#Ten's OCs: Novel

[tenander]

Doing the Which of your OCs... asks for my homemade blorbos. Part 1: Question 1 - 13. (If you want to know more about these guys, check out their tags on my blog!)

has the best hair? As a certified impossibly-pretty-hair-enjoyer, that's a difficult pick. I'm gonna say Corzian, whose hair is ridiculously long, wavy and looks perfect all times even though he spent his entire youth sick in bed and now adventures daily with little to no time spent on its care. Elven privilege.

uses/would use the most products? Definitely Crim, he enjoys the ritual of pampering his own body and will happily take an hour to indulgently and thoroughly apply oils and creams and powders.

frustrates you the most? Zaphir, hands down. He is emotionally stunted, in a permanent state of paranoia and old enough to be very stubborn about his beliefs, and I want his story to be about finding inner peace and comfort and genuine companionship... but his story is the story of BG3, which is not conductive to overcoming trust issues. Hhhhhhhh....

makes you smile the most? ALL MY BLORBOS MAKE ME SMILE A LOT But Solstice's overflowing love and kindness is kind of infectuous, and sometimes he is also just really really funny in the most wholesome ways.

is the happiest? I think that'd be Qursa, now that he's reunited with his brother. He is with his family and they're doing good for the galaxy, that's all he ever wanted.

is the saddest? *slaps Crim* this bad boy can fit so much grief in him. He lost everyone he ever loved, as well as himself, and has to worry about losing more every single day. (He'll get better eventually.) I also have a yet unnamed guy percolating in my skull-raisin who is hella unhappy.

is/would be the first to die in a Horror scenario? Yukiro. He's a good fighter and a good sneak, but he is also in bad health and is the kind of man who would tell his team to "Go, I'll hold them off".

has been with you the longest? Making OCs permeates my life, so it's a bit hard to tell sometimes, but I think if we assume AU versions of an OC to still be the same character, then the OC I have had the longest and who has gotten new thoughts added within this year is Meredith, my Saints Row Boss. OG Meredith is basically retired (in a satisfying way), but there is a New Saints Row version of him.

is your newest? Fully existing, that would be my SWTOR Inquisitor, Ru'lonn, who will drag the empire into a new age of alien power even if he has to do it at forcelightningpoint. Still in larval form is unnamed guy, who achieved immortality in the worst possible way.

has the best butt? According to reliable and professional sources, Zaphir. He has been a Monk all his life, he could probably kill a man with his buttcheeks.

is/would be the most likely to get caught committing a crime? Novel would a) absolutely commit a crime for the sake of his townspeople or his temple and b) be really bad at it and get himself caught immediately.

likes/would like animals the most? It's a toss-up between Novel, the Ranger who was saved as a baby by ravens and is never without his own bird friends and loves all of nature, and (surprise) Qursa, who discovered that he is an exceptional healer because he can feel the pain of other living beings by noticing and healing injured animals as a youngling, and who still deeply cares for them now (except certain bugs, bugs are freaky).

can/could cook the best? I have had to realise that nearly all of my OCs have cooking skills ranging from "eh" to "oh god please no". In the context of this unfortunate trend, only Yukiro stands out as someone who can make a decent meal from nearly any ingredient he has available at the time, and makes amazing inarizushi.

[altfire]

thinkin abt writing a Normal Fic bc i cant find what im looking for,,,,, things r dire

[boffinhillem]

something I like to do is look at old doodles.. I don't remember the context for this, but I just love the sudden turn of Mint's expression here

[everytimewetouch-dot-mp3]

i think part of the reason shang qinghua transmigrated as a baby is because he needed more time to think of the story’s world as real. everyone was either his oc or a background character, so he felt a sense of ownership over everyone. so for him to transmigrate as a character whose backstory he may have only had in vague impressions, it probably forced him to interact with characters he didn’t ‘own’ for a long time before he met the ones that were his.

after ten, eleven, twelve years of relying on characters who probably didn’t even exist as faceless nobodies in his novel, he had no choice to think of them as real. watching his parents celebrate the birth of his younger brother and then grieve his death, feeling the way their relationship became strained afterward, seeing them trying to start over with their own new families… the similarity to his first life wasn’t lost on him.

these people were real, their emotions were real—their potential to hurt and to be hurt in exchange—all of it was real.

when he had to be shang qinghua, character and traitor to the sect, he fell back on trying to convince himself that it was all a story anyway. he’d been lying to himself treating it all as real—it was just a novel he wrote decades ago. no reason to ache when he saw the terror in his shizhi’s eyes, their bodies mangled on the ground. no reason to feel sick from the guilt. he had to do it. it was just a story. none of it was real, none of them were real.

shen qingqiu’s grief after the immortal alliance conference was near-legendary. there were stories and poems and songs written about the pain of a seemingly cold master kneeling at his precious disciple’s sword mound and calling out for him day in and day out.

shang qinghua’s grief was buried in productivity. no one commented on how efficient an ding peak was after the conference. how mistakes decreased, processes were streamlined, fewer tasks were delegated away from the the peak lord’s desk. how shang qinghua woke up in a cot on qian cao more often than he’d ever admit.

he wasn’t grieving his lost martial family. there was nothing to grieve. they weren’t real.

maybe soon, he’d start to believe it.

[royall-ass]

Heh…. take a bunch of my npmd headcanons :3 idk how in character these are, but i tried

michie is in this, so if you don’t like that, uh…… this might not be the post for you

ALSO!!! Rory is @blue-razzslushie2’s oc!!! go check out their rp blog for them :3

One time Richie was talking about an anime, and Ruth made a joke about yaoi. Afterwards, when her and Grace were alone, Grace asked her what yaoi was. Ruth explained it, and the next day, Grace confronted Richie and asked if he needed to see her pastor.

Ruth and Richie have Warrior Cats fursonas. They’ve drawn the rest of the group as cats together.

During Halloween, the students were allowed to come to school in their costumes. Steph dressed as princess Leia. Pete couldn’t look her in the eye the entire day.

Richie doesn’t just like anime, no, he’s convinced himself the characters are real. He has an Eren Yeager poster in his room, and Ruth came over one time and accidentally threw her sock at it. Richie cried the rest of the hangout because he was scared she hurt him.

Richie also uses a lot of Japanese in his vocabulary. Ruth and Rory call him an Otaku for it.

Max has a grandma with Alzheimer’s that he takes care of. He cares about her a lot. When she died, he was the nicest he’d ever been to the nerds for a week. He was too distraught to be a dickhead. (got this idea based on a fic!!)

One time Richie insulted true crime and mystery novels, and Rory made a youtube channel similar to Cinema Sins and posted ten videos in one day about all the anime’s Richie liked and how they sucked.

Richie unironically came to school in a maid dress and cat ears in the eighth grade for Halloween. Max called him pussy for a week.

When Rory eventually tells the nerds about the Lords in Black, Richie and Ruth immediately start making fanart of what they could possibly look like. A lot of them were Tumblr sexymen-esque.

Ruth tried getting the school to do Death Note the musical just so Richie would do theater with her and her anxiety wouldn’t get so bad. It did not work.

Richie LOVESSS Vocaloid.

Whenever Ruth says something horny, Grace slips the number and address of her church into her locker or on a detention note.

When Max is nice to the nerds again, he starts joining their D&D sessions. He says he only does it because Steph goes despite how nerdy it is, but he always sits directly next to Richie when the other DMs and he tries interacting with his characters as much as possible..

i’ll post more eventually

[luv-indigo]

okay so, redesigning nadine for the third and (hopefully) final time. i felt she looked too similar to soraya (my keyframes fall mc) so i changed nadine up a bit. also!! i was trying to find oc templates to fill out for my visual novel ocs and although there’s so many out there, none were exactly what i was looking for soooo…. I made my own! i’ll post my other our life ocs with them soon but first, nadine ! (again)

I’ve also changed my own mind. Nadine will be my MC for Qiu’s route.

Nadine introduction <3

Nadine spent much of her early childhood moving from place to place, all within her home state of California but oftentimes in different cities. Moving around so often made it hard to keep in contact with friends and after a while made it especially hard making friends in the first place.

When Opal tells Nadine they‘re moving once again, Nadine is surprised to learn they’re moving to Oregon, their neighboring state. This time, she learns it’ll be a more permanent location. Nadine doesn’t know exactly how to feel. She’s so used to moving around that being in a place for so long sounds foreign, weird and new. However, part of her can’t help but feel excited, especially since she gets her own room now! But no matter what, she knows mama will be with her every step of the way.

Upon meeting Qiu and Tamarack, Nadine quickly feels they can be the best of friends. Nadine has always been more of a quiet person but not necessarily shy. Spend enough time with her and you’ll find she can talk quite a lot. Yet she’s perfectly content with simply listening as well.

Nadine is mostly a rule follower. Rules are there for a reason right? She prides herself on being neat and orderly. All her belongings are pristine and in their place because that’s just how she likes it. During step 1, Nadine strongly dislikes getting dirty. Which can be difficult to avoid if you’re playing outside in the woods.

Step Two !!

After four years, Nadine has adjusted well into her new home. Although Nadine needs glasses she very much prefers to use eye contacts instead. It’s also the most convenient when ice skating. She’s taken on ice skating as her main past time and she’s fairly good. Her transportation of choice has been rollerblading so it makes sense she got into ice skating as well.

Her other hobbies are more on the creative side. She enjoys crafting and drawing on occasion. Cosplaying is also one of her major hobbies. For years she has worked on making her Halloween costumes with the help of Mama.

During this time Nadine becomes more of a shy person. During her earlier childhood, she had no problem voicing her thoughts and opinions but it seems now that sort of thing gets harder to do as you age. Thankfully, she has her two close friends to turn to whenever she needs a hand, and in turn she will be there for them as well.

Step Three !!

Nadine has less and less time to do things she wants. If this is how adult life is she wants zero part of it </3

Nadine has always prioritized their studies (although that became much harder to do when middle school started due to her procrastination habits). Now college is weighing on their mind. Nadine still very much enjoys ice skating yet she struggles to make time to practice. Similarly, cosplaying has turning into a year long project (for Halloween of course). Doing multiple cosplays a year is something she doesn’t have time for anymore. Although they are often busy, Nadine will always make time for a special someone and her best friend, Tamarack.

Step Four !!

Nadine’s all grown up </3

Throughout many years Nadine has learned things about themselves and grown into the person they are today. Her experiences and the people she has been around since she was ten years old have impacted her life to mold her into who she is, for better or worse. And honestly, they wouldn’t have it any other way.

And finally this little thing I made with all of Nadine’s doll icons. I had to edit many of them to fit the hair style and clothing options I wanted and it literally took forever </3 ouGh

Also, I apologize for the quality. I tried to preserve it as I was inserting the drawings into the template but resizing may have messed up the quality </3

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

Family love(less). Prologue

Self-Aware! Platonic! Yandere! BSD Characters x GN! Child! Abused! Reader

Description: You are unwanted by your family because of the circumstances of your birth. Your only company are Internet and Books.

You want to escape from this place. You want to have friends and real family.

One night, something strange happened.

You woke up on streets of Yokohama.

And a silver-haired man was looking at you.

But you didn't get here alone.

Tags: Found Family, Isekai, Spoilers for Bungou Stray Dogs Anime, Manga and Light Novels.

Warning: OOC, Platonic Yandere, Bad Relatives, Abusive Family, Bulling, Hurtful comments about Reader and about BSD characters, Physical punishment. BSD Cast want to deal with bad relatives accordingly. English is my second language.

A/N: Multi-chapter fanfic. There will be named OC. All similarities with real people are accidental. This fic wasn't created to mock or to insult anyone. I just want to write something about Platonic Yandere. Hope you enjoy.

Prologue. Storm

School bell rang. The long day of studying was finally over. Students started to put their stuff back in their backpacks. It was time to go home.

You were on a mission. You needed to leave school as fast as you can, without getting the attention of teachers and other students.

You hoped that today you will be lucky enough and no one will notice you.

You quickly grabbed your backpack and hurry to the school's exit.

Getting from class to the corridor - SUCCESS!

Getting from corridor to school exit - SUCCESS!

Getting across School Yard - SUCCE....

"Out of the way, Thing!"

Someone shoved you forward. You lost your balance and fall. You tried to stand up or, at least, rolled on the side.

Someone stepped on you. They continue walking, like you were a part of the road.

Cousin Janie...

Second person followed.... Then third... Then fourth...

Bill... Lily... Jack...

You saw, how adults just moved past you. They pretend, that they didn't see, how children just walking all over another child.

It was nothing new to you.

Miss Agatha... Mister Frank...

You were glad, that, at least, adults wasn't trying to step on you.

Finally, the last of your classmates walked away. You could finally stand up.

Slowly and carefully. Your body was sore. You were dirty. All your clothes were covered in shoe marks. Your hair was dirty. Someone spit on you, you were sure of that.

You start walking home.

_____________

To get home, you need to walk near the park. Small green 'island' in your little town.

"Hey, little rat, were you playing in the dirt again?"

Your Big Brother Steve was waiting for you here. You hoped that he already was home.

Steve was grinning. His tone of voice was full of poorly hidden hate.

"Little rat, you can't go home like this. Little Pig like you need to take a bath. Don't worry, your Big Brother will help you."

He was too strong. You could never overpower a seventeen-year-old.

There was a river in the park.

And Steve threw you and your backpack right in the river.

You were glad, that river wasn't deep.

But now you were completely soaked.

"Now you really are a Rat. A Wet Dirty Rat"

Steve is gone.

You still need to go home.

__________

You reached your home.

________

Ten slaps on left cheek for been wet.

Ten slaps on right cheek for been dirty.

Spanking for trying to leave the school without been noticed.

_______

You were tired and sore.

After the shower, you limp towards your room.

The only place you can be somehow safe.

You barely manage to get into your room. It was small. You had a bed here. A shelf for clothes and books. A small table.

And no windows.

____________

You were a middle child.

Your older siblings were called gold siblings.

Smart, beautiful, handsome, future of the family.

Your younger siblings were called rays of hope.

Cute, precious, hope for the family.

And there were you...

You were you.

For some reason, no matter, what you do, it wasn't good enough for your parents.

No matter, how good your grades are, or if you've won anything.

There were always 'Don't bother me' or 'You don't matter'.

You aren't enough.

Other adults in your family ignored you. They didn't care about you.

They don't see anything wrong with your parents' attitude towards you.

It's not like you are their child.

Besides, your parents never hurt you... much.

Every parent discipline their children.

Your cousins and siblings on the other hand...

They hate you. For some reason.

They saw you as a toy or a servant.

Because adults never tell them to stop bothering you.

They learned, that they can do anything they want to you.

Your family don't care.

Under the influence of your younger siblings, other kids start treating you worse.

In good case scenario, you were ignored.

In worst case scenario you had to run away.

Teachers in your school don't care.

They have better things to do, than dealing with your problems.

__________

You learned few things.

First, always be quiet. Don't draw attention to yourself.

Second, hide important things in your drawer. Your family won't search through your underwear.

Third, there was some wrong with your birth. Something was different. Different in a bad way. You tried to learn more, but no matter who you ask, they didn't tell you anything.

Maybe, one day, when you are older, you will find the truth.

Until then, you need to live in current day.

Right now, you need to have dinner with your family.

With every member of your family.

Today was the first day of Family Reunion.

And it will be hosted in your parents' house.

_________

"[Y/N], eat slow. You are not a pig."

"[Y/N], eat faster. Don't make us wait."

"[Y/N], eat less. You are already fat."

"[Y/N], eat more. You look like a skeleton. People might think that you are starving. Your parents will be in trouble."

"[Y/N], don't you dare shout at your younger siblings! What do you mean, they deserve it? They are younger, then you, they want to play. Yes, even if by play they mean throw food at you."

__________

After taking another shower, you finally were back in your room.

You lay down on the bed. You had some free time.

You need some energy.

You open your phone.

They bought it for you to make neighbors shut up and stop gossiping about your family been so poor, they can't afford to buy a phone for a kid.

You open the app that helped you during bad times.

Bungou Stray Dogs Mayoi Inu Kaikitan

________

You learned about BSD from your siblings.

Almost all of your cousins of all ages were big fans of anime.

They liked to watch anime and manga together during video calls.

Bungou Stray Dogs were among many titles they have watched.

And they have a very strange relationship with this manga.

They hate it and love it at the same time.

They love character designs, you were sure about that.

But you are also sure, that they hate the fact, that characters were based on writers.

You remember, how your cousin Ralph failed a test about John Steinbeck. He was on a video call with your older sister, and you could hear how he was cursing Steinbeck from manga... For some reason.

You can't understand your older relatives.

And you remember, how angry your older sister Jane was on Gogol from manga. She decided to read real world Gogol works. She bought books. When she realized, that books weren't funny, she wanted to drop it. But, because your parents already knew that 'their dear princess' start reading serious literature, she couldn't do it without disappointing them.

So, she cursed character, instead of telling parents the truth.

___________

Despite the fact, that your family has a bizarre relationship with Bungou Stray Dogs and you were too young to read it, you wanted to watch BSD too. Or read it.

There was no problem with watching it. You managed to find a website where you could watch it for free.

But, no matter how hard you try, you couldn't find a way to read BSD for free.

There were all Manga volumes and Light Novels in your house. Your older brother and sister have their own copies.

And you can't ask them to let you read their copies. Because they don't like you. Because they will laugh at you. Wondering, how someone as stupid as you can read.

You can't ask your parents to buy you manga. Because your family don't care if you want something. Phone was necessary. Internet is needed by all family members. There's no law that said that parents must provide a source of entertainment for a child.

But, one day, you were in luck. A very strange luck.

Two months ago you got a whole set of BSD manga and light novels.

_____________

Your Older Brother Steve and Older Sister Jane were... very impulsive.

They tried to stay in trend. To be loved by their classmates. To stay popular in school.

So, when another popular school group decide, that Bungou Stray Dogs manga was for nerds, because cool kids don't read anything, where they can find information about real authors, your brother, sister and your cousins (who attended the same school and were 'loyal' to your older siblings) threw away their BSD Manga and Light Novels. Before that they rip some pages out, tear apart a few books, try to drown them and dance on the poor books.

Then they tell you to throw the garbage away. That's how you manage to salvage the books.

They were in need of some serious repairs, but, you could do it by yourself. And your family wasn't that petty to count, how many tapes you were using or if you take the scissors.

You spend three nights repairing books. You were searching through a big pile of manga and light novels copies for pages in good condition. You use tape and glue on pages to make them whole again.

With great care, you manage to make yourself a full collection of BSD Manga and Light Novels.

After job well done, you were finally able to read manga. You were looking forward to that moment.

__________

In BSD World. Two months ago.

__________

BSD Characters were gathered in the Meeting Room of Port Mafia.

All of them looked tired. They were on the verge of a breakdown.

They don't know why they deserved it.

But they hated that terrible creatures, that called themselves Real People.

Time and time again, they were forced to relieve the worst moments of their lives.

And every time they have heard THEM.

Many different people that were mocking them. Laughing at them. Saying disgusting things about them.

"Why this crybaby Atsushi even here? If he suffers so much, why won't he off himself?"

"Is Chuuya really a Mafioso? I mean, he is mourning the death of the Flags. Aren't mobsters supposed to be cold and emotionless?"

"Ha! Think, what you want, but Oda's dub in this scene make brats' death hilarious."

"I think that Yosano's backstory should be more tragic. Right now it's bland. Her favorite solder killed himself and called her an Angel of Death. It would be better, if Mori was..."

"OH NO! The Clown is alive! Why?! Just Why?! He is a stupid character!"

Comment. After comment. After comment.

About how terrible they are. How useless they are.

How real people wish that BSD cast suffer.

Cursing them for having similar names with some other people from their world.

And now, they did something with them.

All BSD characters feel pain. Someone was tearing them apart. Someone was trying to drown them.

And they can't do anything to protect themselves.

And then another Kitsunebi¹ appeared.

This one was purple.

So, real people decide to end them.

No one from BSD Cast has power to fight. They were waiting for their end.

"Well, I have everything I need. Let's start with the first volume..."

_________

This one was healing them...

BSD characters feel, how their bodies wasn't sore anymore. How they're getting their strength back.

For three nights, Purple Light was taking care of them.

And talking...

"Okay, this goes here... Here we go, good as knew."

"Wow, this page will be beautiful again, when I finish with it."

"I can't wait to read BSD from the beginning. It must be wonderful. Anime was good."

BSD cast were confused. You...

Why this one was different? Was that a trick? Are they going to curse them?

The time reset again. Time to relive their lives. Again.

_________

In Bungou Stray Dogs World. Nowadays

________

"Our Dear [Y/N] are opening the App! Everybody ready?" called Yosano, finishing adding another ten power up materials in her present to you today.

The choir of "yes" was an answer to her.

No one can tell, that two months ago they all were broken and could barely stand.

Dear [Y/N], their precious Guiding Light, saved them.

Not even once they say something hateful about anyone of them. There was only love and understanding. And warmth. Warmth of a child who loved them unconditionally.

All of them cherished [Y/N]. Because they were the only one, who saw, what a great child [Y/N] were.

When they got access to [Y/N]'s phone, they heard it all.

Bullies. Relatives. Siblings. Parents.

Their comments. Their hate, that was aimed at [Y/N]. A defenseless, innocent child.

BSD Cast hate [Y/N]'s family. For what they are doing to them. And for what they have done to characters themselves.

Soon they will be in Real world. They will save Their Dear Guiding Light.

But, before that, they need to punish everyone, who wronged [Y/N].

The Portal was almost ready.

They only need to wait until Midnight.

_________

In real world

_________

You spend an hour playing BSD Mayoi. You got many notes from characters. They were cheering for you. They mentioned that they love you.

You were happier, than before.

At least someone was glad, that you exist.

You hopped that one day you will escape from your family. And find a real family and friends.

You looked at the clock.

Almost 11 pm. You need to go to bed.

Dozing off, you hear, that storm has begun. Raindrops start falling down from the sky.

_________

At the midnight, your phone start glowing white.

The lightning struck.

White light fill all rooms in your house.

When it faded, the house was empty.

And pages of your BSD books start glowing white.

_______

Time resets.

Fukuzawa Yukichi was a thirty-two years old bodyguard again. His client died recently. But right now, he has more important things to do.

Fukuzawa Yukichi was cradling a sleeping eleven-year-old child.

And, for now, he was ignoring the four people laying on the ground at his feet.

[themareverine]

MARE & THE WOLVERINE ▹ Good Poison

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

summary: The Northern Territories were the last place Mare McAffery ever imagined herself, much less a prize fighting bar with characters the likes of the one they call the Wolverine. A logging community and living out of a Motel 6—it wasn’t exactly Shakespearean. But sometimes, survival calls for a tooth and nail fight—even for a preacher’s daughter.

warnings: AU, age gap, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, eventual romance, violence, angst, trauma, religion, self-insert, self-esteem issues, chance meetings, alcohol, grief/morning, mutual pining, falling in love, slow-ish burn, fluff and angst, canon-typical violence, virginity, reposted from my old account.

MASTERLIST| NAVIGATION | NEXT | PREVIOUS

“I’ve never met a more obsessive, religiously fanatical, irresponsible press professional in my entire career, McAffery—and I’ve been doing this thirty fucking years!”

“Told you to drop that mutant BS, McAffery—”

Blue light from her phone lights up the shadowed seat beside her, interrupting the cruel sting of thoughts lapping her brain like a pace car. Redlined and leading, her attention briefly drifts from the yellow lines of highway to the bright screen that lingers—to the text bubble with the little avatar face of who else but her mother, checking in on her for only the fiftieth time tonight. 

“I’m fine, ma,” she sighs to empty space around her. A glance upward through the windshield to the night sky canvases unfamiliar constellations, stars she’s never seen this far north. Living north all her life had prepared her for a lot of, well, Canada— but not the stars. There seemed to be more of them, dancing in troops that quickened the soul. They’d been hanging in the sky for hours, now, and every time her gaze flicked up—never saw the same cluster.  

Diiiing. The sound avalanches in the cab, almost. “Jeez, I’m fine, ” it’s more of a growl than anything as she reaches for the phone. Silences it. Practically tossing it to the cup holder, she shifts a little further against her seat, her ass into the three decade-old cushion just like she’d been doing for two days. Shoulders pressing back into the material of her seatback, a slight shiver races up her spine where frigid air snakes into the cab of the Jeep between gaps in soft-top canvas—irritates the hunger that’s been low simmering in her stomach since before the sun had disappeared. 

A quick GPS consult and civilization is less than ten miles on her course. It promises a bar, a Motel 6, some gas. Nothing fancy. Reading in-between trying to stay between yellow highway lines reveals that Laughlin City is a logging community, one of those let’s-film-a-cheesy-Hallmark-romance little sports that show up in romantic novels and on travel blogs. It’s quiet with a limited population, mountainside and traditional. Perfect. 

Starting directions to Laughlin City, you’re on the fastest route—-

“Considering I don’t see any freeways, I guess that tracks,” Frick, I’m turning into my mother talking to myself— and she had been, for two days. But that’s probably fine, better to keep herself company in the off-hours of radio. She couldn’t bear any more talk radio, didn’t have the caffeine or the patience to relive the same Shania Twain cassette tape for a twentieth time. 

Sighing, her head kicks back a little against the hard headrest behind her. Brightness from the GPS route is white-hot and blinding, has Mare McAffery turning her phone screen down to the fading 90s-print material of the passenger seat. She can see the little cloud from the hard breath she lets escape from between her lips, which subliminally raises the air on her arms. Sends a stab of cold through the bones in her hands. Even with air bursting from the defrost, it’s cold. Colder here, farther north, than her family’s quiet little farmland Minnesota home for this time of year—a t-shirt had felt like a good idea this morning at the truck stop. Splashing water on her face and smiling into sunshine. 

Her eyes drift to the dash clock as a hand reaches behind her to grope for the hoodie she’d abandoned. A little after 11—her time. Back home. Mare has no idea what time it is in Canada, under foreign stars and among unknown mountains. Though, really it doesn’t matter—time is a construct when you’re on the road. When you don’t really have anywhere to be in all that much of a hurry, when you’re getting out of Dodge and rethinking every strategic decision of your life.

God, what am I doing? Where are You in this? And the thought is random. Had been, for days. Quitting her job on the spot three weeks ago had felt like the move of the century, like a Neil Armstrong one-giant-leap-for-mankind on the moon type of deal. Once in a lifetime, defining. Must’ve been what the fathers of her nation felt, rising up to slay the Goliath oppressing them into submission—she’d bucked the power of corporate America, felt the sting of her whip for a final count. 

There’d never been more peace, more purpose about her life than in that moment, smiling down her nose at her boss. Knowing she’d left him in the lurch, had upset his canoe. Upstream without a paddle, take that you scumsucking piece of trash. Her guts had nearly risen up to her throat with the flood of pure adrenaline. Bolstered, like a shooting star— all hot and undiscerning strength. Every disgruntled employee in the history of the working class before her, caged within her bones. Finding justice in this one act, this flight. High flying and empowered, she’d crashed through the glass ceiling—unscathed, unravished. Free. 

Or so she prayed. 

Reality rose up to strike her like plague, chastened and vengeful. Leaving behind ghosts and midnight phantoms to haunt her even in sleep, her fears. Disease eating away at the flesh of her life, an insatiable predator unrelenting until satisfied. Picking its teeth with the bones of her future, the unknown. Grinning at her like a subtle, close-to-the-chest demon of her own making. Tapestry of her life began to unravel, unfurled by her own bravada, her own shield of faith in the unknown. Days bled eternally into weeks. Networking spiderwebbed away in the wind, disheveled and thin. Nothing aside from Oh-honey-I’m sorry’s and though-your-qualifications-are-impressive-we-regret’ s. 

Word traveled fast in rocks and cows country, not-the-Twin-Cities Minnesota.  Whoever didn’t look on her with sympathy dug her grave, or threw dirt on open wounds festering with her own shame. Nobody was eager to onboard the bloodhound trailblazing young lady with starry eyes and Superman hope. 

Singlehandedly she’d brought coverage of the community’s less-than-human population to hometown families and cropfarmers, faces nobody in her world desired. They’d kept the mutants at arm’s length, in the city and away from the grass that dances on the prairie; innocence of country living. Nobody wanted them in their ZIP code, their school districts—accidents raised taxes. No mayor wanted to address the subject at press conferences or on small city councils, no school board wanted funding for safe rooms or SPED. Better to lock them away in the concrete jungle of downtown, anonymous faces in a sea crying out for representation. 

Disarming a population’s ignorance had been a savage fight—soul crushing and abusive. Her head had been piked in every town-gossip-over-coffee table in the entire township, her family’s name raked over the coals in the editorials. Recklessly brave, but the greater good had come at a high, not-so-good price. Expensive for an under-thirty young little thing with bright aspirations, with a family standing behind her as pillars in a crumbling, paralyzed community.  

Better to turn a blind eye to the unfortunates than lend a hand likely to be bit, was the argument. Lambs to slaughter, all of her anonymous mutant sources had eviscerated from contact seemingly overnight—lost to anonymity, to the underworld of obscurity and fear. 

Foolish, simpleminded. White washed tombs, dens of vipers. Disheartened —didn’t they see—? 

A glance into the rearview and she’s able to make out the almost-cavernous upset digging trenches in the skin of her brow, the veil that’s overtaken once-bright eyes. All noted, even in the glare of blue light and shadows. She exhales deep and feels it, between her ribs. In, out—one, two, three; let it go, let it go let it go. That burning knot of lava that’s parked in between her shoulder blades shakes just a little, breaks apart. And for a brief moment, there’s cool relief that comes with another bite of May wind. Chases all the way down her spine, nips at her collarbones. 

Her grip tightens on the wheel, highway stretched unforgiving. Mocks her, reminding her how far away she’s attempting to fly, to hide . Inky midnight fans out before her— a lover, shadowing the world beyond the headlights of the Jeep Wrangler. Promising to hide her away, in a new world. The Wrangler seems to roar, engine loud in the empty night air, humming and thunking like old horsepower does. Whether in protest or jubilation, she’s not sure. Doesn’t even know if she wants to be. 

A wing and prayer. She’s left on a wing, with a prayer—it’ll carry her. To Laughlin, at least. 

Tires eat pavement like a beast, thrum thrum, thrumming away underneatht the rig almost in perfect step with the rabbit heartbeat kicking in her chest. Hears every rotation of rubber against asphalt through the canvas top. Tastes the cold bite of May night seeping through gaps and vinyl windows, cooling that still-there heat between her shoulders, that ache in the back of her eyes. 

Fiddling with the radio for the local news distracts her from GPS directions for a heartbeat. Almost missing the turnoff, she more forgoes the stop sign than actually misses it, engaging the clutch and brake to downshift. Skirting by the blaring scarlet of the sign, there’s no sign of headlights any direction at the four way. Except, in the distance, maybe five or so miles.

Between trees that canopy and dart in the breeze, trying to keep civilization a secret from the unsuspecting. Warring against the moon for rights to illuminate, to pierce through the veil of night—mountain peaks like dark sentinels, threatening and breathtaking in the faraway. Sits like a lion, stirring at the presence of the intruding Daniel. 

Laughlin City. 

“Bingo.” 

Mopping droplets of sweat pearling up from between his facial hair hasn’t ever felt more like a chore than it does right now, in the flickering light of a too-late pub crawling with county lowlives and province nobodies.  Every muscle burns with adrenaline that pistons through his veins like a hot steamroller, flattening any thought other than sucking air into his chest. Logan Howlett swears to God he can feel his very bronchial tubes with every pull of thick, curling air—wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t label every cell, working in unison to stitch him back together. 

It’s a delicate dance, healing after a fight. Body goes to work even before new wounds hit home—recovering from old ones, almost anticipating where new ones will land. Takes a significant amount of energy, a high unlike any amphetamine can deliver. Hot, heavy, painful bliss. That feel-good, fuck-this-is-perfect way he’s only ever experience in one other way—and that’s cock deep, in the right woman, red lines flaming down the length of his back. It’s taken a lifetime to ignore the adrenaline, the feel good burn of flesh stitching itself piece by piece. Wounds numbing over as the body corrects. Blood cut off from oxygen, sealed behind skin and screaming behind new scars. Bones correcting from fracture, pulled together with God-perfect precision no ER could ever match. Marrow stretching, cartilage welding back together. Feeling coming back with just as much prejudice as it had when it went. 

And it’s no different tonight, after a fight. Adamantium in his hands trembles, quakes with every beat of his pulse. Cold, itching with a sensation that only means one thing— air. Oxygen. Oxygen that fuels rage, that feeds the fire of release that’s a blazing furnace almost carved into the length of his spine. Bones, their marrow, they want air — crave it like demons. Flogging his soul like Christ at the crucifixion, crucifying him to the never-ending torment of holding it all together. Of balancing the line of monster and man, mortal and mutant. Ravages his will, rapes him of innocence, even in his youth. Even as a boy, even as James— he’d never had innocence. What even was purity to a man born to die but forced to live? 

He’d always been this, this h eld-together-with-threadbare-stitches-of-his-own-resolve carcass aching to die. Searching to live.

And it takes will, to live. Will of the ages, hills. Steadfastness of mountains to maintain the barrier between resolution and absolution. To not let go —to deny the impulses that scream through his blood like phantoms. Even the very stones beneath his feet cry out for his blood, for justice. Justice that had been lost through time, as others pass away. As he lives. His sins fade with those in graveclothes, but they haunt him like shadows. Peaceless life, ravaged. An ever-present war that carousels about his psyche. 

Don’t let go, Logan—don’t let them see you. Light a cigar. Suck in some brandy. Drown out the memories, the tombstones of everything he’s ever felt in his life rising up from buried graves and nameless mantras. It’s not for you, it’s for them. Never for you, always for them—

“—hey, you. Yeah, you— Mutton Chops. Yeah. It’s Wolverine, right?” 

He would chuckle if it wasn’t so ridiculous. Mutton Chops? 

Fingers scratch through the longer hairs, the corner of his mouth teases up with an amused smirk. Figures, they are a little dated. But, he enjoys them—he likes the way looks, always had. Cut a fine figure, and if he didn’t let himself know it, the women did. Been mooning over him since God knew . If he didn’t hate the attention, if he didn’t hate being seen; mingling with the echelon of the common man—-he could have any tit and skirt he wanted, most places. A few years of fucking anything that walked had lost its charm swiftly, and with gusto. 

Logan had learned early that he needed very few things in life to live, to survive. Living demanded the basic essentials, and a man isn’t truly a man unless he makes his own way. Women, well—girls were a luxury . Rubies and emeralds among the silver and golds of the everyday. High prices. Precious things in the eyes of God and the male sex, to be worshiped. Certainly so, can’t argue with the Twains and Shakespeares, the Psalmists of the ages—but they weren’t necessary. Not to survive. Little delicacies to make the journey tolerable, but not necessary. Privileges never were.  

“Wolverine—I’m talkin ’ to you!” 

But the alias is familiar, but the voice isn’t. Logan tosses back the bite of brandy that burns all the way down, snaps his attention from the bottom of the shot glass to the guy coming up behind him. Feet heavy, he’s at least six-two, two-fifty at a glance guess. Beer gut and a bald dome, some redheaded tart from across the bar reaching to pull him back. May as well be Vegas neon. Trouble—double order, by the looks of it. 

Shoulda been my middle name, “In some circles,” warmth skates into his blood, pulling at the attitude simmering at the edges of his resolve, “who’s askin’?” Fixing the edge of his shirt around the waist of his jeans, Logan ignores the instinctual twinge of pain that ricochets between his knuckles. One slip of his self control and there’s hell to pay—bloody, tastes-like-cold-steel hell.

Instead, his arms find the smooth bartop, glass hitting the bar with a crack. Logan pushes it away knuckles first, fingers tapping for another round. The bartender, he knows her as Sue—an aging sixties belle, witchy hair that’s perpetually pinned up in a clip—breezes by and snatches it away, promising him another with a hoarse, been-smoking-for-four-decades rasp. In seconds and the dark liquid spills into the shot glass, crystalline and pretty. 

Logan waves her come with two fingers, easing a little deeper into his usual barstool—the barstool he’s been parked in for eight months. Rolls a shoulder. A delicious little burn of healing muscle, dissipating bruises. Common place after a fight in the cage—there’s not enough curiosity in the eyes that are watching him. And he’s counting the paces of Big Boy coming up behind him, can feel the man’s anger from here. Tangible and inbred, like he’s been sucking the tit of pissed off since toddlerhood. 

The man’s huge hand is on his shoulder, jerking him back enough that it makes the barstool swivel. Logan’s spine snaps with alarm, with the initial gut punch of response. And he’s surprised with himself for a few heartbeats, that he’s chosen to shrug off the man’s arm instead of separate it from his body. A low, rumbling thunder of a growl simmering in his chest is almost animal, and he narrows a glare at the stranger. 

Sweating like a stuck pig, the man’s face is red as a beet. He’s a blush from either absolutely going batshit or having a coronary—Logan isn’t sure which he’d prefer. “I lost four hundred bucks because of you, Wolverine,” the name leaves his mouth with hacking spit, on the crescendo of a trail of spit that hits the floor at Logan’s feet in a wet plop . 

And for a second Logan expected Shit-For-Brain’s to continue, but he just stands there, sucking air.

“Tough luck,” Logan’s brows pop tall before furrowing into a hard line, irritation snapping  his tone like a fractured bone. Palming the pocket of his leather jacket taking up space on the barstool next to him, he manages a cigar from the pocket, with the God-knew-how-old Zippo. His favorite, he’d had it since—well. He didn’t keep track of trinkets. “Long odds, I guess.”

“The fuck you say?” 

He sighs. Deeply. Almost from the depths of his patience God has bestowed. “Anythin’ I can say that’ll make you vanish, bub?” Beer Belly doesn’t even flinch, except the hinge of his jaw snaps open. It could almost sway in the wind. Another sigh, “Take my word for it. Cut your losses and get Little Miss Strawberry Tart outta here—maybe she’ll cut you a deal on the way out.” 

In a matter of seconds the guy’s face drops into a gape only a choking fish could probably manage, and he really isn’t that far removed with all his sticky sweat making him look like a drowned, overfat bass. He stops sucking air like an emphysemic, maybe too stupefied to remember how. Logan’s fingers flick the flint of the lighter, cigar between his teeth as it bobs into the flame. Almost immediately, the thick curl of smoke stings his nose—chases the brandy in his throat, something magnificent . Fucking delicious. 

Small mercies, God bless them. Breathing in a wave of the thick, hot tobacco, it settles in the mesh of his lungs in a way that would probably kill lesser men—men who couldn’t die, anyway. He could fucking orgasm with how good this smoke burns, bleeding into his blood like good poison, and the exhale he gives may as well whip fifty pounds off the back of his shoulder. His head kicks back, brow furrowing as it cants to the side, taking in the craft of the ceiling. Brass tile— pricy . Riz didn’t strike him as a man with taste, but, stranger things. Interesting. 

In a flesh of fat and hairless dome, the man’s fist is curled around the collar of Logan’s shirt—he plucks him off the stool as if he weren’t anything more than a sack of meat. Surprise drops his cigar to the floor at his feet, the toes of his boots scuffing boards—and one glance to the man’s flexed arm reveals it’s absolutely straining for Beer Belly to suspend his bodyweight in the open. The vein in his temple throbs, cheeks almost purple as he splutters for air. Spit flies. Mingles in Logan’s beard. 

Revolting, but, give it a few seconds and—-

His boots find the floor heartbeats later, unphased. Logan’s turn, and it gives him great pleasure backhanding the man with his knuckles. Turning his head, saliva flying in trails of thick spit that hit somewhere he couldn’t care less about. Drive him half a step back, bring him back with his fist in tubby’s shirt—and mutant strength makes him weigh next to nothing. A little weight there, but nothing much—Logan could separate his spine from the rest of him without hesitation, thinking. Would be as easy as fileting a fat trout. 

The burn in his muscles feels magical.  And in three, two, one—he releases. Blood springs from between his knuckles, dribbling to the floor in fat drops. Scarlet stains adamantium, pearling along blades that all but sparkle in the perfect-low of pub lights. The burst of adrenaline immediately ravages the burn of pain, his bones all but ringing, chanting jubilation. And it feels so good, sometimes—so good to not have to hold back, to embrace the pain of living . 

Milkwhite, the man’s eyes haven’t unwelded from the blades dripping with Logan’s blood as they hover a breath from the fat flesh of his double-chin. Logan can see his life flashing through his eyes, like a film reel—every man’s always does in the face of death, his face. He’s shaking, Logan’s muscle absorbs every earthquake that pulses through the man’s frame. Shakes more than most—and that says more than it would, to many. Coward’s heart. Shriveled and died before they even got a chance to respond, he’d seen it before. Always took the easy way out. Talked big, acted small. His date would have better luck with an idiot savant than a coward, if Beer Belly here wasn’t a two-for-one. 

King Solomon had it right. Nothing new under the sun. 

“Told you to cut your losses,” it’s a snarl. Gravelled and aged, like every time before. Less human than monster, but he likes the fear—the respect —floating up to the man’s eyes from his soul. Logan releases him roughly, sending him foot over foot towards his date, across the floor. “Take her home before you regret somethin’ else.” 

Strawberry redhead is at his side, looking him over before she turns to consider Logan. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-something, too young to be running with a greaseball nobody with male pattern baldness and a Viagra problem. But tears run freely down her face all the same, as if she cares— and she probably does, because that’s the way of things. People care. It’s a human trait.  

All Logan can see is her enchantment with him. She isn’t afraid. While her date may have a coward’s heart, she certainly doesn’t—no common sense, a dense head, sure. But no fear. Funny how that works.

He’d smile if he wasn’t so pissed off, tired. And she doesn’t look him in the eye—her gaze is rooted on his hand, now at his side. His blood hanging out on the floor.  She blinks, only looks up at his face when the adamantium on display disappears between his fingers, sliding home in a way that echoes throughout his entire frame. Evidence of them begins to disappear as his flesh works to hide away familiar wounds, correct old sins. 

Her mouth, too, gapes like a fish. Nothing new. “You’re….you’re— wow, you’re a—” 

“—nobody you should care about, kid.” And that’s the long and short truth of it. 

Logan watches her help—he’s discovered his name is Harold—stand to his full height. Helps him sulk into a corner chair like a whipped puppy, and even from here, the purple on his jaw is already dark. Probably broken, but there’s little to do about it. 

Brushing off his arm, Logan lifted his other hand to examine it—pearls of blood. Still fresh on his skin. Evidence of their birth long since healed, he stretched his fingers before his thumb rubs between each knuckle, feeling. As if he’s never felt them before—because every time, the pain feels like it’s genesis. The beginning, new. A thrill unlike any other, in a sadistic kind of way that gives him life. Hope—that he’s still feeling. 

Turning to retrieve his cigar smoldering on the floor, Logan replaces it in the corner of his mouth. Takes another full breath, sinks low onto the barstool. The sting in his hands has almost entirely dissipated into tingling numbness, and that’s good—Sue knocks his drink to a stop in front of him. Shakes her head as her eyes landscape him up and down, like they’re digging his grave. She isn’t mad, he knows that—Sue has seen him rough up more than one Tom, Dick, Harry in this place. It’s like the revolving sun—they come in. Fight the cage. They lose, get pissed, and he knocks them on their ass. Simple science, really. 

Less dangerous and more dangerous all at the same damn time. 

“Feel better?” Thin, vein-tracked arms fold in front of her gravity-inspired chest. Heavy laden with turquoise and other painted stones, she’s the picturesque woman of her age—all gypsy, little else. If they’d be deep south in States, Sue could be confused for a bayou witch. And, thinking about her stirring a little pot of potions and cackling on to swamp creatures would be something else entirely. 

He chuckles, the mental picture amusing. Leaning forward a little on his arms, his brow peaks up a little. “Now there’s a question if I ever heard one,” his lips purse into a slow smile before he sits back, scratches his fingers through his sideburns— mutton chops, poor Harold had called them. “What do you think?”  

A lesser man wouldn’t hear it, but that bottom hinge on the front door howls something terrible in the rain. Signaling another interloper in their midst, Sue’s eyes flick past him to consider the body. It lasts a heartbeat, maybe the flow of blood, before her gaze is back to him—obviously no threat. Except, her arthritic hands reaching for a towel moves her a little closer, and she nods towards the door. 

“I think you’d better behave yourself,” she gestures with her chin towards the door, “new blood walkin’ in, Logan honey.” Nodding his understanding, he drags again at his cigar, then turns his head over his shoulder to eyeball the new body—- “Never seen her before. States girl, if I ever saw one,” Sue’s tongue clicks in the pocket of her cheek, “Poor thing’s wet as a drowned lizard. What she do, park half a mile away?” 

Drowned lizard? “Anyone ever told you you’re somethin’ else, Sue?” 

“Plenty—but don’t ask, Logan. Some things stay dead when you bury ‘em.” Her wink makes him snort, as if it’s something to joke about—and it is, really. To a man who flirts with death and defies it at every turn, nothing really surprises him anymore. The grave is little more than a calling card, and Sue knows that. Riz knows that. Everyone here knows this, but, chooses instead to look the other way—see him for what he is. 

Sue’s crooking a come finger at new blood before she’s even fully parted ways with him. “Hiya, honey. C’mere, sit down—we don’t bite.” Logan raises a Really? brow at her before Sue waves him off with a flapping hand. It takes everything he has not to smile at the old woman, but instead, he swivels a little. Back to the newcomer, who’s dropping into the corner barstool, well away from him and into the shadows. 

“Speak for yourself,” 

Sue whirls on him and tosses the towel she’s been keeping bar with at his face. Batting it away, he downs the brandy. “Oh, hush up!” Her chin gestures across the bar, to the cage—veiled in shadows, it’s little more than a knick knack without its lights, screaming crowds and humming jukebox that gathers every night at ten. Money changing, saliva flying—it sleeps like a tired beast until he rings the dinner bell.  “Well, most of us don’t bite—what’ll you have, darlin’?.” 

 If that wasn’t truth, well—Logan wasn’t sure what was. 

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00

[skyfallscotland]

A year ago today, I posted the first chapter on AO3 of a story called Fury.

A few months before that, I'd picked up A Court of Thorns & Roses. It was the first original work I'd read in years and when I finished Silver Flames a week later, I turned back to AO3, desperate to read more about these characters I'd fallen in love with. I couldn't find what I wanted. Feysand fic was all well and good, but there wasn't much of that, and Azriel didn't appeal to me, which ruled out...well, most of the archive.

Original character fic gets a bad rap and that's mostly because OC fic can often be an author's first foray into fandom and writing in general, making the quality hit and miss, but that's what I really wanted in the end—I wanted to read about other characters in this world and I wanted to flesh out the world itself. I had questions about Windhaven, about siphons and magic and all the things that had been mentioned and glossed over. I couldn't find fic that answered those questions. So I wrote one.

I'd written before, basically my whole life, but never finished anything. This time though, it was like something clicked in my brain. I wasn't back on Tumblr yet and I had no one to talk to about it, but I wrote and wrote and wrote. I'd been writing for months, in secret, not telling a single soul. I'd completely written both Fury and Siren, the second in the series, before ever posting a word of it.

I almost didn't write it, really. Almost didn't post it. I figured no one was going to read it with the way people look down on original character fic. But I felt compelled to write their stories, so I did—night after night. I actually think they might be the best stories I've ever written. The statistics don't reflect that, but I didn't have a storyline to follow, a framework to back me up, like I did later with Remi's Version, just a world and some characters and I'm very proud of them.

Remi's Version came after. I'd started writing it by September, but didn't start posting it until late October (that anniversary is next week) and I almost didn't write that either, because I thought maybe it was too much, too self-indulgent, too unbalanced. It's funny to think now, that I almost never wrote her at all.

I don't know why I'm writing this essay. Maybe just because it feels...some kind of way, you know? It's been a year, but that year felt like a decade, and it's been hard. Picking up ACOTAR was an act of self-preservation when I was at my lowest and Fury and Siren and everything that came after pulled me from somewhere I never want to be again.

It's been a year. My word count on AO3 is now 1,088,097. (That's like, twelve novels!). I've published 11 works. I've written a lot, I've laughed and cried and made friends with so many of you. I'm alive.

I guess I just wanted to say thanks, and to mark the milestone somehow because it feels like I've lived ten lives since October 17th, and in all of them, this was the high point. Happy Birthday, Tessa 🖤

[tenander]

Decided to do this NSFW questionnaire for my four current main Tavs.

Since it's massive, I gotta do it in four (!) parts.

Part 1

What is your Tav’s sexuality/orientation preference? Crim is exclusively attracted to men. He is not put off by people of other genders in a sexual context, but there is zero attraction. Solstice can find anyone attractive, but he prefers men to be with in any meaningful way. Zaphir can't think of anything less important than gender or parts, but he has had his better experiences with men and prefers them.

What are their biggest ‘NOs’ they will never consider doing during sex? Crim: ravishment or any other activity that combines sex with coercive aggression Solstice: being 'mean' aka humiliation, degradation, punishments, whether through words or actions, even if it's just pretending Zaphir: used to not have any specific ones, but due to recent developments, mind control, whether real or pretend, is now a hard no.

Are they a Top/Bottom/Switch? Crim: Tops from the Bottom by telling you exactly what he wants you to do to him and you're gonna like it Solstice: Complete Service Top, there is nothing better than doing your favourite things that will make you lose it for you Zaphir: A Switch in the sense that he doesn't care about his position as long as he gets off

Favorite Position? Crim: All of them, but being horizontal is nearly always better than vertical. Solstice: Anything that has him being able to see his partner's face is chef's kiss. Zaphir: He likes riding a guy a lot.

Do they prefer giving or receiving? Crim: Receiving, hands down. Solstice: Giving, hands down. Zaphir: Receiving, it's just more practical and easy.

Tits or Ass? Crim: Tits are great, he likes to put his face in. Solstice: Okay, if he were forced at gunpoint to NOT say face or mouth… ass is fine. Zaphir: He quite appreciates a nice tight ass. Novel: He likes a nice tiddy alright.

How experienced is your Tav? Crim: So-so… he has tried a lot of things at least once in the span of about a year. He knows what he wants, but he doesn't know much about the variety that comes with varied partners. Solstice is at once more and less experienced than he has any right to be… he has done everything you can think of (and probably a few things you can't) at least once, he has had the time to explore many of them very thoroughly, and he has put a lot of thought and care into it all. … but all of it with one person, over a century ago. Zaphir: Pretty experienced, he has had countless partners, paid and not. Novel: He has barely done anything at all yet that's why he isn't in most of these answers =B

Do they have any traumas around sex? Crim: Not at all, at least as far as he knows. Solstice: He's had some minor mishaps in the past due to his physical strength that have left him a little overly-cautious in the present, but nothing bad enough to call trauma. Zaphir: No, but he is basically living with ongoing trauma that does heavily colour his sex life as well.

Do they have any taboo kinks? Crim: Nope, his most daring kink is Halsin's shapeshifting. Solstice: No, he's honestly quite tame as far as kinks go. Zaphir: He doesn't have time for kinks in the first place.

Would they want a polyamorous relationship? Crim: You better believe he does, he's in one. Solstice: I can't just do the PotC quote again… Zaphir: He got jumpscared by the 'amorous relationship' part and roundhouse-kicked it. Novel: He thinks that sounds fun to try out.

How do they feel about voyeurism? And would they do it? Crim: He doesn't really get much out of doing it, but being the subject of it is pretty hot. Solstice: Loves to watch, and doesn't mind being watched. Zaphir: Why the hell would he watch someone else fuck, who the hell would want to watch him fuck. Novel: Sounds exciting!

How big is your Tav’s sex drive? Crim: Yes. Solstice: God yes. Zaphir: Bigger than he'd like to be. Novel: He's starting to get a lil pent up, to be really honest…

How many rounds can they last? Crim: Yes. Solstice: However many his partner wants, he's a healer, he can make it work. Zaphir: Generally one or two… not for lack of stamina but because he gets antsy after a while Novel: Let's be real, probably one for now.

[uniquexusposts]

Her || Charles

Main characters: Charles Leclerc x OC Genre: fanfiction, fluff  Story type: novel  Part: 20/? Word count: 2858 Co writer: @mistrose23

Story summary: Matilde Jørgensen, the new Scuderia Ferrari team principal, faced the nerve-wracking challenge of reviving the team's fortunes and aiming for a championship. Leading a historic team as a 'newbie' and separating her work and personal opinions posed a significant challenge. The big question: is she capable to do so?

Previous chapter

Chapter 18. Statement

"Buongiorno," Charles greeted his colleagues when he entered the engineer's truck. His eyes scanned the people who had already sat on their spots. He missed one person, but she must be getting some tea or coffee.

His colleagues greeted him back. Charles sat down in his designated spot next to Matilde, who usually would sit at the head of the long table. It would give her an overview of the team. Charles noticed how her seat was untouched, her notebook and laptop weren't there, just like the tangerine she always ate every morning. It had only happened once that she was late and that was on her first day. It became normal to arrive and see Matilde already sitting there. She was the first to arrive and the last to leave.

Carlos entered the room. "Sorry for being late. There are so many fans out there," he apologised. He sat down across from Charles. He looked at Matilde's spot. "Where's Matilde?" He was surprised.

"Late," an engineer replied.

"Oh. Weird."

Even though the meeting had to begin when Carlos entered the room, people were still busy with preparations. Some didn't mind having a few extra minutes, but it was unusual.

Ten minutes had passed the designated starting time and Matilde was still nowhere to be seen. Members started to exchange puzzled glances. Even if Matildle was a minute late, she would tell someone about it. Her being ten minutes late already, was not right.

"Did someone try to call Matilde yet?" one of the engineers finally suggested.

"I already tried. No answer," someone else answered.

"And Galileo? Did someone try to contact him?"

"Shouldn't we just begin? We need to get this done before we run out of time."

"No, let's just wait for a bit longer. She must be on her way," another voice chimed in, hope lingering in the words.

"I texted Galileo," someone else mentioned.

Just seconds after that, Galileo and Silvia entered the room. Their presence alone was enough to signal that something was amiss. The usual smiles were absent, replaced by expressions of concern. They were never at a briefing like this.

"Can I get everyone's attention, please," Galileo's voice cut through the room, making sure everyone stopped with whatever they were doing. He took a moment to survey the room. "As you have noticed, we are missing the team principal today. Matilde will not be present today, tomorrow, and Sunday," he announced, causing eyebrows to raise in collective surprise. She had never missed one day of work.

A murmur of questions and confusion rippled through the room. Carlos, unable to contain his worry, spoke up first. "What? Why? What happened?"

"We are only allowed to share with the team that Matilde is hospitalised for a personal reason," Galileo responded somberly.

More questions were being asked about the situation.

"Her family has kindly requested that we not contact Matilde until she reaches out to us herself. We will not have a replacement for this weekend, so we must do it together."

Silvia nodded in agreement, her usual vibrant energy subdued. "We will publish a statement in a moment, written by Matilde's family. Charles and Carlos, when talking to the media or someone else who asks about it, you will say she will not be here at the track until further explanation. There will probably get some fuzz around it, let them be, but don't say anything about the hospital. Galileo and I are informed about the situation, but the media doesn't have to know it yet. They asked not to share it because they are still waiting on some results and do not want to share it yet. But do know that she is fine and not in a life-threatening situation. It is a private matter and for you, a team matter. For your further information, Christian Horner and Toto Wolff were there when it happened, but they have also been requested not to share anything with anyone. For now, that is all we know and all we can share. When we get an update, you will be the first to know about it. For questions about it, you know where to find me."

A sense of collective shock settled over the room, the usual camaraderie replaced by an atmosphere of uncertainty. The team members were left with more questions than answers, their concern for Matilde was palpable.

"May I ask why Matilde's family is in control of all the communications? Just curious to know..." one team member ventured, voicing the questions that echoed in the minds of many.

Silvia exchanged a glance with Galileo before responding. "Matilde's family is handling the situation because they value their privacy, and we respect that. Matilde's brother is a press officer and will be dealing with this for now. Let's focus on the tasks at hand and wish Matilde a swift recovery. Updates will follow when we have them."

"We do have a card, so if you would like to write something down, please, do it," Galileo mentioned and gave a massive 'Get Well Soon' card to Charles.

"Can it be stress?" Charles worriedly asked. He knew he had created a lot of fuzz and stress last week. He was worried this could be his fault.

"That's something we cannot share, Charles," Silvia weakly smiled.

He silently gasped for air; he had caused this. Fear flickered in his eyes. "Okay," Charles mumbled and opened the card. As he grabbed a pen, his mind became blank. He stared at the empty card, processing the situation.

The room fell into a contemplative silence, the weight of the unknown casting a shadow over what should have been a routine morning briefing. The Silverstone weekend had begun under a cloud of uncertainty, and the Scuderia Ferrari team found themselves navigating uncharted territory without their leader.

- press statement -

Official Statement from the Family of Matilde Jørgensen and Scuderia Ferrari

Dear Scuderia Ferrari and Formula 1 Fans,

We want to inform you that Matilde has been admitted to the hospital for a medical concern that requires some attention. We want to assure everyone that she is currently stable and receiving the necessary medical care. We understand the desire for more details, but we kindly request your understanding and respect for our family's privacy during this sensitive time.

At this time, Matilde needs some space for rest and recovery. Consequently, she will not be present for the upcoming weekend, and we appreciate your understanding regarding her absence. The medical team is taking good care of her, and we are hopeful for a swift and smooth recovery.

As always, we are grateful for Matilde's support and love from the Ferrari family, the Formula 1 community, and fans worldwide. We kindly request respect for our privacy during this period and will keep you updated as necessary.

Thank you for your understanding and warm wishes.

Sincerely,

The Jørgensen Family and Scuderia Ferrari

* * *

It didn't stay unnoticed that there was one team principal missing during the Friday at Silverstone. The news travelled fast through the paddock and beyond. As the morning unfolded, whispers of concern reverberated through the media centre, press rooms and social media platforms. The press release from the family and team confirmed some of the rumours, and photos and videos that were taken last evening - a few fans spotted the rushing ambulance leaving the paddock in the evening, causing so many rumours - but it was Matilde who was taken to the hospital.

Reports were exchanging speculative theories about Matilde's sudden absence. Twitter and other social media channels became flooded with questions and speculation because the statement provided minimal details. It confirmed her hospitalisation, but left the reason shrouded in mystery. Fans and media were craving information about the young team principal. The lack of information became a breeding ground for rumours and speculation.

The week began with all its focus on the huge sporting event in the weekend, but it quickly shifted to the missing and hospitalised team principal.

The whispers and speculations reached a crescendo when fans began piecing together the timeline of events. Fans witnessed the fallout back in Spielberg last weekend, could that be a reason for the absence? The realisation that Matilde was taken from the track to the hospital stirred a wave of anxiety among the Ferrari faithful. Concerned messages flooded the team's social media accounts, asking for updates and offering words of support.

The team was just as affected as the fans were. The first free practice was full of mistakes, especially by Charles. He was distracted and that was noticeable; messy mistakes in the corners, delayed reactions and the times were off. He blamed himself for Matilde's absence and it weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had been a pain in the arse to her, he gave her a hard time. What if he went too far?

Throughout the entire day, he kept reading the speculations on social media. He didn't know what kind of impact it had on the fans, but it was probably caused by the not-saying-much press release.

Tweets:

"MATILDE IS HOSPITALISED??? WHAT HAPPENED TO HER???"

"Just heard a theory about Matilde's absence at Silverstone - some say it might be stress-related burnout. Hoping for her speedy recovery!!!"

"Heard some dark whispers about Matilde leaving due to internal team clashes. It might be the reason why Matilde collapsed during the team principal's meeting. Hope it's just wild speculation!"

"Ferrari is no good to their team principles. Maybe Matilde collapsed due to all the fights within the team. Everyone does what they want to do in the team. What is going on?!"

Nobody in the team was aware of a sudden departure, but to Charles, it kinda wouldn't be a surprise after the way everyone treated her, including him. Gossip travelled fast through the paddock and over the internet, just like wild theories.

However, the day continued and Charles still had to see the media after the free practices.

"Charles, tough day out there on the track. Can you walk us through your day and the challenges you faced?" F1TV asked.

"Yeah, it was a bit of a tricky one today. We struggled a bit with the balance of the car during the first practice. We were trying some new setups, and it didn't go as smoothly as we hoped." Charles honestly replied and looked around while talking, he never looked the interviewer in the eyes during the interview. "The car felt a bit unpredictable, especially through the high-speed corners. But we have collected enough data, so we will work on it."

The interviewer nodded. "We saw during the second practice that you improved some runs. It seemed like you had it under control."

"Yes, we made some adjustments and it did feel better, but we're still not where we want to be," Charles replied. He was glad the man was only asking about the practices. It felt like he finally could answer properly and think about something else. "We are working hard to analyse the data and find some solutions for tomorrow, for qualifying, and of course, for Sunday." He showed a brief, but promising smile.

"The world is all thinking of Matilde's absence, did it have any impact on the team's performances today?"

Cheered too soon. "Well, it's certainly a bit different not having Matilde around. We all miss her, and I think it's been a bit of a challenge for everyone."

"Fans are speculating about Matilde's situation. Some say it's a reaction to your clash last week in Spielberg, that it caused her to be overstressed and perhaps even burnout. We've seen quite some moments that didn't go smoothly between her and the team. Do you have anything to say to that?"

Charles took a deep breath, recollecting his thoughts. "Uh... I wish I could provide more information, but honestly, I don't have my details. Matilde's family and the team have asked for privacy, and we respect that. All I can say is that we're sending our best wishes her way, and we hope to have her back with us soon," he replied. It was a scripted response, he had to learn that from Silvia and so far, it worked well. "But," he said before the reporter would ask his next question. Charles wanted to share that they made it up. He didn't have the chance to say it to anyone. "About the situation in Spielberg, we talked about it, and we're fine. I also spoke to Carlos and Max, we're all fine now. It was an unfortunate moment, and I'm not proud of it, but we have to look ahead of us, not behind us."

"Thank you for sharing this, Charles. We wish Matilde the best, and we hope to see her soon again."

"Thank you," Charles nodded and returned to the Ferrari hospitality.

"You didn't have to say the last part," the press officer mentioned.

"I wanted to."

The entire team made themselves ready for the debrief again. The engineers were already sharing some points with each other, others were enjoying an espresso, and some people were scrolling through special media.

"Guys," one of the engineers said. "There's a tweet going around that Matilde collapsed due to an addiction issue."

Silence fell in the room, and looks were shared. It was like someone pressed the pause button, no one was moving or saying anything.

"I heard a reporter say that the hospitalisation is linked to high blood pressure due to an unconfirmed pregnancy," someone else added.

Charles sat down on his chair, he was lost in the sea of rumours, the uncertainty gnawing at him.

One of the engineers noticed the unease in the room and took charge. "Alright, people, let's focus. For whatever reason Matilde is hospitalised, it still doesn't change the fact that we will support her. Whatever is circulating out there, is just speculation. We will hear from her once she is ready. But we have a job to do, and that's what we'll do now."

Everyone shifted their attention back to the technical details, the debriefing starting, but Charles remained distracted. The rumours circulating about Matilde's conduction were like a storm in his mind, each one more unsettling than the last. As the debrief continued, Charles had ups and downs regarding his concentration. When he needed to be focused, he was focused, but when it wasn't about him, his mind drifted away.

Luckily for Charles, the debrief came to an end quickly. He had to find Max, perhaps he knew something more about Matilde. He walked to the Red Bull's hospitality like he had one goal and one goal only.

"What are you doing here?" Max confusedly asked, he was walking around with his dinner, trying to find a spot to eat.

"Matilde... Do you know if she's okay?"

Max glanced around, making sure no one was in earshot. He signed to Charles that he could enter the cafeteria. They sat down in the corner of the area, where they had some privacy. "I don't have all the details, mate. But from what I've heard, it's serious enough that they're keeping it all under wraps. Toto and Christian were there when it happened, but even they are tight-lipped."

"But you are close to her..."

"I tried to call her, but her brother picked up the phone, not giving much information."

Charles felt a lump in his throat. "What do you think happened?"

"No idea. But you know Matilde, she's tough. She'll pull through."

Charles nodded, trying to hide the worry etched on his face. "But all those rumours," he breathed. "Stress, burnout, depression, clashes in the team. Maybe I'm the cause, maybe I pushed her to the limit and now she collapsed because I am a dickhead. And the rumours about an addiction, or unconfirmed pregnancy. I even heard that she had a miscarriage because of the stress I give her." He looked and sounded hopeless, a side Max hadn't seen of him yet.

"Don't blame yourself for things you don't know," Max replied.

"I just can't shake off this feeling that I could've done something differently."

"We all have those moments. But right now, she needs our support. If there's anything you can do, it's to stay focused on the race, keep the team together, and give her the strength she needs when she comes back."

Charles looked at Max, making eye contact, his eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and distress. "I hope she comes back."

"She will." Max observed Charles' body language. Charles had a hard time hiding his emotions, and the situation was taking a personal toll on him. Max could see that Charles genuinely cared about Matilde, and the worry for her well-being weighed heavily on his shoulders. It was a stupid thought, but perhaps that was the reason why Charles couldn't get along with Matilde.

"You care about her, don't you?" Max asked, his tone gentle.

Charles sighed, not attempting to mask his emotions. "Yeah, I do," he whispered, running his hand through his hair. "More than I probably should, given our position. She's my team principal. The entire team is, was, shocked, but they can handle it. I...I just can't stop thinking about the things I've done to her."

"She'll be fine. And none of this is your fault."

Next chapter

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @crashingwavesofeuphoria@maryvibess @chocolatefartstrawberry @snzleclerc

[eroscomet]

Echoes of the Past

Chapter one- The Unexpected Hour

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Paring: Wednesday Addams X Fem!OC

Context: During her winter break, Wednesday Addams notices a strange girl entering the empty house next door, claiming it as her own. Intrigued, Wednesday confronts her, only to uncover eerie inconsistencies in the girl's story that hint at something far beyond the ordinary. As the girl’s strange familiarity with the house clashes with Wednesday’s reality, a chilling mystery unfolds, leaving Wednesday to question what forces might be at play.

Warnings: None that I can think of.

Word count: 2.3k+

A/N: Hey lovelies, it has been a while since I have been active. I made a different post somewhat explaining why. I am back though and ready to write! While I was gone, I got more ideas of different stories! Let me know what you guys think! This will definitely be a series and I hope you guys like where this one goes. I think this will be a bit of a slow burn.

Not proof read

╰┈➤Series Masterlist

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Nevermore had gone on their Christmas break, meaning Wednesday was back home in the Addams' manor with her family. The original Addams manor was known to be alone atop a hill, secluded from all those who were anywhere near normal. Alas, Gomez and Morticia felt that it was time for a scenery change, so they had moved when Wednesday was about ten years old, long before she had been sent to Nevermore.

This manor was just as brooding and perfect for the family. They had accommodated to the home quickly as their last. They familiarized themselves with their neighbors, though they wanted nothing to do with the strange family. All but their neighbors next door, the Walters. They were an old couple who didn't know much about what was going on around them half of the time. This made them almost as strange to the neighborhood as the Addams. The Addams were most friendly to the Walters over the years as they had been just as kind to them since the beginning. 

Wednesday found that winter break was the perfect time to catch up on her writing, especially since her family knows not to bother her during this writing time. She spends her time in her room using her typewriter to finish her novel. Feeling like she could never finish it at Nevermore due to Enid's constant need to express herself on the form. Whether it be music, talking, inviting people over to their dorm, or gossiping, Wednesday had found it exceedingly difficult to focus on her work.

Again, like any other day, she was writing. She always had her desk in front of her window to peer out every once in a while. As she was typing away on her typewriter today, something had caught her eye. A girl? Wearing odd clothing that seemed far too old-fashioned for these times. Wearing a white collared shirt that seemed to be a button-up shirt, a black tie with a v-neck dark green colored jumper, a pair of black pleated pants, accompanied by a pair of black boots, and a black leather jacket. 

The girl wiped her hands on her trousers as if she had just jumped the fence that guarded Walter's home. Her boots made a trail of shoe prints in the snow, almost as if she had come out of the woods behind the home. Wednesday, never in her time in the neighborhood, had seen or heard of the Walters having a daughter. They had only ever said they never had children and couldn't have them even if they wanted. Given that, the Walters were out on a Christmas vacation, and they had been for over a week now. 

They don't have any pets that need tending to... Then who was this? A vandal? A thief? Is someone coming to rob the poor old couple's home? Wednesday's thoughts were cut off by the girl reaching the opening in the backdoor that seemingly was left unlocked by the couple. Just then, the girl had disappeared into the home, out of visible sight from Wednesday's window.

Her curiosity had been piqued, who was this girl? More than that, what was her purpose in breaking into her family's dear friend's home? Wednesday stopped her writing, closing the lid to her typewriter. Taking another glance out the window to the new 'character' in Walter's residence, narrowing her gaze as she did her best to get a good look at the girl.She glared out the window with her arms crossed while she debated whether or not she ought to investigate.

Her curiosity had gotten the better of her in the end, and after a good moment of thought, she decided to pay the girl a 'visit' next door. Grabbing a coat and slipping out of her bedroom as well as out the manor's back door. As she walked across the snowy grass and swiftly exited the Addam's family manor's backyard through the gate. Her footprints followed behind her on the snow as she followed the girl's footsteps past Walter's back gate. 

"This better be good.." Wednesday had grumbled under her breath as she neared the backdoor of Walter's home.

Surprisingly, when she had turned the knob. The door opened without a hitch. She didn't waste any more time as she walked right in, closing the door behind her. The girl was in the kitchen, back turned from the backdoor, which she didn't realize she left unlocked when she entered. The footprints of her boots on the door's mat. Her eyes had been scanning the kitchen, brows knitted together in a confused state.

"Quite the trespasser, aren't you?" Wednesday's voice broke through the silence of the house. She had taken slow and measured steps toward the girl, a smirk on her face.

The girl had acted quickly, as she heard Wednesday speak up, her hand reaching to grab a knife that was slid inside ofthe rack. She turned around quickly to face Wednesday.

"No, what are you doing in my home?" She said defensively as she pointed the knife towards Wednesday's direction, her eyes scanning over the brooding girl's figure.

Wednesday's eyes flickered down to the knife in the mysterious girl's hand, but she didn't make any effort to back away. Instead, she leaned against the nearest counter, folding her arms over her chest and tilting her head to the side with her usually daunting smirk,

"Your home? Don't be ridiculous, you're a burglar."

"This is my home! I just came back from a walk through the woods!" She had said back defensively as she shook her head.

"Look, my other pair of shoes are right by the door!" The hand that held the knife pointed at the kitchen's doorway, nothing there. Her eyes had been trained on Wednesday, not noticing that her shoes weren't there.

"I'm not sure what you're trying to pull, but they're not there. Do you expect me to believe you somehow teleported into your own home, unannounced? No, you're a thief," The Addam's girl said as she pushed herself off the counter, taking a step closer.

The other girl's expression hardened as she looked over by the kitchen doorway, realizing that her shoes weren't there.

"What the..? They were just here!" She said in confusion as she stared at where she knew her shoes had once been.

Wednesday couldn't help but raise an eyebrow as she continued to watch the girl look around the kitchen in confusion.

"So... What? Are you claiming that that just vanished into thin air? That's impossible, you and I both know it."

"I live here, I'm telling you!" She replied as she shook her head, putting the knife back into the rack before speaking again,

"Look, if this isn't my house, then how would I know that the living room has a dark green rug and black leather furniture?" She crossed her arms, leaving the kitchen and entering the living room where the rug was instead a red and gold color with an old design, along with brown furniture that wasn't leather.

"What..?" She said in confusion as she looked at the living room. She slowly stepped forward, looking at the living room in utter confusion and shock.

Wednesday, who had followed her into the living room, not far behind her with her arms folded across her chest. A dry laugh that sounded almost like a scoff escaped Wednesday, her suspicions slowly being confirmed.

"I knew it. You're a trespasser, and you're a very bad one at that. No good thief would make such a stupid mistake."

"What the..." The girl had muttered out breathlessly, unable to focus on the words leaving Wednesday's mouth. All she could focus on was the living room that had drastically changed for her. Her eyes searched every inch of the living room.

"Where's my mom's lamp and painting? It was just...here....and so was my father's wrenches that my mom begged for him to put away.." She said as she eyed the coffee table and the room. Her eyes landed on the flat-screened television in the home.

"What the hell is this?" Her hand reached out and continuously pressed on the screen as if something was going tohappen.

The Addam's girl only watched quietly as the girl paced the room, more amused with every second that passed. As the girl looked at the television and tried to interact with it, Wednesday had to bite back a chuckle.

"That's a television... Surely even you know what a television is. What, are from the 1800's?"

"What? Where's the RCA CTC-11? My dad worked overtime just to afford it for the family.." The mysterious girl said as she ran her hand across the television's screen, watching as her hand left a trail across the screen. Her eyebrows only knitted together further into confusion.

"We could never afford something like this.."

"RCA? The television you speak of is very outdated, especially when we have this." Wednesday replied. The girl's confusion was a bit strange, and Wednesday was growing more curious by the second. She could hear the slight hint of disbelief in the girl's voice as her hand had retracted from the television.

"What? How could the RCA be outdated when it's 1964 and the television just came out in 61'? That doesn't make any sense." She said so confidently as if it were true, looking at Wednesday as if she were in the wrong.

Wednesday's eyes had slightly widened for a brief moment, her mouth agape in disbelief. 1964? No, something was wrong with this girl, and the more she spoke, the more Wednesday was beginning to understand. She paused for a moment as if processing the information she just received.

"..1964? You're sure of that?"

"Yes!" The girl exclaimed, looking at Wednesday as if she were crazy, "I was just here! My family was just here!"

"And what year were you born in?" She asked as her eyes darted over the girl's face, searching for any sign of deceit or a hint that she may be lying. But there was nothing. The girl was confused, and she firmly believed what she was saying. Wednesday's curiosity peaked again.

"1947? Why?" The mysterious girl had said in confusion, "Are you the new neighbors or what?" 

"No, I'm not a recent neighbor. We've been living right next door for quite some time now.."

"What? Surely I would have known of you?" Her eyes scanned the brooding girl's figure before returning to her face, "This feels like someone is pulling on my leg. Where did everything go then"

"This is going to sound like a strange question, but just humor me for a minute," Wednesday said as she followed the girl into the kitchen, keeping a few feet of distance between them. "What's your name?"

"Alex Davis- Well, Alexandra, but I always hate when people call me my full name. My family bought this house in 1951." Alex muttered as her hands ran over the new counters, she was utterly confused.

"Alex Davis.." Wednesday repeated to herself as she searched her mind for any remembrance of the name but nothing came to mind, "How old are you, currently?"

"I'm seventeen?" Alex said as she looked out the kitchen window over to the Addams' manor, eyeing it for a moment. "Huh, someone painted the witch's nest. Looks newer than before.."

"I was only gone for a couple of hours." She added as she continued to look at the manor. Wednesday's eyes darted across the girl's body and clothing, taking in every detail. She couldn't recall a time when she had seen someone around here wearing anything like this, let alone someone her age. It was outdated and began to confirm her thoughts.

"A couple of hours. How much time do you usually take on your walks?"

"I don't. I had an argument with my parents and ran out from the back gate and into the woods. Just to cool off for a couple of hours..and now I come back and everything is...gone, replaced.." Alex muttered her eyes darting down at the sink, trying to wrap her head around everything.

"Everything has been replaced?" The Addam's girl repeated as her mind began racing with potential answers for the situation: time travel, magic, a dream. It all sounded unreal but she knew that one thing was for sure, Alex was being genuine.

"This is my house, but everything is just...replaced." Walking back over to the living room once again, reaching down to grab the photo frame on the coffee table. The photo consisted of an old couple, The Walter's, but she hadn't recognized them.

"You're certain you don't know them...? You sure you didn't just run into a different house?" Wednesday asked, her voice still monotone now with a more serious tone to her voice. 

"This is my house!" Alex said now more urgently as she shook her head, her hands now balling up into fists at her sides. 

She quickly began walking upstairs, walking down the hallway, and opening every door. She opened the door that once led to her little sister's room, which was once painted with pink walls, now has grey walls and is an empty guest room. Shaking her head, she angrily walked over to her parent's room, opening the door and only finding, once again, differently painted walls, and now the bedroom belonged to the old couple she saw in the picture downstairs. 

She shook her head again, walking further down the hall to the restroom and slamming the door open. It was also differently painted and looked as if it was an entirely different bathroom. She walked backward, her back hitting the hallway wall as her head began spinning. Her family was no longer there. 

Her mind raced with all kinds of thoughts: Where did they go? Did they leave her behind? Were her parents so upset with her and the argument that they left without saying a word? If so, then why is everything so different all of a sudden? How did these people buy her home and quickly renovate it?

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[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Best and Worst of both Worlds (part 1)

Tw: yandere oc guy, but i dont think this chapter shown that yet, but readers a fuckin stalker loser this time, university horrors

Okay guys so this story im literally pitting Yves and Montgomery together, gonna be a little slow burn but we r gonna get 2 da conflict like eventually

Also da settting in university cuase its da most relevant 2 me 💯

Enjouy

PART 2

He's so beautiful and ethereal. The man has been plaguing your mind for the entire week, you're being distracted from your assignments just because of this unbelievably gorgeous man with silky, long hair and dressed to the tens.

You grinded your teeth and scratched your skin, you know where he frequents. The university's library. And you obviously want to get closer to him after he caught you from falling. You slipped on a sheet of paper that you dropped and this mysterious stranger was there to catch you by the waist before your body could make any devastating impact. Unfortunately, your stacks of textbooks and other miscellaneous documents were scattered to the ground.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his voice was smooth and pleasant with a unique, suave accent to it.

You were reduced to a nervous, stuttery mess. He gently brought you back up to your feet, he helped you gather your things and even arranged it by size and weight, so that it would be less likely for it to topple over. The man took a further step to smoothen the frizzles of your hair, fix your collar and sleeves. He even zipped your backpack up, you were unaware that it was open in the first place, adding to your embarrassment. You couldn't really push him away because your arms are occupied with your belongings.

It was hard to look into those stunning emerald eyes without flustering yourself even further, so you looked away while you stammered a "thanks" to him.

"Be careful." He said as he tilted your head by the chin to make direct eye contact. You know that you're as red as a tomato, but he didn't comment on it. The man lets you go before walking away, he fixed the handles of his luxury bag on his shoulder. Luscious curls bouncing with every step.

You felt like you wanted to explode right there and then, it took you a while to regain composure, other university personnel wondering why you're just standing in the middle of the path like that. Aren't you tired of holding all that stuff? It looked heavy.

You were snapped back into your senses when someone who you assumed had a bad day, told you to get out of the way. You scurried along the traffic, having the incident fresh in your mind.

You wonder who that man is, a student? A professor? A staff member?

You came to know that he's in the library for a few hours every weekday afternoons. He doesn't have a particular spot, the mystique spontaneously appears in random but fairly secluded reading spots in the library.

You felt like a stalker, but that's what you are. Too shy and afraid to talk to him, yet content with watching from afar. His ears are covered by his hair, so you don't know if he had any earbuds in. Fuelling your hesitance to make any contact first.

He could be reading a thick novel, handwriting something down on his notebook, or he could be typing away on his sleek, black laptop. In either instances, you have no idea what he's doing, it's either in a foreign language, full of numbers or completely made up of technical jargon.

You don't know why you're doing this instead of studying for your midterms. You're never like this to any of your crushes, not this obsessive over a real person, so why now? What compelled you to become this... creep? It's like you can't stop. You're scared of rejection but you can't get rid of the butterflies in your stomach.

You had no one to talk to about it because university is a very lonely place. At least, for personality types like you. You didn't want to bother your other friends, they have their own problems to worry about.

It reaches a point that you tried following him out of the library, wondering where he will go next. Before you could step past the automatic sliding doors, you looked at the book in your hand.

'Wait a minute, this is fucked up.' You thought to yourself. This isn't like you, exams are in spitting distance and you're subjecting this poor person to this harassment just because of a singular interaction.

You made a 180⁰ turn and marched back to your all-time favourite seat. Which happened to be occupied by the stranger earlier, maybe that made you a little peeved because you "claimed" it first at the start of the year. But he took it for the day.

To your surprise, there lies his notebook on the ground. He must have accidentally left it. You picked it up and looked around to make sure the coast was clear, then you flipped through it.

You were blasted with numericals, diagrams, words you weren't sure if it was written in English or otherwise and even floorplans of a building of some sort. You couldn't understand anything.

"Excuse me."

You whipped your head to the whisper. It was him! Your blood ran cold as he caught you snooping through his item. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

You struggled to form a coherent sentence as you pointed at it, you're done for, you're going to be confirmed a creep. But he only watched you with the utmost patience.

There came a point where you gave up, placed the closed book on the table and pushed it towards him.

Luckily though, you didn't have to say another word.

"You found my notebook. How careless of me to have dropped it." He pulled a chair opposite of you and sat down. You watch him place his handbag on another chair.

He elegantly picked the journal up and slid it into his bag. You were sweating at this point, the dread is about to make you vomit on him and that's not great. You wished that he would go away now, but seeing that he's locked onto his seat, it's highly unlikely.

You prayed hard for it though, he finished his business for the day. There shouldn't be any reason for him to linger.

"Thank you for keeping it safe. I hope you found whatever it is you were seeking from me." He continued, crossing his legs and resting his hands on the table.

What.

You asked what he meant by that.

A teasing smile made its way to his rouge lips.

"You were watching me." You grew pale and you scrambled to explain yourself, but he raised his index finger to signal you to let him continue.

"Your tact could be improved upon; I could see you trying to hide behind the shelves, I could hear you mumbling to yourself, and you shouldn't think so lowly of yourself." He propped his head up on one elbow.

Your cheeks felt hot. That is true, you were berating yourself for being too wimpy to go ahead and talk to him. You just didn't think you were that loud.

"I would have enjoyed having a chat with you. I wouldn't have thought that you were-- and in your own words, a 'creepy, loser-freak'."

Oh. He heard that too. You wish that you could disappear this instant.

"I'm flattered that you thought highly of me. However, I was disappointed that you thought that I was intimidating." He pouted playfully. "I won't bite." He twirls a lock of his hair around his fingers.

Your nerves are frazzled as he leans in. You didn't know what to say or what to do. He seemingly picks up on that and continues leading the conversation.

"Let's start with names. Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine." You felt his shoe brush against your leg.

You almost forgot your own name as you watch the bead of sweat drip down your nose in horror. He must think you're a stinky slob.

But all he does is stare straight into your soul while drumming his fingers against the table.

You told him your name, with a severe stutter. Each passing second felt like a serrated knife slicing through your flesh.

He repeated it, syllables rolling through his tongue wonderfully. He pronounced it correctly on the first try despite your cripplingly anxious enunciation.

"Yves." He replied. Finally, you have his name. You're totally not going to use that to dig for more information on him.

"You have a beautiful name." He complimented.

You nervously returned the compliment and let out an awkward laugh. Trying your best to ignore the growing sweat stain between your pits.

"How charming of you, (name)." He stood up and pushed his chair back under the table. Yves collected his bag and turned his attention back to you.

"I'd love to talk longer, but I must go now. I believe you have an exam to prepare for. Best begin your revision now, I hope our brief conversation has helped to quell your worries."

...and you mumbled that part about yourself too. It's pretty safe to assume he heard all your thoughts.

Yves extended a manicured hand to you. Taking this as a clear request for a handshake, you accepted it.

Only for him to bring it up to his lips, tenderly and fleetingly kissing your knuckles. This entire time, his piercing gaze never left your eyes.

You wanted to claw yourself out of your flesh and die out of embarrassment.

"Study well."

He lets your hand down and presses it momentarily with his larger ones.

You watched him saunter away with his back turned against you.

You brought the back of your palm to your sight.

There is a faint, reddish tint on it. It must have been from his lipstick.

You're not sure if you ever want to wash your hand after this.

[factoryfileshorrorseries]

The Factory Files: A Mascot Horror Series . . .

[ 16+ Blog for Gore & Violence — Minors Proceed at your own risk I will not be liable to your choices/actions this is your only warning — No DM’s ESPECIALLY under 18 — Comments / Likes / Reblogs / Asks are Welcome ]

Factory Files Vol. 1-5

Five Nights Before Dawn / Echoed Escape / Infected Within: Breached Archives / Radio Waves / Circus Row

Vol. 1 / Vol. 2 / Vol. 3 / Vol. 4 / Vol. 5

(More info listed in each description, these are the cover arts for each volume)

Series Synopsis . . .

A ten year passion project that has been carefully cared for and curated for the enjoyment of each fandom. An epic story that features the Five Nights at Freddy’s Franchise, Poppy Playtime, My Friendly Neighborhood, and Indigo Park.

Drawing from the lore we hold so dear to our hearts in order to create an epic tale of murder, grief, revenge, and most importantly love. Illustrated and written by yours truly, join me on my adventure as I attempt to write hopefully one of the best crossover fan fictions of all time!

About the Story:

Hello, hello! My name’s @cookiecrumbles52 and welcome to the Factory Files Blog! Down below will be all of the links to our most important posts. Please feel free to leave a like and a comment if you enjoy what you see!

🐻 🐰 🐤 🦊 ☎️

I’ve been working on “Five Nights Before Dawn” since I joined the FNaF’s fandom in middle school. Back then there were a million names and a million ideas that never made it past the notes app on my phone. And really over time it became something amazing when I had the brilliant idea to make a Crossover Au with not one, but three other mascot horror games.

In an attempt to get myself to actually write the dang thing I’ve created this blog to get the hype going as I know many of you fans have been dying for some new content! That being said every now and then you’ll get snippets of what’s actually being written within the descriptions of my sketches, illustrations, and overall dorky doodles.

I try to keep to a normal posting schedule but I won’t promise anything as I’m running several other art blogs, writing & illustrating my own novels, working a part time job, and really just trying to survive life. But I figured since it’s already been ten years I might as well give it another go!

I’m always open to new ideas especially for ongoing projects like Indigo Park, so if you have anything please give me a shout and maybe your ideas will make it into the story!

That being said if it wasn’t for the fanbase I don’t think I’d be typing this all out at 4:33 in the morning. Seeing what people can create out of nothing has always been inspiring to me and every year I try to better myself with what I make so I can pass on what I’ve learned onto newer fans. Keep creating, that’s all I’ve gotta say, because someone somewhere is watching whether you know it or not!

Links:

Meet the Cast

FNaF’s / Poppy Playtime / Indigo Park / My Friendly Neighborhood

Lore Bits:

FNaF’s / Poppy Playtime / Indigo Park / My Friendly Neighborhood

Polls:

Oc’s:

FNaF’s / Poppy Playtime / Indigo Park / My Friendly Neighborhood

Memes:

Story:

Vol. 1: FNBD (FNaF)

Vol. 2: Echoed Escape (Poppy Playtime)

Vol. 3: Infected Within: Breached Archives (FNaF: SB)

Vol. 4: Puppets & Parlors (MFNH)

Vol. 5: Circus Row (IP/FNaF/MFNH/PP)

Writing Scraps:

[ DO NOT REPOST, ALL ART & CONCEPTS WERE MADE BY ME — This is a FNaF’s / PoppyPlaytime / My Friendly Neiborhood / Indigo Park AU, in no way is this canon to any of the OG storylines or Lore. ]

[xiyouyanyi]

Welcome!

@ryin-silverfish here, also known as "That person who talks a lot about FSYY and fox spirits".

This is my little LMK AU sideblog, which started off as a bunch of disjointed background notes for my fanfics, but developed into its own gigantic thing over time.

I've said elsewhere that, despite LMK (and many other JTTW adjacent works) lifting certain tidbits wholesale from FSYY——like Nezha's backstory or the Golden Dragon Shears, neither the show nor the fanworks really go into the implications of a FSYY/JTTW combined universe.

(For one, Zhao Gongming's three sisters, the Sanxiao, showing up to kick Jin and Yin's butts for stealing and breaking their treasure would be very satisfying, and also hella badass.)

Well, be the change you want, they said. 

So here it is: Journey of the Gods, aka "LMK, but FSYY is also canon and an extremely influential historical event".

Inspired by @digitaldoeslmk 's By the Book AU.

What even is FSYY?

"Ancient China's bloodiest bureaucracy recruitment program, kickstarted by a king who simped too hard for the creator goddess of humanity and the fox girl she sent to end his dynasty."

"I'll write my own God-Demon novel, with blackjacks and fox hookers and no Buddhist allegories!" ——Xu Zhonglin/Lu Xixing/Li Yunxiang

Okay, jokes aside: Investiture of the Gods(Fengshen Yanyi) is the other big "God-Demon Novel" of the Ming dynasty, written after JTTW. It's about the toppling of the Shang dynasty and its tyrannical King Zhou by King Wu of Zhou——but with more Daoism, immortals and demons helping out both sides, and ten billion magical formations and treasures. 

At the end of the story, almost everyone who died in battle were deified and became the 365 gods of the Celestial Bureaucracy, thus "Investiture of the Gods". 

Here is a link to the only full English translation of FSYY, by Gui Zhizhong.

Here is my overview of FSYY's grand overarching conflict, a.k.a. "Why are all the Daoist immortals fighting?" 

Compared to JTTW, it's a lot more formulaic and suffers from a massive character count inflation problem, but also extremely influential in Chinese folk religion, to the point of some modern temples, like Qingyang Palace, basically worshiping characters from the novel! Like, the western equivalent would be a church worshiping Dante and Beatrice from the Divine Comedy.

(Similarly, it is to orthodox Daoism what the Divine Comedy is to medieval Christian theology, and should not be treated as actual religious scriptures.)

Okay, FSYY happened in the LMK universe. So What?

Well, first, it will really do wonders to fill up that eerily empty Celestial Realm we see in the Spider Queen special, and the Celestial Bureaucracy will no longer consist of a grand total of five people.

Secondly, it can solve some major show-not-tell problems and actually give legitimacy to the grievances of the LMK Brotherhood + Havoc in Heaven, as well as fleshing out the Celestial Realm.

Third, so many cool magical treasures.

Fourth, LBD gets an origin story, with a twist.

Fifth, I delight in quality angst and horror, and FSYY had some seriously messed-up stuff and implications.

Sixth, Celestial Bureaucracy office politics.

Seventh, Nezha kicking asses and winning fights like he should.

Eighth, crazy Xianxia shit, as you’d expect from the great-granddaddy of modern Xianxia genre.

Ninth, infodumps about Chinese mythos and history trivias.

Tenth, Underworld lore.

...As you can probably tell, this is mostly just me nerding out and writing walls of texts. I'm not a very good artist and can't do Lego style, but will probably doodle some symbol/character designs for funsies.

I also derive most of my enjoyment from writing fix-its and worldbuilding, not shipping characters. Like, I love exploring individual characters through relationships, but just ain't a fan of romance.

There will be a lot of OCs, but unless otherwise specified, all of them will be based on actual characters from FSYY and JTTW, with a few folk gods sprinkled in for funsies.

With that taken care of: good luck and happy reading!

[crushribbons]

𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗

summary: Ben Mears is new in town and just trying to work on his latest novel.

cw: 3.3k words, some fun flirty fluff, light smut (18+), dry humping, allusions to actual sex lol, i researched one '70's thing and got tired, fem!reader/oc.

a/n: they bred this boy in a lab to make me need to chew drywall. HAPPY HALLOWEEN MY CHICKIES!! have a fun and safe night!! 👻 xx laney

The record spun tirelessly around the turntable, echoes bouncing off the cavernous library ceilings.

“Mmmm…” Donovan hummed. The guitar cushioning his voice strummed in full force. “Must be the season of the witch…”

“Is it, now?” the night librarian asked, one eyebrow cocked. She reached around the man hunched at the microfilm machine and picked up the dust-laden books he’d already cast aside. He glanced up at her, surprised.

Pulling the thick reading glasses from his nose and rubbing the bridge, he apologized. “I didn’t know anyone was still here! Mabel–Ms. Wertz–said I had the place to myself this evening.” The man stood and crossed to the tiny travel case turntable he’d brought with him, making to remove the needle from the vinyl, but she held up a hand.

“Oh, no, don’t stop it on my account. It’s nice to have something filling up this spooky old place, for once.” She watched the man smile and settle back down at the reading room desk. He was tall and lean, well-dressed, like the men from Boston she saw when she visited her sister at the university. His dark blonde hair fell into curls nearly to his shoulders. 

So this is the Ben Mears that everyone can’t stop talking about.

He affirmed the thought for her. “I’m Ben,” he said, with a small, polite smile. It was several seconds before she realized that he was extending his hand for her to shake, not for her to hand back the books she’d cleared away from him. She took the hand and shook. His palm was a bit dry but still soft.

There was a notebook filled with messy scrawl that she couldn’t read in the quick glance she took next to the microfilm, a pen resting on top that looked like it was trying to catch its breath after its user’s furious scribbling. “You’re the author, right? Mr. Big Time,” she grinned, hoping she was coming off cool and worldly, not just another hometown girl who had never left Jerusalem’s Lot, Maine. Population: about ten.

Ben looked down, bashful. “I don’t know about ‘big time.’ I manage, ma’am.”

“Well, anyone who’s managed to leave this town is big time to us, sir.” Ben smiled again, and she decided it was more wistful than anything. The tight proximity and lack of prying eyes around them emboldened her at the same time it made her nervous.

Things had been…strange ever since this outsider had pulled into town in his fancy gold car. The air was chilling the way it always started to at the beginning of October, but it had a different smell to it than usual. No longer did the scent of candied apples, of hay bales and pumpkins and dry cornstalks float past her on her daily afternoon walk to the library; now, it had an acrid tint, almost sanguine at times. Everyone noticed it. The bloody hue that the sky took on at night, crimson against the bright yellow waxing moon, had mothers instructing their little ones to be off the streets hours before the posted curfew. 

She had conjured up an image of a big, scary stranger in a long black coat, wearing a hat that concealed his face (and mouthful of fangs, perhaps?), based on all the whisperings and gossip that had followed Mears since he arrived. The actual man looked far less threatening.

But no less intriguing, she thought, as she watched him from behind the circulation desk. He returned to his research and his mug of black coffee, the presence of which would have sent Mabel spinning in her grave prematurely. The night librarian said nothing, though. Just watched him leaf slowly through the volumes to his right and peer through his thick lenses at the microfilm that had only been purchased last year and was already spectacularly behind the times. Just like everything else in the Lot.

Two more hours dragged past, during which she pretended to be working. The radiator in the ancient building picked and chose when to turn on and when not to, and it had not deemed this evening significant enough to be a warm one, so her teeth clacked together while she moved some books aimlessly from one shelf to another. She pulled her cardigan tight around her body. The gentle scribbling of Ben’s pen filled the whole space with nothing else to dampen it. He must have been quite a prodigious author, given the speed with which he was writing.

She was just debating telling him that she generally closed up and went home about half an hour earlier when he saved her the trouble. “Hey, I think I’m all set for the night.” Her head shot up from the book she’d read one line of in the past twenty minutes. Ben was standing at the desk in front of her, arms laden with his research.

“Oh, great! Just about ready to shut things down here,” she replied. Ben thanked her for letting him use the facilities after-hours, then he paused for a second, and she felt a cool thrill run from the base of her spine up to her neck as his eyes locked on hers.

He chuckled and looked away. “What’s, uh…so, what’s fun to do around here at night?” he asked, and a wicked little vision snapped across her mind’s eye that she tried to banish as quickly as possible. Ben’s voice was gravelly with disuse and the lateness of the hour. She tried not to imagine what it must sound like in the morning. “I think I need a beer after trudging through all this.”

“Well, Plymouth Rock’s the only bar in town, if you can even call it that,” she sighed.

“Plymouth Rock?” he laughed, eyebrow cocked. “Last time I checked, that was down in Mass.”

She buried her face in her hands in exasperation then looked up at him with a sheepish grin and said, “You know how they love their pilgrim shit around here.” 

Ben’s jaw rolled side to side while he considered something. Nervous tick or absent habit, it wasn’t clear. “You like it there?” 

“I do.” A hopeful wick caught flame in her chest, then was snuffed out just as fast when he nodded and started moving towards the door.

“Well, thanks again. Have a good night, miss.”

The poster taped on the inside of the front library doors as Ben pushed through them said, Come back any time! 

He stayed late the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that, and went on in that way for weeks. Truth be told, she lost count of how many evenings they spent in relative quiet side by side, Ben diligently reading and writing about God knew what while she hummed along to his records and tidied the library beyond recognition (there was nothing else to do; her closing duties usually took her about fifteen minutes). On her days off, she missed the scratch of his pen on paper, and prayed that she might bump into him on the street. 

The moonlight pouring in through the window tonight was the reddest it had been yet. It cast everything in a bizarre bloodbath. Even Ben, sitting at his usual desk with his collar unbuttoned and glasses slid down to the end of his nose, looked a little bit sinister in the colorwash. 

He had brought her a steaming paper cup of apple cider when he had arrived. “Seemed like a good night for it,” he had shrugged as he passed it to her and took a sip from his own. “Oh, and happy Halloween, I guess!” 

She wandered over to him, swirling the dregs of her cider, trying to make it last. Ben glanced up and smiled. “What are we working on tonight?” she inquired and perched on the edge of his desk. He huffed.

“Not sure I know anymore,” he muttered. His eyes were locked on the microfilm, scanning through articles at lightning speed. She hummed in interest and kicked her legs back and forth gently. Ben sat back in his chair and removed his glasses, then rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes with a groan. She tried and failed not to look at the length of him, stretched out before her. He’d worn a soft-looking green plaid flannel shirt and corduroy pants that could have fit less snugly. “Doesn’t a pretty lady like yourself have anything better to do on Halloween night?” he asked, and a stupid blush crept across her nose and cheeks despite her efforts to not react. 

“Nothing so interesting as watching you,” she teased back, and Ben grinned. She had quite gotten over her apprehension towards the stranger. No, he wasn’t a stranger anymore, he was Ben, who had overnight gotten her excited about her podunk little job in this podunk little town, who came to her for any questions he had because he knew that she wouldn’t gossip about it later on. They got on well. Real well.

“About as interesting as watching paint dry,” he said wryly. His eyes ran over his usual mess of books and notepads and pencils on the desk, then drifted over to her legs. She almost missed it, but she couldn’t help feeling a flick of heat as his gaze raked down the brown tights she was wearing. Her skirt had ridden up to the middle of her thighs, and she fought the urge to fiddle with the hem. 

A moment of silence where they both smiled at the ground was broken as she cleared her throat and said, “I read that book you told me to.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhmm.” She nodded proudly. “It was painful, Mears.” 

Ben faked being aghast. “What?! You didn’t like it?”

“You’ve got some pretty dull taste, mister. A guy moaning about his loving wife and perfect life for two-hundred and forty-seven pages?” She stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed outright. “Give me Vonnegut and some colorful fucking insanity any day of the week.”

“Never read anything except Slaughterhouse.”

“Well, fix that!”

“Yes, ma’am.” His chin was propped up on one hand as he winked up at her. He loved calling her “miss” or “ma’am”–it drove her crazy, because, as she had told him one night with a swift whack to his head with a stack of newspapers, she wasn’t one of the dowdy old matrons that made up the rest of the library staff. She scolded him once more and he took it with a smile, unphased. 

God, the way he looked at her, sometimes. It was enough to make the head of a much more urbane, cosmopolitan woman spin, let alone a girl who hadn’t dated anyone that she hadn’t also graduated from high school with. She sighed exaggeratedly and continued swinging her legs back and forth, hoping he’d be enticed to glance at them again. “I’ll probably be off soon, but you’re more than welcome to–”

“Oh, no, come on, stay with me,” Ben suddenly pleaded, throwing down the pencil he had just picked up and swiveling his chair to face her. “It’s so nice to have company in this place…it gives me the downright creeps when you’re not here.” Heat rushed through her whole body, lips pressing together to suppress the beam of pleasure she wanted to show him. 

She cocked her head to one side. “How ‘bout we lock up and you buy me a drink and we talk about Vonnegut, instead?”

He balked. “I already bought you a drink,” he reminded her, reaching out to tap the cup still clutched in her hand. She scrunched up her nose at him.

“And it was good, but it didn’t cause me to make any bad decisions, so not quite the type of drink I’m after.” The boldness in her words surprised her even as they were leaving her mouth. She prayed they had sounded casual, non-specific.  

Ben rolled his chair closer still to her, until he was almost between her legs, though they weren’t parted far enough to reveal anything her skirt couldn’t cover. Her back straightened involuntarily. Snatching up his glasses from beside her, he put them back on and regarded her through them. 

“I’m right in the middle of this fucker of a section,” he began, and she snorted at his disdain for his own creation. “Give me half an hour and I’ll gladly close up shop with you.” 

She wanted to say, Ben Mears, what I’d do to give you a half an hour, but she opted for, “Deal. Clock’s ticking, though! We can’t let it hit midnight, or all the spooky ghosties will come and get us.”

“Is that how that works, miss?” The sweet crinkles at the corners of his eyes appeared again with his amused grin. She nodded gravely and he shrugged, turning back to the microfilm and cranking the dial. 

Quiet minutes ticked past, during which she did not move from her position next to him. She picked up books that he had been using and flicked with mild interest through a volume of Maine history, 1782-1800. Very mild interest. After about ten minutes, Ben slammed his hands down on the desk and scared a yelp out of her. 

“Sorry, sorry!” he said through a laugh while she clutched her heart and glared at him. “I can’t do any more. My brain is melting into something unrecognizable. And so is this book.” She tsk’ed. 

“That’s not true. Read me the last line you wrote,” she instructed, and he sighed, but complied. 

She didn’t catch a single word of what he read to her, though, because as soon as he began reciting the beginning of his final paragraph, his hand absently slid across the few inches of space between him and her leg. He started rubbing his thumb over her knee while he read, clearly unconscious of what he was doing, and it made the sparks that shot through her leg shock her all the more. She looked down at his hand, her body frozen by the casualness of it all.

Finally, she managed to make her lips work enough to squeak out, “Ben.”

“It was during that year that a record twenty-thousand–what?” 

He turned to her. His hand was still resting on her knee like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

“Nothing.” It was barely a whisper. Then, Ben seemed to notice that he was touching her with more familiarity than either of them had yet exhibited with each other, and he made to withdraw it quickly, but she had the presence of mind enough to shoot out her own hand and clasp his in place. 

Her hand closed over his, shackling it to her leg like she’d let it remain there for all eternity. They gazed at each other. 

She considered how the rumors would fly if Mabel caught even a whiff of something improper going down in her library. 

Oh, what the fuck. It was her library, too, after all. And Ben’s eyes were boring into her and he was swallowing thickly, like he was trying to stop himself from saying something.

She said it for him. In one fluid motion, she hopped off the desk and slid easily into his lap, legs straddling either side of his hips, then Ben grabbed the back of her neck and brought her lips to his. They crashed together with a fury, all the weeks of flirting and kindness and shiny-newness that having a crush brought swelling and bursting out through their mouths as they kissed, desperate, hungry. His tongue pushed against her bottom lip and she gladly welcomed it, licking it with her own and tasting the cider that she no doubt carried traces of, too. 

“Jesus,” Ben breathed as she pulled away first, both of them panting slightly. His arms had circled around her back, one hand still holding her neck and the other resting right where her bra clasp was. She would have giggled if she wasn’t so desperate to be pressed against him again. 

With abandon, she grasped the sides of his face and pulled their mouths together. Ben groaned into the kiss, his hands traveling down her back to rest at her hips and pulling them more flush with his. He was already starting to stiffen, she could feel it, and it alleviated some of the embarrassment she felt at already being so aroused she could scream. 

They muttered each other’s names through gasps and moans while she hurriedly fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. The soft cotton of his undershirt still felt like too much fabric for him to be wearing, but her efforts were halted when he interjected with his own and pulled her thick sweater over her head. Static electricity shot through her hair as it came off and Ben gave a small “gah!” when his fingers were shocked.

“Totally electrifying,” she giggled at him, and he rolled his eyes, but his unwavering smirk betrayed him. 

“We aren’t gonna…” He glanced around the empty library. The only light source now was the small lamp illuminating the desk and the blood-red moonlight outside. “...in the library, are we?”

She pouted. “Oh, aren’t we?” Ben’s grin was more devilish than she’d ever seen it. She could almost believe that he was concealing something supernatural and malevolent with that grin. 

“I don’t want you to lose your job.”

“They won’t know.”

“Yeah, but I’ll know.” Ben wrapped his arms around her again and stood, lifting her back onto the desk and slotting himself fully between her open and waiting legs. He had to bend at the waist in order to be at eye level with her. “And I’ll never be able to get an ounce of work done here again if it’s the first place we ever fuck, ma’am.” 

Every body part of hers that could tremble, did. She briefly considered whether or not they could go to her place, but then she thought of her three housemates, and how much scandal would be generated if she pulled the handsome newcomer in through the front door by his shirt and up the stairs.

And his accommodations were out of the question. The boarding house landlady famously did not allow visitors into her rented rooms. “Dammit,” she muttered aloud. To buy more time, she kissed Ben and slid her hand down his abdomen until she reached the bulge in his pants. He moaned in pained lust when she grasped it and stroked gently over the clothing. 

Swatting her hand out of the way, he leaned forward until their hips were flush with one another’s, deepening the kiss further. “Ben!” she gasped. He started bucking his hips into her now aching and fluttering core, and the friction from his trousers and her thin tights and underwear made her bury her face in his shoulder and cry. They kept it up, grinding desperately on each other, her legs locked around his waist so there wasn’t an inch of space between them.

“Fuck, God, keep doing that,” Ben moaned into her mouth. His cock was straining hard against the khaki-colored corduroy.

Whatever record had been playing quietly in the background had long since ended, and the gentle “sch, sch, sch,” of the rotating vinyl was the only other sound echoing around the room. At least, it was, until the old clocktower let out a startlingly loud “GONG”, followed by eleven more. They jolted apart, panting, both of their hearts racing from the sudden noise as well as the fevered humping. 

Their eyes were locked for the entirety of the bell’s tolling, and when it had finished, Ben smirked that suggestive, evil smirk and said, “Midnight on All Hallow’s Eve. Think any ghoulies or ghosties are gonna come get us?” She bit her lip and smacked his chest lightly. Then, her eyes widened.

“It’s Halloween.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ben had leaned back into her and was kissing, more languidly this time, from her collarbone to just behind her ear.

“My housemates are at a party across town right now.”

Never in the history of their publication had unshelved books been tidied up faster.

masterlist