her hand to loop twice around her wrist. She holds it wrapped between the fingers of her right hand to keep it at a constant tension, as though knitting with this insubstantial thread, so fragile for something two (two dozen, two million) lives hang from—too thin to sew with, no thicker than one strand of his hair. As she walks, she winds it around and around and around her wrist.

Between her ring finger and her right hand, it loops twice.

Marinette's shoe lands in a puddle she didn't see. The rainwater splashes soundlessly onto her bare ankle and on the stone.

(With cat-like tread, upon our prey we steal— It's a very loud song.)

She walks on.

6) A fic or scene that challenged you:

where the firelight fades, no contest. this is the second story I’ve ever been able to stick with more than a couple hundred words past the 20K mark, but it’s easily the twentieth novel-length I’ve begun. (though also, you know that kedreeva post? well, 90K later, I’m less than 15K from completing this 10K fic! I think.) and I have been learning so much about long-form fiction.

there has also been a lot of weeping and tearing my hair. case in point: I just trashed the chapter 15 draft because I figured out the reason it wasn’t going anywhere! I can probably keep the first few hundred words of that draft without any editing, and another few hundred with some revision...

7) A line of writing you’re proud of:

from “j'ai rêvé (so I don't have to dream alone)”:

Everything about their partnership is fragments of sentences in the dream diary Adrien writes in ultraviolet pen. Disjointed flickers of thought even when examined under the black light he hides in the snack cabinet under packets of Super Yoyo sandwich cookies and bags of cheesy Monster Munch potato chips and boxes of petit écolier butter cookies (chocolat noir)—none of which explains the gym-socks smell. All fleeting incoherent flashes, invisible between the mundane lines of La Modification shelved at his bedside between Leroux and Dumas. None of it is solid. Adrien has more proof his room's haunted.

okay let me break this down for you!

* Adrien started a dream diary to make sense of the memories

* in invisible ink, in a book that (according to Wikipedia) is thematically appropriate and won’t (if Gabriel sees it) look like anything other than Adrien developing an interest in French literature

* shelved between Phantom of the Opera and The Three Musketeers

* look I didn’t come up with the name “black light”

* or “chocolat noir” for what English speakers call “dark chocolate”, or “petit écolier” (that is, “little schoolboy”) for that sort of butter cookie

* also not my fault that “chocolat noir” sounds remarkably like “Chat Noir”, which, attentive readers may have noticed, is not a name that appears in the story after the header and before Miraculous Cure

* I found the website of a store in Boston, Massachusetts that caters to French expats, and the yo-yo cookies and the monster chips were right there in the photos, y’all

* the snack stash and the black light live in the cabinet where, in canon, the Camembert lives; yes, that cheese smells in the real world like gym socks

* this story’s akuma was not able to affect anything but squishy human memory: nobody affected remembers anything about Ladybug or Chat Noir or Hawkmoth, not in any solid way, not even when they read news articles about the subject, and this includes Marinette and Adrien not being able to see or hear or remember their own kwamis—but you know what Adrien’s Insta post about his poltergeist and Adrien’s Insta post with the floating sock don’t show and don’t explicitly refer to?

* I love this paragraph so much (my housemates may have been lovingly mocking me over it)

8) A comment that touched you:

there are people (y’all know who you are) who said y’all are studying my style. I ded of blush.

9) Something that inspired your writing:

by volume of fic drafts that can be blamed on any particular person, the winner is probably @norakwami​

10) Your proudest accomplishment (that one scene; finally finishing that one fic; posting your first fic; etc):

so that longest-story-ever-written record I set in 2007 with the 89.5K story that, till where the firelight fades, was the only story I’d gotten much past 20K?

I broke that fucking record!

and then I deleted the draft of firelight chapter 15 😭

11) Do you have any writing goals for the next year?

I’m starting work on a fantasy novel, a Sleeping Beauty retelling in which I explore (among other things) the economic consequences of the king’s ordering all the spinning wheels burned, and I want to make significant progress on that. and I want to not make my hands any worse; I kind of need those!

(breaking news alert: bodies fucking suck. so does giving yourself repetitive stress injuries in doing one and a half to two people’s worth of work for an organization that was never ever going to pay you more than one person’s worth of pay.)

[nakedmossy]

Depth Over Distance - Part Nine  [Rudy x Reader]

[A/N: Alright. So I know the last part was tough and I wont lie and say its all sunshine and roses from here, but I hope this part gives you a little bit of a breather. Enjoy it while it lasts.... Peace and love, Mossy x] 

You resurfaced.

Open your eyes. Ouch. Okay you’re not blind so that’s good.

Blood on your head, dried, you could smell burning plastic and raw metal and gas. It was dark out. Your body screamed at you in pain.

You moved, slowly, dear god it hurt to move.

Your hand to your forehead, dried blood. Your fingers, your toes, everything moving? Good. Okay next…legs. Can you move them? They hurt. But they’re moving. Arms? Obviously, you were lifting them to touch things. Are you breathing normal? No…there is definitely something wrong with your breathing. Or are you just panicking? Calm down. Control you’re breathing or everything goes.

Alright. Good. Next.

Straighten your back…yep. Okay, slowly now. Don’t move too fast. Where are you? You’re on the road. Right…okay but are you? Too dark to see…angle of the car is wrong but you’re not upside down. Try the handle. Okay that worked…the door is ajar already? Odd. Where is your phone? You’re so dizzy. Okay breathing…slow down slow down slow down. Calm. Relax. You’re okay.

Just…find your phone. Don’t cut your hands on the glass. Airbag is deflated and in the way. This is too difficult. Okay. Climb out first, take a deep breath. Then find your phone.

You climbed out of the car, slowly, using the dented frame of the door to pull and the seat to push. You were so dizzy that even moving as slow as you were you felt like you were on a roller coaster. This was bad. You groaned and held your breath until you were standing on your feet and took a shaky step away from the car, your hand moving to your forehead, feeling wet blood as your head started to pound. Shit.

You stood still for a few moments, focusing on your breathing and calming your nerves, tuning yourself to your surroundings. How far had you driven? Had you hit something? What happened?

Confused, you opened your eyes and looked around, feeling blood dripping down the side of your face. It was pitch black out, but one of your headlights was still on, allowing enough light to show you that you had spun 180 and hit the ditch. Okay, for sure the car was wrecked, but it wasn’t actually that bad. You let out a sigh and felt a pang in your side, flinching. You needed to find your phone, you needed to call for help.

As you walked slowly around the passenger side you realized it had stopped raining, but a fog had settled into the valley around the trees making it impossible to tell what part of the road you were actually on. You tried to think…you had probably driven 30-40 minutes before you crashed. You were closer to the cell tower than you were the cabin. You needed to find your phone, get to the clearing, and call someone.

Why were you shaking? God it was cold out.

Your mouth started to chatter uncontrollably and you felt yourself shiver from the wet cold air. You needed to hurry up. You cried out in pain as you tried to open the passenger door but couldn’t, your rib screaming in protest. Of course you couldn’t open it, the handle was broken. Idiot.

You hobbled back to the driver’s side and crawled slowly back into your seat, watching the broken glass from the windshield and careful not to slip onto it. You moved your hand slowly along the side of the seat and on the floor, finally feeling it nestled near the emergency break. You grabbed it and sat back in your seat, a shaky breath escaping your lips. Thank god. Thank god thank god.

You illuminated the screen and felt your stomach drop. It was 9:34 pm and the battery was at 6%. Alright. Time to get moving.

As you walked towards the road you realized how painful it was to move this much. You clenched your jaw and pressed your lips shut as you pushed forward along the side of the dark dirt road, the parts illuminated by your broken headlight were fading. As you felt tears well up in your eyes you looked up at the sky, the moon full overhead, and let yourself cry quietly, your lip quivering.

It was pain, shock, and adrenaline that was making this difficult but it was the same three things that kept pushing you forward.

Your Vans drug along the road loudly, rocks and dirt kicked up behind you as you left a trail of footprints leading away from the car. You wiped some of the blood and tears from your face and felt sounds escape you as you struggled to walk in a straight line and stay on the road in the dark. You heard something rustle in the tree line beside the road and a chill travelled up your spine, you had to keep moving.

After a long hour of blindly walking down the road trying to ignore how stiff your neck was and how much your ribs hurt you felt your phone buzz in your hand and your heart skip a beat. Service. You stopped walking and lifted your phone up, your hands shaking, as you saw the bars appear. Your breathing was rapid and your body started to shake again, you were almost unable to unlock it. 1% battery.

“Fuck” You cried through the line of spit that formed on your lips as your eyes filled with tears again. 

You were losing it. Calm down. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how hard you tried. You opened the phone app and began to dial the only number you could coherently remember, swearing in panic and frustration as your fingers dialed wrong digit after wrong digit. The red glow of the battery in the top corner was mocking you, you felt your mind spiraling. A drop of blood fell from your forehead onto the glass of the screen, you finally got the number correct and hit the green dial button.

You lifted it shakily to your ear and held your breath as you heard it connect, the first ring, the second ring, and then you heard his voice.

“Hey, you’ve reached Rudy’s phone, don’t leave a message unless it’s good news.” Beep.

You stuttered, panic overcoming you as you realized you had wasted the only call your battery would allow on a voicemail. Your broken breath was the only thing coming out. You forced out a sound, which was the start of a hysterical cry, and said his name.

“Rudy” You whispered into your phone, your hope dissolving around you rapidly. “Please- hiccup ­–help me….I, -hiccup- in an accident… my head is-”

You saw the screen darken from your peripherals as the battery died. You pulled it away from your ear and squeezed it so hard your whole arm shook violently as a sob that turned into a scream tore itself out of your throat. You sank to your knees, staring at the black screen, feeling an overwhelming dizziness pass through you. You needed to….you just needed to….rest. You felt your phone slip from your hands as you hit the ground.

 --

 “Miss? Can you hear me?” Someone shook your shoulders gently.

You tried to open your eyes but they were sore, your head was sore, everything was sore. You managed to open one, slowly, daylight blinding you. A shape hovered over you, large.

“Don’t move, alright?” The voice spoke again. You wanted to say something but you couldn’t. You felt arms under your back and legs, and then you were moving. Someone was lifting you. This never ending week kept getting weirder.

“It’s alright, we’re just going to my truck. Can you feel your legs?” You managed to nod your head as your eyes started to open, realizing what was happening.

You tried to speak again, your lips stuck together, the skin peeling apart painfully.

“Where am I” You managed, your voice thick and gravelly.

“It’s alright, I think you were in a bit of an accident.” The man said again, then stopped talking as you heard a door open. He carefully placed you in a seat and backed up a step as you opened your eyes, lifting a hand to your forehead. “Do you remember what happened?” He asked.

You cleared your throat painfully and blinked a few times, pivoting your head slightly to look at him. He was tall, and large…bearded, graying hair. Maybe 60? Your chest rose and fell slowly as you tried to even out your breath. You nodded your head and swallowed.

“I crashed” You said quietly. The man let out a single chuckle and crossed his arms.

“I gathered that much. Found your car down the road. How long you been out here?”

“I don’t know…what time is it?”

“8 am, give or take…pretty nasty bump on your head there. Where on earth were ya going?” He asked, almost amused, but slightly concerned.

“Cellphone…um, the tower.” You looked around, there was a giant satellite radio attached to his dashboard and you noticed he was wearing a beige uniform. “Who are you?”

The man smiled, he had a kind albeit aged and rough looking face.

“Peter” He said nodding at you. “I’m with USDA. I was doing my rounds of the gates when I found you. We’ve had some problems with the hunters leaving them open round here lately. Don’t suppose that’s what you were doing though.” He let out a small grumbling laugh.

“Hmm” You breathed out, trying to laugh, but just making a grunting noise. “Can I use your phone?” You looked at him and waited, your head moving around like your neck had lost all the muscle to support it.

“I radioed the tow company a few minutes ago, but I only got that radio right there on the dash, which I doubt will be too much use to you. I can take you down to the gas station at the railroad check point, they should have a phone you can use.”

You thought for a moment and closed your eyes, starting to feel nausea as your body woke up from the shock and your breathing slowed.

“Actually…would you mind just taking me home? I’m just in a cabin down the road...”

The man watched you carefully, his arms still crossed, his forehead pinched.

“You sure? I think you should probably get that checked out.” He nodded at your head wound. You hadn’t even seen yourself yet. You nodded anyways. “Alright then” He said, closing your door gently and rounding the front of his truck to climb into the driver seat.

As he put the truck in gear you felt yourself drifting off, the darkness washing around you again.

“You alright?” You heard Peter say, but his voice was a thousand miles away.

--

When you woke up, it was to the sound of the truck door opening and mixed voices talking quickly, metal creaking, someone reaching across you to undo your seat belt. You slowly blinked your eyes open and squinted to try and focus, you could see a woman with a blue shirt on, and a man behind her also with a blue shirt on.

“Hey honey” The woman said slowly. “Can you hear me?”

You nodded, groaning as a shot of pain went through your head.

“Alright, easy now. You’re at the hospital, we’re going to help you down onto this stretcher here and then were gonna bring you inside with us and take a look at that bump on your head okay?” You couldn’t really talk or nod or be useful to communicate in any way so you simply tried smiling at her. “Alright good, you’re doing great. Here you come” You felt multiple arms and hands and bodies around you, then you were laying on a stretcher. This was a weird day.

They wheeled you inside, you pinched your eyes closed as the fluorescent lights flashed above you. Your head was so, so sore.

“Y/N? HEY, get off me. I know her, I’m her…wait, stop. Y/N!” The voice shouted. 

Were you dreaming?

“Rudy?” You said in a low hazy voice, trying to open your eyes and move. A heavy hand pressed your shoulder down firmly into the stretcher as you kept moving down the hall.

You didn’t hear the voice again so you knew you had made it up. Your head injury must be worse than you thought.

After a few hours of X-Rays and scans and injections of blessed, sweet pain killers and wheeling from one section of the hospital to the next, they helped you up from the stretcher and bandaged the wound on your forehead. It had been worse than you thought, a large gaping cut that stretched from the middle of your eyebrows and down your cheek, and both your eyes were bruised, small glass cuts littered the skin on your face and neck, arms and hands. Thankfully no internal issues or trauma, nothing really aside from surface damage.

You sat, finally coherent and hydrated and clean, waiting for the discharge nurse. As she came in with the clipboard, she didn’t close the curtain behind her.

“Did you get a hold of my parents?” You asked, your voice tired and gravelly and weak.

“Your brother did, he’s here to pick you up.” She smiled, reviewing your chart.

You looked at her for a moment, expressionless, then cocked your head to the side and began to say that you didn’t have a brother, but the words died in the air when you saw his blonde hair appear from around the curtain.

You felt a shutter rock through you as the oxygen was sucked out of the room, Rudy’s concerned face breaking when he saw you. He moved briskly past the nurse and in one swift motion enclosed you in the most gentle bone crushing hug he was capable of in that moment. Neither of you spoke or moved or did anything but breathed shakily into each other’s necks.

“You’re here” You said without air, unbelieving.

Rudy didn’t answer, he just nodded, unrelenting in his hug. He moved his face out of the crook of your neck and placed his cheek against the side of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair and trembling.

“I’ll give you a moment” The nurse said as she slipped out of the room and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

You felt like you were going to hyperventilate, your chest was rising and falling so rapidly. Rudy pulled back enough to examine your face, his hands cradling the un-bruised parts of your cheeks.

“You’re here. I can’t believe you’re here. How did you know where I was?” Your voice was scarce and your throat constricted painfully.

“Your voicemail” He said quickly, his heart beating rapidly and his hands shaking. “I um…..I started driving as soon as I got it.”

“Yeah but I didn’t say where I was…my phone died.”

“I knew” He shrugged a shoulder as he bit his top lip, a shaky breath exhaling quickly, sounds coming out of his throat that resembled squeaks and groans. “I went to the cabin and when you weren’t there I started driving around, I found your car. I thought you were…” A shiver passed through him. “Y/N, I…was it, it wasn’t…”

You felt a pain deep in your gut at that moment as you understood what he was trying to ask. You could see the fear and the guilt and the anguish clear in his eyes. He thought you had crashed on purpose.

“No, no god no. It wasn’t like that. I swear.”

“Then what were you doing?” His voice cracked, and you felt something shift in your stomach.

“I was…going to the cell tower to call you.” Your voice cracked as you flashed back to the accident and the memory shook through you. “I was gonna call you and apologize. I-”

Rudy pulled you into a deep hug then, you heard a cry hiccup out of him. It broke you to hear the sound. Mixed with the exhaustion and the pain, you felt yourself collapse into him completely. He immediately braced you both and supported you, his hand cradling the back of your head.

“I’m sorry” He said quietly. You shook your head against him, the bandage catching on the fabric of his shirt.

“Can you take me home” You asked in a muted voice. He nodded and pulled away, placing a kiss on the other side of your forehead and grasping your hand, leading you through the curtain and into the waiting room where the nurse stood at the discharge desk, scribbling on the clipboard.

You both signed the forms and thanked her, then Rudy led you out of the hospital and to his black truck that was parked crooked across two spots. He helped you up into the truck and leaned across you to buckle your seat belt, adjusting the strap to not rest too close to your neck, which also had a small bandage from a glass cut.

The hour long drive to the turn off for your cabin was virtually silent, but it was okay. Rudy held your hand the entire time, almost painfully tight, and let you rest, occasionally you would drift off and wake up that much closer. You didn’t have to worry, he knew this drive like the back of his hand too.

When you arrived at the cabin, Rudy put the truck in park and sat quietly for a few seconds before letting your hand go and climbing out to come around and help you down from your seat. He guided you inside, sat you down on the couch and wrapped a blanket around you, picked up your discarded towel from the floor and started a fire. He boiled water for your tea, gave you the handful of Tylenol that the nurse had sent you home with, and grabbed you a change of clothes.

You watched him move around the cabin silently with purpose, his presence deeply comforting. Neither of you spoke, but you felt what he was feeling.

Things were fucked up. His life was in shambles, your life was a mess, and you had unwittingly dragged each other into the middle of all of it. It was like you were standing in the eye of the storm together, chaos ensuing around you, but complete silence was your greatest comfort. It had started to rain outside, the light patter on the roof the only thing reminding you that there was a world outside these four walls. 

Rudy paced around the kitchen, his arm muscles flexing as he moved things around on the shelves and put things away, lighting candles as it got darker from the rain clouds, keeping himself busy, avoiding the conversation neither of you wanted to have.

You weren’t entirely certain what happened in the next moments, or what motivated you to move, or what was driving you forward. Maybe it was the quiet sound of the rain, or the smell of the wet earth outside and the light rush of the creek. Maybe it was the low light outside the cabin windows and the comfort of the single fire roaring in front of you. Maybe it was the knowledge that in this moment, you didn’t care about all the craziness that had gotten you both alone inside this cabin, just being here right now was good enough for you. Maybe it was the concussion.

But you knew tomorrow would come, you knew time would keep going, you knew that moments like these were fleeting. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but you did know that the burning in your gut wouldn’t go away, the way your heart beat faster when you heard his voice wouldn’t subside, the way you were standing up right now with no ability to stop yourself was beyond your control.

Rudy looked over at you from the kitchen, locking eyes with you, his jaw flexing.

You stood still, watching him, and took a step back, closer to the fire. The sensation of the heat on your legs matched that in your chest and heart and eyes. Nothing else mattered in that moment but protecting the cocoon you were creating for each other.

Your fingers drifted to the seam of your shirt, your eyes never leaving his, and you began to pull it up, exposing your stomach, lifting it over your head carefully, minding the wounds. You had nothing on underneath, you hadn’t thought to put a bra on when you had rushed out the door yesterday.

Rudy’s eyes fell from yours down your body and his hand faltered on the kitchen counter, his breathing staggered. When your eyes met again, you could see the hunger reflected in them. You slid your pants down, watching him, and kicked them to the side. Standing there, naked, you felt yourself breathing slowly and deeply, unsure what to do next. 

Without hesitation Rudy lifted his shirt over his head in one swift motion and walked towards you, closing the gap in seconds. He stopped briefly, his muscles tense, watching you fiercely, before his shoulders dropped and he let the breath he had been holding out. He wrapped himself around you then, his mouth gentle but firm on your own, and slowly began to lower you both onto the blanket you had dropped on the floor in front of the fire.

You had thought about this moment a hundred times before, but it was better than you could have had the imagination to concoct. He had laid you down gently on the blanket, careful not to hurt you, and brushed small kisses along your chest and down your abdomen. When he pulled your underwear off you thought you were going to black out, your head was throbbing but you hardly noticed.

He waited for you to catch your breath before going further, and when he was inside you, you felt like the world had stopped on its axis. 

Surely this was it, surely the Earth was dodging sudden death at every turn, flying through a mine field of comets and ambling dangerously close to self-destruction. Surely there was no life outside of this moment, outside of this second. 

You moved against each other, with each other, in and through each other. You followed his lead, unable to bring yourself out of the head space of sheer ecstasy, your hands surveying his body like you had never felt another human before. He had started slowly, gently, but grew hungrier, clearly losing his ability to control himself. 

You felt the pressure building up and squeezed your eyes shut, opening your mouth to grasp at any amount of oxygen you could find. Rudy’s hand came up from your hip to cup your face, his voice anxious when he said your name. You breathlessly encouraged him that you were fine, im fine im fine, until he believed you enough to embrace it. You couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t express enough, couldn’t breathe fast enough, and couldn’t process anything at all.

You felt your eyes roll back, your arms and legs twitch, your back arch. The pressure released and you exploded into a million tiny chaotic pieces, no longer a part of this earthly plane, no longer worried about the planet spinning off its axis, nothing mattered, he kept going. The only thing that pulled you back to the floor of your cabin was the sudden warm wet feeling inside you, the way Rudy’s body pulsed into yours slowly as he finished, and the sound he made before he collapsed on top of you.

____________________________________________

Tag List: @sunshinemadds​ @bluebirdsbluebells​​, @lovelymaybankk​, @poguestyleskye​, @alexa-playafricabytoto​, @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch​, @k-k0129​, @kimyeon-tae​, @ellystone​, @faded-blue​, @thebeautifulbookworm, @heypearce, @jjsthumbring, @poguesrforlife, @timotaychalabae​, @infinityspacesuniverse, @judayyyw, @nelebynele​, @p0gues4l​, @realiteaas, @annedub, @justagirlpostingwhatsheloves​, @rudyypankow​, @thegeekyblondegirlwholovesstars​, @cocoopalace, @toribentleyva, @lennoxcobain, @runway-to-my-aid. @otrbnks, @jjtheangel, @thehomeiknow @lenaandcalliope, @rudths

[saudadeonly]

burn my heart out: last breath calling out (Chapter 3)

Read on ao3. Part 8, consisting of 4 chapters.

Death Eater!Sirius Black AU

Lord Voldemort wages war on Hogwarts but he is unaware of the years-worth of battle fought against him.

(or, several instalments following the Battle of Hogwarts with Sirius Black standing on the wrong side)

Catching up in the middle of battle shouldn't be as much of an art as Marlene and the others have made it to be.

Word count: 2827

___

Marlene is upon Sirius moments after he's stepped back from James and for several seconds everything else fades away. There is no battle to be fought, no wounds to be healed - only them, two friends properly reuniting after years, and Marlene doesn't want to let go. Even the weight of the encounter with the Dementors seems to have eased.

“It's good to see you,” she mumbles into the dip of his collarbone.

He sounds like ash and dust but he gives her a faint smile when they part. “You too.”

When they completely break away from each other, Gideon's wand is pointed at Sirius's chest, his eyes hard. His crooked fingers, one of the remaining marks left from the torture he and Fabian suffered when they were caught by Death Eaters two years ago, are wrapped so tightly around his wand they've turned white. If Marlene didn't know who did it to him before, she’s sure got her confirmation now. Her heartstrings stretch thin between them, between their different shades of grey.

Sirius lifts his hands placatingly but with no sense of urgency. “I know you intend to keep your promise,” he says in a low voice, brows furrowed down over his eyes, “but you'll have your chance if we live to see the morning.”

“Gideon,” Marlene murmurs, reaching out with feather-light fingers against his arm. The pain inflicted on him was, unlike hers, real but its memory won’t lessen if he kills Sirius – not now, not later.

A muscle in Gideon's jaw ticks. A moment passes, then two, before he jabs his wand into Sirius's chest and lets it drop back down to his side. “This isn't over, Black,” he growls.

Sirius's hands, too, fall. His mouth settles into a grim line. “Believe me, I know.”

The edge of danger in the air around them dulls a little. James looks between Gideon and Sirius and then between Sirius and Marlene. He swallows and runs a shaky hand through his hair. It has to be different now, with the shock wearing off, to try and forget that for all Sirius has done to keep them safe, there is still a path between them that he paved with their pain. Marlene has had months to come to terms with it, to go over every horrible, cruel thing he has done and love him despite it; sometimes even because of it, because of how he poured enough blood out of himself to make up for the lack of theirs. James has had neither the insight nor the time to deal with it and probably won't get either for a while. Marlene doesn't know how to help him or Dorcas and Gideon past it.

Dorcas narrows her eyes at Sirius. She's always kept her words about him sharp and then doubly so when he had them all convinced he was a Death Eater but she remains the only one that has been able to fully separate herself from their shared history and treat him as simply one of them – until the night that, as far as she knew, Sirius went for Marlene. Then her vengeance became a single-minded fury, a driving point honed to precision. With anyone else, it would have been admirable; with Sirius, it became the centre-point of Marlene's helplessness. “The ransom was your idea, wasn't it?” Dorcas asks, eyes flitting between Sirius and Gideon, the brilliant mind that Marlene adores working tenfold.

The sum of money offered by Lucretia and Gideon Prewett in exchange for the lives of their nephews was a bolder offer than anyone had tried to make in the decades of war but perhaps the more surprising fact was that Voldemort accepted it. It couldn't have been anyone else other than Sirius that made him see reason in it.

Sirius studies her for a moment, then nods. “You always were the smartest.”

“And yet I couldn’t figure you out.”

“If only that had been my plan.”

“Thank you,” James says suddenly, breaking through the tension that suffocates down over them, “for the Map.” He presses his mouth into a line, fingers twitching by his side, and then opens it again. “Lily and Harry –”

“Don't tell me anything, James,” Sirius cuts in, turning to look at him with a determined line cut between his eyebrows. “The less I know the better.”

He's right. They all know he's right. It doesn't diminish the pain of the fact that he deserves to know as much as all of them do – even if their own knowledge is scarce.

With a grimace, Sirius reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small leather-bound book, pushing it into James's hands. Marlene catches the edge of an antler pressed into the cover and remembers James's last Christmas gift to Sirius. He jerks his chin at the gash running down the length of Gideon's arm and says, “Lestrange came up with some nasty curses. Try the spell on page seven.” He pulls out his own wand and steps toward Marlene.

This time, it's Dorcas who points her wand at him. “Don't touch her.”

“Dorcas,” Marlene says softly before Sirius can ever open his mouth. She meets her eyes, dark and lovely, and sees the question there, a painful one that neither of them wants to have asked or answered. It's been there longer than it should be, probably since Dorcas cursed Sirius all those months ago and Marlene went to pieces over it. “It's alright.”

Dorcas frowns but nods and lets it go. She watches with sharp eyes and a hand in the pocket where she keeps her wand as Sirius taps the wound on Marlene's head and intones the healing.

“I thought we were supposed to have until sundown,” James says absently, staring at the edges of Gideon's wound that slowly stitch themselves together. Marlene's own wound itches as it heals and leaves behind half-dried blood.

Sirius looks up, catching the light from the torches all around, turned on just now after the sun's set. “So did I. He changed his mind.”

Marlene would ask why but the question itself remains in Sirius's voice. The others must sense it too because Gideon frowns down at the book in James's hands and says, “These are the same spells Aunt Lucretia had when she was healing me and Fab.”

“Are they,” Sirius answers without looking up, eyes now trained on his own scraped-up hand as he touches the tip of his wand to it. New skin blooms up across it and it's not until it's fully healed that he looks up at Gideon. Lucretia loved them both, her nephews, Marlene had years to see it. “You think I don't know the limits of my own magic?”

Gideon holds up his hand, waggling the misshapen fingers.

“Some appearances have to be kept.”

“You little –” Gideon starts as he jerks forward but James stops him with a hand on his chest and the sentence dies in his throat. “Fabian,” he continues instead but a booming sound far below, harsh enough to make the floor underneath their feet tremble, all the way down to the foundations, renders him silent again. Sirius sucks in a breath.

They exchange wide-eyed looks. The corridor they're in might be empty of actual Death Eaters but the rest of Hogwarts certainly isn't and they've allowed themselves to forget it. “The common rooms,” Dorcas says, pressing a hand over her collarbone. “Hardly could be anything else.”

Gideon runs a hand through his hair, all anger gone from his face, now white as a sheet. His oldest nephew, Marlene remembers, started at Hogwarts this past September. “Come on.”

They start down the corridor and get all the way to the top of the staircase before a silver streak shoots up before them, materialising into a silver cat. “They are retreating,” McGonagall's voice says, hurried but alive. “We are gathering in the Great Hall.”

When Marlene looks at Sirius, relief is trickling into the corners of his mouth, curving them up softly. He murmurs a quiet, thankful word. In the next moment, he's turned into a large dog that follows them down to the Entrance Hall, silent-footed and with eyes careful on their surroundings.

The Entrance Hall is half-ruined but by no means empty; there is a groaning woman caught beneath a pile of debris and a couple of students huddled over a shaking body. James and Gideon break off towards the woman and Dorcas toward the students, all murmuring their reassurances before they’re even within earshot.

Marlene goes to follow them but Sirius catches his teeth in her sleeve and pulls her into a small alcove behind the wreckage. He shifts back to himself and muffles their conversations to prying ears, then spins some sort of illusion that makes the world outside go all blurry. He rolls up his sleeve and shows her the Mark writhing across his skin, summoning him, demanding his presence by its master's side.

Marlene looks up at him, heart hammering its way into her throat. “You're joking. Sirius, you just attacked some of his most vicious soldiers. If they manage to make it back to him –”

“They won't.”

“But if they do –”

“They won't,” Sirius insists, just as stubborn as Marlene remembers him in this very building, just as infuriatingly confident in his abilities. He shrugs with one shoulder, a little helplessness cutting through the determination on his face. “What else do you expect me to do? Just walk into the Great Hall, full of people whose loved ones I tortured and killed?” At Marlene's wince and her pained expression, he adds, “Just a couple more hours, Mack. It hardly makes a difference.”

Except you might not survive this time.

“Sirius.” Marlene grabs onto his wrist, the digits of her fingers digging into the soft, blue-veined skin there, the proof of a life still bleeding beneath. At the point in her life when she thought she'd die it was him who kept her anchored to life, on his knees against everything that he was supposed to be standing for. It's her turn now. “You've done enough. Let go.”

Sirius shakes off her hand and covers the sides of her face with his warm and calloused hands. He blinks at her, slow and steady, familiar as childhood. He won’t listen and that’s familiar, too. “Don't let the others show the truth, okay? I might have some use yet.”

It's something about the set of his jaw and the rigidness of his shoulders, something about the line his eyes make and the way he doesn't fit. She thinks of the boy he was, raised between cold walls and loving warm despite it, and the man that he's become and the prints of himself he left behind, so harsh he ripped too much of his soul away, so much, too much –

“Sirius –”

But Sirius slips out of her reach and vanishes into the darkness drawn over the courtyard. His goodbye cuts itself into her ribcage.

Marlene steps out of the alcove, skin burning cold. Following him would be foolish at best and suicidal at worst. She tries to remind herself that he's been doing this for years, for longer than she's known about it. The thought is horrible but he's the only one that knows Voldemort well enough to outwit him. There’s nothing else she can do but let him go. She turns away.

In the defiant hum of the Great Hall, she sees the others at the very end of it, where the professors' table has been pushed back to form a sort of protective brace. Dorcas is leant over the dark-haired woman from the Entrance Hall while Gideon is talking to a faint-looking boy. James is off to the side, deep in conversation with Remus, oblivious to the way Remus is frowning at the book in his hands. Fierce relief crashes through Marlene at the sight of him, tawny hair ruffled and skin drained but without a scratch otherwise. He's safe, at least for the time being, which means that Harry and Lily, whom he was meant to accompany to the edge of the Apparition line, are probably okay, too. Now they only have to make it out of Hogwarts unscathed.

Between one blink and the next, a house-elf appears in front of the two of them. It takes Marlene a moment longer than Remus and James, both pulling out their wands, to establish that the house-elf means them no harm, judging by the way James’s face lights up and Remus’s eyebrows knit together in concern. Marlene quickens her step and arrives within earshot several seconds later, just in time to see James's mouth fall open again and hear him, with his voice on a breaking point, say, “My mother had something to do with it?”

“Something to do with what?” Marlene asks when she's close enough. Now that she is, she can see the house-elf, with big brown eyes and soft-looking ears, is none other than Linsy, the one James had to let go when they started moving around for Harry’s safety. She’s wringing her hands and gives Marlene an unsure bow.

Remus's head shoots up at the sound of her voice, the shock still very firmly in place on his face when he explains faintly, “Regulus sending Kreacher to tell Linsy to get Harry and Lily out of Hogwarts apparently.”

“Regulus Black?” she repeats incredulously. It shouldn't make sense, is the thing, but if Sirius got to Marlene in time why wouldn't he have got to his own brother, too? Or maybe – maybe Sirius isn't the one behind it this time and this is all about to go from bad to worse very, very quickly.

“I'm just as lost as you are.”

If they had time, Marlene could probably tell him all the different ways that sentence doesn't exactly track but they don't so she doesn't; besides, it might even be true at this moment.

“You can be lost after you tell Linsy here where Lily and Harry are, Mr Lupin,” McGonagall says as she strides up to them. One of her glasses' lenses is cracked but it does absolutely nothing to ease the severity of her piercing eyes as she measures them out. At the sight of her, Linsy's ears go flat along her head. “Mr Potter,” she continues as she turns to him, with absolutely no regard for the way Remus stares at her, “I believe that book would be better used with people actually doing any sort of healing.”

“Did you not hear the part about Regulus and Kreacher?” Remus asks with more doubt in McGonagall's judgement than Marlene would have dared to openly show.

“I very much did.” McGonagall straightens her glasses. “But I fail to see the importance of it when Linsy is here, completely devoted to saving her family.” She favours Linsy with a short smile that Linsy returns a little shyly.

A strangled sound escapes Remus. “Have you lot lost your mind?” he asks with wide eyes, voice rising a pitch. He points to James. “He asks me where's Sirius like that's something normal to do and you want me to give up life-threatening information to someone sent here by a man apparently risen from the dead after three years who was also a Death Eater the last time we heard of him. What is wrong with you?”

Marlene holds in a wince. Given how seriously Remus lacks any sort of context, the beginning and end of which they cannot afford to outline right now, it isn't strange he must think them all to be under Imperius or worse. But here's what's she's gleaned from his words: Lily and Harry aren't out of the woods yet, they are still somewhere here and in the light of everything, Linsy is probably the safest and quickest way to get them out. Now, Marlene isn't stupid enough to blindly have faith in the good intentions of Regulus Black but she does trust McGonagall.

Marlene points her wand at her. “When you came to visit me in the hospital, what did you make me promise?”

Without a second's hesitation, McGonagall says, “That you would tell no one what Sirius did.”

Marlene could have used a better memory for it but in the wake of recent events, it was the first one that resurfaced. She turns to Remus, willing him to understand by the sheer determination she puts in her words. “Remus, listen –”

The voice that cuts over her makes the entirety of the Great Hall flinch and turn around in search of it. “We have Harry Potter,” it says, the high, raspy pitch of it unmistakably Voldemort's. It surrounds them, getting their hearts into an ice-cold grip, no source to it, only bone-deep dread. “Those of you who wish to come kneel before me and accept my triumph will be received graciously. Those who still plan to oppose me will die where you stand.”

[zrtranscripts]

Home Front, Mission 8: Peter’s Fitness Montage

Fitness, not fighting

~

PETER LYNNE: Hello, listeners. It's me again, poor old Peter, still stuck in a projection box at the Princess Louise Theater. And since you last heard from me, I have faced my greatest survival challenge yet. Oh um, speaking of, you're going to be facing a few challenges yourself soon, courtesy of yours truly. So um, why don't you start warming up now? A few stretches, running on the spot, whatever gets your juices flowing, as the bishop said to the personal trainer.

Um, yes. Anyway um, in case you've forgotten, the auditorium here is absolutely packed with zombies, but keeping a movie on the screen distracts them. So there I was, looking through the cinemas digital archives for something nice and long, and I found a playlist of every single Rocky movie for a Sly Stallone fan marathon. Except the playlist got stuck and I've been watching Rocky movies on a loop for eight days straight, listeners. I've managed to stop the playlist around the tenth run-through of Rocky III.

I fear I might have gone a bit peculiar. I spent the whole morning on comms to Janine waxing lyrical about Mr. T, but - but it has given me a great idea for a workout, and you'll never guess. It is boxing. Plenty of fisticuff-related entries on my list of Ministry exercises. First, though, a song that'll help you with your warm-up. I'm going to put on some music you can dance around to and really get your blood pumping, and if I am very lucky, maybe I'll finally get “Eye of the Tiger” out of my head.

~

PETER LYNNE: Welcome back, friends. Now I know we're all quite tired of being stuck indoors. Oh yes, although uh, Runner Five, if you're listening, I gather you've had a change of location recently. Locked down in a camping shop, Sam said. Could be worse. [laughs] I mean, you could be me. But let me tell you, my cinematic ordeal has given me the perfect lens for viewing this lockdown. See, we need to not think of it as being trapped, oh no. We can think of this as one extended indoor fitness montage. We are just in that part of the movie where we have to hunker down, crank the volume, and get our pulses racing!

So let's keep our warm-up going with some more push-ups, because if they worked for Rocky, they're gonna work for us. [paper rustles] Right, here is our official technique courtesy of Ministry guidelines. First, I want you to get down on all fours with your arms just over shoulder-width apart, then straighten out your body, supporting yourself on your hands and also your toes. Now lower yourself to the floor and push yourself back up again. Now if that feels too difficult, that's fine. Don't be afraid to support yourself on your knees and lower legs instead of your tiptoes. We are going to try one whole minute of push-ups or as many as you can manage. And go!

Excellent. Don't get carried away. Tortoise and the hare, all of that. 15 seconds down. Don't rush. Take your time with each push-up. That's beautiful. Exactly what we want, I assume. Halfway there. Feel the burn, as the old cliche goes. Never quite understood what that was supposed to mean. Uh, 15 seconds left. Oh, you can taste the finish line now! And five, four, three, two, one, and rest. Done.

All right, well, you should be all warmed up. I'm actually going to do a few push-ups myself in the next music break and you know, feel free to rest or you can keep going along with me. Frankly, I'm finding this music by going through movie credits and I want to be distracted when Cats III comes up next. So stay put, everyone. Your pal Peter will be back after this.

~

PETER LYNNE: Well, my friends, I have a shameful confession. I'm actually starting to miss the Rocky movies. Even the really bad ones, which is something of a tautology, but it just goes to show a person can get used to anything. I mean, Janine told me to emphasize our goal today is fitness, not fighting. Abel runners always do their damnedest to avoid conflict, and rightly so. If you do end up in a scrap, you need to be able to dodge as well as hit, so before we get to the hitting, you are going to practice a move called the side-to-side hop. Not a classic dance move, but it'll help you hone your evasive reflexes.

So to do this, we start by balancing on one foot with your knees and your arms bent. Then you hop to the side like you're jumping over an imaginary line that's between your legs, landing on the ball of the opposite foot. So try that for me. And absolutely fair, if you've got any knee problems or if that's painful, you can just do a grapevine or sidestep instead, totally fine. Okay, now we just keep hopping back and forth across that line, but as fast as you can. See if you can keep that up for a solid 45 seconds. I promise you will find that deceptively challenging.

And we are going to start now. There we go, but don't get carried away. You've set yourself a high bar. 15 seconds down, 30 left to go. Probably starting to feel what I meant now. 30 seconds down. You can pretend that you're dodging punches or - or lunging zombies. There's - there's one on the left. There's one right. Duck, duck, move! And five, four, three, two, one, and stop hopping.

Brilliant work! Right, so that's got our fancy footwork in the bag, and that means we can [metallic bang] Um... Did you... did you hear that? Uh, well no. No, you didn't. And well, of course, no, me neither. Um... It's gone. That's... Okay. I'm going to put some music on so that we can all pretend that that just didn't happen. Uh, you all take a break and relax or um, you know, bust out your best dance moves. Oh, but uh, seriously though, uh, don't overdo it. Because when we get back, it's going to be time to, uh, really get the workout going. Okay? All right.

~

PETER LYNNE: Okay. Well, that's quite enough of that one. Yeah, that - that song always reminds me of a bad breakup. I can't actually remember which. [metallic bang] It's back, and that was - that was definitely louder that time. See, um, I've been hearing some not really great things in this booth, listeners. Sort of... shuffling from behind the walls. You know, I think... something might be crawling around in the, uh, ventilation system. But uh, I mean... I mean, there's definitely not going to be enough room in the ducts for-for zombie. That would be... I mean, unless it was just a half of a zom. Oh God, what if it was just like that? Just like the front half, just like some sort of fleshy gingerbread man just like rolling itself down there, looking for a way out?

Um... yes. Okay, I'm, I am quite scared, actually. Uh, there's nowhere to run in this booth, but we still have exercises like this, which I find are a fantastic distraction. You see, I can immediately pretend that I am a seven foot tall beefcake training to take on whatever that is. Good God, that sounds pathetic when I say it out loud.

Okay, we're gonna have to move on. Um, punches, ladies and gentlemen. [paper rustles] First, you're going to need to adopt a Ministry-approved fighting stance. Hold your fists up in front of you. You have to have your dominant hand held back, and that's protecting your face, and the other hand is extended in order to attack. So plant your feet diagonally, shoulder-width apart, with your knees just slightly bent. Your dominant foot goes to the back. Right, we're going to start with the basic jab. You punch out with your lead hand, rotating your arm so your knuckles end up facing up and your shoulder moves forward. So we're going to do one minute of jabs. If you'd like some variety, feel free to alternate your stance from time to time and then you end up leading with the other arm.

Ready, set, go! There we are, perfect! More aggression, get the anger out. 15 seconds down. You can try imagining a bullseye. Aim right for the center of the target. You could even imagine an actual bull's eye and aim right for the middle of its face. Great. Halfway down, just keep on beating that bull in the face. I don't know what it did to you. I like to imagine that it's taunting me. I don't know what sort of names it's come up with, but they were hurtful and I think it mentioned my mother. 15 seconds left. We're so near the end now, we're gonna get that bull. I'm gonna move away from the bull. You can imagine whatever you like. Jab! Jab! Five, four, three, two, and we're done.

Good, very good. It's important, though, with zoms of course, punching has to be your last resort. But in the meantime, as a way to get your frustrations out, it's not a bad go-to, eh? I'm gonna do a bit more of it myself in this next break and uh, if you guys want to keep jabbing alongside me, well, all things considered, wouldn't really mind the company.

~

PETER LYNNE: Right there, kiddos, time to get comfortable. Here's a genuine piece of advice. Now like I said, punching zombies has to be your last resort. I have seen more than a few tough morons get infected themselves from undead blood in their knuckles. All men, by the way. Shock, horror, I know. So if you do ever find yourself boxing a gray, remember, if you don't have gloves - and that's what you want - at least wrap your hands in cloth or gauze. Your aim is only to knock them down or away so that you can run.

So to that end, we are now going to try some punches with a bit more juice behind them than the jab. These are our hooks and uppercuts. So back in your boxing stance, one arm back, one arm forward. So the uppercut, you keep your feet grounded, bend your knees and rotate your body with the direction of your lead arm. So you're pushing off of your lead calf and punching upwards with the lead arm, releasing your rear heel and feel that rotate outwards as you go. So try that all together. It should feel like you've got the power coming through in that punch. Great, okay.

So now the hook. Back to the stance. Now you shift your weight to your lead foot whilst swinging your lead fist in an inward horizontal arc and moving your shoulder forwards. So try that. You can imagine just knocking a zombie's head off with this one, right off of his shoulders. Great, okay. Now we are going to try a full minute of mixed jabs, hooks, and uppercuts. Dealer's choice, so go wild, switch them up, swap stances occasionally. Get ready, and go!

Excellent, we're off to a flying start. Look at you, you scrappy little thing. 15 seconds down. Imagine you're fighting a big scary zombie version of Ivan Drago. You know, that's the um, the-the villain from-from Rocky IV. Why am I telling you? You know this. Keep going. Yes, lay into him! One, two. More! Halfway there. You've got him on the ropes. And of course, he's gonna get stronger and come back at you, and it'll look like you're down. but you're not down, you're back up! And it's 15 seconds. He's now almost down! Yes, you've got the upper hand now. Finish it off! Five, four, three, two... Oh, and it's a knockout! Surely not! They've won the belt and the title! Oh, good job, people.

Yes. Now I might have gotten a bit carried... [metallic bang] Okay, that one was... that was loud. See, there's um... so there's this air vent right by the projector and I can see a shadow moving under the grill. See, the reason I worry is that there's a, uh, there's this broken open vent in the toilet and so if that thing comes through that whilst I'm sleeping... Okay. Listen up, people. I am going to go and confront the monster. Fear not for old Peter. I am not totally unarmed. I have this mop. Perfect. I'm going to put on some music first. You can rest or... you know what? Actually, throw a few more punches in the break if you feel up to it. Can't hurt to know you champs are fighting alongside me, eh? [laughs] Okay, on three then, I suppose. One, two, three, and off we go!

~

PETER LYNNE: Well um, hello again, everyone. So that one did not turn out exactly as I expected. Turns out wasn't a zombie at all. That was actually just a scrawny little fox, and it must have come in through the window, sniffing after... I mean, I guess rotting flesh? I don't know why it would want that. But got itself lost and just came shooting out like a bullet when I opened the vent in here. It's just, uh, it's actually just sitting in the corner now. It looks friendly enough. [fox screeches] Maybe not. Right. Okay. That's your side of the room now. Completely understood. I've probably got some food around here somewhere, actually.

Tell you what. Um, I actually do need to thank you, listeners. Might sound silly, but without you, I actually might not have worked up the courage to open the vent. That would have meant this little fellow would have starved to death instead of coming out to occupy half of my room. Hey, hello. Yes, that's you. Catch this. Here we go. [laughs] Somebody's a fan of old, old cinema hot dogs. That makes two of us. Please don't tell anyone.

All right, listeners, I'm going to go and find more scraps to feed to my new roommate here, and it really is sometimes better to make friends than fight, especially when your rival's got those big teeth. Don't worry, I'll be back very soon. And in the meantime, stay safe out there, champs. You know, I'll be rooting for you. Oh, and uh, if anyone knows how to um, delete a movie playlist, could you try and get in touch somehow? Honestly, it is amazing the things you miss when they're gone.

~

[nosferatyou]

If I Can Be So Bold: Chapter 3 (Jack White x OC)

Summary: We jump three months to December of 1998. some smut ensues. some writing happens. some angst happens as well.

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: SMUT. so much smut. Nothing too wild but still if you are under the age of 18 respectfully turn away from this fic, but when youre of age go buck wild. And i guess there is cursing too.

Notes: Sorry for the time jump pals, but im too restless to get to the main part of this fic. ngl this is basically just a precursor to what i want for this, just gotta get past 1998. (I’m also obsessed with this fucking gif I made. He just really gets weirdly sexual during black math)

Jack trails his fingertips up my thighs and firmly grasped my hips, flipping the both of us around, now finding my body beneath his. He kissed me with a heated moan, making me want to meet my hips to his. Unsurprisingly he has me panting against him. 

“Mmm shouldn’t we be writing right now?” 

“Come on, Rosie. These sounds you’re making are music to my ears already,” He bent down and pecked my lips. “Why waste that hm?”

My cheeks burned bright red, that brought a smile to his face. 

“That’s what I thought. See Rosie is such a fitting name for you, baby.”

“Oh shut up, Ja-”

My sentence was cut short by a gasp when jack floated down my body to my chest, grasping one of my breasts in his hand and guides my nipple past his teeth. 

“Let’s taste something sweeter.” He breathes out.

A slow, piling drip of honey from a decorative spoon, My mouth is practically salivating in the forecast.

Gliding his fingertips down my chest and stomach, he paused over my mound. His eyes were drilling into me with the same intensity at their first show. All the while, he very slowly began to add steady pressure to the same spot with the heel of his hand. 

My hips began to squirm at the swell of tension growing in me, I rolled my head back and squeezed my eyes shut, taking a deep breath of air and space from the prolonged eye contact, even though he’s making you feel every pleasure, I still feel like I have to focus and concentrate on the sensation in order to make it flourish. 

But Jack being Jack, he doesn’t like that one bit. Jack needs my regard. My presence. It’s a two-person song, and he wants to hear every note. Even if I’m receiving, he requires constant attention and praise in order to do his best. Not that I minded. He clicked his tongue once to regain my focus. Naturally, his lips pulled into a lopsided smirk when I obeyed without question. 

“Good Girl. Hi”

Sweat is starting to collect over my exposed chest.

“Bad Boy. Hey.” 

“Ooh, Shes feeling witty today.” He said with that same smirk.

His hand started to rub small circles in a way that made me flutter all over. He paid very close attention to my breath, the sweat, every slight twitch of my face. He wanted to make sure he was doing his best.

“Feel good, sweet girl?” 

“Absolutely perfect. But jack, please.” 

I was on my edge. We had been playing this game for too long, all the teasing. That isn’t new either. He always keeps me on edge. He lives for the chase.

After hearing whine in my voice, his hand slowed, “What was that, Sweet Girl? What’d you want?”

He knew how much I hated this. Begging. That only spurred him on more.

“Fuck, Jack. Don’t make me say it.” 

“You’re only prolonging the inevitable, sweetheart.”

“Fuck you,” I huffed, my legs unintentionally twisting together absentmindedly, to get any pressure I could. He swiftly moved them apart, still keeping eye contact. 

“Fineee. Please just fucking touch me. Make me cum. Touch me, Jack.”

He smiles darkly, “Now was that so hard?”

He cupped my center pressed the pad of his middle finger against my entrance, teasing me 

more. 

“Take it off.” He said simply, moving his body away.

I quickly shimmied my underwear down my legs. Jack’s gaze set on the fabric, falling down my legs. He could easily do it himself. He wants to but watching me feel that humility is more of a turn-on than he lets on. 

He untangles the garment from my feet, quickly throwing them to the bedroom floor below. 

He, again, guides my legs apart and gazes down at my center. My ears perked at his small, drawn-out curse. Which never happens.

“Fucking hell.” His mouth attached to the edge of my inner thigh to suck a dark hickey into the sensitive skin. He peels his head back, delirious with hunger.

“Can I taste something sweeter?” His face was hovering so close. 

I was so intoxicated with his proximity. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “Jesus Christ. Do anything for all I care, just don’t stop.”

He licked his lips before going in to leave a single, open-mouthed kiss upon my heat, groaning desperately at the taste before doing it again. Though smaller. Right on my tender bundle of nerves. My legs snapped shut, squeezing around his head.

My giggles were quickly muffled by my palms when he gripped my knees and pried them apart.

“Sorry! That tickled!”

He was unamused, “Trying to crush me, R?”

“I’ll try harder. Keep going. I promise I’ll behave,” My hand found itself on his scalp, tanging my fingers in his dark hair. “Maybe I’ll need more supervision?”

He got a cocky look on his face with a kind of charmed fascination, pressing his thumb against my clit, adding more and more tension until my legs flinched. I huffed out a single breath before he slides his way back up to me, dragging his nose along my jawline, giving me a small drawn-out kiss. 

“You’re a god damn tease, jack.” I breathed out.

“And you’re a fucking brat.”He spoke against my neck.

I  chased him for another heavy kiss, but he leaned back, angling my hips towards him. He dipped his middle finger back and forth against me, over and over and over. Bottom to stop, spreading my excitement through my folds, his eyes heavily focused on my face. Everything felt so intense that I swore I could make out letters, but how could that possibly be.

When I thought he was going left, he went right, maneuvering me in a different way—continually keeping me on my toes. Each confident stride of his fingertips has my legs jerking beside his hips, and each jerk of my knees has that god damn smirk grow wider and wider. He knew the effect on me and knew my body well enough that a few seconds time that I’ll meet my end and be so far gone for him that ill never want to leave that god damn bed. 

I rocked my hips against his palm, and he hisses at my advance, circling my excitement around my clit before moving the tip of his finger in my entrance, pausing “So wet for me, Sweet girl.”

I started to fuss and whine when he removed his hand, and he was so close to going further. A soft hush pushing past his lips when he hovered those same fingers at my lips. I thoughtlessly obeyed on command, sucking his digits, whimpering at the taste. But as soon as it started, he’s taken it away to savor it for himself. His tongue swirled around his fingers before plunging in his mouth. 

He drew a line down my chest, straight over my stomach, and back to my core, holding his wet fingertips against my entrance, murmuring praise, “As sweet as could be, Rosie.”

Against my ear.

Everything inside me was vibrating, and in the lull drum of my lust, I can make out the small blip of keen awareness for his pace, but I was so on edge and ready I could not feasibly make it out into words.

So I took it upon myself to slowly roll my hips forward to sink his middle finger steadily in. Both of my jaws gaping at the filling sensation at the brass movement. Jack pressed his thumb against my bud and quietly moaned out, “Jesus, Sweet Thing.” I moaned with him in the same breath. My head falling back to expose a strip of my skin across my neck.

My hips joined in a cadence of his fingers, after a few lazy strokes, his mouth bounced between sucking on my tits and sucking on my tongue, leaving wet, open-mouthed, kisses on my neck. Instinct guided me as I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling the bump of his thickness poking my thigh, wishing I could return the favor to him, but the sensation in me is too much to stop. He gets more and more intense every few thrusts as he works to match my feverous pace and stir the commotion in me, never ceasing to move his teeth across my neck. 

 A gasp filled my lungs as he moved my wrists in his large palm and above me on the bed. My ribcage popped as I attempted to suck in a full breath. Tingles and sparks spread from my groin to my limbs.

“Jack I’m- I’m gonna cum” 

In response, he let out an exasperated moan withering out when his pace falters. He hunched forward and ruts against me, a soft mewl escaping my throat at the action. My back arched, and I moan a little louder again, growing even closer. 

“Let me make you feel good, sweet girl.”

His voice drops only meant for my ears. He’s dragging on my orgasm with each curl of his tongue, his mouth brushing mine as he whispered dirty things to me, not stopping until I came undone. “Like the way I fuck you with my fingers, sweet thing? Bet you wish it were something else. Go on, let yourself go. I’ve got you.”

I sighed into our mouths as that feeling set into my stomach. “Jack..”

He let out a small moan and exhaled, the veins in his neck popping, his brow furrowed in concentration. He drawled out, “That’s it. Mm good girl, let go.” 

Explosions. White light. Stars. Glass and glitter crawled down my legs and into my toes. I practically turned to mush. I felt my nails pressing hard in Jack’s back. I couldn’t seem to let go. Still working through the waves. All before it started to lessen, and I remembered where I was, I could still feel his fingers in me, and his other hand was covering my mouth. His lips pressed against his knuckles. That fucking smirk crawling back to his face. 

“Bet you couldn’t go a day without doing that damn smirk,” I said, now laid back on the headboard, pulling my blanket over my body. 

“Well, I can’t help it, Rosie. It’s just so fun to watch you come undone for me.” He leaned back with me, slipping his right arm around me. I instinctively leaned into his touch. 

“Ah, fuck off and grab that lighter will you?”

He leaned over and grabbed it off the nightstand. I reached over to grab his pack of cigs. 

After times like this, we always shared a cig (from his pack) and the rare intimate moment. I leaned in his arms in silence. And minutes later, we bounce back like nothing ever happened. It’s not like we didn’t pretend it didn’t happen; we just had more to do. Jack would usually come over, and we’d write. He’d write for him and meg, or whatever group hed just joined. I just wrote for myself.

Though most of the time, we just played our acoustics together, fighting over who gets to use the slide.

 It’s impressive how fast we can go from Fucking to friends in under two minutes, it used to make my head spin, but now its the norm. I can’t complain too much, but it couldn’t hurt to get more of an embrace out of him when we finish. 

It’s been three months since that night since we kissed in the back alley at Zoots. Me and the girls have made some headway here too. The local scene very graciously accepted us into it, and our shows have grown bigger and bigger. We’re gunning to play at the gold dollar, but they are weird about new people. All of Cass Corridor is like that, though, but we will make our space in no time. 

Though I’ve genuinely fallen in love with it in our short time, it’s such a tight-knit community, for the most part. All the buildings are filled with such a rich history. It just reminds me of downtown Nash, a home away from home. 

Jack, Meg, and little Ben have made it their mission to show us around the area and its best parts. Just all the small places you’d never to think to look at in Detroit. Though they always bring us back to The Blind Pig and The Magic Bag. We even caught a Nirvana set back in October, the girls still talk about that, and that was two months ago.

Nowadays, with the shitty weather, we just go between our two places. We are either at a White Stripes practice at the White residence, or they watch one of ours here. We practically spend every day together, and I could not be happier. Jack even fixed up our old couch that was ratty and had a broken leg. He came in his cute little black and yellow uniform, ben sporting the same one. Both of them being the most precious upholsterers you’d ever seen. 

They’ve now claimed it as their own whenever they’re here. They get weirdly territorial about it. 

But when its just jack, we coop up in my room with any instrument we can get our hands-on. Well, it starts off that way. We get overzealous, bored, guitar-focused, and finally crowd the bed with whatever we arent using and camp out on the floor. Paper everywhere, pencils behind the ear, and 3 am coffee. Many all-nighters are pulled just writing or listening to records, trying to find any ounce of inspiration in us. It’s almost romantic, with the warm light from the only lamp in the room, stuck on my desk. The way too close contact and held stares. The constant love songs.

 It’s all we can write nowadays, and it’s not all mushy. I mean a good 90% are a bit more bitter than the average person would like, his are always mushier than mine. However, Jack has been working on this slide piece. He’s been very secretive about it, or as much as you can be in the same room. He mumbles the words under his breath, but I always catch the words “Well,” Love,” and “Hide.” I’m not quite sure what it’s about. 

“Rosie, what do you think of this?” He asked me, crouched over a guitar in his regular spot, leaning against the bed frame, papers splayed across the floor. 

He strummed out some basic chords and softly sang. 

“Until her eyes crossed over

Until her mind crossed over

Her soul fell over me, yeah”

“Change the last line, keep that “Until” in it.” I stared off, trying to think of a line to help. I grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled something down and slid it over to him. “Try, Until her soul fell next to me.” 

He quickly went through the verse and flashed a smile when he liked that line better for it. 

“You know we really should write together, Ro. We always do our separate thing, but I think we could make some cool stuff.” 

“It’ll be so obvious that there are two different writers. We have such combating tones.” 

“Well, that makes it even cooler then. Our own stamps!” He moved all of our scribbles to a pile on the desk and scooted over to me. “I already have the first verse. See already off to a great start!” He grabbed a fresh piece of paper, swiped the pencil from behind his ear, and jotted it down, reading aloud as he wrote. “

 I want to grab a stranger's hand and

Hold it as tightly as I can and

I will tell by their reaction if

They're like me or if I am crazy

“Guess were pulling another all-nighter then?”

“It seems we are,” He said with his classic goofy smile.

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

The girls and I were all squished into our small kitchen table, eating whatever we made for breakfast. Jack was long gone, and since he left, Harriet has seemed off. She kept looking at me, making this weird ass face.

“Out with it, Harriet.” I spoke, not looking up from my cereal 

“Alright. Listen, Lee. I’m just worried about this whole thing with you and Jack. I mean, with your last relationship, you can’t be too careful.” She said with such casualty you wouldn’t have suspected that she knew about jack and I’s thing. 

 My head shot up, “Harriet, we aren’t dating, and you know that. We just make music.” 

She gave the world’s biggest eye-roll at that.

“Lee, we all damn know what you guys do behind closed doors. Thin walls, Lee. Thin. Walls.” Her tone was starting to grow annoyed, but her body language was rigid, and her eyes were throwing knives at me.

“Jesus, Harriet. There is a big difference between fucking and love.” It was startling how fast this riled me up. I was practically jumping out of my chair.

“Is there? Last time you were “Just fucking” consistently with someone, he practically kept you hostage.” John. I thought we banned talking about him in this house? Either way, this was a low fucking blow.

“Jack is nothing fucking like john, and you know it.” My mood had changed so fast it scared me. 

“Just really think about the repercussions of this, Lee, if this gets as messy as last time I’m not going to pick up the god damn pieces. Besides, I can’t watch your heart get broken again.” Her shoulders fell. So did her eyes like shed given up. 

As soon as it started, it was done. The others had slipped out at some point, and Harriet left after she made her two cents. So I sat dumbfounded at the table, trying to figure out where the hell that came from.

[juleswolverton-hyde]

The Words upon the Window Pane | Chanyeol

Genre: Smut, Angst (only a wee bit), PwP

Pairing: Auhor!Chanyeol x Reader

Warnings: Top!/Dom!Chanyeol, fingering, unprotected wall sex (ALWAYS do it safely, lads and lasses!), subtle dom/sub themes, swearing/cussing, dirty talk, love bites  

Summary: The relation between Logic and Passion is often difficult for artists and certainly so when the involved parties dabble in words. Because language has the power to conceal the truth, to say what otherwise might not be said.

The words upon the window pane.

However, one night, a mouth is brave enough to at last utter them.

And to bring about unexpected consequences.

Author’s Note: The title is derived from the play of the same name by W.B. Yeats, who is, as you may or may not know, one of my favourite poets and greatest inspirations as of late. Furthermore, this is the first EXO smut piece to be written by this wee birdy, which hopefully shall not disappoint more experienced EXO-Ls.

All in all, I hope you enjoy the work of a feather.

Making a living as an author is not easy, especially when starting out and having only a single book to one’s name. However, Voice is not merely a literary tool to use in order to be heard, since it can also realistically become audible when speaking. All in all, it remains a fluent phenomenon and so it is of great benefit to storytellers to have mastery over it. To provide experiences that ignite vivid imagery thanks to simply creating an ambience with sound when not craftily doing the same on the page. Such is the talent of the author rapidly grown popular online due to a deep voice and funny personality, thousands of women drooling over the tailored experiences provided to them on multiple platforms.

But none of them has ever gotten the real deal, their sensual emotions remaining one-sided whereas those of a newbie novelist are answered.

Sometimes.

The relationship started after the romance department of the same publishing house contracting the famous erotic writer took a bold chance by offering a contract to an unknown name having just completed a manuscript about an innocent coffee shop romance. During the meeting with the assigned editor, icy pale locks wandered into the modern cafeteria and toward the table where a conversation about the next steps towards actual publishing took place, sitting down wordlessly and merely observing. Withal, basalt irises blatantly ignored rapidly flushing rosy cheeks on the adjacent seat, focused intently on the ones across the table that tried to maintain a steady composure.

Yet it crumbled bit by bit as genuine interest was shown during a spontaneous proposal to drink coffee together sometime after the editor held a brief round of introductions at the end of the important chat, which had gained an unintentional third participant. Piece by stiff piece got chipped away over warm beverages thereafter, talking about upcoming manuscripts and the professional giving a newbie a couple of tips to not stumble and, perhaps, fall without hopes of getting up.

And were entirely smoothed out among the sheets after the daring kiss when goodbye came on the first proper dinner date, Chanyeol leaning in without hesitance to rapidly turn a chaste caress of the cheek into sin once having been escorted safely to the front door of one’s own roof.

To make a heart fall for one which is unbound, according to the rumours spoken by the female tongues which all supposedly possess a sensual experience of sorts concerning the novelist. Notwithstanding, one can talk but not say anything, let alone the truth. Withal, the gossip has expanded while being in a strange type of relationship, always being the first to propose something to do and bleached smooth strands simply agreeing if the busy schedule allows it, of course. Spontaneous proposals for a movie night or trying out a new café are one-sided, the first time drinking coffee together being the sole occasion on which it came from the distant beloved. However, during the opportunities to be together, it never fails to feel genuine.

Sincere in spite of the mouths believing it is merely about sex, warning to get out now before it is too late.

The logical ship has left the safe haven. 

It is too late.

Regardless of bravely sailing in an individual sea, the doubt can never be kept at bay since it lurks as a kraken in the darker waters coming up on the journey every now and again. After all, the fans of the deep voice catering supposedly “exclusive” experiences for them would loathe the fact their imaginary lover actually has a girlfriend. Moreover, the serpents roaming the office keep telling tales that steadily grow arms and legs, each limb stemming from the period in which minds were apart.

Those spans of time increase in frequency.

Lunch grows lonelier.

Days are spent in isolation.

Reassuring words do not hold significance on the floor of the publishing house nor on those of one of our apartments on a lucky night.

No acknowledgement.

All there is, is vagueness.

Just something. 

Something.

Undefinable.

Certainly not pretty or comforting.

Empty. Yes, that is the best way to describe it.

Hollow, lonely, one-sided.

Unrequited.

And it takes away the hunger at the dinner table beneath the luxurious roof, the expensive wine and home-cooked meal using high-quality ingredients holding as much inherent value as a shilling in the gutter. So the fork is put down, the bite laboriously swallowed and focus averted from the porcelain plate presenting little yet seeming too stacked.

‘Baby, are you alright?’ Head cocked to the side in wonder, Chanyeol stops mid-bite, sensing something is off.

Something.

Always something is off. 

Right now, it finds a voice in a lowly muttered remark as disappointed fingers shove the still full plate and cutlery away as far as possible. The stomach can live with the stone in it, like the heart slowly freezing itself thanks to the vicious tales of betrayal can continue to exist in ice. After all, even this week’s audio consisting of ‘’sexy’’ unboxing ramblings and testing out toys sent by mistresses somewhere else is but a mere drop in the overflowing bucket. ‘I’m not hungry.’

The limit has been reached.

End of the line.

Of this.

Us.

If there even ever has been a happy chronicling couple.

‘You’ve barely eaten.’ The unsuspecting fork picks up a perfectly grilled asparagus, endeavouring the feed a soul starved of happiness. A perfectly useless attempt at making things right for the culprit knows very well what goes on behind the scenes that are enacted every time at the workplace, the little faked though credible moments of two youngsters being solely friends but perhaps a bit more. No one knows for sure, but they do assume. Gossip has a way of being heard, even when feigning to ignore it in favour of personal fantasies. ‘At least have a few more vegetables.’

‘Did it...’ A wry smile carves itself on a face which is on the edge of tears, remembering every word said at the collective coffee machine in the cafeteria alongside the lovesick comments on every digital upload and equally sensual reaction to a novel novel. How can the detailed storyteller not notice the burning water droplets searing their way to the lash line? 

Begging. 

Begging to fall.

To be noticed.

Because they have had to hide so bloody long in loneliness.

Denied.

A significant detail.

‘Did it mean anything?’ God forbid that the words spilt between the sheets, on dates and in secrecy in the coffee corner did not hold any meaning. Withal, knowing how writers are for the craft is part of one’s own personality, there are no better tricksters. Words can be made pretty, cunningly serving to conceal the ugly truth. 

‘What? Did what mean anything? Babe, what are you on about?’ The uncomprehending gravely worried furrowed brows relax, raven irises softening as they discover the tale of the Ice Queen’s heart and damnably igniting the thawing process. Looks can kill, as is the word on the street, and the big pale wolf knows it judging by the gentle smile only reserved for his foolish mistress. ‘You’ve been listening to gossip again. Look, I’ll say it again and I still mean it. I love you, Y/N. Only you. You ought to know that by now.’

The supposedly well-meaning palm resting between the abandoned dishes is not lovingly covered, digits remaining apart instead of entwining in blissful union. Instead, the chair is pushed back as the napkin that formerly rested on the lap is viciously thrown onto the table surface. Voice is barely controlled, dangerously close to cracking yet forced to maintain steady fury. ‘Don’t fucking lie to me! I know this means nothing.’

‘Means nothing? This means nothing?’ The actions are fiercely mimicked, the pleading tone in speech overruling the fabricated calm demeanour. ‘It does, babe. It really does.’

‘Yeah, right. As if you haven’t said that to one of those horny dolls who gladly listen to their fantasy boyfriend or read about all the wonderful things you’d do to them. What did you call them again? Your honeys?’ There is no stopping the jeering guided by the incomparable ache rendering every nerve paralyzed, an alternative ego who feels betrayed rising with every second of the outburst. 

In the end, she, too, is one of many.

I am nothing. 

‘Babe, please-’ Agonizingly following footsteps attempt to reason, begging to stay for a proper vis-á-vis to resolve this “problem” while making their way to the hallway. 

Evidently without success. ‘Oh, piss off. I’m sure you had others in the time I was gone.’ The searing tears on lashes in the wee hall finally stream down the cheeks, lost in bittersweet memories of a time ruled by naivety. When every touch was so certain of love, felt protective and was believed to be sincere. 

Notwithstanding, that was then. 

This is now. 

‘It really meant something to me, you know? I fucking gave myself to you because I stupidly trusted you, Chan! You were my first.’ A shake of the head brings about enough steadiness to remain coherent in speech, to at least keep a total breakdown at bay a little longer. The battle is almost won, a little bit more perseverance needs to be put in before all might become actually well. ‘But I could’ve, no, should’ve known better. So fuck off and leave me alone.’

Just as a hand reaches towards the knob of the front door, a firm palm wraps painfully around the left wrist. Once that power was loved, but now it is just that: hurt. 

And it wants… needs to be left behind.

To make it pay for the solitude.

The agony needs to face the consequences.

‘No.’

The pain in the shape of the man who was believed to make up the world.

Stupid.

We both only have our stories to speak honestly in because they are the sole place where it is possible to be true. 

Funny how a broken heart ignites a sense of creativity to exploit and there is a sudden haste to make use of it. Or so the mind wants this to be the reason behind the futile struggle for freedom for the real reason is the simple need to get away before breaking the character of the hard-headed sneering Ice Queen and leave oneself in fragments on the battlefield. ‘Let. Me. Go.’

A vicious tug makes feet stumble away from the entryway and slam into the wall opposite the stairs, Chanyeol’s face mere inches away and obsidian irises burning with sorrowful rage that has grown from incomprehension. All acting halts at once, alarmed breath coming out ragged as the powerful gentleman is sought frantically on a quietly raging beautiful expression. ‘I won’t. Not until you finally listen to me and know who you belong to, young lady.’ 

Slender digits clad in a chic ink-black jacket roughly push aside underwear, unapologetically disappearing beneath the skirt to exert sexual dominance as lips powerfully nullify all chances at protest. ‘This is mine. Only mine. All I can think about these days, so much so I can’t even write without giving you a role in my novel.’

The possessive growling fuels the heat below, slowly reducing the hurtful stretch, as all vocabulary is lost in the marks left behind on the throat by stark white teeth. Miraculously, the ability to resist the temptation remains although it falters and starts to stutter in the strong secure warmth of a familiar palm at the end of the spine. ‘I- I don’t be- believe you.’

‘Who do you think is more credible?’ A rough mind-boggling thrust goes paired with the branding being interrupted to snarl against a slightly open mouth, dominant despite oddly affectionately resting foreheads against one another and chuckling as haphazard fluttery palms rest on broad shoulders. ‘The man who loves you or some women you don’t even know?’

In spite of being barely able to respond, a piece of hateful Logic remains and is capable of jeering and mocking the question that should have served to set things right. ‘But y- you could’ve fucked.’

‘I didn’t. Listen to me, young lady.’ The hand that formerly rested on the small of the lower back rises to envelop the throat, forcing a lock of gazes while enchantingly cutting off access to air. ‘Ever since we met, I’ve been yours. I’d never give anyone else a role in my novels because nobody inspires me like you do.’

‘D- Don’t stop.’ There is too much deliria to persist in protesting, each movement beneath fabric erasing the thought of resisting the platinum wolf as soon as it arises. Instead, it gives rise to memories of beautiful naive nights that make up the horror and delight of an insane mistress of letters, both inside the pages and outside.

Throwing the heart back into bittersweet love. 

‘Ah, there she is. There’s the helpless little slut I know.’ With an ashamedly wet noise, slim fingers undo the bodily connection that had been greedily gone along with, leading to an inevitable displeased whine that evokes a lovely dark chuckle.

A nudge of the nose asks to follow the focus of the seemingly only sane mind, see what the writer wants to be noticed without resorting to loathsome spoon-feeding. It is all in the details, that is where the heart of the tale lies. ‘See that?’ 

Lashes flutter innocently as gaze wanders lower and lower to restricting dusk-shaded denim, wordlessly remarking on the considerable outlined shape that the idiotic heart and persona meant to have walked out the door greatly want to exploit. ‘Only you do that to me, Y/N.’ An almost sweet peck on the forehead turns attention upward briefly before receiving another on the lips, after which a command makes hands act in too enthusiastic desirable greed. ‘Undo the zipper.’

It takes little time nor effort to force down sturdy and elastic fabric to bare burning desire to the chill air in the hallway. And it takes even less than that very same moment to be pinned against the wall once again, thighs supported by iron hands promising to never let go, and directly connect in body and soul. 

Willingly.

Beautifully.

‘Fuck, every time is like the first. I remember our, grm, hrm, first night. How you begged me to go harder-’ the speed accelerates, snarls growing more and more savage with every advance as behaviour, too, becomes wonderfully harsher, ‘rough you up. All the while acting like an innocent doe, turning me on. Mewling, pinned to the bed, forced to take me. God, I love it when you’re like that. Helpless. Powerless. Submissive.’ 

Every word is accentuated by an animalistic thrust, a sweet kiss on the side of the neck contrasting with the teeth leaving behind plum marks of possession at equal intervals. A low rumble of delight at platinum locks being pulled on vibrates in the buff chest lovingly keeping the spine against the wall, rejoicing in the flowing waterfall of mere meek noises. 

Exactly as we were during the first night.

Loving now as we had before. 

Honestly. 

Snarling sweet nothings against skin while erasing every thought in the chase for the satisfaction of primal desire. When tears of analyzed sadness turned into those of unadulterated pleasure. ‘Crying as you take my cock deep inside that dripping little pussy.’

‘Cha- Chanyeol-’ There are no words to break through the haze of bittersweet nostalgia, leaving the sentence unfinished. It does not matter for all focus is turned towards reaching temporary enlightenment as fast as possible in the most savage manner. 

‘Cum on that cock, baby. Cream that fucking cock.’

Any sense of resistance that somehow managed to linger, loathing Logic deeming the act wrong in every aspect and begging for liberation, is erased in an instant as the command is pressed onto firm lips. 

It is wonderful. 

Incredibly gorgeous.

Having Chanyeol wrap his storytelling palm around the throat once more as the other presses bodies together until there cannot possibly be any distance left. Wolfish grunts fall from cushiony lips, chanting maddening “mine, mine, mine”s, while sprinting during the final bit of the primitive race, soon reaching the white light found between shivering thighs. 

Who are crying silently in a paradoxical mixture that cannot be kept alive consisting of sensual delight, heartbroken self-hatred and rage directed towards loved pale locks. 

Tears to, fortunately, be noticed once reason returns enough to no longer be under the influence of the desirable beast beneath the skin. Henceforth, it is the incredible author who affectionately wipes away the droplets running over the cheeks as onyx irises soften in comprehension of pain. ‘Hey, don’t cry, Y/N. Remember what I promised you?’ 

A head shake shows ignorance because there have been a great number of promises until now, which is acknowledged by the low chuckle that never fails to allow the usual guard to be let down and now disrupts the quiet panting betraying a sliver of glad exhaustion. The simple sound never fails to make the chest puff a little in pride and veins to bask in a loving warmth, even after being frozen in place without hopes of crumbling thanks to the vivid rumours floating around the office. ‘I know I have promised you a lot, but one thing is that I’d never make you cry because I’d never dare to break your heart. I genuinely love you, seriously am head over heels for you. Can you believe me when I say that?’

It is hard to respond negatively when bodies are still one and foolishly trusted palms envelop the cheeks, resulting in wavering speech on the verge of cracking. Withal, a little bit of strength is gathered from the tight grip on defined biceps engraved with ink. ‘I wa- want to, but... the gossip...’

‘Listen.’ A long tender kiss muffles the sobs aching to be released alongside the gasp at the sudden hollow feeling when the physical spell is lifted. Another one asks for focus on talking things over instead of paying attention on the faint sound of liquid dripping onto the hallway tiles. ‘You crying makes me want to cry because it hurts me to see you like this. It really does, babe. And people will always talk, but, perhaps, it might help if we go public? I have an interview soon.’

‘People will think I’m only dating you for your money.’ No matter if a statement will be made, the way of thought lies outside the influence of words. Authors know this first and foremost for each sentence that is penned down fails to fully convey what might be going on in vivid imagination and thus fails to be entirely understood. 

A bittersweet smile tugs on the corners of the mouth as messy snow white locks fall obscure the sight of lips drawn into a stern line speaking melancholically, mocking oneself. ‘I wouldn’t mind if you’d do.’

With more fierceness than expected, an answer to the rhetorical assumption bursts from a panicked mouth uncensored, clutching the soft fabric of clothes as if not doing so will induce an unbridgeable abyss. ‘But I don’t!’

‘I know that, Y/N. I know.’ Thumbs start to caress the sides of the face, somberly smoothing the anxious sorrow in self-reflection. ‘You know I hate losing, be it games or bets, but-  but I- I-‘ Breaths grow short as tears start to brim in the corner of beautiful almond-shaped eyes. Hands fall away from the cheeks to wrap around the middle, the waist caught in a sturdy grip. Foreheads rest against each other and the arms of a claimed mistress wrap around the neck, fingertips playing with the pale strands at the back. ‘I would scorn myself if I’d lose you.’

‘You’ll lose readers if we go public.’ After all, not everyone enjoys a real life romance and certainly not those imagining one individual as their partner while he is, in truth, already faithfully bonded to another woman. 

‘Doesn’t matter, I don’t care. If they’re true fans, they’ll be happy for us.’ Chanyeol’s voice has renovated its ocean deep steadiness, tiny lights appearing out of nowhere to illuminate a sudden bright cheery idea in a nightly gaze creating a bit of distance. ‘You know what? I’ll buy you a ring and a matching one for myself so everyone can see you’re mine.’ A palm shows itself from behind the small of the back to grab the left wrist and trace over the second-to-last digit. ‘To wear on this finger.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Yes.’ The breathless chuckle is strangely melancholic yet delighted, the curious combination taking over demeanour entirely. ‘Yes, of course. Anything to keep you with me.’ The mere embrace suddenly turns into an inescapable hug, broad shoulders blocking out the world that wants to be temporarily forgotten. ‘I want you with me, only you. Please, stay with me. Here.’ The nose often kissed in the morning or cheekily out of sight of the publishing house staff nuzzles the side of the neck, whispering against the warm skin. ‘I want you to move in.’

‘Is that a wish or a command? I’m my own person, you know?’ The weak attempt at humour is seemingly appreciated, Chan tangibly chuckling before sighing in relief when being kissed on the top of the head. 

‘There she is, there’s my good clever girl.’ Foreheads come to rest against each other once more in the air scented by whatever remains of dinner, perspiration and our perfumes combined, creating a weird musky howbeit fruity undertone. The chin is lifted by a curled finger after calmly being put to rest against the wall instead of being fully at the mercy of the writer’s engraved arms. ‘But you know very well what I mean, young lady.’

‘I do,’ fingertips bashfully run over the side of the storyteller’s neck, leaving behind a growling trail of anticipating goosebumps before rising to comb through pale strands, ‘sir.’

‘Don’t.’ 

A peck. 

‘Tease.’ 

A kiss. 

‘Me like that.’ 

Lip caught between teeth. 

And freed once having clearly asserted dominance. ‘I’m yours.’ Although the inquiring peck on the cheek does not partake in the sensual teasing but is severe in character. ‘And you’re mine?’

Catching on to the need for credibility, the erotic novelist acknowledges it while sweetly yet sincerely murmuring. ‘Entirely yours. Not just in stories or audios, in real life as well. As long as possible, until we no longer breathe. This I promise.’

And thus this part of our tale ends, the fragment of the middle part leading to the end.

Of that which ink cannot fully capture on paper, in sounds or on skin.

Withal, it is not necessary because we have each other for inspiration and retellings.

Musing.

In love.

In medias res. 

[dokuhebi]

[ weep ]++

word prompts compilation [ weep ]  for your muse to catch mine crying // ++ reverse  // @peepingtoad

The summer evening embraced the streets with particularly gentle warmth and calmness. A sky dusted in faint purples and pinks as the clouds gathered lowly overly the horizon. As if an artist had painted it there to be specifically beautiful. The clean air greeted passing shinobi with just the right breeze to cast away any overbearing heat, yet never enough to cause a chill. The leaves barely moved from the almost windless afternoon, that soft gust only ever running tender fingers through the branches and tall grass. It is almost enough to fool the serpent in to admiring the small things in life, in to noticing the gathering of all this beauty, and cut the world some slack from their usual disdain. Almost. For when Hiruzen approaches them in his office, the serpent having been tidying up after hours and neatening the piles of yet to be finished paperwork, they can instantly see a rather grim expression lining his eyes. He doesn’t mention it, they don’t ask, but when their mentor tells them to do one last minute errand, when that errand is the delivery of a single letter to their comrade, issuing exemption from the next assignment for no mentioned reason, they are quick to link something being wrong to Jiraiya. It is why they abandon the walk on cobbled and paved pathways, why they gracefully move about rooftops until they wind up at his door. They would have knocked, but they can instantly see the door is ajar. As if Jiraiya had been there and forgotten to close it, as if something had swept his mind away from the task. Gently pushing it open, their voice calls in their usual reserved and quiet manner, “Jiraiya?” announcing their presence softly, since it was unwise to ever enter a shinobi’s home, even the friendliest sort, without ensuring the homeowner knew they were friend rather than foe. When they enter the living space however, golden eyes find themselves greeted by a picture that would haunt them for all of time. Strands of tufted white hair falling in front of his face like a curtain when his head was lowered, veiling his eyes, his expression. But the way he leans forward in his seat is telling, something clasped in his hand as if it may have physically harmed him, broad shoulders shaking from something uncontained in his chest. It is a moment of pause only before they cross the distance between them, not one to ever know how to navigate social situations with any true finesse, yet forgetting their own social oddity when they are left with lingering pangs of concern for their team mate. Still as soundless as a housecat, they have crossed the threshold in to the lounge by instinct alone. Not knowing what had feasted upon his heart to drive the man to erratic breaths and tears, but knowing that the only means of ridding any demon, tangible or invisible, was to be at his side. Finding their seat against him, a hand placed to his knee, until they can make out the letter in his hand, until the edge of the paper, shaky hand writing but oh so recognizable, can be deciphered by golden optics. They didn’t need to be a genius to put two and two together, and the feeling is as sharp to them as a blade driving itself through their stomach. Stealing their breath when they try to consider how they might reverse this, fix this, save him. But this grief, one so very familiar to the serpent, is not something they can fight off. How fragile humans were, both in death and life. And how cruel and tasteless of the evening, to offer these stunning skies so touched by beauty on a day like this. As if the world itself may dare to smile, while their teammate weeps. His tears strike them like razor blades, as the desperation grows to do something, anything, to somehow free him from this moment. Watching in helpless unease as the young male shakes from the pain gathering in his head, wracking him with sorrow that could never be measured. For one always feels too young to say goodbye to a parent. They feel as if they too have been tossed back in time, as if they are not a well established shinobi of the highest caliber. As if they have not faced bloodthirsty enemies and come out on top. As if they haven’t seen more than anyone ought to at only nineteen years old and aged quickly to counter such a lifestyle. They feel as if they may as well be that seven year old child again, except this time, instead of having Jiraiya throwing his small arms around their shoulders when they staggered upon the news of their passing parents, it is the boy who must wrestle with loss. Did the universe, with all its answerless and meaningless nerve, not know what she was worth? They place a hand under his chin, to bring him to look up, to stop him from causing himself greater pain by reeling too hard. Because they know how one wishes to give control to the body when the mind wants nothing to do with the real world anymore. When thinking may as well be more agonizing than being set on fire. So they force him to look at them a moment, almost wishing they hadn’t when the marks of tears in his midnight eyes threaten to bring that reflective emotion to their own gaze. It wasn’t their right to cry however, and they have stoned themself long enough to get away with a mere shaken breath before they speak. Even if his eyes seem to beg them to tell him it’s a lie, that she hadn’t run out of time with him. Even if they know that this structure around him would no longer feel like home, for he had only ever found home in her eyes. Slender digits ghost along his cheekbone, wiping away the dampness that had made white hair cling to his tanned skin. Desperate to find the right words, but knowing they were never the sort for right words, he’s usually the one who does this sort of thing, “you need to breathe,” their words come softly, as if they may be coaxing him to stay with them when he was wounded on the field, a decision to try and prevent him from causing greater discomfort to his body by forgetting self preservation and basic duties, “breathe in, breathe out,” such simple words, but it seems he may need some prompting and reminding to remember even this, to not have burning lungs and a throbbing head, to not choke when his body’s instinctive reaction is to gasp at air that hadn’t been provided. Their hand slips around the back of his head, bringing him to rest against their chest, where he could cry in to the violet fabrics of their kimono, where he could banish the fears of being alone and find reassurance, if only for this moment, if only for a second. They place a kiss, firm and engulfed with their anger at this injustice, to the top of his head, not knowing if he would even notice a single gesture amid the turmoil crashing in to him. They would keep him held closely to their chest until they feel a hand upon their own shoulder, until caught off guard, they turn to see Tsunade has arrived too. No doubt the news had made her abandon any duty or activity, no doubt that the look in her eyes is the exact one the serpent offers her in return. They let Tsunade take their place, she would be better in the spoken reassurances than they might be. They can hear her speaking quietly to him now, enough softness to account for the great loss, enough sternness to make him trust she had everything under control. That if he fell a part, it would be all right. The serpent moves to the kitchen, where they can take the moment to lean against the counter, simply stilling their racing heart, which felt cold like ice in their chest. They rummage around in his cabinets, finding barely hidden alcohol of the strongest nature. Still only nineteen years old, they wouldn’t pretend they had the best ideas when it came to coping. Still only nineteen years old, if someone dared to tell their friend how he ought to grieve, the usually quiet serpent would undoubtedly tell that someone to fuck themselves. Feeling a pacing entity within them grow more restlessly ferocious to defend what life was theirs, to defend the precious life of the two shinobi beyond the archway of the door. They return, without glasses, perhaps not thinking about civility and etiquette in a moment like this. Seeing that Tsunade had managed to mitigate some of the more violent shudders from crying, so the serpent can offer the open bottle. So Jiraya can take the first few large swigs, with Tsunade and Orochimaru following a while later when he was finished. Where miseries can be spoken between friends with the relief of alcohol loosening everyones tongues. Until early morning has come, in all its blackness and silence. Until all three teammates have haphazardly found sleeping positions all on the same couch. All using one another as a pillow and bed as they had when they were children, comfortably uncomfortable, but refusing more space at the cost of being a part. Tsunade has already fallen asleep the serpent notes, as they guide blonde hair out of its high pony, and run out the kinks that had formed to spare her the tangles come morning. Until they pay their next attention to Jiraiya, their golden eyes heavy from wanting to succumb to the same rest the young woman had. “I never want to hurt you this much,” they say quietly, as they move to guide hair out of his face next, the slight lag to their speech a good indication that being tired and drunk was not a fight they were winning, speaking as their mind slips further in to rest, “if I die, I hope you won’t feel obliged to miss me, I hope you’ll forget me if it’s easier, pretend that it isn’t as sad as people said it would be. I hope you’re still just as happy, and that you’ll only love me until my last day, and never a day again.”

[serenzippity]

Not sure if you received my previous message so here I go again! I'm the anon that requested the first time with Hoseok ^^ Sorry for not specifying before! I meant reader's first time (losing virginity). ❤️

Hi lovely! I got your first message, and here is your request! Thanks for getting back to me and I hope this is what you were looking for ❤️ I’m 24 and tbh I can’t remember when I lost my v-card so I tried hahaha

“Are you sure?” he asked hesitantly as he settled between your legs. You were both in various states of undress that went far beyond what happened when you usually fooled around. His beautiful body was on display, the only thing keeping his nudity at bay was a pair of black sweats that were low on his hips. You lost your shirt and bra some time ago, leaving you in a pair of small boyshorts. 

The air between you two was electric, crackling with lust and tension. You’d never been laid so bare in front of him. Everything escalated from one single kiss as you made a late-night snack. You weren’t expecting him to come over so late, but when he saw you in his shirt and panties he lost a part of his resolve. 

Despite the compatibility between you two, you were still innocent in the ways of the bedroom. No other man had touched you as intimately as Hoseok had and your skin was permanently imprinted by his fingers. You’d done everything except the deed itself and like a true gentleman, he never pushed you outside of your comfort zone. But in this firey moment, you wanted nothing more than to finally become one with him in every way possible. He had already stolen your heart, so it seemed natural for him to take your innocence as well. 

All you could do was passionately kiss him. You poured all your assurance and love into that one kiss, conveying to him that you were ready and you wanted him as much as he wanted you. It would hurt, but you’d be prepared for the pain. There was no doubt in your mind that Hoseok would do everything in his power to make you comfortable. 

He kissed you back with equal fervor. His hand roamed at your body, leaving heated prints in their wake. As he hovered above you, your hands traveled along the smooth planes of his abs and brushed against the skin above the waistband of his sweats. He lightly ground his hips against yours at the featherlight touches, his mind only able to focus on you beneath him. He gently slipped two fingers under the fabric of your underwear and slowly dragged them down your legs. The cold air hit your core and you lightly shivered in excitement as you lay completely naked underneath him. 

He wasted no time in touching you. His fingers began to tease your bundle of nerves, eliciting a low groan from your throat. Your kisses got rougher as his fingers worked you up. A tight knot began to form in your lower abdomen as his hands began to creep you towards a precipice. When he inserted one finger into your velvety cavern you saw the world shift behind your eyes. The intrusion had you gasping for air and his lips latched onto the sensitive skin of your neck. 

You moaned greedily into his ear, and when he inserted a second finger you cried out at the delicious burn. His thumb began to rub against your clit, and it wasn’t long until you were coming undone around his skillful hand. He continued to pulse in and out of you as you rode out your orgasm, ensuring that you were ready for him. 

When he stopped and removed his hand from your core, licking the digits as he hovered above you, your adrenaline kicked in and you practically ripped his sweats and boxers off in one fell swoop. The sight of him hard and ready for you had you keening in want. You were so wound up and tense, and the only thing that could wholly satisfy you was him. 

After rolling on a condom, Hoseok lined himself up at your entrance to push in if you were ready. He looked at you with an unspoken question in his eyes. You nodded your head and brought his lips back down to yours in a sweet kiss that spoke volumes. Taking this as your acceptance as to what was about to happen, Hoseok began to slowly push himself inside of you, swallowing your sounds with his mouth. 

The invasion sent rivers of pain through your body. When he bottomed out you cried out in shock as the burn ripped through you. He paused as you adjusted to his length, your tightness almost making him come undone right then and there. With a deep growl, he rested his forehead against yours and took in your face. Tears gathered at the corners of your shut eyes and you were letting out small whines. 

He was completely still for a few minutes as you grew accustomed to the feeling of him inside of you. Tentatively he pulled out slightly before lightly thrusting back in. He did this a few more times until your whines of pain turned into faint moans of pleasure. The feeling was foreign, but once the ache ebbed away all that was left was pleasant friction. You wanted more, and you softly thrust your hips up to meet him when he took a slow thrust forward. Hoseok threw his head back at the sensation of your hips meeting, a sharp hiss falling through his teeth. He thrust again and you met him. One more thrust and you met him again. 

Your rhythm went from slow and languid to wanton and all-consuming. The pain was long gone, replaced by a wild want to tear into his flesh as he thrust harder into you. You were both moaning messes. Your hands and nails were marking the skin of each other as your mouths sucked bruises and nips that would be visible in the morning.

You cried out his name into the dark room like a prayer, smiling at the thought of finally being one with him. 

[rapuvdayear]

2000: “Ghetto Qu’ran (Forgive Me)” 50 Cent (Trackmaster Ent./Columbia)

It’s been over a year since I teased the idea of doing a post about my favorite 50 Cent tracks, so I guess now is as good a time as ever to get around to it! 

With the exception of maybe Kanye, I can’t think of another rapper with more raw talent whose career has been more disappointing. Obviously both Ye and Fiddy have been monstrously successful, but IMO they either burned brightly before descending into white supremacy apologia (Kanye) or never achieved their best possible trajectory (50). It’s not an accident to put them together in this way, either; just 12 years ago next month they faced off in what turned out to be a very underwhelming battle over whose album would sell better (this was back when album sales, not streaming numbers, still meant something). In many ways, it was a crossroads for each artist: Kanye dropped what I believe was his magnum opus, then followed it up with his fourth-best album, third-best album, and second-best album, before dropping off a cliff, while 50′s release basically removed him from the conversation about who was relevant in rap (“My Gun Go Off” and “I Get Money” are honorable mentions for the list below, but otherwise Curtis is entirely forgettable). 

These days, 50 has gone the Ice Cube route and is probably more recognizable as an actor than as a rapper. So, it’s hard to remember that once upon a time he was the savior of gangsta rap and (co-)author of one of the 25 greatest albums of all time. He beat the odds to survive a shooting, link up with the two heaviest hitters (at the time) in the rap game, and even be included on some GOAT lists. He also essentially established the “flood the streets with mixtapes before your album drops” strategy of self-promotion that Gucci, Weezy, and even Drake would follow in the days before Soundcloud was the go-to resource for building a rep. He singlehandedly destroyed a rival’s career, launched a clothing line, video game, and music label, and made a halfway-decent biopic. And then... he just sort of petered out. 

But! 50 is also responsible for some of my all-time favorite raps, which is why it’s so frustrating to me that he never lived up to the buzz surrounding him back in 2003. These are my five favorites, listed chronologically, with some commentary:

1) “Ghetto Qu’ran (Forgive Me)” (2000) Before the G-Unit days and before Eminem and Dre helped launch him to superstardom, Curtis Jackson was an up and coming rapper from Queens who had attracted the attention of another rap legend, Run-DMC’s Jam Master Jay. A mutual friend introduced 19 year-old 50 to Jay back in 1996, and the veteran producer/DJ gave him a crash course in how to write songs and signed him to his fledgling label. The business relationship didn’t work out, but it helped lead 50 to Columbia Records’ Trackmasters imprint where he recorded Power of the Dollar in 1999. However, this debut album would never see the light of day after 50 was shot nine times while sitting in a friend’s car and subsequently dropped by Columbia. In the wake of the shooting--and then later, after 50 blew the fuck up in 2003--it became a sort of “lost cult classic” among rap fans. “How To Rob” got the most attention at the time, a funny-yet-vicious song demonstrating 50′s hunger through fantasies about sticking up famous rappers and R&B stars (the song was also clearly an homage to Biggie’s unreleased “Dreams,” and provoked an oblique diss from Ghostface). But “Ghetto Qu’ran” has had a more lasting impact, primarily because of how it was rumored to be the source of 50′s shooting, Jam Master Jay’s murder, and the Ja Rule/Murder Inc. beef. While all of that intrigue is important to rap lore, it distracts from the fact that it’s a near perfect rap song from a technical perspective: a catchy hook, a fantastic beat and sample, an effortless flow, and a well-crafted story that is equal parts celebration of the Queens underworld and subtle shots at street legends. Seriously, this is akin to what traveling bards used to do in medieval Europe, what poets in Ancient Greece wrote, what west African griots did/do, and what narcocorrido artists do now. If you want to learn about the Supreme Team, Pappy Mason, the Corley Family, and the Rich Porter/Alpo crew in Harlem, then this is a good place to start; as 50 puts it, “consider this the first chapter of the ghetto’s Qu’ran.” The secondary title to this track--“Forgive Me”--has a double meaning now. It was initially a plea to forgive 50 for the pain he caused in his criminal life but in retrospect an appeal to the figures whose names he drops. Also, it’s interesting to listen to this first and then compare 50′s voice with the next four tracks: this was recorded before the shooting, which left a bullet fragment lodged in his tongue that affected his speech and gave him his now-distinctive flow.    

2) “Heat” (2003) There are several standouts on Get Rich or Die Tryin’ (“Many Men,” “Back Down,” “What Up Gangsta,” “Patiently Waiting,” and “Poor Lil’ Rich” spring to mind, and I will always love “21 Questions” for the “I love you like a fat kid loves cake” line alone) but this one has always been my fave. It’s a perfect distillation of the image that 50 was trying to project when he burst onto the scene: a hood-hardened gangster who wouldn’t hesitate to do his enemies harm. And given his recent history, you could believe him, too! There’s really nothing about this song that should be praised in any way, but I’ve been thinking about the gravity of the following line a lot in the past month or so: “The summertime is a killing season/ It’s hot out this bitch, that’s a good enough reason.” Also, 50′s boast “the DA can play this motherfucking tape in court” *has* to be one of the inspirations behind this great Key & Peele sketch, right? 

3) “A Baltimore Love Thing” (2005) The Massacre was incredibly disappointing on the whole. I can remember clearly sitting around with my friends in a dorm room at the Shoreland listening to it all the way through the day that it dropped, wanting to love it but slowly realizing that it wasn’t going to live up to our expectations. “Ski Mask Way” could be an honorable mention on this list, and “Piggy Bank” is kind of funny, but otherwise it’s a steaming pile of shit. “Baltimore Love Thing,” though, is a masterpiece. It’s incredibly dark, rapped from the perspective of heroin itself (sort of like what Nas’s “I Gave You Power” does for guns) in order to detail the destruction that addiction--and, by extension, drug trafficking--leaves in its wake. Even more fucked up, 50-as-heroin voices an abusive partner addressing a woman, threatening her should she ever try to leave him. For my money, “You broke my heart, you dirty bitch, I won’t forget what you did/ If you give birth, I’ll already be in love with your kids” is one of the coldest lines in the annals of rap, full stop. In the second verse, he switches to the flip side of an abuser’s mindset: “I never steer you wrong, if you hyper I make you calm/ I’ll be your incentive, your reason for you to move forward.” All in all, it’s a great concept song that shows off 50′s range as a rapper... and is a testament to what he could have been.

4) “Hustler’s Ambition” (2005) Goddamn, I fucking love everything about this song! The beat is fantastic (great sample, btw), prefiguring the sound on a future great mixtape from the G-Unit crew. 50′s flow here is flawless, arguably the best, smoothest he’s ever been. This was basically the “theme” for 2005′s Get Rich or Die Tryin’ film, and tells the story of his come up in the drug game (or, at least, 50′s version of his carefully constructed hagiography). The lyrics are the true gems here, so I’ll just let a few of the standouts speak for themselves:

“Check my logic: fiends don’t like seeds in they weed, shit/ Send me them seeds, I’ll grow ‘em what they need”

“I sell anything, I’m a hustler, I know how to grind/ Step on grapes, put it in water, and tell you it’s wine”

“I made plans to make it, a prisoner of the state/ Now I can invite your ass out to my estate”

“Pour Cristal in the blender, make a protein shake”

and finally

“The feds watch me, icy, they can’t stop me/ Racists pointing at me, ‘Look at *****race’: Hello!”   

5) “Ghetto Like A Motherfucker” (2011) I remember first encountering this track on a Tumblr compilation (I think?) called Don’t Fuck This Up, Curtis! and allowing myself to get excited that the old 50 was back! As the compilation’s name implies, around that time 50 had been releasing a string of online-only singles that were better than anything he’d put out in five or so years, and so there was some hope that he’d soon be making a triumphant return to the rap game. Sadly, this was not to be. But I still bang this track every month or so. The idea here was that 50 had written something, set it to a very sparse, stripped-down beat, and posted it online as an invitation for DIY rap producers to play with it and layer their own compositions on top of it. In that sense, it represented a melange of rap’s earliest roots--dudes spitting over vinyl cuts in basements and parks, just fucking around and having fun--and the possibilities afforded by the digital age and rap’s embrace of online platforms for mixing and remixing material (on a side note, I like to think of this as part of 21st century rap’s “punk rock” aesthetic, and would argue that this genre has done it better than any other). As with “Hustler’s Ambition,” “Baltimore Love Thing,” and “Ghetto Qu’ran,” this track gives 50 a chance to really showcase his talents as a writer and a rapper. The lyrics are as grimy as the beat, painting a picture of urban poverty and pre-fame 50, and 50 switches up his flow at multiple points throughout. Here are some of my favorite lines:

“Slim chance I’ma go back to killing roaches/ Be quiet, you can hear the rats in the wall/ Make you wanna pump crack ‘til you stack racks”

“Dice game, shake ‘em up, praying’ for a 6/ The wolves out there hungry, they lookin’ for a lick”

“****** pissed on the staircase, in the elevator/ Now I’m pissed cuz I’m starting to smell like piss, player”

and

“All a ***** need is a block and a connect/ And a box of 9 MMs to load in the TEC.”

50′s last two studio albums--Before I Self Destruct and Animal Ambition--honestly weren’t half-bad; I would venture so far as to say that they were both better than The Massacre and Curtis. But for 50 it was too little, too late, really. Too many rappers had come along since then doing what he did, only better and fresher. This is a Migos world now; we’re just living in it. And so, I’m left to ponder what could have been. 

[chockfullofsecrets]

Sit and Stay

Rating: Gen

Summary: Yagi has a habit of tapping his fingers nervously. This normally isn’t a problem, but today there’s a certain voice hero lying in his lap.

Word Count: 1763

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving, you guys! Going to post this just in case anyone needs to read about soft indulgent tickles as much as I do right now :)

Hizashi frowned as he looked over the common room of 1-A’s dorms.

There was nothing wrong with the room itself; despite Aizawa’s grumbling about the horrors of having twenty quirk-possessing teenagers live together, the place was barely a month old and had yet to develop any serious carpet stains or burns on the wall. That he could see, anyway.

It was pretty nice, actually – curtains open, sunlight streaming brightly through the windows and melting into smudges of warmth against the glossy surface of the coffee table. No, the only problem here was the scarecrow man sitting in the middle of it all.

“All Might, there you are! You’re a hard guy to find!”

From the look on his face, the other man was surprised to see him. That was only to be expected, given that it had taken nearly twenty minutes to track him here.

Yagi straightened from where he had been listing slightly against the couch’s armrest, tapping nervously at the pages of the book on his lap even as he smiled brightly. “Yamada-kun! Sorry, I didn’t realize you were looking for me! I’m here because I promised the students that I would help them make dinner tonight.”

Hizashi squinted. “So you’re going to sit here for the next four hours, waiting for them to get back?”

Yagi’s grin took on a distinctly sheepish tilt. “I thought I might get a little reading done in the meantime,” he said. “Regardless, what are you doing here?” His eyes widened. “Is something going on with the children? The trip-”

“Nope,” Hizashi interjected firmly. “They’re fine, Eraser’s fine. I am here,” he said grandly, pausing to shoot his fellow teacher a pair of finger guns,” to do this!”

Crossing the room to Yagi’s side, he lifted the book and Yagi’s hands with it so that he could flop down comfortably in his newly-available lap.

Yagi coughed sharply, his thin legs twitching under Hizashi’s weight. “Yamada-kun!”

“Hey, keep reading, pretend I’m not even here if you want!” he soothed, pulling out his phone. “Aizawa told me to, and I quote, sit on you or something to make sure you didn’t follow him and 1-A on their class trip and actually got your rest in. I don’t make the rules!”

Yagi was still bent uncomfortably against the weight, his whole body tense, but at that he laughed shortly. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it this literally.”

Hizashi shrugged. “Too bad! With Eraser gone, you’re my designated cuddle buddy until further notice.” Wanting the other man to relax, he reached up and tugged lightly at one of his bangs. “We can braid each other’s hair if you want – and believe me, I would be one hundred percent down for that – but I meant it when you said you can keep reading. What is it? Anything good?”

The book’s cover was hurriedly flattened over Hizashi’s stomach, but not before he could make out the title - ‘Teaching For Dummies’? He huffed in disbelief, but that was a battle for another day. Squirming onto his side to get a better angle for viewing his screen, he opened up his browser and pointedly started scrolling.

Thankfully, Yagi took the hint that Hizashi wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon and, shyly propping his book up on the available hip, got back to doing whatever it was he was doing. Hizashi found himself drifting as well – the sunlight really was nice in here, the couch a cooling leather, and after a couple minutes of getting used to Yagi’s bony form he stopped minding it except for the comforting warmth soaking into his side and back through his T-shirt.

And then one of Yagi’s hands slipped from the pages of his book to Hizashi’s side and returned to its nervous drumming, finger after finger padding lightly down.

Hizashi bit back a giggle, not wanting to disturb the tranquil scene, but it just kept going, the slight tapping, and the longer it went the more it started to feel… sensitive.

Thanking himself for wearing glasses today instead of contacts, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think. He could roll over, but being on his belly would smush his face into the couch cushions and being on his back with those fingers still drumming was definitely not an option. If it kept on like this, he was going to laugh, and that would startle Yagi out of it, but then -

It felt too nice to make him stop, Hizashi decided. A couple minutes. He could hold out for a couple more minutes, and then he would say something.

He tried to focus on his phone, raising one hand dramatically to his mouth as if he were deep in thought – at least it would hide the smile he could feel tugging at the edges of his lips. But the feeling just kept going, each tap sparking a new ticklish nerve on his side, and despite his best efforts he couldn’t keep himself from snickering helplessly at the assault.

Yagi’s fingers paused abruptly, and with the relief came a sense of disappointment that he tried very hard to supress. “Yamada-kun? Are you all right?”

Hizashi’s hand spasmed over his mouth; he wasn’t sure what would happen if he actually turned to look at the other man. “Yeah, yeah! You were just, uh… tickling me, that’s all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” The hand returned to his side, rubbing briskly and dispelling the remaining tingles. “I didn’t even realize, I must have been doing that for a while – nervous habit, you know! Why didn’t you say anything?”

It was a casual question, in exactly the same tone Aizawa asked it in when he was in the mood for teasing, and Hizashi blamed that entirely for his knee-jerk response of, “I – haha, I… didn’t want you to stop?”

Yagi’s hand froze. “Ah.”

Hizashi moved so fast to cover his face in embarrassment that he almost cracked his glasses and maybe his nose on the phone still in his hand. “Augh! Sorry, for a second there I thought you were – I mean, I wasn’t trying to-”

The hand on his waist tightened a little, pushing gently until Hizashi was tipped over into a decidedly more supine position than his ban on eye contact could stand. Yagi didn’t look angry, though, just a little amused. It was the first time Hizashi had seen him anything other than blatantly nervous all day. “You must be quite ticklish here, if a little tapping has you this worked up.”

“Huh?” Mic said, half mumbling into his hands, and then his eyes widened as the words registered. “I – ah – not really, and – it wasn’t just the tapping! I’m not that ticklish!”

He absolutely was, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

Yagi took it in stride, setting his book down and sending his other hand to join the first on Hizashi’s sides. As Hizashi took a second to stupidly wonder how hands so large and comfortingly warm could exist, he stroked his thumbs gently against the base of Hizashi’s ribcage. “Oh, really? In that case, you’ll have to tell me what I was doing that you liked so much.”

“I – pfft –“

“Or maybe you didn’t like any of it, and you were hoping I would do this instead?” A single finger scribbled across his belly, bared below the hem of his shirt from all the shifting, and the genuinely curious look on Yagi’s face did absolutely nothing to keep him from squeaking in pleasured mortification.

“Ah – gyahahaha – that tickles!”

“I figured it would,” Yagi chuckled. “I don’t mind doing this, if you’re enjoying it.”

Mic sputtered, still choking on giggles as another finger snuck out to circle his navel. “W-whyhyhy?”

Yagi ducked his head a little, not entirely succeeding on hiding a shy smile behind his bangs. “I’ve been looking for something to do with my hands, and you said you didn’t want me to stop, so – please tell me if any of that isn’t the case!”

Even Aizawa wasn’t usually mean enough to make him admit things like this, he thought, and ignored the question in favor of curling a little further into Yagi’s lap.

“Okay, then,” Yagi said, smiling a little wider, “how about here?” He dipped a finger delicately into the shallow well of Hizashi’s navel, pressing down just hard enough to massage the nerves at the very bottom, and Hizashi very nearly screamed a hole into the ceiling.

Luckily his hands were tight enough over his mouth to avoid him being the first person to cause property damage in 1-A’s dorm, and he deployed one of them to smack Yagi furiously on the arm until the offending digit was removed and he could successfully gasp for breath. “Ha, ha, ah – I have a voice quirk, remember?”

Yagi raised a surprised eyebrow, taking his hand and squeezing it reassuringly, and Hizashi almost melted under his fond look. “That bad, huh? I guess we’ll save that spot for Aizawa-kun to tackle, then.”

So much for fond. “Don’t tease me, it’s mean,” Hizashi groaned, breaking back into bubbly giggles almost immediately as Yagi returned to tracing light lines over the lower half of his belly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Yagi said – how many times was this guy going to apologize to him anyway? – but he was smiling happily at Hizashi’s torment, providing gently torturous tickles until Hizashi decided that he was finally in the mood to breathe like a normal person.

He wriggled into a more upright position, tugging his shirt down, and grimaced as he caught sight of the time on his phone. “Ah, it’s only been an hour, and we’ve already done all there is to do in here! Why don’t you come for a walk with me or something?”

Yagi’s smile diminished considerably. “But, the students-”

“Are doing community service in the middle of a city with multiple pro heroes watching their every move. I know we don’t have the best track record, but sitting here waiting for them to come back safely isn’t going to do much, is it?”

“Right,” Yagi sighed. “As long as I’m here when they get back, I can go for a run or something-”

“I will sit on you again.”

“A walk,” he conceded. “Exercise is good for staying positive, isn’t it?”

“Anything’s better than staying in here,” Hizashi agreed, bouncing a little in excitement. “Okay, let’s go!”

“You have to get off me first,” Yagi reminded gently.

“Oh, yeah, crushing the Symbol of Peace under my legs… oookay, here we go!”

And so they went.

[o-hybridity]

how would you make a tabletop system like D&D that's crunchy for players, but not a huge pain in the ass for the DM to make monsters?

This is the Eternal Question, and it cuts pretty close to the core of my basic principles of design philosophy! I don’t know if I have a definitive answer but I can springboard into a meandering explanation of the things I’ve done to wrangle with this exact problem. Here goes:

for a while I thought there was a game that answered that question perfectly, and it was called Dungeon Crawl Classics. I don’t hold that belief now (Zocchi dice…), but we can loot an important principle from its couple of good design decisions:

1. Every player gets one really good toy. DCC’s chief virtue is that it found a way to make Fighters a fun choice, not just the choice that’s less mentally taxing than being a spellcaster, and the way they make that work is by giving the role an inherently textured core mechanic called Mighty Deeds of Arms. Instead of giving them a flat ascending to-hit bonus that’s just numerically better than the other classes get, Fighters in DCC roll a separate Deed die that scales with level alongside the attack roll and add the Deed die to the to-hit roll and damage, and if the Deed die comes up 3 or higher they also pull off a maneuver that improves their immediate tactical situation.

Swashbuckling chandelier swings, disarms, feints, coating your foe in lamp oil, and basically anything Jackie Chan has ever done besides just hit guys count as Deeds, and the only things you need to make them happen are your own imagination, GM fiat, and the will of the dice—just so long as the effect isn’t “do more damage.”

Altogether, the method requires even less bookkeeping than your standard D&D fighter, while being way more versatile and giving the player something to actively play with and find new implementations for every time their class role is relevant.

Spellcasters in DCC similarly put some wrinkles in the Vancian procedures by getting rid of conventional spell levels, turning each spell into a range of effects keyed to the results of a casting check, and letting casters burn their physical stats temporarily to pump up a single casting attempt—and that’s before we get into mutations and faustian pacts. The role falls into some of the same pitfalls it always has: spellcaster players have to juggle a lot more functions than fighters or thieves and at the top of their game they’re still going to make wilder shit happen than the other classes, though it balances out a bit by making casting itself a higher-risk affair.

The trouble with DCC’s classes is it tries to spread about 2.75 really good player toys across five classes, and when it comes to thief stuff it can’t really come up with anything all that good.

So Digression 1: What makes a really good player toy? How do we fill out those empty spaces in the party roster with cool stuff for players to use that isn’t a headache to keep track of?

In my humble onion, a good player toy needs to be flexible, haptically engaging, low-bookkeeping, and freely usable but not strictly predictable. To be flexible, a player needs to be able to apply the toy in a range of play situations—getting too attached to pre-defined mechanical effects is toxic to flexibility. A haptically engaging toy prompts the player to engage with something physically at the table to use it; die rolls are the most obvious but there’s lots of options ranging from the nifty to the balls-out bizarre.

There’s also some mechanics that I think are inherently more satisfying because the things they make you do with numbers has kind of an inherent pleasure that feels kinesthetic—I get warm, kind of stimmy feelings thinking about roll-high-but-not-too-high dice pool systems.

Low-bookkeeping toys are pretty self-explanatory; if it requires resource management or tracking multiple modifiers across different locations on the character sheet, those elements need to be doing extra work to make themselves memorable. The Goblin Laws of Gaming’s spellcasting system introduces a bookkeeping element in that you have to track your caster’s accumulated Dooms, but any caster only ever gets 3, the last one is pretty final, and they all translate into memorable moments of play.

When I say that a good toy is freely usable but unpredictable, I mean that the mechanic should tempt the player to use it often—because it’s powerful, because the results are exciting or cool—and temper that eagerness to toy with it less with anxiety over whether they’re going to blow one of their limited uses on a whiff or a no-sell when they could need it later and more with the question of whether it might blow up in their faces this time. Spellcasters in DCC or GLOG are way more equipped to cast all day long compared to their D&D brethren, and that leaves caster players in a position to have more fun with their role, but there’s always the lingering possibility a spell might pop off wrong and now you’ve got a lobster hand. Even when a PC gimmick doesn’t work in the player’s favor, it should make the next moment more exciting. Non-events are poison to gameplay.

Something to keep in mind in reference to player toys: nothing obligates you to make these toys all fit into a single coherent reference frame or “preserve game balance.” What you’re looking to do here is create what game devs over on the digital side of things call Incomparables—play elements that you can’t meaningfully “balance” because you can’t meaningfully convert one into the terms of another.

All of this is building up to point 2. Monsters are self-contained toys for the GM to play with. Like how you’re not obligated to have player toys all fit together neatly into a balanced and 100% shared language of play, monsters can and should operate on their own distinct mechanical plane, and not every monster will be able to fit within the same framework of rules matter.

By that token, I strongly encourage anyone looking to break out of the framework of play you’ll find in a WotC book to ditch as much of the content  in your statblock that carries over into the character sheet as you can. Give ‘em hit dice and hp totals, sure, give ‘em an AC rating and I won’t complain, to-hit bonuses even if you’re feeling nasty, but skip the ability scores and saving throws and proficiencies, and remember that there’s a special circle in hell for designers who give monsters big piles of feats that you have to dig back and forth through the damn book to find and make spot play decisions around (admittedly that’s not the problem it used to be back when 3e was what everyone was doing, but damned if I’m going to let anyone forget that it was a thing).

That sounds like heresy, but here’s the wild thing: there’s a whole armature of play to D&D that nobody uses and it would make the whole affair so, so much simpler if we did, because D&D is built to be a player-facing system, despite appearances. The original mechanic’s been buried under ability score modifiers, saving throws, attack rolls, and skill DCs, but it’s still there, baked into the dice and the stat spread.  Roll a d20 and compare the result against the relevant ability score; if it’s equal to or lower than the stat in question, you done did the thing. High rolls within the margin of success are better than low ones; use this to determine who comes out on top in a contested action when there’s a tie.

Bam, you’re done. That’s your core task resolution mechanic. The great thing about this is that it takes a huge amount of pressure off the GM to pin down extraneous numbers. Your monster doesn’t need an AC score, just a penalty it applies to a player’s attack check. Same with to-hit bonuses, just applied to the roll the player’s making to avoid or resist the attacks it has. Same with exceptional (or exceptionally shitty) base abilities like strength, speed, and intelligence. You don’t need to so much as think the phrase “Passive Perception.” All of that lets you pare down a monster’s statblock to a pretty spare couple of lines that you can fit on a notecard, leaving you room and time to come up with mechanical texture that’s actually fun.

Additionally, using stats this way leaves plenty of room to come up with fun implementations on the players’ end. Stat damage rules begin to make a lot more sense when you strip away all the derived values and re-center your players’ attention on those 5% probability increments. Rolling high but shooting for less than a target number is one of those mechanics that’s really satisfying to then carry over into some kind of direct numeric result. Just narrowing things down to a smattering of possibilities for martial characters, n this framework you can set up mechanics for defensive fighters to convert a failing attack roll into a substitute AC score for the next round, while a more buckwild berserker type who plays more for risk/reward sets their hp total to whatever the die result is—that 1 hits, but now your timetable for the fight’s shifted drastically, but if you hit high, you can pull in a killer second wind. In short, you have an infinite canvas for crunch if that’s what your players are into.

[god-fucking-dammit-mizutani]

[Title still in progress] Rating: G | Word Count: 2,100 Bokuroo Week: Day 5 - Tattoo Tags: Tattoo Shop AU, Coffee Shop AU, Humor, Romance, Minor Background Relationship(s), Bokuroo Week Day 5 Part: 1 / 2 “I'm new,” Bokuto says. This, Kuroo knows. Someone like Bokuto is hard to forget. “To coffee,” he clarifies with a shrug. Kuroo's not really sure if it was a necessary addition, sensical even, but god if he doesn't feel some type of way just listening to this man talk. “Tea drinker?” Kuroo asks, grinning. Bokuto grimaces. “Not a chance. Stuffs like wet salad.”

“Uh-huh,” Kuroo agrees. It's been so long since he's used his phone to actually call someone that the irritation against his ear feels raw despite how shortly he's been using it. Quickly, Kuroo switches to his left ear and laughs quietly into the receiver, “it sure is a sight. I thought it was a myth, you know? Oh my,” his mouth pulls along both syllables as long as it'll stretch.

The brunette in front of him narrows his eyes up at Kuroo, fingers curling down impatiently against the laminate wood. Watercolor petals and inked vines shine beautifully under the dusty sun, all the way down the length of his arm until they wrap around each digit like rings.

The guy's companion hasn't stopped scowling up into the other's hairline since Kuroo had come to their rescue. He grins.  

“No, no, I'm still here,” Kuroo tells the person on the other line. “Yes, so are they. Don't think they're going anywhere. Like I said,” he squints between them, what little space there is, and tries to hide his amused smirk by switching ears again,”they're very stuck. The stuckiest.”

“Tell hi--” the brunette starts, only for his companion to yowl, choking on, “don't spe--!”

“He's writing something,” Kuroo narrates.

The brunette waves the now ink filled napkin at Kuroo, instinctively moving forward to hand it off, but this jolts the darker haired man to follow. There isn't much give between them, what with the clefts of their mouths held fastly together by golden ringlets.Sun glares off the gold of their combined jewelry,  directly into his eyes and--Ok, serves him right.

Kuroo takes the paper and recites in as a dry tone he can conjure, “Get your ass over here and help me, you owl turd.”

The other line erupts in the loudest, gut deep laughter Kuroo has heard in ages. He checks briefly to see if he somehow cheeked the speaker icon. Even at a distance, Kuroo can hear the laughter ringing.

“Ok, bye bye.” Kuroo hangs up. “You’re welcome,” he tells the two, one glaring straight at him, the other trying to from the corner of his one visible eye.

“You--” the brunette starts before the darker haired man slaps the table. But that's a whole other mistake, because the brunette jumps and they both yelp as their mouths tug away from each other, and then collide.

Kuroo slips his phone into his apron pocket, biting down his laughter.

*

“Thank god,” Kenma groans, slinking into his usual set up, chair turned all the way up to the wall.

Kuroo huffs a laugh as Kenma quickly summons his DS from his pocket. There's a minute of eight bit music before he kills the sound.

“I thought they'd be here forever,” Kenma sighs, resting his head against the wall. Above him this week's current art exhibit sits tilted, a cross-stitched masterpiece that proudly exclaims, Damn with an appropriately centered rainbow accompanying it.

“They're still here,” Kuroo reminds him, falling back into the empty chair. He rests his broom up against the wall and it tilts down and away from him, catching on the main door’s frame. “And I think they can hear you,” he leans back in his chair.

Kenma looks up at the group now huddled a few feet towards the room's center with a tempered scowl. “That’ll teach them to make out in public.” He returns back to his game, unbothered.

One of them mutters, probably a complaint.

“Hold still,” their newest member chastises them. Kuroo’s never heard someone sound so cheerful and commanding before.

Bokuto. Kuroo remembers the name from the first napkin that'd been thumped against his chest, the demand, call him underlined twice.

So late in the evening, the sun has hidden itself quite well behind the taller buildings in the shopping center. He looks through the window sitting between himself and Kenma, watching as people hurry on their way home from work. He thinks about checking again, to see if he really did turn the open sign over to closed, but Kenma will just call him paranoid again.

Kuroo turns at a flash of light. The flashlight of a phone hits him in the eyes. One of them holds it up higher while Bokuto works. Kuroo snickers. Someone had told him the first time he complained about the dim lighting of the cafe's interior, trying to scrub down the dark counters, that it was for the ambiance.

He's not sure ‘customers can't find the connection between two lip rings that idiots got stuck together while making out in the dark’ would be an adequate enough of a need to get the owner's to shell out for better lighting.

“And--!” Bokuto says, somehow sounding like he's got an ensemble drum roll on his payroll, “We're done!”

The bell above the entrance door chimes and slams shut as the darker haired man runs out upon immediate extraction.

It chimes again, a second later, and he's back. Kuroo sees the scarlet hue to his face just before he doubles over in a half body bow.

“Very sorry for causing trouble!” he shouts. The door slams back shut. Kuroo watches him stiffly power walk past the window. Kenma looks up for only a second, shrugging when Kuroo meets his eyes.

“That adorable brat,” the other scowls, chasing his boyfriend? out the door. He doesn't come back.

Bokuto pulls off his sanitary gloves and drops them in the nearby receptacle. He is a stout man, the spring jacket he's wearing perhaps a size too small to contain his arms. He grins at the two of them at the table, resting his hand on his hip as he says, “Thanks for helping Oikawa!”

Confidence exudes from this man.

Kenma doesn't look up. “You did all the work.”

“He's right,” Kuroo nods, folding his arms at his chest. “I wasn't going to touch them with my bare hands.”

Bokuto cocks a dark eyebrow. A single stud just beneath the hair raises with it. “This place doesn't have sanitary gloves?”

Kuroo feels his eyes widen. “No, no we do. Let me rephrase. I wasn't going to touch them.”

Kenma snorts. Bokuto lets out a short, coughing laugh.

“I've got to get back and finish closing up,” Bokuto tells them, waving. Kuroo sees him to the door. Watching the man jog lightly across the street is just an added bonus for his trouble. Bokuto makes it two stores down before disappearing into the tattoo parlor over there.  

Kuroo checks the sign on the outside of the door before locking up again. He grabs for the abandoned broom and gets back to sweeping. Kenma turns the volume back up, and Kuroo sweeps in tune to the background music of TWEWY.

When he looks up, Kenma catches his stare.

“Yes,” he says. “You remembered to change the sign.”

*

Bokuto grins at him from the other side of the counter the next morning, just a little bit too brightly that Kuroo feels himself go still like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Morning!” he greets, cheerily, his voice reverberating over the humdrum of customers who's outdoor voices are barely half what Kuroo suspects is his indoor.

Sans his jacket, Kuroo's eyes lead him to Bokuto's well inked, well muscled arm. 

Damn.

Oikawa's arms had been intricate, beautifully rendered plants that somehow danced between each other as if they had grown together in the wild. Bokuto's different, an eclectic mess of interests and loud colors buzzing up and down the length of his arms, curving at his shoulders and blending into his natural skin.

Kuroo holds back an impressed whistle.

“You work at the tattoo shop,” he says instead. His face burns when he realizes his first words were not the standard, corporate approved greeting. Bokuto doesn't seem to mind.

“Yep,” he says, distractedly, “I help run it.”

His wide eyes run the length of the board, darting about every which way. His gaze never seems to settle and Kuroo wonders if he can read like that.

When he asks, Bokuto goes pink about the ears.

“I'm new,” Bokuto says. This, Kuroo knows. Someone like Bokuto is hard to forget. “To coffee,” he clarifies with a shrug. Kuroo's not really sure if it was a necessary addition, sensical even, but god if he doesn't feel some type of way just listening to this man talk.

“Tea drinker?” Kuroo asks, grinning.

Bokuto grimaces. “Not a chance. Stuffs like wet salad.”

“That's a new one,” Kuroo snorts. “Caffeinated wet salad.”

Bokuto laughs. It is every bit as loud and twice as infectious in person.

“I don't usually take any caffeine,” Bokuto admits, leaning on the counter just a bit.

“Can't relate. I'm on a waitlist for an IV drip,” Kuroo grins. He too leans forward on the counter, crossing an arm in front of him and resting his cheek against the other. Kuroo breathes in and it is amazing that under the burnt coffee and the settled scent of wood around them, that he can smell the thick, heady cologne clinging about Bokuto. “Did you want a recommendation?”

“Sure!”

Kuroo pulls back, grabbing for a small cup and writing the man's name across the bend of it with directions for Daichi. Bokuto watches excitedly as he hands it off.

Those eyes, Kuroo thinks, are so bright, so bewitching when they fixate back on him that he is so very, very glad when Daichi starts the grinder because he thinks his heart could be heard jack hammering away otherwise. He runs his hands against his half apron and swallows thickly.

[thomasstalsworth]

A Birthday Evening Surprise

“Naw -- naw, naw … like, blue. You know, not like th’blue y’got right there -- blue-blue. Blue.”

It was difficult to see the gnomish tailor beneath the many, many -- many -- swatches of color he was holding. Indeed, the passing observer could be forgiven for wondering just how many hands the gnome had. Four .. seven? There were swatches of cloth of all color, texture, and pattern. They were all varying states of ‘blue’, or at least some variation of ‘aquatic’. None, however, appeared to satisfy the suntanned man on the other end of the counter.

“Naw … see -- it’s gotta be blue. Like, blue.”

“... I could not more clearly be holding ‘blue’, sir.”

With the faintest hint of irritation fighting through the slake of customer service, the gnome shook his arms. The motion made it look like he had wings made of tailoring-swatches, attempting to achieve lift-off in a hundred shades of ‘blue’.

“Y-yeah, naw I see that. But I mean really blue, you know?”

Above the curl of his pink moustache, the gnome’s left eye twitched. It was not an overt expression. Perhaps the vague concept of the man someday purchasing something was enough to stifle the otherwise overwhelming inner irritation inside the tailor. Again, he waggled the many, many swatches of colorful, textured cloth.

“... I am capable of dying any sensibility of ‘blue’ you desire. However you must tell me what exact coloration you have a desire for, sir. Aquamarine -- ?” The gnome waggled his left forefinger, indicating a swatch of the color at question. “-- Ultramarine?” Again, he thrust a digit to and fro to make marker of the one -- of many -- swatches.

“Periwinkle?”

“Midnight?”

“Navy?”

“Sapphire?”

“Teal?”

“Fluorescent?”

“Suramarian?”

“Baby?”

“Powder?”

“Icy?”

“Arctic?”

“Lordaeronian?”

“Alteraci?”

“.. Light Alteraci?”

“Neon?”

And on, and on -- and on it went.

Time became a bare, vacant concept in the mind of the poor tailor. His sense of self began to dissolve as the expansive of chronological nothingness continued unabated. All that remained to ground him to the gentle sensation of reality was the burning of his arms as the swatches remained held in his hands. That and the ‘blue’ -- the ever present, unyielding and uncompromising ‘blue’ which took hold of his mind. There was nothing but blue. It invaded his thoughts, his senses -- everything color-shifted, and even the inane babble of the man was reduced to various shades and tints of the aquatic color.

Then, right about when the tailor’s ego was experiencing its final death knell -- salvation came.

“... Wait, what abou’ that one?”

The inescapable spiral of mental desolation suddenly had a rope ladder. With far more speed than was necessary, the gnome desperately attempted to look for the swatch which the man referred to. He may have snapped his own neck were it not for the bundle of swatches which he was having to hold up with his chin.

“-- Which? Which one!?”

“That one, right there.” The man extended a fat finger to tap a simple, well-dyed swatch.

“... Navy?”

“Yeah! That one’ll do. Navy. Appropriate, figure’n. Good, rich color. Can we have it made wi’ that color n’ cloth?”

The anger -- and disbelief --  which simmered beneath the gnome was immense. Were it a meal, it could have fed a hundred -- no, a thousand of Gnomeregan’s hungriest. Yet the promise of a sale kept the white-hot rage caged with the peppy veneer of customer service.

“... Of course. Of course we can. I can have it ready by this afternoon.” Anything to get you out of here and away -- far away.

“Tha’ sounds great! Here … “ The man produced the appropriate purse of coin, paying for the services. Albeit perhaps not for the exact time expended. All the same, he exited with a polite smile of broad teeth, and a wave of his fat-fingered hand.

“Great Maker … “ The gnome groaned in protest, eyes rolling as he dropped all the swatches, bundles, and fabrics into a heap on the counter.

---

Thomas had never been a huge fan of Boralus.

Sure, it was the market-hub and port capital of Kul’Tiras. There were stalls, markets, storehouses and shop fronts for everything under the stars. Rare was the oddity unfound amidst the merchants, tradesman, and seaside hawkers. There was a kind of beauty, indeed, to the Tradewinds in full afternoon swing. Shoulder-to-shoulder, screaming sellers all out-bidding each other on the most peculiar objects. How much was the fair, going price for lizard gizzard? South Sea Barnacle juice? Imported Vrykul ‘whiskey’ from the Howling Fjord? How much a pint -- a gallon?

The roar of the mercantile crowds gave a boon to Thomas’ already blooming smile.

Still, he was a Crestfall born man, and proud of it. Despite the short length of his life on that particular island, he had always found a deep kinship to it. A rememberance which followed him all through his days. Perhaps it was the idyllic recollection of youth -- but everytime he had gone back to visit, for various and sometimes unscrupulous reasons, he had found every hill to be the mountain he remembered; each stream a roaring river. Good thoughts.

The trek from the gnome’s tailoring shop was a short one. He was almost home as it was -- Boralus was suddenly rather a close destination, relatively speaking, to where he laid his head.

Stormholme.

A duchy, as it were -- and he its Duke.

That thought still made his southernly orifices clench up. It gave him the same sensation to consider as a windy day in the crow’s nest. That odd combination of excitement, fear, and abject confusion.

Through the crowds of the Tradewinds, Thomas made his way. He heft his posterior up the seastone stairs which brought man, beast, and cargo from the outer wall dockyards to the interior of the city. Passing memory gave him idle consideration of a time wherein the idea of foreigners rubbing knuckles with the inner city guard was unheard of. With a pouching of his lower lip, he tried to remember seeing a single foreigner in his youth …

An elf? Maybe? -- Oh, no, yes, there was one.

One of the auburn caterpillars which made their home on his face wiggled. It curled, turning on itself to arch in silent contemplation. He did remember an elf. She was a … ‘Quel’dorei’? What did the elves call High Elves? High was right -- she was tall. Legs which went on from sunrise to sunset, and a rear end like a ripe --

“HEY!”

Thomas took the sudden force to his shoulder in stride, instinctually aligning himself to stand proper. Sea legs did good on land as well, it turned out. The man whom he had accidentally rammed into whirled about like he was ready to whallop Thomas -- but halt at recognition.

“You barnacle-cock son of a -- … Tom? TOM! Well shit in m’pants and call me a baby! Ain’t that the Big Iron, as I live an’ steal breath? Fuck on and piss, come here!”

A sandy-haired man of wide shoulders and thick man-carpet, the perpetrator of recognition rolled forward to grasp at Thomas, hugging him. It took a moment, enough for Tom to slowly put his arms around the man before --

“OH! Piss’n ma’ boots, how’n the fel are ya’? Been more’n a minute since I caught sight of the ruddy salt-stained hog call’t ‘Owen McManus’!”

Owen released him, smiling with a shit-grin to match Thomas’ best.

“Been more’n, aye. You still runnin’ your slag-heap cock up an’ down the Eee Kay?”

“Naw, naw -- long story, ain’t done none a’ that in some time. Been a maelstrom a’ life fer’ me lately, ma’ boy.”

“That a damn fact? Well shit -- you gon’ have to split a keg with me an’ regale. I’ve been runnin’ rope with these absolute bastards up’n from Freeman’s Bones. A real salty stack a’ bitches, I promise. Proper drinkers, may even make you see double -- ha!”

The ache of old memories -- and a life now gone -- began to creep up Thomas’ spine. It was not an unpleasant sensation. Like the nibbling of liquor when you thought you’d been drinking ‘virgin’ cocktails at a party too high-heel for you.

“Shit, piss n’ damnation … I ain’t been down to Freeman’s in a long time. They ever fix th’fucking stilts on that pub? Or is it a half a ball-bag from th’salty brine by now?”

“Oh, fuck’n no! You know Halloway is too cheap fer’ that. She’s gonna let the patrons wade in at the knee before she actually pays a carpenter.”

The smile which ate up both men’s faces was as genuine as could be. Old friends splitting old words. It felt good.

“-- Well shit, McManus. Light’s honest truth be tol’, I gotta be on a gryphon by …“

Thomas checked his bare wrist, as if there were something to tell him his time.

“... an hour ago. Believe it or not -- an’ I know this’ll keep yer’ curiosity enticed until I can fuck a keg open with ya’ -- I’m damn’t married now. A real proper lady, as it were. Chil’ren too, two girls.”

There was the sudden hooting, horning, and general catterwalling of laughter. A thick, hearty laughter which only found itself a home in the throats of the working class. Eventually though, Owen quit chuckling and simply stared.

“-- Yer’ serious?”

“Aye, am.”

“Well .. fuck. How’n the fel-fuck am I abou’ to get a gal spread-eagle now? You got a wife, where’n the fuck’s m’first mate gonna be when we hit th’pub?”

A fat finger rose from Thomas’ fist, waggling at the sandy-haired man.

“First of all -- y’were always my first mate. We both know I’m prettier, an’ end a’ day -- ladies prefer t’saw a hardwood log. Second a’all -- gonna have t’rain check the pub. I’m serious, gotta be on m’way. Got a wife’s birthday t’surprise.”

Owen threw his hands up -- nearly clocking a passing merchantman in the jaw -- and sighed.

“Fine! Fine … but you come’n by Hops Line n’ Sinker by end a’ week, ask fer’ me -- or I’ll be weepin’ like a maid in her milk-shirt. Good t’see ya, Tom.”

“Good t’see you too, McManus.”

And with that, they parted ways. In good timing too, as the winged beast which was to ferry Thomas was indeed, soon to depart. Not an hour hence, that was a lie. But there were few ways to escape the hookings of a McManus ‘evening out’. So after another walk around the Tradewinds, soaking in the sights -- and some of the liquor -- Thomas returned to retrieve the item of his earlier purchase.

Happily, the gnome handed it over, all done up in a silvered gift box. Wrapped together with a neat, blue bow, the package was easily passed long to Thomas. With a tippance of another golden coin for the fine -- and speedy -- work, he left. Much to the happiness of the proprietor.

It was only hours -- albeit some in succession -- before Thomas was home. He did his usual post-gryphon-ride ritual of almost vomiting, clenching his cheeks, and checking to make sure he had not, in fact, soiled himself at some point during the journey.

He did not -- this time.

With all of his sanitary interior squared away, he crept into the manorhouse of the estate. Not the easiest feat, seeing as he was sort-of known there. Being the Duke was a bit of a burden in the stealth department, certainly. But -- he was used to avoiding detection. It was not as easy as it used to be. Back in the old days, he could simply wrap his hair up in a bun, tie it with a bandana, and stand with one hip cocked out -- the Stormwind Guard often mistook him for a poor-off lady-of-the-night. Atleast, when the lanterns were dim.

Thomas crept into he and Anna’s shared room. He looked around, eyeing the dark chambers. She was not in for bed -- not yet. With a flick of his gaze, and the gift box under one arm, he checked the time on their clock. Massive, ornate thing that it was -- five to tenth bell. Perfect!

Coming forward toward the bed, he carefully lit a pair of candles on the nightstand. A flick of a match did the job -- a fire he kept far from the gift box under his arm. Then --

With a shimmy, Thomas began the swift process of undressing.

First his boots came off, unlaced awkwardly with one arm and toed aside. He kicked the stout leathers beneath a desk, hidden for now. Similarly he tossed his coat, hurling it through the opening to their off-suite bathing chambers. Hopefully it did not land in the tub. After that, the rest of his clothes were summarily dumped within an open drawer and stuffed shut for later recollection. Now that was not important. Now? It was game-time. If his recollection of his wife’s schedule was correct, she should be coming in for bed any minute.

With himself now fully nude -- at least aside from the auburn carpet which gave him a wool tank-top and shorts -- he climbed aboard their four-poster. He fussed a few minutes, arranging and rearranging the bedding to best support his grand posture. One leg cocked up, knee raised up, other leg splayed outward, holding himself up in a pose to show off his chest. One hand was balled to a fist, aligned at his jaw -- jaw pressed out in handsome fashion, of course -- while the other clutched …

An anchor.

Well, a pillow, really. It had been within the nearly arranged gift-box. A masterful work of tailoring. The ‘pillow’ was gargantuan, more of a faux-body than anything. It was large enough to be quite the cuddle-buddy within a cloak of blankets, were need to arise. Slightly fuzzy, effortlessly soft, and wreathed in the most noble of Navy-blue dye. At the very bottom corner, on the rightmost arch of the anchor, was enscribed a tiny, golden ‘f a h’.

He held it over his groin.

And now … now all he had to do was wait.

@elaianna

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 8 - Fly Me to the Moon

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 2450

Summary: Supportive Sam, pining angel wings (turns out it’s a thing), and a post-prayer reunion where Cas and the reader acquiesce to the undeniable goodness of the connection budding between them.

A/N: To those dedicated souls in the back still reading author’s notes, chapter 9 promises a payoff of pure fluff.

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The furious bellow of a tractor trailer horn blares somewhere ahead in a highway scene shrouded in a morning mist of rain burning off the blacktop under the blazing kiss of the rising sun. Undisturbed by the distant noisy intrusion into the otherwise quiet atmosphere of the car, Sam’s fingers remain near motionless where they drape the steering wheel; the gracefully long digits occasionally flex and contract, making minute undulant adjustments to compensate for the winding curves of the road. Hazel eyes peacefully pensive, brow untroubled, the hunter stares ahead into the lifting fog, intent on the drive home.

Sat in the passenger seat, Cas contemplates the green and white mile markers sailing by in a blur along the roadside; according to his angelic reckoning – a feat of navigational honing very much akin to that of the regrettably extinct species of North American homing pigeon – the markers are off by a mere fraction of a thousandth of a mile probably owing to the result of a surveyor’s error, malfunctioning equipment, or the United States obstinate failure to adopt the metric system of measurement like the rest of the freaking developed world. The freaking, of course, is Dean’s invaluable contribution to the angel’s internal flow of meditative monologue.

It’s a fact of technicality the angel keeps to himself; although, within the limited circle of humans he calls friends – no, family – he considers Sam most likely to harbor the humor necessary to appreciate the trivial observation. Dean’s mode would be mockery. Then, of course, there’s the great unknown of you; you, who persistently dominates his thoughts now no matter where they bend. In gleaning fragmented knowledge of your past and present with each healing pass of his grace and the too brief spans of time spent in your company, he’s beginning to understand the battered but brave survivor better – well enough to guess that, if not the detail of the erroneous measurement itself, you might find his absurd notation of it nonetheless amusing. The possibility of arousing some small joy within you excites an ephemeral smile on his lips.

The anticipatory buzz of excitement is fleeting.

“Cas!” Your pained appeal slams into his celestial awareness with no loss of momentum in traversing the gulf of distance between you.

His wings jolt to the ready, an irrepressible instinct, outstretching and straining against the restrictions of their impairment upon perceiving the desperation of your plea. Reaching their broad black span upward in a single swift beat, ensnared inescapably in the confines of their hidden heavenly dimension, the appendages ripple and rustle in dissent to their damage; silken feathers tattered, plumes stripped to the bare barbs and deeply scarred in sections, they reflexively recollect but are rendered incapable of their once swift capacity for flight.

Lightning searing across and seizing his vessel’s shoulders, Cas pitches forward with a ragged groan and braces his palms against the dashboard as he struggles to subdue the rising winged revolt taking place in response to your summoning. He’s hopelessly immobilized from instantaneous arrival at your side, yet every atom of his celestial being tears at his vessel, beckoning to answer your prayer.

“What?!” Startled by the sudden commotion – the worst of which remains unseen by him – Sam swerves sharply, steering to the gravel edge of the road. “What is it?” He taps a tentative hand to Cas’ arm – every muscle of the limb beneath the layers of fabric tenses and trembles with all modicum of control the angel is able to rally. Although he doesn’t fully fathom the extent of it, Sam recognizes the symptoms of stress disturbing his friend. “Angels again?”

“No,” Cas forces the reply through a gritted jaw. “It’s Y/N. She’s hurting . . . praying for help . . . for me. Just keep-” Regaining his composure through sheer command of celestial will, fingers slipping on the vinyl dash as the initial sting of pain passes, he slumps into the scooped embrace of the seat. “Just keep driving.”

Sam’s eyes rove to the gauges of the car. He hasn’t expressed it aloud, but he worries about the effect you’re having on Cas here at the precipice of the latest looming apocalypse. He admits it’s good to see his friend backing down from do-or-die Terminator-esque soldier mode; but you, your coarseness toward him, abrasiveness in general, the angel surely feels a debt of responsibility learning there’s an evil version of himself traipsing around in the other universe who all but destroyed your mind. He thinks it’s a lot even for a stoical seraph to absorb.

Sam can’t imagine the conflict Cas feels, mainly because processing emotions verbally – or at all – isn’t exactly the angel’s strong suit. He knows well that Cas’ greatest fault and his best quality are one and the same – a habitual need to make things right no matter the personal cost. He wonders if the burden of caring for you circles back to making amends with Dean for Donatello – a chance to correct a mistake. “Is she okay? You know, if you want, we can talk about what’s going on.”

The angel knows you’re not okay; that, although he appreciates the open offer, talking will do nothing to correct this; and that, from his present distance-impaired location, he can do frustratingly little to help you. Grace uselessly surging, he may as well be human. Dismissing Sam’s concern, head sagging to his shoulder, blues squinting, he grumbles, “Sam, we’re not moving.”

“Right, got it.” Sam stows his concern, throws the clutch in gear, and swings the car back onto the highway.

A final spasm twitches the angel’s wings as they fold and refold fitfully together. He thinks – slanting his gaze at the console clock now and then, excruciating minutes of separation stretching into hours that should pass inconsequentiality for an ageless being existing since the dawn of time but instead drag – that perhaps, like the specious mile markers, time itself on this endless sun-drenched stretch of highway is faulty.

Inclined against the door jamb of the kitchen, fretting over her gleaming red manicure, Rowena pauses mid-chew of her pinky nail when she perceives a rush of footsteps resounding in the hall. She taps the chipped nail thoughtfully on her tooth – the redeemed witch didn’t sign up to babysit; she’s also wise enough to comprehend how it would bode for her if something terrible happened on her watch whether or not she was still present in the bunker to be blamed when the Winchesters and their angel arrived home to find you in a deeply disturbed state. Caring, she’s beginning to discover, comes with its own unique set of complications.

As Cas rounds the corner in purposeful, gloriously angelic, and full trench coat billowing stride toward the kitchen, Rowena bodily flings herself at him with an exaggerated squawk. “There’s our high and mighty hero! Took your time getting here, didn’t you? The poor girl’s been in there sufferin’ for hours. Hours! And where were you? Off gallivanting with a Winchester, of course!”

Cas ignores both the ridicule and the whip-tongued woman wielding it. He brushes past her explicatory flailing form as she animatedly complains about the circumstances of being left alone with you completely ignorant of your infirmity and alternately drones on about an episode with a screeching tea pot.

The angel finds you hunkered in a corner – wedged between the wall and a shelf – hugging your knees, face buried in your bent arms. Approaching cautiously, he crouches before you and, remembering your adverse reflex to his unexpected touch, resists the desire to lay a palm comfortingly to the roundness of your shoulders rising with a shallow inhalation. “Y/N?”

Hair sweeping in clumps across your red-rimmed eyes, you peer out at him through puffy lids from within the cocoon of crossed limbs. The reality is, your head stopped aching hours ago. You staged a kitchen coup because precisely when your headache peaked and subsided, your heart assumed hurting where your head left off under the barraged return of your memories. Remembering feels a whole lot like losing everything and everyone you ever loved all over again to an apocalypse. Sniffling against a long since dried well of tears, defaulting to your signature defensive defiance in affront to this new and improved onslaught of internal agony, you muster a bit of spirited pluck for the especially concerned looking seraph’s sake to prove to him you’re fine. “You’re late.”

Several lines fissuring his anxiously wrought features iron themselves out in a wash of relief. Spunk is good; it’s expected – it’s limitless spring in your soul is something he admires. “I’m sorry it took so long, but I can’t-” His blues – swiftly subduing into seas of sadness and shame – glaze and veer in avoidance to the assortment of dusty disused cooking utensils on the bottom shelf beside you. Husky tone sinking to a raw whisper, he addresses what seems to be a sensitive subject. “Well, you’d call it flying. I can’t do that, not anymore.” Regard bending back to you to gauge your reaction to his admission of angelic debilitation, he adds gravely, “In all likelihood, not ever again.”

“That’s funny.” You realize the unintended offence as soon as the words lob off your tongue.  You meant to say: ‘Hey, that’s an interesting coincidence, cause the other you can’t fly either.’

Cadence clipped, his expression hardens. “I fail to see the humor in the incapacitation of my wings-”

“No, I didn’t mean-” You grab at his sleeve, apologetic. “It’s not funny, ha ha. I meant that it’s strange. Strange, because the other Castiel – he can’t fly either. The angels, when we wouldn’t talk, they summoned him and he came in a truck – an armored truck – by himself. An angel travelling by land, it was . . . weird.” Grimacing, it occurs to you that you’ve managed to deride Cas’ feathery debility and imply he’s strange and weird in the same breath. Apparently, your ability to translate thoughts into lucid unoffending speech is short-circuiting. You try again, because the idea of band-aiding the situation with more syllables sounds super sound inside your noggin. “Not that you’re weird, you-”

“You remember all of that?” he interrupts what was likely to be another unintentional seraphim slight. There’s a suggestion of forgiveness in the subtlest of smiles skirting his mouth.

“I’m remembering a lot of things,” you reply, watching the smile shift upward to crease the corners of his eyes at the news. Self-conscious when your gaze catches his, your focus falls from the glimmer of gladness flooding his face to your fingers continuing to clutch at the fabric of his coat sleeve. You should let go. You don’t want to let go. It’s strange and weird to still be holding on, but he hasn’t made any motion of protest. Here, and there, Cas – the first person you saw in this world, or Castiel – the last face you saw in yours, the angel is a constant. It’s why you prayed to him, this him in a tea pot induced panic when your miserable memories came crashing back to your consciousness all at once; he’s your touchstone in the good.

If he notices the epic struggle of self-discovery taking place in the fluctuating pressure of your fingertips attached to his coat sleeve, he doesn’t mention it. “You’re remembering – that’s good.”

“Is it? Most all of it – it’s bad. Really bad.” You know he’s right – in theory it’s good. In practice it cinches your fist tighter and gives you greater reason to hold on to him.

“It’s good because it means you’re recovering,” he states – at least one of you has an accurate read on deciphering your thoughts. “How’s your head?”

Biting your lower lip, you tease, “Still attached.”

Chin tilting, gaze narrowing, he chides, “Y/N.”

You shrug. “Better . . . I guess. The noise sensitivity resolved the hundredth or so time witchy Nanny McPhee ingratiatingly asked me if she could do anything else – ‘Anythin’ at all, dear!’ – that didn’t involve boiling water in brass pots.”

A skeptical humph vibrates in his throat. He casts you a doubtful stare to punctuate his pessimism over your lack of certainty.

“Okay, better, definitely better,” you concede and posit his next thought before he can mutter it. “And before you ask if I’m tired, the only tired I am is of being stuck in this damn bunker.”

“Can you stand?” Reaching his free hand across the sleeve you have securely embedded in your grasp, he glides the rough pads of his fingers gently along the ticklish inner surface of your thumb and upturned wrist; when you don’t flinch away from him, he allows his light caress to linger there longer, heat sparking on your skin.

“I-I think so,” you stutter, attention torn between the simple question and the balminess of his flesh where it grazes yours.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” His tender touch trails to your elbow; encircling your arm, he helps you rise to your feet. He pivots and sidesteps to ensure you don’t feel cornered without escape upon standing.

You wobble on your disused legs, using the unsteadiness as an excuse to lean into him for support. “A walk? You mean, outside?”

He peers down at you, aspect and affect afflicted with an utter sense of soberness as square as his jawline at this proximity. “No, a walk on the moon,” he retorts.

Puffing an airy burst of laughter, a grin broadens your cheeks. “Did you just crack a joke?”

He nods, the shine of a smile again brightening his serious countenance. “Dean mentioned recently that I should try to lighten up. Was that a suitable occasion to do so?”

“Yes. And yes to the walk!” Skipping several steps backward, socked heels slipping on the tile floor, your palm reluctantly parts from the anchoring stability of his chest as you dash for the door to change out of pajamas and into the clothing you previously deemed stupid – considering you had nowhere to wear it – which was generously purloined for you by Sam and Dean from their mother’s closet. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back!” You pause at the threshold and flash him an enthusiastic parting grin before scampering down the hall.

Exhaling a contented sigh, Cas’ lashes shutter to envision the delight of your grin etched into his memory. He thinks, based on the warmth radiating from within his vessel’s chest, that your joy, too, is everlastingly emblazoned on his heart. The experience of bringing you that bit of happiness, it’s so much more meaningful than the bounds of angelic imagination permitted him to conceive; and, the angel who wants nothing for himself wants more of this exhilarating sensation.

Next: Ch. 9 - The Fable of the Fawns