#Just a little bit of cosmic horror

[kit-williams]

It's just a dream... right?

You had wished your Thousand Son Ari a good night. He was pretty happy with your collection of occult books and the fact there was a shop nearby. You had done so much research into trying to take care of a Thousand Son but none of them showed interest until Ari did. You relaxed into your comfortable bed and drifted off.

Ari got up and started to watch you sleep... and the warp slowly fills the room as he mutters and whispers his spells. Your eyes start to dart under your eyelids as your dream shifts and contorts into something distorted... people having too many eyes... to many mouths... and suddenly everything turns into like Barbie threw up.

The bruised color purple and pinks filled your vision as you were thrown around like you were in the ocean. You went under? a current of this miasma and you could feel your body pull apart and put itself back together as you land on a polished floor. Large pyramids of white and gold are in the distance and you walk closer. You are passed by other Thousand Sons and Rubriks.

"Ari?" You chirp out not noticing the Sorcerers stopping and looking around as if they heard something. You continue to move closer and closer to the pyramids as you continue to call out to Ari.

"Hello little one." A smooth voice speaks to you and you stop and looked up at the horned helmet with the brightest glowing blue eyes. His head tilted slightly as you maintained eye contact with him. You couldn't feel the way the warp was bleeding out of your eyes, nose, and mouth. But with this sorcerer around warp started to bleed from nearly every orifice and pore. "Are you looking for something or someone?"

"My Thousand Son... Ari have you seen him? Though this is funny... normally we can't understand you." You laugh softly as the sorcerer hums.

"Perhaps Father could help with your search." He says starting to corral you towards the pyramids.

"What can my dad do to help?"

"No child... my Father... Ari's Father... the genesire." He explained gently.

You feel a wrongness in your gut as you try to move away, "No... no I'm good."

"No child you are not good." His eyes flashed brightly and you nodded as you realized you weren't good.

"Please," You whimpered softly, "I need to find Ari... I'm scared. I don't like it here." The feeling of wrongness grows as you see those weird fire like symbols on others.

"Of course child." He cooed, "I am Ahzek Ahriman." He said as you were now approaching the pyramid and your mind told you to not go inside but that fear left you when Ahriman touched your back and you walked with him.

Your eyes widened at the endless library that seems to spiral up but also down. You felt sick and dizzy as it looked like it was moving you backed away holding your head. Before you hear a chuckle behind you. You look over your shoulder and your eyes widen again as you must be dreaming as there is a red man with a mane of red hair and a single glowing blue eye. Horns on his head and digigrade legs but he was impossibly tall with big wings that were a gradient from dark blue at the tips to red at the base. But he was so big.

"Hmmm too much for you little one?" He smiled... it was so charming looking as he snapped his fingers and suddenly he was people sized. Not Ari sized but just a normal man sized... built like a brick shithouse mind you and still with large wings but people sized. "Better dear?"

"Y-yeah. Alright dream bird-" You say before Ahriman interrupts.

"His name is Magnus."

"Okay Magnus... I'm looking for my Ari."

"Your Ari...." He says before walking closer and touching your face. Normally you wouldn't let a man touch you like this but it was a dream and you sighed into the touch, closing your eyes. When you open them again you scream as that weird miasma poured out of his eye and mouth, you could feel it wash over you. "Oh there they are.... Thank you my dear... you should wake up."

Your eyes snap open as you scream and sob. Ari is by your side right away and you hug him tightly. "Ari... my Ari... you're okay." He says something as he rubs your back pleased with himself.

[revenge-of-the-shit]

No hi I'm back again because after sitting on it for a while it was like Arcane suddenly saw all those issues it presented and abruptly decided that it was time to turn a blind eye to it instead in favour of a greek-tragedy-cosmic-horror-doomed-soulmates storyline. Whether this is due to studio interference or due to the actual politics of the writers, I don't know, but at the end of the day Arcane disappointingly fails to break free of the neoliberal messaging that deeply pervades any media that even tries to be progressive. It presents all these very real systemic issues, then either forgets about it or slaps on a last-minute band-aid solution that only serves to brush it under the rug.

I will grant that a part of it is just the fact that they simply didn't have enough time. A lot of this could've been expanded on had we just had one more arc, or even just three four-episode acts instead. The quick pacing honestly did Arcane a disservice this time. They had huge ideas, many of which were great, but they simply did not have enough time.

Some things that I wish we saw more of:

Ekko's community building and the fruits of his effort (and to add on to this: let him see his tree again!!! wtf!!)

Jinx and Sevika (and Ekko!!!) really, truly leading a united Zaunite revolution for longer than like half an episode that forces literally anyone in Piltover to consider the consequences of their actions

On that same point: meaningful change that takes down systemic barriers - better public infrastructure for Zaun, better funding for health issues, examining injustices committed by enforcers - this was only barely addressed by Ekko ("you're destroying our vents and polluting our waters") and then like never talked about again

Putting Sevika on the council as the singular token Zaunite is so painful like I can tell you as someone who's been the only queer non-white voice in the room that it's not as progressive and cool as it might seem to be. It's painful and torturous and just reeks of tokenism. A good first step would be to have a council with an equal amount of members between Piltover and Zaun but that's not enough to just have that!!

Jayce and Caitlyn actually having like, even a moment, just to think about what they've done to hurt, to oppress others, in their pursuit of "justice". Making weapons you never said you would and gassing a city of civilians should be thought about more, actually

Like there could've been so much more to Jayce and Caitlyn to make their characters even more well written. At their core they truly want to do good, they care, they earnestly want to help, but they are also raised in privilege and I want to see them wrestle with the biases they've been soaked in more.

I already talked about Maddie and the enforcers in a different post but just... more nuance about enforcers and how even the nicest enforcer you know will happily gas civilians and stand by and watch unnecessary violence. Like. Loris was one of the "good enforcers" but he helped to gas civilians too. Did we forget that

Vi!!! Just. More of Vi. She got the short end of the stick this season. The writer's punching bag. I wish we got more time to actually explore her trauma and to just... give her a break. But also more time on her thinking on her own decision to go bluebelly.

[inhuman-obey-me]

True Forms: Sides + New Characters

Once upon a time, long, long ago, we wrote some true demon forms for the demon brothers. And we had so much fun with it that we've returned with a follow-up! Now featuring not only demons but also some angels, a reaper, and one immortal "human" sorcerer.

No in-between forms for MC's sake this time though -- we die like men being driven mad by unspeakable, incomprehensible horrors.

Like before, content warning for unsettling, eldritch descriptions and body horror.

DIAVOLO

The Crown Prince of the Devildom doesn't often go into this true form -- it's incredibly dangerous, and if you see it, you might as well already be in your grave.

The first thing that hits you is the scent of sulfur and burning, so strong that you feel like you're choking on it, suffocating even though there's no smoke to be seen.

There is, however, plenty to be seen of him, as his form is utterly massive -- every direction you look, he seems to stretch infinitely around you, no end in sight to his immense presence.

To his sides, sparks and flashes of gold and darkness alternately flicker off of black flame wings as they languidly float back and forth behind him, singeing the very air they occupy.

The rest of his body mostly transforms into that of a dragon, much like the ornament you normally see upon his chest, covered in brilliant triangular golden scales except for the glowing red orb at his center.

The orb pulses like a heartbeat, and in it, you see yourself -- no, rather, you see a distortion of yourself, all the corruption and cruelty that hides in your very core laid bare before your eyes.

Meanwhile, fire roars everywhere, filling every open space around him and spiraling into a grand crown upon his head.

Despite the noise of the flames, however, his commanding voice can be heard clearly, a low rumble like the roar of a dragon yet distinctly regal and elegant in its tone.

On his chest, the black marks you see in his more humanoid demon form expand and twist outward, hypnotizing you as they wrap like vines around your body.

You hardly even notice as they capture you in a world of complete darkness -- darkness that overtakes not just your senses, but your mind, your soul, your whole existence, like a fire that burns away everything until there's nothing left in you but the abyss, all else turned to ash.

BARBATOS

To witness the true form of the ever loyal and capable steward to the Crown Prince of the Devildom, your fate is already sealed -- one of demise and ruin.

His body shifts and stretches, and stretches, and s t r e t c h e s -- you cannot see where, or if, he ever ends -- like time itself.

His body resembles that of a dragon -- though not the same of his master, but those creatures known across the human world as the lóng, the ryū, the druk, the nāga.

His face blurs, rots, melts -- bits of bone showing through flesh and one eye now just an orb of empty, everlasting black.

The spindly, web-like horns that grace his head grow thicker and longer, the talon-like ends even sharper than before.

Whiskers sprout from his face that are slick and forked at the ends, like his more humanoid-demon form tail, an electric buzz sparking at the end of them.

The scales along his body are black and teal, that familiar lightning pattern reflected in some while you catch glimpses of other universes as they gleam.

It is then that you notice you are slowly being buried in sand -- it cascades off his body, from the ridges in his back and gaps between those captivating scales.

Time itself seem to distort around him as he swims in the air, the very fabric of space rippling and warping against his form.

When he opens his mouth to roar, all that can be seen is a void of space inside, an all-consuming black hole.

There is an awfully maddening absence of sound, the very weight of silence seemingly suffocating and crushing you as you try to gasp for air.

The longer you stare into his face, his form -- the more you get lost and trapped across universes, seeing every branch of time lay itself out before you, over and over and over and over...

Your soul will be trapped forever in that endlessness, true death never taking hold as no reaper can ever reach you to claim it.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Every ghost story about haunted suits of armor originates from the true form of Mephistopheles.

In this form, he truly represents his noble heritage as proud knights tasked with defending the royal family -- grand, intimidating, gallant.

From afar, he seems exactly like those stories, an empty suit of golden armor with eerie peridot green lights glowing as eyes through the helm.

Atop this helm, a showy plume of magenta feathers swoops in a proud arc, and from his back, a grand set of opalescent, translucent feathered wings stretches impossibly wide.

Each flap of these wings creates torrential whirlwinds, tornadoes that tear destructively through entire cities in their path, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake.

Up close, however, it becomes clear that the armor is hollow because he is the armor -- though he usually keeps most of them closed for protection, eyes of green and magenta can emerge all over the gleaming metal plates.

Also dotting the plates are various gems and precious crystals, embedded throughout as if daring someone to come close enough to try to steal them, tempt them as demons so notoriously do.

Every movement, too, deafens with the cacophony of jewels crashing against coins, ringing out for miles and miles around him.

Looking upon this form always makes you feel slightly off, as though he's not standing quite straight, which in turn makes you feel slanted as if constantly slipping down sideways.

However, it's best not to look at all, as gazing upon him melts your flesh away to pools of thick, smooth black ink which indeed would make you slip and fall.

Before one would fully melt away, he opens up to consume any potential wearer of the armor, crushing them inside and using their bones to reinforce the strength of the metal.

Because of this, streaks of ink are always running down the seams where the armor opens, dripping endlessly in deep pools everywhere he goes.

LUKE

Before Luke descends as an angel, a soft smell of grassy sunlight fills the air, and you feel a gentle breeze pick up alongside you.

The sound of bells chimes softly as if rung by this breeze, though no bells can be seen.

Slowly, bursts of tiny stars shimmer into view as if creating a veil from which the angelic child steps forth.

Once he has appeared, the stars gather in small clusters, dancing around him as if engaged in a waltz.

Being a lower-ranking angel still, his form is generally humanoid and looks much like the Luke you know and love.

However, his shape looks more unstable at the edges, buzzing and shaking like a Chihuahua.

Though most of him is covered up by his Celestial garb, you notice eyes peeking out from between the folds, gazing up at you unblinkingly, staring right into your soul.

The eyes on his face, on the other hand, remain peacefully closed, as though you're looking upon a child asleep.

As he delivers his message, the scent of wheat and honey drifts from him, filling the air around you.

Although this form does no harm to you to look upon, you get the distinct feeling that you would fall into endless despair if you were to fail him.

Michael likes to send him to would-be runaways for this reason.

RAPHAEL

Though he may be the youngest of the seraphs, his form is no less grand and imposing.

You hear him before you see him -- the melody of a flute, a tintinnabulation, mixed with an enchanting voice singing words in a tongue you cannot comprehend.

Six large wings surround him, feathers light grey with the same iridescent sheen found on those of homing pigeons, spanning far and wide.

Where his face might be instead are twisting golden rings filled with eyes, swirling in a mesmerizing pattern that captivates you.

His arms, too, are made of a stack of metallic rings that mirrors armor, though no flesh resides within them, and interlock with the shapes of diamonds and spades.

Various chimes hang off like tassels at various points along those metallic arms, ringing endlessly.

In place of his torso is an opalescent crystal ribcage, though there are no organs for it to protect.

A number of spears, pointing downward and outward, fan around his bottom half, with needles circling golden thread around the spear "boning" -- making his bottom half resemble a cage hoop skirt.

Above the swirling rings of his face rests a halo, made up of floating spear tips, sharp and deadly.

And behind him, around him, are more rings that are linked in circles like an atom, so numerous that they are reminiscent of chainmail, all while swirling at dizzying speeds.

Surreal light emits from every element of his form -- every ring, every feather, every pointed end -- giving him an unsettling and ethereal glow.

Anger him in this form, and the mix of melodies becomes mind-numbingly discordant and cacophonous while numerous spears glisten with their sharp ends pointed towards you, ready to strike.

SIMEON

When Simeon was a seraph, his form shared a number of features with that of Raphael's: twisting golden rings for a face, an iridescent crystal ribcage, the stacks of rings for arms, and that surreal, unsettling light emitting from every element.

However, his form differed greatly as well -- his halo was actually an ouroboros, dotted with eyes peering into your very soul and lined with large, long spikes.

His six wings were not made of feathers but of fire, their flames a striking and dangerous blue -- four flanking his back, while the other two surrounded his head of twisting rings, protecting his face with their chaste embers.

His "legs" were composed of crystal shards, slowly twisting and catching the light to create a constant prismatic display.

Past the faint crackling of flames and metallic sonority, you could hear a soft and distant harp that lulled the senses.

His seraph form somehow evoked both a sense of serenity and a gnawing, unnerving sense of dread.

Since his demotion to archangel, however, his form is a bit different -- more telluric, more humanoid, with wings more traditionally white and feathery at his back.

The delicate music of the harp that used to accompany him is gone, now replaced by the brash announcement of trumpets.

His more exquisitely airy elements have become more earthen, those radiant crystal pieces composed now of jagged rock and gleaming metal instead.

So too do fragments of steel float around and over his right side, resting upon his shoulders like a cape flowing gracefully from shining pauldrons.

Drifting idly just past his fingertips, a sword rests across his form, long and thin, both a tool and yet inherently part of him, dancing easily at his command and always ready to strike.

Each metallic sliver is dotted with eyes, peering and watching over you, at once benevolent and yet you can feel them -- watching you, judging you, sharply observing every move you make.

Another eye watches as well, from above, gazing serenely from the center of a spinning seven-pointed star which serves as his head.

There are no other facial features to speak of, but the look in that single blue orb expresses all there is to understand.

Though his voice rings clear in your mind with any message he may have from above, you can see your fate clearly from the moment your eyes connect with his gaze.

THIRTEEN

As a reaper, there is no question of death's approach when Thirteen transforms into her true form.

You become aware of long, low bells in the distance -- for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

From the moment you hear that very first clang, you cannot move, an icy chill washing over you and leaving you frozen in place.

However, it is not fear that you feel, but instead an odd sense of peace that overtakes your mind and makes the world around seem distant and hazy.

All light fades from view except the eerie blue flame of the candle she carries in one hand, along with the vivid green fire that takes the place of one eye.

Through the flickering light, you can see where bones replace flesh -- a half jaw, a sharp cheekbone, a partially exposed ribcage.

Her other eye seems to become more reptilian in nature, scales surrounding her brow bone and the hollows of her cheeks, jagged and harsh.

Her teeth are sharp and large, the exposed jaw making it appear as if they are locked in a menacing grin.

Gauze wraps around her neck, dark ichor seeming to seep through it and drip onto her chest and into the hollow of her ribs.

She floats towards you, no legs to be seen as she rolls atop mist and fog that sprawls ever outward, reaching the edges of your vision.

Within that mist you catch a glimpse of fluttering iridescence -- butterflies, their wings part black and shining with opalescent darkness.

No longer does she wear the tattered black robes so often thought as the reaper's uniform -- instead, long pieces of black chiffon, tulle, and mesh twist around her form, giving the illusion of a cloak.

Long, sharp claws wrap around her scythe, its blade broad and keen -- but it shimmers in the light, its form malleable and able to transform into whatever the reaper so desires.

However she decides to capture your soul, the last thing reflected in your eyes will be the blue flame of the candle extinguished, its wax melted away with the end of your life.

SOLOMON

Hello, my adorable apprentice

What's wrong? Don't you recognize me?

It's me, Skeletiano Solomon

The true form of an immortal human sorcerer is...

Yeah this seems right

Right?

[springtimebat]

A Cthulu-Type figure sketch!

[spoilers-ahead]

so sososooo tempted to get thrown head first back into my pjo phase

[ranvwoop]

this year was Absolutely unrelenting.

[waywardsalt]

feeling insane abt my bellum x linebeck oneshot again thank god

[asxgard]

Omg I love your jack Abbott writings! All of the written so well. So I have a request if theyre open.

Jack x nurse reader who had a fling but it ended soooo badly because emotions weren’t being regulated. This makes reader quit PTMC and work elsewhere when she finds out she’s pregnant. Never tells jack. Cut to a year or two later, and they manage to cross paths where jack realizes it’s his son/daughter, feelings get thrown out the bag, and they all lived happily ever after?

in the wreckage | one shot

Dr. Jack Abbot x ex!f!nurse!reader

Requested

Summary: It’s in the wreckage of what was that you find hope for what could be.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: Thank you, anon, I hope you enjoy! I struggled between giving him a son or daughter here, frankly because I really enjoyed both in my head. So like it has been in the past, it came down to a coin toss lol

Jack strikes me as both ‘“I walk you to your door and maybe kiss you goodnight on the second or third date” slow, intentional, traditional man and “if I don’t talk about my feelings, they don’t exist” longing, no title, all physical man’ so I float between them lol

Word Count: 3.1k (I blacked out)

Most of my works are 18+ for adult language and content.

Warnings: afab!reader, ex-situationship, implied age gap, foul language, hurt/comfort, mild references to smut, unplanned/surprise pregnancy, not telling jack about said pregnancy (reader being in the wrong oof), single mom!reader, hospital settings, medical inaccuracies, injuries relating to a car crash, angst with a happy ending, fluff

not beta read

It had started in the heat of the moment, neither of you being particularly careful with your feelings. The collection of lingering glances and secret smiles had brought it all to the surface until it was just the two of you after a bad shift. You had found comfort in each other that night, and several nights afterwards, lost in heat and an unspoken understanding of the horrors you faced each day.

Jack Abbot was a man of many complexities, though you thought that was what had sucked you in in the first place. The mysterious edge always left you wanting, always kept you guessing, and that just seemed like a recipe for disaster.

Perhaps because it had started on uncertain ground, always leaving you on the edge of your seat, left the relationship constantly feeling strained. What was worse was that neither of you called attention to it and simply let the insecurities fester. Simply never brought up what you were, or what you wanted to be, or got too personal to be vulnerable, though Jack had more of an affinity for that last one than you did.

You smiled at him less and less in the hallways of the Pitt, overwhelmed by the unknowing eating at your insides. You avoided him at work. He avoided your calls. Sooner or later, one of you always turned up at the other’s door. It became habitual, like a moth to a flame.

It only made your downfall so much worse.

—

You had wanted a clean break, and leaving the Pitt had been like leaving home. It had been necessary after that night with Jack, unable to look at him, let alone continue working with him. Not after what he said — not after you had asked for more and he had calmly, collectively, refused you. Like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t understand.

It had done more than just hurt and embarrassed you, it had burned.

Like everything had reached its crescendo before stopping cold. All the feelings buzzing around your chest had been too much in the aftermath, so you left. Just left.

The two little pink lines staring at you just a few weeks later were a bitter pill to swallow. A cruel cosmic joke reeling you back to the man you were trying to run away from — leaving a constant reminder of the downfall. Bile had risen in your throat, and you felt a petty feeling rise with it.

He didn’t need to be in your life. You could do it alone. Who said you had to tell him? Perhaps that was wrong of you, a bit too childish, but you were still angry. Still running.

As your belly swelled, your feelings started seeming less bitter and more sweet. You moved out of your crappy one-bedroom apartment and into a fresh start, committing to your choice. Committing to the child in your womb and the choices that had led you there.

There was a tiny part of you that wanted to reach out, let him know, but you grew embarrassed each time you stared at his contact. You did not want him to feel like you were trapping him after he had made it clear that nothing more could happen between you.

For months you struggled with your decision, trying to wrangle your worries and insecurities about being a single mother. All the work, all the money, all the stress it was going to bring you.

It all seemed to fade away when you held your son in your arms, so small and screaming, and yet your heart filled with joy. He was perfect, with tiny fingers and toes, small tufts of dark hair atop his head. His eyes gave you pause — as they were unmistakably Jack’s.

You cried without really knowing why. Joy, longing, loss, love, or something in between had boiled up and then boiled over. Jack should know, echoed quietly in the back of your mind, he should know he has a son.

It felt too late to say it. You had had months to say something, anything and chosen not to. It was too late.

Despite the hardships you faced as a new mom facing it alone, Daniel was loved fiercely and spoiled when you could manage it. Your friends and co-workers helped when they could, and never let the absence of a father grow when they could help fill the void. Even your old co-workers came to see you and your son, visiting with curiosity soaking their eyes.

If any of them caught on, they didn’t say anything.

—

It felt crazy to you that a year since your son had been born had passed so quickly, so fleetingly. You worked a lot to afford rent, food and childcare, but even still, it felt strange that a year had gone by without fanfare.

Your friend had been a lifesaver when she allowed you to use her backyard for his first birthday party. It would be a small affair, with only a handful of kids Daniel knew from daycare and a few of your friends and their kids. Perlah and Dana even stopped by, giving their well wishes from everyone.

When you ran out of ice for the coolers, you and one of your co-workers, Liam, offered to go get more at the corner store. You left Daniel in the caring hands of Dana and promised to be back in only a few minutes.

A few minutes turned into a few hours after you had been blindsided and t-boned by a car trying to run a red light. You felt hazy when the paramedics arrived, carefully trying to apply pressure to the gash on Liam’s leg.

When you were wheeled into PTMC, you felt a flood of panic. Hadn’t you asked to head to Alleghany East? Maybe it had only been in your head. You prayed to whatever was out there that you would only see Robby.

Fate had other plans, it seemed, as Jack was the one who had come to the ambulance doors to assess you.

He stared at you like he had seen a ghost before buckling down and getting to work. He checked your pupils and your vitals, muttering something about a concussion, before checking over the handful of cuts the glass had made when the windows broke.

You were stable, so they wheeled you back into an open room to wait for a head CT. Jack lingered in the doorway, before shooing away an intern who had come to clean your wounds.

“How’s my friend? Is he okay?”

Jack pulled the stool close to you, “He’s just a room over. Nasty laceration, concussion, but Robby’s taking care of him. He’ll be okay.”

You nodded and took a deep breath. You picked up your phone to call Dana.

“I shouldn’t be long.” You told her after explaining what had happened.

“I’ll be right there.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Like hell I don’t. Don’t you worry about a thing, I’ll take care of it.”

You sighed, “Thank you, Dana.”

Jack, who had silently been cleaning your wounds, spoke, “So…is it just me you don’t talk to anymore?”

You scrunched your eyebrows and looked at him quizzically, “Excuse me?”

Hazel eyes flicked up to meet yours.

“I thought you made it clear that was the last thing you wanted.” You said, tone hard, lips dipping into a frown.

Jack let out a long sigh. “It was a bad shift. Bad day. It doesn’t excuse what I said. I was running from it being something real, I’m sorry.” A long pause echoed. “But I’d like to try and at least be friends.”

Friends? It ached somewhere deep in your chest. You could not be friends. You had made that decision over a year before and decided against having him in your life at any capacity. You frowned at him, looking away from his face before you could crumble.

“I don’t think that’s wise.” You said quietly.

He nodded, pulling over the suture kit. That seemed to be the end of it.

You let him finish working while the silence washed over you, thick and guarded. Your thoughts felt cloudy, and your head hurt, your muscles ached, but doubt began to creep in.

Had you made the right decision? You wanted to believe so. With one foot constantly out the door, would he even make a good father? Had you waited too long to even consider telling him? You felt stuck in your head, going over all the what ifs until you felt queasy.

A knock sounded on the door, pulling you from your thoughts. Dana’s pleasant smile greeted you, but it was your son in her arms that made you flush with distress. You stared at her with wide eyes, heart picking up speed.

“Someone was worried.” She told you simply, but her eyes flickered to Jack.

Jack looked up at Dana, then at the boy in her arms. The toddler was tucked against her neck, leaning on her like he was trying to sleep. Jack schooled his features easily, though it looked like he was disappointed for just a fraction of a second, which sent you reeling.

“Should I have someone call your…boyfriend?” Jack asked tightly, looking back down at the stitch work.

“No boyfriend.” You frowned, but accepted your son from Dana eagerly. Did Jack think that you’d had a baby with someone else? Good. Good. That was for the best. Bile burned your throat.

“How’re you feeling, kid?”

“I’ll be fine, thank you. Can you call my parents? I’ll need help getting him home.”

“Of course, I’ll be just outside if you need anything else.” Dana said, eyes moving to Jack and then back to you.

Your cheeks heated and you held your son tightly to your chest. You rubbed his back and hummed softly, though it was more to comfort yourself than him. Maybe Jack would not notice, just finish his stitches and be on his way and you could go on pretending this had never happened.

Though, thinking Jack wouldn’t notice something was a fool’s game. Your son turned his head to look at him, blinking his tired hazel eyes at Jack. Like you had thought when you first saw them, they were like a mirror of each other.

Alarm raced through Jack’s features, eyes flickering from Daniel and back to you, eyebrows raised, breath caught. You stopped breathing, and your joints locked into place like you were bracing for it to all fall apart. He just stared at you.

“How old is he?”

“Jack—”

“How. Old. Is. He?”

“A year…today.” You said quietly. Meekly. Words cutting your throat like they had been glass.

It was simple enough to do the math, and his expression hardened. He stood, and the air shifted to something uncomfortable, uneasy, uncharted, unknown.

“Jack—wait—let me explain.”

“So I take it this is why everyone has been so secretive about why you left.”

“They didn’t know. No one knew.”

He gestured to where Dana stood in the hall.

“No one knew for certain.” You elaborated, trying to defend them. Perhaps you could handle him being mad at you, but not the family you had made in the Pitt. You had never told them, and they had never asked, though from how she had handed your son to you, it was clear Dana had known.

“You were never going to tell me.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

Shame bubbled in your gut, low and searing, working its way upwards until tears formed. What you had been bracing for hit you like a punch to the chest — hurting more than that car had inflicted.

“I thought it was the right choice at the time.”

He scoffed and recoiled, his expression flinching between pain and anger.

“Jack—” you sighed, leveling your voice so you didn’t raise it. “—you told me I could never understand you, or the role you played here. That asking for any more from you was pointless…that it had all been a mistake and I needed to move on. I really couldn’t bear to work with you after that, so I left. I didn’t know I was pregnant yet. Was it wrong to keep it from you once I found out? …yes. But I was hurt.” You swallowed tightly, and wiped away your tears, annoyed they were forming.

He walked to the far wall away from you, then paced back toward you before repeating himself, hands on his hips. His expression broached closer to unreadable, which fueled your panic. With a long, heavy sigh, he stopped to lean against the wall. Never one to stray from eye contact, he found your eyes. Heavy, hard, reserved.

“I thought it was for the best. I didn’t want you to feel like I was trapping you, especially since it seemed like kids were the last thing on your list. I just wanted a clean break. I doubted my decision a lot—”

“And yet, you did nothing about it.”

You bit your lip. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I really messed up, I know that now. Time kept slipping away from me. I was still figuring out parenting — I still am — and to throw co-parenting into the mix? It felt like an impossible climb.”

“If you had never come here today…if Dana had never brought him in…you never would have said anything.”

More tears came as shame burned your face, “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know.”

Silences with Jack used to be comfortable, easy, as simple as breathing. The one now settling between you? It ached, it burned, it crushed.

“What’s his name?” Jack asked quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Daniel.”

You swore you saw his eyes grow glassy.

“I made the wrong decision, and I’ll own up to that.” You admitted quietly. “I can’t change what I did or didn’t do, and I’ll never be able to apologize enough for it. I just thought this…this would be easier. For everyone involved.”

“I’m involved now. Don’t fight me on that.”

“I won’t.” You vowed.

—

Trust was built back slowly, through long conversations and with actions followed through. It had been tense and awkward as your son grew to know Jack as his father, though he fell into the role like he was made for it. It only made the guilt over stealing a year of your son’s life from him hurt all over again.

The tension and burning guilt were the hardest thing for you two to overcome. While he never raised his voice, he would grow accusatory when he remembered how much he had lost out on. You would double down on the night you had left him behind — or perhaps it truly was him leaving you behind — and the words he had said to you.

Neither of you were particularly blameless, not really. The relationship that had been was not one formed on a solid foundation, so everything felt like new territory. The pull of will they, won’t they, as Princess had put it, constantly making you question where you stood.

You just wanted to focus on co-parenting effectively, and Jack just wanted to focus on making up for lost time. That felt easy enough.

But something from the past — from the wreckage of what you had been — lingered like some part of you and Jack was haunted. An echo of what should have been fizzled just below the surface.

On the first night you felt secure enough to leave Daniel at Jack’s apartment, you settled in his kitchen to clean up a bit of the mess from dinner. Jack’s guest room had been quickly converted to be a bedroom for his son, pulling together everything he needed without complaint.

Jack wandered back into the kitchen after settling Daniel down for the night. You hummed softly, and Jack leaned against the doorway without saying anything.

“I know this is hard for you.” Jack said, hands in his pockets. “Thank you for giving me tonight.”

You smiled even though a sadness lingered at leaving your son somewhere overnight that was not his home. But this would need to be his home, too, so you swallowed it.

“You two need some quality time,” after I ripped the beginning away from you. “You two will have fun tomorrow.”

“...I got an extra ticket, if you’d like to come with us.”

Hope bloomed, “You did?”

“I’d like to put the past behind us. Move forward together.” He said, eyes never leaving yours.

Forgiveness had come with your son’s echoing laughter and hues of blue shimmering against your skin, as light moved through the water. Daniel pointed up at the sharks in their tanks while Jack held him, watching in his own kind of excitement, a smile cracking against the corner of his mouth.

Jack had grabbed your hand without saying anything.

You intertwined your fingers and let out a long breath of relief.

—

Something like love had come in a flourish after Daniel’s first words: dada. It might have felt like a punch to the gut, another cosmic joke, if it hadn’t lit up Jack’s face in a smile you had never seen before. It warmed the ache in your chest and decided it was okay for Jack to have this first.

It felt like forgiving yourself.

You ended up staying the night, curling up against Jack’s chest while your son slept soundly in the next room. Neither of you wanted to rush what was blossoming between you, or jinx it. If you were going to go for it, you each deserved steady ground to stand on.

“You’re doing really well with him.” You whispered. “I was worried it would feel clunky or unnatural to have you around. But it works.”

He looked at you for a long time. “I don’t want to mess this up, too.”

You softened, “I think that’s what parenthood is. Messing up and trying to do better, every day.”

“Do you think relationships are the same?” He asked, low and deliberate.

“Yeah, I do.”

It felt like a confession.

He leaned down to kiss you, but paused just before his lips met yours. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you wet your lips with your tongue.

“I like what we have. I don’t want to screw it up by trying to be something we’re not.” You said quietly, though you felt the pull of wanting to kiss him.

Co-parenting had been bleeding closer to a relationship for quite some time, but you had not wanted to be the one who spoiled it.

“I’m not going to run this time, not if you don’t.”

You swallowed, focusing on his eyes, “I’m here to stay.”

He captured your lips, pulling you flush against him, one hand going behind your head and the other settling on your hip. It was hesitant, but full of feeling, of all things left unsaid.

It felt like was a promise.

same prompt, but with Robby: A Fresh Start

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Dr. Abbot taglist: @flyinglama @valhallavalkyrie9 @melancholyy-hill @travelingmypassion @yournerdmodziata @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse @woodxtock @rachel2494

The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged @pastelbunnelby @jetjuliette @that-one-fangirl69

All content taglist: @nixandtonic

this inspired two tiny multis:

casual (coming soon) (Dr. Robby)

champagne problems (coming soon) (Dr. Abbot)

whoops

[prokopetz]

Something I love about The Far Roofs is how much of a swerve its premise is if you're coming to it uninitiated.

Okay, so there's these talking rats with a culture of swashbuckling heroism – basic Redwall/Reepicheep stuff.

Also, there's a magical realm called the Far Roofs which exists above every human community, and that's where the rats go adventuring; a little weird, but you can see the precedents in popular fiction. It's like wainscot fantasy taken to its logical-yet-absurd conclusion.

By default, the game wants you to play as a fictionalised version of your (presumably human!) self and go up onto the Far Roofs to have adventures with the rats. All right, now it's coming together: it's like isekai fantasy meets The Muppet Show, with you as the obligatory human character, right?

Then we get to the nature of those adventures: the rats have this whole culture built around questing against beings they call "the Mysteries" – beasties with names like Harpy and Goblin and Unicorn. So basically it's a bunch of muppety rats on the roofs fighting Dungeons & Dragons monsters, and you go up and help them do it. Great.

And then you get to what the Mysteries are actually like, and... well, I'm going to let the following excerpt carry the weight here. (This particular bit of text also appears in a previously published work by the same author, so I'm not giving anything away that's still under wraps.)

Unicorn, which is named Numinous, dwells three steps away and beyond the world, but most often in the Farthest Roofs, where the Steppes of the Sky come down to touch the Vast and Earthen Court. There it is stepping upwards from the world, as it has always been stepping upwards from the world, caught in a moment of transcendent glory that does not complete. It simply is. Melanthios heard the footsteps of Unicorn. Melanthios heard the ringing of Unicorn’s bells. So Melanthios chased Unicorn off to the Farthest Roofs, and Melanthios did not return. Anton and Karel, who were his sons, were wiser than their father. They heard the bells but they did not follow. Instead, they memorized the scent. They gathered swords, and ropes, and nets, and they went out. They brought food and water and all manner of gear. They clung to the roofs with all four feet wheresoever after Unicorn they went. It proved no good. Anton looked up, and Karel to his brother. The world came down— That’s what Karel said. He had time to look away. He had time to bury his head in his paws. He did not see the fullness of Unicorn’s presence. He only saw Anton his brother become unreal. In the light of the moment of the Unicorn, Anton became as a paper figure in the fire. His reality burned out. His shadow seared into the roofs behind him. Where he’d stood, for just a moment, the Steppes of the Sky came down to touch the Vast and Earthen Court; and Anton was gone away. So Karel ran and Karel ran and Karel ran from the Unicorn; and all his life, he envied but was more fortunate than his brother.

These are gods. You're going up there to kill God.

Like, it's still silly wainscot fantasy with funny talking rats, but there's that tension. It's like if Fraggle Rock occasionally took a hard turn to serious cosmic horror – Lord Dunsany by way of Jim Henson – and that tonal juxtaposition was treated as something unremarkable.

Basically what I'm saying is go back The Far Roofs.

[casuallyanidiot]

Imagine Being stuck in the novel of a Yandere author...

Kina a soft continuation of this post.

tw. yandere, forced relationship, cosmic (?) horror

You get hit by a truck and end up in a story! Fortunately you're not the villainess destined to die a horrible fate. In fact, you get the luxury of being the main character and getting the hopeful happy end. Unfortunately, you don't recognize any of the plot points or the names of anything.

That part of it sucks, but you figure you could just follow how you assumed the story would go.

But you find it strange how much the male lead looks like that creepy guy from your work. There's a weird pit in your stomach when he sung your praises, and you can't help but recoil a bit in disgust when he kisses your hand. You know that it's your role in this story to end up with this guy, but geez he's so weird. If the two of you weren't in some weird historical fantasy world, you were sure that he would constantly be glued to your side.

Then you realize that, oh, hey you don't actually have to stick in the direction the plot of this world is trying to lead you in.

You find that the Northern Duke is quite cute, actually, and though he isn't as detailed as some of the other characters that were probably focused on more in the novel, he's still sweet enough. So, when the Male lead proposes to you, you politely reject him and run off to be with your new lover.

But when you arrive at the Duke's estate, you find that he's... the male lead?!

"You're not- how are you here?!" You say with narrowed eyes. The male lead merely smiles at you, if not a little confused. "My love? What are you talking about? Am I not your beloved Duke?" He laughs and spread his arms wide as if to embrace you. His skin feels colder than before for some reason, though you try to brush it off.

Your life in his estate was extremely strange from then on. It was like no one else could tell that the Duke had been replaced. He looked and acted completely different from before, and when you asked the staff about it, they looked at you as if you were the crazy one. They suggested that perhaps the two men were more alike than you initially thought, and that you should focus instead on settling into your role as his happy, unquestioning spouse. You tried not to frown, but with the way their eyes glazed over anytime you began to ask too many questions, you didn't think it mattered if they saw or not.

Your new fiancé was rather clingy. Annoyingly so. You had been trying to stand his lecherous touches and less than innocent advances for weeks now, to believe that perhaps you were crazy and had somehow mistaken the Duke and the Male lead for each other like everyone said you had. That it was just some byproduct of getting reincarnated.

But then you ended up speaking to a gardener.

She was obviously just a background character, one that probably wasn't even meant to be mentioned in the pages of this novel. She didn't even have a face, and her voice was disjointed and soft. When she spoke, her words echoed in the back of your brain as if she wasn't even meant to speak.

"The lord? He's been acting strange ever since you arrived here my lady," She said. You had to blink to make sure you heard her. To make sure she was actually there. "And his face doesn't look quite right. I'm glad you noticed, my lady. Someone has to."

When you sought her out the next day, she had disappeared without a trace.

You decided that whatever was happening with the estate, the Duke and his servants, was far too strange for you to ignore. Perhaps you had strayed far too much from the original plot and setting of the novel. Either way, it wasn't worth all the trouble. Not when the very thing you sought to avoid with the male lead seemed to follow you. Not when the world seemed to be shifting to try and keep you in the plot.

Wherever you went from then on, You would keep seeing the male lead appear. But it was the same as with the Duke. A character that was unique in appearance and personality would suddenly morph into him. And no one would notice. It was like it was completely normal to have dozens of copies of the same man occupying different names and roles.

You feel insane, like you've broken something in the world.

It's one night where you finally snap and stab one of the weird versions of the male lead where you find out the truth. You're panting and covered in blood, a knife gripped in your shaking hand. There's a manic relief that grasps you right then and there. Because, these characters aren't actually alive. They can't be. Not when they all have the same exact face and voice, smiling at you with empty eyes and words that don't feel like anyone would actually say them if this weren't a book.

You let out a sob of relief that for once you're not being reminded of the man who lurked around the corners of your pervious life. He made your skin crawl with the constant muttering under his breath, with the way he watched you. You did not want to see him in these, awful, awful mockeries of real people.

All you want to do, is have a happily ever after in this stupid novel.

Your eyes go wide and you let out a noise that's halfway between a sob and a laugh. The figure shambles up, seemingly unaffected by the wound in it's side. The face of the male lead, no, of that awful wannabe author, stares back at you without a care in the world.

"Did you get it out of your system? [Name]?" It asks you with a polite smile that doesn't reach the eyes and a tilt to the head.

You collapse to the ground, whimpering as the figure approaches you and pats you on the head. It said your name. Not the main character's name, your name from the real world. You swallow thickly as the puppet of a character kneels down with stilted motions. It's like every little movement is being directly controlled right now. As if it's being written right before your eyes.

"Are you ready to behave now?" It asks like you're some scared pet, and not a living, breathing thing that's being played with like a doll.

Your lips tremble as you nod. You feel something in your mind shatter as you realize that the happy ending written for this world was definitely not intended for you.

[winndycakes]

Winndy Rambles And Gushes About Chuck Tingle

Wanted to ramble a little about one of my favorite authors, creators and overall just super rad people; Chuck Tingle.

Like many people, when I first heard of Chuck, I took him as some sort of meme. A troll, a joke, someone not to be taken seriously. After all, the majority of his works are "silly short erotica stories around dinosaurs, cryptids and even living concepts and items". How COULD this be serious? It's a question I asked before, years ago, and one that many still do to this day.

One holiday season, a friend had made a post on FaceBook saying "first five people to comment I'll gift you a book". So I did. The book I got was a physical copy of the "Space Raptor Butt Invasion Trilogy" by Chuck Tingle. Since I had a book of Tingle's now, I really had no excuse to not read it for myself.

Erotica normally isn't my thing (I'm pretty ace and grey aro too), but very quickly, I was charmed by the prose. As you read Chuck's stories, there's a fact that becomes very apparent. Chuck Tingle is a great writer, a really great writer. How he writes, how the words flow together, one sentence going into the next. The characters, the plot, the little bits of lore, dialogue and all he puts in... You quickly begin to see; this is NOT a joke.

It is not a meme. He is not trolling you. It is art. Passionate, sincere, genuine art. And it's beautiful. The more you read, the more definitive it gets.

I will admit, I have read aloud many a Tingler for friends and others in Discord servers, both to share my joy of Tingle with others, but also, it is fun to look at how different his works are. It's fine to laugh along with them even.

The moment that really was like... angels singing, light shining down and there's bishi sparkles and a heavenly soft pink background appearing for me though was the summer Chuck Tingle released on of his first full novella's; "Trans Wizard Harriet Porber and the Bad Boy Parasaurolophus". Like many, I was crushed and gutted at JKR's extreme turn to committing to transphobia (and of course the hindsight of realizing... the HP books and universe were not as kind and welcoming as I remembered growing up). So when Chuck Tingle (in one weekend mind you) came out with a 50k novel affirming trans people and their belonging in not just queer spaces, but being on this Earth, as fellow human beings, it was... affirming. It was the welcoming feeling I had gotten with the original HP books all those years ago, but it was real. (Also please read both Trans Wizard Harriet Porber books. They're delightful, fun and the magic system Tingle creates is so, so cool and interesting).

The next thing that got me just mega hype for Tingle was his first foray into horror; "Straight". "Straight" is Tingle's answer to the ever popular trope and genre of zombies and the apocalypse that comes with them, and what a fun turn of tables he takes on them. Zombies in the Tingleverse are not undead beings, they're not humans afflicted by a virus, instead a strange cosmic event happens once a year, when one night, all cishet people on Earth get this animalistic, violent urge to brutally harm and even kill all queer people. I won't get too spoilery about it but it is a very fun romp, and as someone who has been fatigued by zombies, it is a welcome new perspective.

Not long after this, Chuck came out with two full, traditionally published horror novels; "Camp Damascus" and "Bury Your Gays". Both are very different experiences in horror, both a joyful celebration of being queer and your authentic self even in the face of those looking to silence you, permanently if they must. I had the pleasure of meeting Chuck (twice!) while he was on tour for both of these books, getting my copies signed (along with my copies of the Trans Wizard duology and my beloved copy of the Space Raptor trilogy) and was able to tell Tingle myself just how important he is to someone like me; another queer autistic creator. (I was also one of the few people to win the little mini games he gave, twice, but that's a different story).

Ultimately that is what I am trying to get at. Growing up, and even for all of my 20s, there wasn't really someone like Tingle. Someone unabashedly authentic, themselves, queer, open and imo most importantly, joyously so. One is often told "just be yourself" but that can be hard to do when it seems like the world is against you for one reason or another.

Seeing a creator like Chuck shows how important it is to have such a presence in the world, and I was glad I got to tell him myself. I've had a lot of hardships in life, a lot of losses, a lot of grief, but someone like Chuck is there to tell you to keep trotting and remind you; Love Is Real.

And that's truly the ending message:

Love Is Real.

[orangeblossomsintheair]

MASTERLIST

! LN4

[ LANDO NORRIS ] — lando fingering you

[ BRAND AMBASSADOR ] — Sure, it had been a fun little joke, “Pay me in a LaFerrari or I’m not doing this shoot," but you never expected Lando to actually follow through.

series :

LIONHEART

[ 1 ] — He blinked, his aquamarine eyes wide with disbelief, before breaking into a grin so wide it could’ve lit up the whole room. “I’m going to be a dad?”

[ 2 ] — It had to be some kind of cosmic joke, you thought to yourself, the more you watched your son grow up. Nine months of carrying him, swollen feet, back pain, cravings, and sleepless nights, only for him to come out as an exact replica of his father.

[ 3 ] — “Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!” he shouted in his sweetest little voice, his face lighting up with pride as he approached the bed. He climbed up, his movements a bit clumsy as he tried to balance the flowers.

! CS55

[ ARMS ] — you wake up with your boyfriend's arm around your head

[ EAT ] — carlos eats you out

[ TEENAGE DIRTBAG ] — carlos' gf likes his old nose ring a little too much

[ DON'T BE A STRANGER ] — charles' younger sister accidentally stumbles inside the changing room of sainz, ferrari’s masked driver.

[ BUTCHERED TONGUE ] — carlos is going to teach you spanish whether you like it or not

[ WRITTEN IN THE SAND ] — He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasn’t already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.

series :

ILLICIT AFFAIRS

[ 1 ] — “Bossy, isn’t he?” The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left and—of course—it’s Carlos Sainz. You freeze, your brother’s voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run. RUN.

[ 2 ] — You tap on his profile again, almost like you’re double-checking to make sure this isn’t some kind of glitch. But no. Apparently, it’s real. You thought it was just a one-night stand. Maybe it still is. But who the hell follows their one-night stand’s Instagram?

[ 3 ] — You shouldn’t have said anything. You really shouldn’t have. But it’s too late now. “He sent me a dildo shaped like his cock,” you mutter under your breath, so fast you almost hope she didn’t hear you.

[ 4 ] — coming soon…

! MV33

[ honey, you're familiar ] — For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

series :

GRIEF ASIDE

[ 1 ] — You fancied your fiancé, you realized with horror. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

[ 2 ] — Every corner of the estate was consumed by a single, unspoken truth: Lord Jos was returning.

[ 3 ] — coming soon...

[earthsparked]

I love how people interpret whether or not humans (in the Transformers universe) have EM fields that behave and work the same way they do in mechs. I like the take that we do, though they’re a little different than Cybertronians’, and most of us cannot consciously detect or interact with them the way they can.

I say “most” because I would absolutely be pushing the envelope trying to find a way to do so. Recruiting the science and medical mechs in this quest. Yes you can scan me, I don’t care, I just want to be able to fully communicate with you!

Wouldn’t it be weird that there’s this species that’s so similar to yours, but even though they have a particular means of communication like yours, they don’t realize it until you encounter them for the first time. On top of that, it’s only passively expressed through their neurological and electrochemical systems, as what they would think of as a background process at best.

Wonder if they would almost feel like voyeurs, knowing we can’t hide or control our EM fields, and don’t even know what we’re communicating to them. How much they would catch themselves trying to communicate to us with their fields, only to be surprised every time we don’t seem to react. It must be so unsettling.

And for us, knowing they can pick up on things we don’t even know we’re communicating to them…imagine the confusion, feelings of invasion of privacy, but for some, a longing to connect with our new friends. To meet them on their level. Sadness over the disconnect, worry that it makes them see us as less or even lesser.

Though maybe over time, the longer you’re exposed to them, and especially if you are exposed to spark energy, they realize your EM field is starting to respond to theirs - but on a level you haven’t consciously grasped yet… you just know you feel safe and happy sometimes, around them. Unknown to you, it’s when they’re wrapping you up in the corona of their fields.

That’s a little bit of cosmic horror going both ways.

[vaguely-concerned]

I think there is no better illustration of the more intimate, internal angle veilguard chooses to approach its characters and themes with than the fact that like... listen in this game we get to follow so much pain back to its source, and we find it really does permeate everything in thedas today on a level that evokes a kind of cosmic horror. the bones of the earth itself are broken open and drenched in trauma; the world is mired in suffering down to the core and the marrow. as above, so below. as outside, so inside. on the big scale, and the small. all of creation is a throat gone to bloody shreds from screaming in agony, when you allow yourself to listen. (maybe that's why we usually don't, or can't, bring ourselves to listen.)

...and yet the thing that makes me personally so desperately gnaw-my-own-arm-off sad that it feels like I could die from it is that in a run where you save minrathous, lucanis never gets out from the ossuary in his mind. what's worse, no one even knows he's in there. he's still in there. and there is no rescue on the way, because he's locked down so deep inside himself this time that there's no way for anyone to even understand there's a need for it. would he be able to welcome one, if someone did realize it and tried to reach him? You know him -- you can open the door, but he won't walk through. He won't move. There's nowhere to go. the way he says 'it doesn't matter what I want' with such utter, leaden, final resignation in the wrecked treviso cutscene is going to haunt me forever. it makes perfect sense to me you can't romance him after that, I'm not sure he's ever really here completely in that version of events, at least within the timeline the game takes place. he's just standing in the shitty awful ossuary torture room all alone, and no one's coming to find him.

and what is that, next to the millennia of suffering screaming through all of history and creation? well. nothing, of course, not really. a single plucked string in an endless deafening symphony of despair. one singular trapped and broken soul among the untold millions that have gone before and the untold more that will surely come after, that are being made as we speak in the conflicts and tragedies unfolding through the game. but more importantly it's also everything. to me. and to the game too. the game says this also matters. just as much as anything else, this pain matters and deserves to be loved and comforted. even in the face of all the suffering in the world, beneath the systems perpetuating all the banalities of evil, for good or for ill sometimes, we matter to each other. and what would be the point of anything, if we didn't? that's where hope lives. as long as you're alive, the right key might still arrive to gently open the locks of your mind, the right hand might reach out one day and you will bring yourself to take it. you don't know what tomorrow's going to be. if in the meantime the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other -- isn't that enough? isn't that everything? why does this one guy saved mean the world saved to me, a little bit? hello. hello. hello. there's stuff going on in the deep here.

when I say that the deep thematic spine of this game is so good and solid that the occasional clumsiness and false tones of the writing on top of it simply cannot hurt me... I think this is part of what I mean. works for every single one of the characters of course! lucanis' is the predicament that speaks to me most viscerally. for. uh. personal reasons there simply is no time to get into at this juncture lol. but just as much the idea that davrin can die before he could see the world freed from the blight and the need for wardens, or that harding can get cut down right at the beginning of a great revelation that could change everything and heal things no one had even dreamed could be healed. all of them are like this. each and every one of us has a world and so many stories inside that matter, and it's not to dismiss the larger systemic forces and evils that create so much of the suffering in the world to focus in on that for one installment of the series -- only to view it from a different angle that brings other things to light than what we're looking for normally in this series. it's worth looking at what's actually here.

(have you ever heard the poem 'good light' by andrea gibson? it's very good. you should check it out if you haven't, you can find it on youtube. it has these lines:

Come make it count Our finding each other like we found God Come root for the salt Come believing we can heal it all, even everything Even everything that has ever been done I know how much the pain of this world weighs But I can still tip the scales in light's direction Whenever I have your name on my tongue

and yeah. I think that's basically what I'm trying to say here.)

[nova-is-a-writer-now]

Highway Heat

Summary: Your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and the trucker you flag down offers more than just roadside assistance.

A/N: Lord oh lord… I tried to be good i swear, i really tried to behave. The thing is my sweet beta reader @hautecouture02 requested a little roadside encounter one shot with Joel, specifically asking for FLUFF, and i swear on everything holy I tried my best to keep it PG… but sometimes things don’t go as I planned. So here, take this absolute filth of a one shot that’s little more than PWOP. ENJOY!!!!

Warnings: As previously stated, this is pretty much PWOP, Trucker!Joel i know nothing about trucks lol, maybe some dub!con at first but the internal dialogue shows hella consent, groping, fingering, a bit of praise and a bit of degradation, pet names like so many of them im not gonna list them all almost too many pet names if you believe in such a thing, grinding, oral male receiving, deep throating

Masterlist

You’re a good person—hell, a great person even. You give your spare change to homeless people, you donate to the puppy shelter every once in a while, you hold your friend’s hair back when they’re throwing up in the back of the club. You’re definitely not the type of person who deserves to be stranded in the middle of nowhere, sweating buckets despite wearing nothing but a spaghetti strap tank top and the tiniest pair of shorts you own. This feels like some kind of cosmic punishment.

It is, undoubtedly, the worst possible time for your car to stop working. You’d been putting off the usual checkups on your car for months, knowing full well it was overdue for an oil change, a tire rotation—or whatever men who know anything about cars always say. Your ex used to handle all of that for you, always acting like it was his job to make sure your car ran smoothly. He was the kind of guy who would go out of his way to make your life easier—didn’t mean he was above cheating though.

So now, you’re stuck in your geriatric Honda Civic, the AC busted and the engine refusing to start.

After a few minutes of trying to will it back to life, it’s clear you’re stranded.

You step out of the car, and the heat hits you like a slap on the face. The road’s deserted, no signs of life for miles, and of course, your phone has no signal. Perfect.

You glance down the road, hoping for a miracle, when you spot the rough outline of a truck—a big one, maybe a sixteen-wheeler—coming up in the distance.

Relief washes over you for about two seconds before the rational part of your brain kicks in, running through every horror movie scenario. But you don’t have many options here, so you decide to wave the truck down as it rolls closer.

It’s a beat-up old thing, paint chipped and covered in dirt, but it comes to a slow stop right behind your car. The door creaks open, and out steps a man.

He’s tall, broad, with a face lined with age and tan from long days under the sun. The net cap he wears lets a few of his longer dark curls peek out, the front pieces overpowered by graying hair. His strong arms are covered by a faded plaid shirt, paired up with some worn jeans and boots that kick up dust as he steps toward you. His dark, intense eyes size you up like you’re part of the landscape he’s used to navigating.

“You alright there, sweetheart?” His voice is deep and gravelly, but the drawl is what steals your attention, thick and sweet like honey.

You clear your throat, trying to keep your frustration in check. “Car broke down. Won’t start. No service either.”

He nods slowly, like this is exactly the kind of situation he was expecting to find out here. Like this is the only way he would ever get to talk to a girl like you. “Well, good thing I’m passin’ through then.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes a little at that, but desperation makes you bite your tongue. “Think you could take a look?”

He stares at you for a moment, long enough for you to wonder if he’s going to offer any help at all. But then he lets out a low sigh, scratches the back of his neck, and walks over to your car, popping the hood like it’s second nature.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of him tinkering under the hood, the occasional grunt or muttered curse as he checks things out. You stand there awkwardly, feeling the heat bearing down on you, watching as beads of sweat gather at the back of his neck.

Finally, he steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Shit’s runnin’ on fumes. When’s the last time you had it serviced?”

You shift, feeling stupid. “A while. My ex used to handle it, and, uh… I’ve been busy.”

He gives you a look, something between amusement and pity, before shaking his head. He leans against the car, arms crossed. “I can tow you to a shop next town over, but it’s gonna be a ride.”

You blink up at him, playing the lady in distress card best you can. Anything to get yourself out of here. “You don’t mind?”

“Nah,” he says, with a shrug, “I’m headin’ that way anyway.”

You smile warmly, trying not to look too satisfied at the success rate this specific tactic has with men. It’s not the first time you’ve pulled this trick and it most certainly won’t be the last.

He moves back to his truck, grabbing a few chains and a tow hitch from the back. Within minutes, he’s hooking up your beat-up Honda Civic to the rear of his truck, working with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before.

“You sure this is safe?” you ask, watching him as he tightens the last chain.

“Safe as it’s gon’ get,” he replies with a shrug, brushing the dust from his hands. “Theres no car shop out here, so this’ll do ‘til we get to the next town.”

You hesitate, then eye him. “You’re not gonna, like, chop me up and throw me in a ditch, are you?”

He chuckles at that, a nice gravely sound. “If I was, don’t think I’d tell ya, sugar. But no, I ain’t in the business of chopping people up.”

You look at him for a bit longer before sighing. “Fuck it, let’s go.”

He turns, heading back to his truck, his broad back facing you and making it a hell of a lot harder to concentrate

“Name’s Joel, by the way,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder as he opens the passenger door for you.

“Thanks, Joel,” you say, stepping up into the truck’s cab, the cool air from his AC hitting you like a blessing. Maybe your luck hasn’t run out just yet.

You sink back into the seat as he climbs up on his side of the cab, letting the icy air wash over you. There’s something else prickling at your senses though—something that has nothing to do with the temperature. It’s him.

Joel’s glances are obvious, a little too long, lingering like he’s sizing you up. Normally, it’d make you roll your eyes, maybe even tell him off. Old guy like him eyeing you up is nothing you’re unfamiliar with. But today? With the way your body feels sticky and tired, and the way the breakup has left you all out of sorts… you’re almost enjoying it.

You’ve been craving attention and the shitty one night stands with guys from dating apps have done nothing to satiate that need. It’s been months since anyone has properly touched you and the rational part of your brain that would be yelling at you to be weary of this sleazy trucker who just picked you off of the side of the road is sounding real quiet right now.

“So…” His voice pulls you from your thoughts as he shifts in his seat, resting one hand lazily on the wheel. “Where are you headed?”

You hesitate, eyes on the road ahead. “Just… trying to get home.”

He hums, slow and deliberate. “Home, huh? Got anyone waitin’ on you there? Boyfriend?”

The word slices through you, sharper than you expected. You tighten your jaw, glancing out the window. “No. Not anymore.”

Joel makes a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. “Well, that’s a real shame. Pretty thing like you, all alone.”

You should hate the way he says it, the way his eyes flicker toward you like he’s just waiting for an opening. But instead, there’s a strange warmth pooling in your stomach, your pulse picking up in a way you’re not proud of. You shift in your seat, crossing your legs like it’ll somehow tamp down the growing tension in your body, the heat between your thighs. He doesn’t miss it though, his smirk growing a little wider.

“Does that line work on most girls?” you quip, trying to keep things light.

Joel chuckles, the sound low and dangerous. “Depends on the girl. You look a little… flustered.”

Your cheeks heat up, and it’s not just the sun this time. “I’m not flustered.”

“Sure ‘bout that, darlin’?”

You glare at the open road, biting your lower lip as you try to ignore the way his words are messing with your head—and your body. It’s been way too long since anyone’s looked at you this way. Really looked at you.

The silence stretches out as the truck rumbles along the deserted road. You try to focus on anything but the tension in the air and find it’s impossible. His presence feels inescapable, it fills the cab wrapping around you, pressing down on every nerve.

“You never told me,” Joel says after a while, breaking the quiet. “Where’s home?”

“Austin,” you say quietly, your voice a little steadier now. “But I’m not in any rush to get back.”

“Family trouble?” he asks, his eyes flicking toward you again.

“Something like that,” you mutter. “It’s complicated.”

He hums in response. “Don’t I know it.”

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs, catching Joel watching you out of the corner of his eye. His gaze lingers a little too long on your bare thighs, and there’s a flicker of something dark passing over his face, but he says nothing.

You want to ignore it—God, you should ignore it—especially since you’re stuck with him for a while longer. But the rising heat in your body and the quickening pulse beneath your skin make it hard to think straight, harder still to make good decisions.

So you bite.

“You gonna keep staring, or is this part of your charm routine?” You cock a brow, trying to ignore the way warmth crawls up your neck.

A slow smirk curls at his lips, but he doesn’t look away. If anything, he leans in closer, his hand resting just near your leg, making the air between you buzz. “Am I layin’ it on too thick?”

“Little bit,” you quip back, though your voice betrays you with how soft it comes out. You bite your lip, trying to stay sharp, but his eyes flick down to the movement, and the pulsing need low in your stomach tightens. “It’s not working.”

His smirk widens, like he’s enjoying this far too much. “Funny. Seems to me it’s workin’ just fine.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the way your heart races when he shifts closer, his fingers brushing against your leg. The touch is light, almost casual, but it’s enough to send a shiver racing up your spine, your breath catching in your throat.

“You can roll your eyes all you want, doll. It don’t change the fact I can see what you need, clear as day,” he purrs, his voice dropping lower.

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” you snap back, though your words lack the heat you want them to have.

“Little bit of attention.”

He reads you too well. It drives you insane. “I don’t need anything from you. Just get me where I need to go.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles from his chest. “That so? ’Cause the way you’ve been shiftin’ in that seat says otherwise.”

You bristle at his words, but the truth sticks like a thorn. There’s a reason you haven’t told him to stop, a reason you haven’t shut this down. You’re tired, frustrated, and the way his eyes keep grazing over you… you can’t stop wondering how easy it’d be to let him pull you under, to let him take all your worries away.

“You’re losing it, old man,” you shoot back, even though you know it’s a losing game. He sees right through you, but that doesn’t mean you’re gonna make it easy.

“Am I?” he purrs, his hand sliding up to rest fully on your thigh. “So, you don’t want me touching you like this, darlin’?”

The way he says it—slow, deliberate, laced with that sweet, thick accent—it’s all innocence, even though everything about it screams otherwise. You know you’ll be hearing that “darlin’” in your head later, when you’re playing with yourself.

You smirk, giving him a little more rope. “I didn’t say that.”

He hums, eyes flicking between the road and your legs. “And I’m guessin’ you wouldn’t say a word if I moved my hand higher, would you?”

Your legs part just slightly, almost like an instinct. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But not to Joel.

“Look at you,” he drawls, a shit-eating smirk spreading across his lips. “Already makin’ it easier for me.”

You’re about to fire back, ready to keep this banter rolling, when his fingers slide higher. A soft sigh escapes your lips before you can stop it.

“You ready to stop actin’ up, or we still playin’ cat and mouse, pretty girl?” His eyes lock on yours, dark and unwavering.

Your pulse quickens at the challenge in his voice, your breath catching in your throat. His fingers are still on your thigh, warm and rough, and it’s messing with your head. You know you should stop this now, make him pull his hand back, but you’re not sure if that’s what you want.

“I’m not acting up,” you murmur, trying to hold on to some sense of control, even though his touch is making that damn near impossible.

His grin widens, like he’s got you exactly where he wants you. “Mhm, sure you ain’t.”

You glare at him, but it’s weak. Pathetic, really, and the worst part is he knows it. He knows how to get under your skin even though he has known you for half an hour, knows exactly what buttons to push to unravel you just enough to keep you hanging on.

“I mean it,” you snap, though your voice wavers. His hand shifts slightly on your thigh, fingers curling just enough to make your stomach twist into knots.

“I wanna believe you,” His voice is low, a quiet rumble that vibrates through you, all the way down to where you’re aching for him to touch you. He leans in a little more, so close now that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell that familiar scent of worn leather and something dark and intoxicating. “But you keep lettin’ me touch you. Kinda sends a different message, don’t you think?”

Your heart’s pounding in your chest, the steady rhythm of it loud in your ears. You don’t know how to answer, don’t know if you want to answer. Every rational thought in your head is telling you to stop, but your body isn’t listening.

Instead, you shift slightly, your leg pressing into his hand, just enough to encourage him to keep going. His eyes darken, and a slow, dangerous smile tugs at his lips.

“Thought so,” he mutters, and then his fingers start to move again, sliding higher, testing the boundaries you haven’t set.

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the sigh that’s clawing its way up your throat, but it slips through anyway. He hears it, of course he does, and the satisfied gleam in his eyes makes your face flush with heat.

“You wanna tell me to stop, now’s your chance,” he murmurs, his voice soft but carrying an edge of challenge, like he knows damn well you’re not going to.

His gaze shifts between the road and you and it almost seems like every time those eyes are back on you they become darker.

You glance at him, your heart in your throat, and there’s that flicker of hesitation—you should say something, should stop this before it goes any further—but the way his fingers are brushing higher, dangerously close to the ache between your legs, makes it impossible to think straight.

So you just meet his gaze, and you don’t say a word.

His smirk grows, and his hand drifts even higher. “Good girl.” This time he fully gropes your thigh, groaning like he’s been waiting to unleash this. “You wanna take these off for me, sweetheart? Let me give you as much attention as you want.”

He must have some psychic hold on you because you follow his instructions with no hesitation this time. Your fingers eagerly unbotton your shorts and pull the zipper down, lifting your hips to shimmy them down.

He looks at you for a lot longe than he should taking into account he’s currently driving a beast of a vehicle. “Lord above… you’re a sight and a half, darlin’”

He goes back to massaging your thigh, making circles with his thick fingers, going each time higher. Once he reaches your panties he stops and just rests his hand there, right at the edge of where you want him most. His fingers teasingly brush the fabric, enough to make you gasp, but he doesn’t go any further.

“You’re gonna have to ask for it,” he rasps, his voice thick with something darker now. “Tell me what you want, pretty girl.”

His words are like a key turning in a lock, and your resistance crumbles. You can’t deny it anymore, not when his hand is right there, so close to what you need, your entire body burning up under his touch.

“Joel…” you whisper, your voice almost pleading now, barely more than a breath.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his hand pressing a little more firmly, his fingers tracing along the outline of your heat through the fabric. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

Your breath stutters, and your hips shift on their own, pressing into his hand. You’re barely hanging on, the tension between you two crackling like a live wire, but he’s still holding back, waiting for you to give in completely.

“Please…” you finally manage, the word spilling out before you can stop it. It’s humiliating and liberating all at once.

“Please what?”

You let out the shadow of a moan. “Please touch me.”

Joel’s hand slips under the fabric, his fingers finally finding your core, and the groan that escapes him sends a shockwave of heat straight to your core. “Good girl,” he breathes, his voice like gravel as his fingers start to move in slow, torturous circles.

Your head falls back against the seat, a whimper escaping your lips as he finally gives you what you’ve been craving. “Jesus, Joel…”

“Feels good, huh?” he rasps, his eyes flicking from the road to you, watching the way your body reacts to every touch, every motion of his hand. “Told you I know exactly what you need, baby.”

You’re melting under his touch, your body humming with the pressure of his fingers moving against you, his voice guiding you deeper into the haze of pleasure. You’re not even sure what’s more intoxicating—the way he’s touching you or the way he’s talking to you, that low, commanding tone unraveling you completely.

“That’s it, sweetness, grind on my fingers, make that little pussy feel good” Joel growls, having a harder time keeping his eyes on the road now.

“Fuck… that feels you good da-“ you stop yourself before you’re able to finish the word. Your ex didn’t like you calling him that, so you usually kept that particular kink under wraps, but something about Joel is making it surface back up.

He looks up at you, pupils blown out. “Say it… say wha you wanna say baby.”

You lose all restraint and moan loudly. “It feels so good, daddy.”

“That’s right, babygirl.” He moans “Daddy’s fingers make your pretty cunt fucking drip don’t they?”

His words send a wave of pleasure through your body, a mixture of shame and intense arousal surging in your chest. You’re too far gone to stop now, letting the haze of lust pull you under completely.

“Yes,” you whisper, the word slipping out like a confession. “So fucking wet.”

Joel’s fingers move faster, rough and skilled, coaxing you into a rhythm that has you arching your back against the seat. His other hand grips the wheel tight, knuckles white, and you can tell he’s barely hanging onto his self-control, but that only makes it hotter.

“Jesus, you’re a fuckin’ dream,” he growls, voice thick with desire. “Been wantin’ to ruin you since the minute you sat your pretty ass in this truck.”

The vulgarity, the way he talks to you—it should feel wrong, but instead, it’s like gasoline thrown on the fire already burning inside you. You grind down harder on his fingers, chasing the high he’s offering, the tension building fast in your core.

You glance over at him, his jaw tight, eyes darting between the road and you, and there’s something so filthy about the way he’s trying to keep it together while driving, the way his control is slipping. You want to push him, make him lose it completely.

“You’re losing it too,” you pant, breathless, pushing your hips into his hand. “Can’t even keep your eyes on the road, can you?”

His gaze snaps to yours, dark and predatory. “Careful. Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll pull this truck over.”

The threat in his voice makes you shiver, heat pooling low in your belly. You’re right on the edge, your body strung tight as a bow, every nerve lit up under his touch.

“Do it,” you challenge, voice breathless and wrecked.

Joel’s eyes flash with something dangerous, his hand gripping your thigh so hard it almost hurts. Without another word, he swerves the truck off the road, gravel crunching under the tires as he pulls into a secluded spot off the highway.

Your heart is pounding, adrenaline mixing with the arousal as he throws the truck into park and turns to face you fully. The look in his eyes is feral, like he’s done holding back, and you brace yourself for what’s coming next.

“Such a little attention whore, baby,” he growls, unbuckling his seatbelt with one hand, the other still teasing you between your legs. “I’m all yours now.”

In one swift motion, he pulls you onto his lap, your thighs straddling his hips, the weight of his hard length pressing against you through his jeans. He is big, a lot bigger than you expected and it makes your mouth water,almost like your body is showing you how badly you need him in a million and one ways.

His hands grip your hips possessively, eyes locking with yours as if daring you to make the next move.

You don’t hesitate. You grind down on him, both of you letting out low moans at the contact. The friction sends sparks flying up your spine, and you can already tell this is about to be the kind of reckless, dirty, no-going-back encounter you’ve both been craving.

Joel’s hands slide up your back, fisting in your hair as he pulls you down to feast on your neck. His lips trail down, biting at the sensitive skin there, and it’s too much, too intense. You feel like you’re going to combust right here in his arms.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your skin, one hand slipping between you to push your panties aside, his fingers slipping through your slick heat again. “Filthy little slut, letting a stranger put his fingers inside you. Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name, pretty girl.”

Your hips buck against him, the promise of release so close you can taste it. “Fuck, Joel, please…”

“Try again. You know better.” his tone is firm and commanding, all the previous playfulness gone.

“Please daddy, let me come”

“That’s it,” he groans, his thumb circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure, pushing you right to the edge. “Come for me, darlin’. Let me feel this tight little whole clench on my fingers.”

The way he says it with such authority, has you unraveling in his lap, your entire body trembling as you come hard against his hand. Your vision goes white, pleasure crashing over you in waves as you grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

Joel watches you, his eyes hooded and hungry, soaking in every second of your release. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers until you’re shaking from the aftershocks, your body limp and boneless against him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and satisfied as he finally pulls his hand away, bringing his fingers to his lips to taste you. “Tastes even better than I imagined.”

You’re still catching your breath, head buzzing from the intensity, but the way his hardness presses against you makes it clear you’re far from done. It’s not like those other times when finishing a guy felt like an obligation, when the effort barely felt worth it because they didn’t take the time to get you there first. But Joel? Joel made you come so hard you can’t help but want to return the favor. It’s not a chore—it’s something you crave.

“My turn,” you murmur, fingers already working at the button of his jeans.

His grip tightens on your hips, eyes darkening as he watches your hands move, but there’s a flicker of restraint. “Don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetheart. Can’t have this beast of a truck just parked in the middle of the road.”

You shift back onto your own seat, lifting your leg off his lap to give yourself the space you need. The desire to make him feel just as wrecked as you burns in your chest, so you lean down, your gaze steady on his as your fingers trail lower.

“You can drive,” you say, voice low, teasing. “I’m not stopping you.”

Joel’s eyes flash with something dangerous, his jaw ticking like he’s fighting with himself. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you to stop, but then he huffs out a breath, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “You’re trouble.”

You smile up at him as you feel him start the engine again, your hand slipping lower, teasing him through his jeans.

Joel’s breath hitches as your fingers brush against him, a low growl vibrating in his chest. His hand tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white as he tries to focus on the road, but you can tell he’s losing the battle.

His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he tries to keep his cool, but you can see right through it. The way his body is responding to your touch, the way he’s barely holding it together, it only spurs you on.

You undo his jeans and pull the zipper down, feeling the heat radiating off him. His breath stutters, and his hand slips to grip the side of the seat, trying to ground himself as you free him from the confines of his jeans.

You wrap your hand around him, feeling how hard he is, how thick, and the groan that escapes his lips sends a thrill through you. “Fuck,” he breathes, eyes flicking between the road and you, his control slipping more by the second.

You lower your head, your lips grazing his tip, and Joel’s entire body tenses. His hips buck up, instinctively searching for more, and you can’t help but smirk as you take him deeper into your mouth.

“Holy shit,” he groans, his voice rough and ragged, his hand instinctively flying to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. “You’re gonna get us both killed.”

But even as he says it, there’s no hint of him wanting you to stop. He keeps urging you on in slow, measured strokes. The tension in him is palpable, and you can feel the way his control is fraying with every flick of your tongue, every inch you take him deeper.

His breathing grows ragged, and he glances down at you, eyes dark with heat and disbelief. “You’re so pretty with a fat cock stuffed in your mouth baby, look at you ”

You hum around him, the vibration making his hips jerk again, and the low groan that rips from his throat sends a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through you. He’s unraveling, right in front of you, and you’re loving every second of it.

You pick up the pace, your hand working him in tandem with your mouth, and Joel’s growl turns guttural, his grip on the wheel tightening. “Right there, darlin’ girl, don’t stop…” he hisses, head tipping back slightly as his hips move in time with your rhythm, chasing the release that’s so damn close.

His eyes flick between the road and you, pupils blown, struggling to stay on course even as his focus is being torn apart by you.

“Fuck, baby… I’m not gonna last if you keep—” He cuts himself off with a harsh groan, his hips bucking again, muscles taut and trembling as he loses the last shred of his composure. He’s completely at your mercy now, and it’s making him wild, his control slipping fast.

You don’t let up, your hand dropping lower to play with his balls, and he’s right on the edge, teetering dangerously close. His breath comes in ragged bursts, and his body tightens under you, his hips jerking harder, more desperate now.

“Where do you want it, baby?”

Instead of answering you take him deeper down your throat, your nose burrowing in the dark curls at the base of his cock, his smell so musky and intoxicating it makes you dizzy.

“Shit, shit—” Joel’s voice is a strangled growl, and then you feel him pulse in your mouth, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat as he finally comes undone. He’s barely holding onto the wheel, the truck swerving just enough to make your heart race, but it’s clear he’s past caring. He spills hot and hard into your mouth, the sound of his release drowned out by the pounding of your own pulse in your ears.

You keep going, milking him for every last bit, until he’s trembling beneath you, his breathing ragged and uneven. When you finally pull away, he’s still gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, his voice rough and wrecked. His eyes flick down to you, wild and wide, before darting back to the road. He lets out a breathless, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Best hitchhiker I’ve ever picked up, that’s for damn sure.”

As if on cue, the truck finally pulls into the shop, the hum of the engine fading, the weight of what just happened still hung thick between you two. Joel cuts the ignition, his hand lingering on the key for a beat too long, like he wasn’t quite ready to step back into reality. He realizes his now soft cock is still out and starts to zip himself back up.

You try to gather yourself, smoothing your clothes and brushing a hand through your hair as if it’d erase everything that had gone down on that highway. You can tell it’s gonna stick with you for a good while longer though.

Joel clears his throat, glancing over at you with a look that was somehow both satisfied and conflicted. "Well, we’re here," he mutters, but his hand was already fishing in his back pocket for something. "Here." He hands you a crumpled business card, his name scrawled across it with a number underneath. "In case you run into any more car trouble or, y'know... anything else."

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he knows damn well this had nothing to do with the rugged old thing and everything to do with the heat still simmering between you. You take the card, trying to hide the smirk tugging at your lips.

"Thanks," you reply, pocketing it casually, though the way your heart raced gave you away. "For… you know, all of it."

He just gives you that signature look of his—half-smirk, half-smolder—and with that, you slide out of the truck, legs still feeling like jelly as you walked away. You didn't even need to turn around to know his eyes were glued to your retreating figure.

[fangirlingpuggle]

Eldritch Danny/Eldritch Ancients reveal idea.

Danny starting to vaguely realize he's different form the type of halfa Vlad is, that he's getting powers so much faster and that he's not really aging, that he's getting different traits not normal ghost ones.

Frostbite kinda hinting this is different but not really saying anything, Clockwork assuring him this is fine but not explaining stuff telling him that knowing is not dangerous but undoable.

Danny wanting to press but getting odd sense that getting an answer would change things and a sense of foreboding when he asks so had been sort of ignoring it. When stuff gets to weird for ghost stuff sort of hiding it and going to frostbite or CW for answers.

He tried showing Sam, Tucker one time but they got really bad headaches and it seemed to mess with them a bit so he noped out of there. Sam and Tucker deciding just weirder then normal ghost stuff, though they can tell that's a bit off. Jazz knowing somethings up but also ghost stuff is weird... though she's suspecting that ghost stuff isn't really the right term, but if what she suspects is a thing is a thing she's not to sure what that would even mean.

So Danny's trying not to thin about to much, none of them are... until they're in English class and the topic is horror Mr Lancer announces syllabus is changing because classic horror and ghosts don't seem like a great topic to do and instead they're going to do cosmic horror.

Danny just sitting and listening about cosmic horror and eldritch entities and slow realizing creeping in, reading the pieces and just sitting in English class when he realizes he's not half ghost or half human, not even full ghost he's beyond that.

That Frostbite calling him great one is the same as ancient one.

That the ancients are more than ghosts... that he is to.

Just sitting in English class as the fabric of reality breaks a little as he realizes and fully becomes what he has been without knowing.