#The magic of all the words of fic that can come out of one bullet in the outline

[erisenyo]

Only 4 pages of outline left, you're almost done, I tell myself as I sit down to start writing.

You've written 4K words in 3 hours, you're almost done, I congratulate myself as I look at the 4 pages of outline I still have left.

[tojicide]

SNIPER, SNIPER! ☆ LEON KENNEDY

summary. in leon’s line of work as a contract killer, weaknesses weren’t an option. luckily, he’d eliminated his… all except for one.

warnings. fem!reader. au. nsfw, smut, fluff. hitman!leon, ex!leon, jealous!leon, re4!leon intended. discussion of murder, guns, bullets, etc. a loooot of blissful ignorance. porn with some plot. pet names. argument. oral sex (f!receiving), face sitting, missionary, unprotected p in v, creampie. wc. 5.3k

note. i tend to fuck up a nice “ex who is a raging munch” fic or two saurrrr this is basically my staple now :3

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Leon isn’t sure why he’s here.

He hasn’t ever bid on a target as sought after as the one that he has now acquired. The target was only described as someone who simply ‘knows too much’ about something they shouldn’t. Vague, he thinks, especially because they remained nameless, genderless, and description-less otherwise. It was odd, for sure, but it was the highest contract that he had ever come by.

As a matter of fact, he’s positive that it’s the highest contract that anyone in his position has ever seen, let alone signed. He’s sure that he’s ruffled a bit of feathers by taking on the job, especially considering that he was still considered fresh meat among the other hitmen that he was distantly familiar with.

Leon preferred to stay out of the unusual politics that came with the underground world, and that meant taking on the jobs that no one deemed urgent enough to complete.

(Plenty of drug dealers, a few sketchy nightclub owners, and an awful bunch of politicians who he is 99% sure put the bounty on their own heads to avoid the scandal that was unearthed about each of them no less than two weeks after they were found with bullets in their heads. He preferred those hits. All men, all guilty of something.)

Nevertheless, he finds himself here, perched on the rooftop of an upscale bar with his sniper rifle angled over the ledge. His scope was perfectly aligned with the entrance of the night club across the street, his right eye narrowed while the other was completely shut.

He sighs, tapping onto his earpiece to communicate with his teammate that was a few buildings over. Alexander.

(Alexander was a tech-nut. He was responsible for ensuring that the coast was clear, that there weren’t an abundance of cops in the area, and that security cameras of the establishment were looped continually in order to ensure that no one could suspect anything more than someone being at the wrong place at the wrong time.)

“Reread the target description that was left for me,” Leon quietly commands.

“Aaand what’s the magic word?”

He heavily sighs. For a job like this, he figured that working alone would be the best option, but with the more he learned, the more experience he gained, the people he met—he was proven wrong. A team works more efficiently than a single person, even if the other half of his current team was a bit… annoying.

“Don’t piss me off,” he huffs, shaking his head as he closes one eye to look through the scope again.

Leon can practically hear Alexander’s grin on the other end of the line as he speaks. “Alright, man, jeez. Your g-string must be a bit too tight tonight, but that’s alright, I’m in no place to judge you.”

Before the blonde can even react to that unsettling quip, Alexander continues speaking, only this time, he does what Leon asks of him. “Bounty, bounty, bounty… where is the darn thing? Oh yes, here it is. Okay, it says that the target will be wearing a blue button-up shirt, a black coat, and black slacks tonight…. and that’s it.”

Leon hums, mulling over the very few words that were left for him by the person who had posted the contract in the first place. He’d never killed someone based on the description of an outfit alone,  but then again, he’s never gotten paid this much for sending a bullet through a random guy’s brain. He’ll take it.

“Thanks,” he mutters, turning off his ear piece to drown out the voice of the male on the other end.

It feels like hours pass by in which all he does is stare at the entrance, watching as each attendee leaves the establishment periodically. Each time he saw the color red, he’d perk up, only to find that they were wearing jeans, or they were wearing a white blazer, which only left him feeling more annoyed as time went on.

And then, the door opens. He can practically feel the air flee his lungs as he taps onto his earpiece out of instinct. A blue button-up shirt, a black coat, and black slacks.

“Ooh. Pretty. We guessed wrong, didn’t we?” Alexander speaks through the earpiece, which causes Leon to raise a brow.

“What’re you…” his voice trails. His blood runs cold, his palms begin to sweat, and his eyes blow wide. “Holy… fuck.”

“I know right? Not only is she a woman, but she’s miiiighty fine,” his teammate speaks, his voice oddly humorous for the given situation. A moment of silence passes, and Alexander continues to talk, but he can’t hear a damn word.

Leon freezes like a deer in headlights as he watches you emerge from the dim nightclub with a man’s arm slung around your shoulder, though that hardly taints how angelic you look tonight.

Your hair frames your face so beautifully, so soft and feminine. The tip of your nose was flushed given the crisp night air that you’ve just stepped into, your smile was side and toothy as you walked beside a man that he didn’t recognize.

You’re gorgeous, is all he can think right now. It’s the first time he’s seen you since the moment the two of you broke up six months ago, and you look even prettier than when he pictured you each night to fall asleep. He dreamt of you often, but his lovesick mind was no match for imagining the beauty that you possess.

Suddenly, Alexander’s voice pierced through his haze, bringing him back to the current scene. “Earth to Leon? I get it man, she’s pretty, very much so. I’d hit that too if she wasn’t gonna die in like… two secs.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he hisses, his voice sounding just as venomous as he’d intended it to. “You aren’t going to lay a damn finger on her.”

“Woah, buddy. Big talk from the guy with a sniper aimed at her head.”

That is the moment in which everything clicks in the worst way imaginable.

It’s you. His target, the person who knows too much, the one who is supposed to die tonight—it’s you.

And then, he becomes acutely aware of the lines that are obstructing his view of you. His scope. The red dot in the center placed strategically on your temple, the bullet meant just for you waiting for a simple pull of a trigger.

Leon shudders, picking his head up. No. Absolutely not. Completing his task was not even a thought in his mind anymore, not if the target was you. His beautiful, sweet girl.

But he couldn’t leave the scene unscathed. It would raise suspicion, possibly even tie him to you in a way that you didn’t need. If he didn’t fulfill the obligation in some way, someone else would. He’d broken up with you to save you from all of this, and now, he’d unknowingly come here to make you familiar with his lifestyle in the worst way possible.

You were walking away, and it’s then that his trained eyes fall onto the man who has his arm draped over your shoulder in the way he used to all those months ago. His heart aches at the mere sight of you looking so happy in the company of another, but it gives him an idea.

Leon looks through the scope again, and within seconds, a loud gunshot rings through the air in the form of a thundering pop.

His jaw tenses as he hears screaming. They aren’t your screams though, because you’re not hit. They’re coming from the man you were with, because Leon has just lightly grazed his arm with a bullet.

He wasn’t insane. He wasn’t going to be killing anyone tonight, even if he desperately wanted to kick the living shit out of the man who is so close to you.

Well… was close to you. He isn’t anymore. Your date is writing on the ground all because of a flesh wound, and you’re standing above him with the most confused and concerned look on your face.

Leon can’t help but think that the man has no regard for you and your safety. For all this mystery man knows, more shots could be coming, and instead of trying to protect you, he’s rolling around on the concrete like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Such a man baby.

“What’re you waiting for? Holy fuck, uh… you still have the shot. Take the shot—”

Leon pulls the earpiece away, turning it off before she shoves it into his back pocket. He didn’t need to be scolded by anyone, let alone someone as useless as his teammate. He’d beat him bloody for how he had spoken about you if he weren’t already packing up his equipment to head over to your place.

He needs to check on you, first and foremost. He also needs to explain himself which was… going to be no easy feat, he supposes.

You don’t find your way home until about an hour later, keys jumbling about as you push it into the slot, twisting it with a tired hand.

To be shot at was not on your agenda for tonight, but being berated by your date for not reacting quick enough to help him evade a bullet you had no knowledge of was certainly not how you wanted to end your night either.

Annoyed, exhausted, and frustrated, you step into your apartment. When you begin to shrug off your coat, your body tenses. No. Fucking. Way.

“What the fuck?” you hiss, your voice rising in octave.

Leon stands from your couch, approaching you with his hands in the air, attempting to show you that he hadn’t come with malice. You knew he hadn't, but that didn’t mean you wanted to see him.

“Baby, it’s just me,” he says without thinking, the pet name slipping out before he could have a say in the matter.

“Yeah, I know it’s just you, that’s the problem!” you continue, hanging your coat up on the rack along with your purse. “Are you out of your damn mind? I—”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “I am out of my mind, and you must be out of yours for still keeping your spare key under your doormat. I told you to move it years ago.”

Your brows knit together. “You little— you know what? I’m not even going to entertain that. How about this? You leave, and we forget this happened, yeah?”

“Can’t do that,” he tells you with a shrug, crossing his arms over his wide chest. “I need to talk to you.”

“Don’t do this, Leon, not tonight,” you huff, pinching your nose bridge. “I’m not in the mood, alright? I was—”

“Shot at?” he finishes your sentence. He immediately regrets it, pressing his lips into a line to keep himself from saying anything else.

Your demeanor falters at that. You tilt your head to the side, your eyes narrowing as you look at him from where he stands across the room. “How do you know that?”

He takes a moment to answer, his mouth opening without any words coming out. It spikes your frustration, so you speak again. “Damn it, Leon, how do you know that?”

Leon holds his hands up again, pleading his defense before he criminalizes himself entirely. “I was the one behind the gun, but it’s not what you think—”

Your jaw drops. “Not what I think? Not what I think? You tried to kill me!”

He shakes his head, his expression falling. “I didn’t, baby. I swear. Just let me explain, and—”

“You tried to shoot me in the damn neck!” you continue, your hand dramatically clasping into the side of your throat.

Leon closes his eyes for a moment, internally bracing himself for your outburst that he absolutely deserves. He opens them again, simply watching as you spew insults his way. He takes them without any hint of irritation.

“What the hell, Leon? Is that what you do now? You stalk your ex-girlfriend and try to kill her? Not only that, you missed. You missed! That’s almost fucking humorous, because how can you try to do something like that and then miss!”

Leon sighs, waiting for a moment to see if you try to continue, and when you don’t, he speaks instead. “I aimed for his arm, not your neck, or anywhere else that would endanger you—”

“Yeah, and you almost blew his arm off!” You’re more than aware that the statement was dramatic, but you don’t need to have any sense right now.

“It was a flesh wound, he’ll be just fine,” he tells you before he continues with what he was saying before. “And I wasn’t stalking you. Not knowingly, anyway. I would never hurt you. Not ever. Your date was just… collateral. I had no choice.”

He hopes that you don’t ask any more questions about that, because he won’t have any answers for you. It was for the better. All you knew was that his job wasn’t legal. It couldn’t have been, not with the copious amounts of money that rolled in while he hardly worked for half of the month.

The less you knew about what his line of work entailed, the safer you were. The further away you were from him, the safer you were. However, those last words now ring hollow.

“Look…” he whispers, taking a step towards you despite his brain screaming at him to leave. He couldn’t. Not when he was the only one who knew of your compromised position. “I know that much has changed between us. It’s my fault, I know it, but I can’t tell you anything more about my job, I just need you to—”

You need answers that you won’t be getting, and that sentiment alone makes you furious. When he gets too close, your hand moves to the leather harness that he has strapped around his broad chest, pulling a sharp-bladed knife from its sleeve. His eyes widen as you hold the blade up to him, his hands shooting up into the air yet again.

“You remember where I put my spare key, I remember where you keep your spare knife,” you taunt, the two of you standing so close now that he can feel the warmth of your breath on his face. “Guess we haven’t changed as much as you think.”

He huffs as the cool blade grazes his clothed chest, the metal so close that it nearly pierces his skin. Even then, you ensure that it doesn’t. It’s almost touching how you press such a sharp object to his heart of all places, he thinks.

Your situation is far more complicated than the both of you can handle right now. You have unresolved issues with each other, and that alone must be addressed before you can even begin to scratch the surface of the threats that now face the two of you.

“I still think you’re sexy when you’re mean to me,” he whispers, tilting his head to the side. “That hasn’t changed either.”

Was it the time for his flirtatious performance? Certainly not, but you were putting on a little performance of your own just the same.

You scoff, narrowing your eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

Leon shakes his head, his eyes narrowing just as yours did. “Disgusting? Oh, don’t romance me.”

“I’m not romancing you,” you huff with an eye roll. Your grip on the knife only tightens, but you have no real intention of using it. “I’m threatening you.”

He hardly finds you to be threatening. He’d liken you to an angry cat, but he wouldn’t dare voice that out loud. He’s letting you have your moment, truth be told. “Mm, even better.”

His calloused hand moves to shadow yours, slowly lowering the knife that begged to pierce his pale skin. You let him, which only gives him more incentive to pull it away from your grasp entirely.

He tucks the knife back into his sheath, moving to unbuckle the harness entirely. “Now. Tell me, who was that guy?”

A random guy you met on Tinder. “My future husband.”

You’re just trying to get under his skin now, and judging by the look on his face, it’s working. He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at you, taking note of that smug grin that stretches over your lips.

He really just wants to fuck it right off you, but he doesn’t make that known. Not yet, anyway.

“Yeah?” he asks, tilting his head. “You gonna let him put a ring on that pretty finger of yours?”

No, you absolutely were not, but you’re enjoying this game. It’s what he deserves after scaring the shit out of you tonight. “Yeah, I am. Thinking about some baby names too, just for safekeeping.”

Leon doesn’t like the thought that you’ve just put in his head, not one bit. His hand finds your left one, bringing it up to his lips as he presses a kiss on your ring finger. “Huh. That’s what you want?”

You tilt your head, noticing how his lips linger on your hand for a moment too long. “You know what I don’t want? To be shot at.”

He hums, giving you a mocking frown. Of course he feels bad about that, but… you both know he hadn’t truly shot at you. Around you, yes, but not at you. His large hands find your waist, his fingers grasping onto the fabric of your shirt and slowly but surely, you find yourself being backed towards your couch.

“Answer my question,” he whispers, his voice now possessing a rasp that it didn’t have before.

You huff, willingly sitting on your couch, even though you’re doing your best to front as though you’re totally disinterested. “Why should I?”

He shrugs, his lips tugging down as he tilts his head. You watch with blown eyes as he kneels in front of you, his palms gliding over your thighs.

“‘Cause if that’s what you want, I’ll give it to you.”

You tilt your head, eyeing him quite intently as his fingers move to the button of your slacks. You shouldn’t be turned on, but you absolutely are, and the damp fabric of your panties that he’s about to see conveys that pretty well.

“Give me what?” you ask, grinning slightly.

“A ring, a baby… both, neither,” he replies, his fingers hooking beneath your waistband. “Lift your hips for me.”

When you do just that, his eyes raise to find yours. He has a crazed look in his eye, one that you’re all too familiar with. “Whatever you want, baby, I’ll give it to you,” he whispers, leaning in until his soft lips just barely brush against yours.

Your eyes close, and you could have sworn that he was going to kiss you. But he doesn’t. When you open your eyes, you find him grinning. The same shit-eating grin that you love and hate to no avail.

“You just have to say the words,” he whispers against your lips.

You roll your eyes, your hand reaching out to rest on the back of his neck. He was already impossibly close, so all you truly did was hold him there. “I want to kiss you.”

Leon smiles, nodding his head in agreement. “Mm, like I said. Whatever my lady wants, she gets.”

His lips find yours in a searing kiss, his calloused hands smoothing over the soft, exposed skin of your thighs. Your lips move together in a gentle manner at first, as though you were allowing yourselves to get familiar all over again, but you were both quick to realize that gentleness was the last thing you needed.

Your breathing grows ragged as one of his hands cups the back of your head, tilting you just enough so that his tongue could easily slip into your mouth. The kiss was sloppier, messier, much more desperate. It was perfect, in your humble opinion.

His trails kisses down your cheek, jaw, neck… just about anywhere he could as he begins his gradual descent. His hands palm at your breasts through your shirt, and without hesitation, his hands grasp onto the fabric and yank it open. Buttons go flying about your living room, but Leon doesn’t seem to care with the way his face pressed into your cleavage.

One of his hands snaked behind you to undo the clasp of your bra, and the moment he saw a nipple, his mouth was already distracted once again.

“Leon, that was my favorite shirt!” you scold, glancing down at him.

He looks up at you with hazed eyes, sucking the peak of your breast into his mouth before he releases it to reply to you. “Was it?” he asks, his reply lacking any care in the slightest.

You nod, narrowing your eyes at him, but your front doesn’t last long when his tongue swirls around your areola. He reaches into his back pocket, tossing his wallet beside you.

“Buy a new one, shit, buy anything you want,” he whispers against your skin, his hands grasping onto your waist. “Tits are so pretty, baby. I missed you.”

“Is that all you missed about me?” you ask, a huff of laughter leaving your lips while his trail down your stomach.

“Absolutely not, no,” he murmurs against your skin, his fingers hooking beneath the fabric of your panties. He looks at you as he pulls them down your legs, and he presses his warm lips to your inner calves and thighs as he makes his way towards you again. “Missed everything about you.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s corny—”

“Sh,” he tells you, holding one finger up while he uses his other hand to slip one into your sopping entrance. Your walls clench around him, which only forces a chuckle to leave his mouth. “Let her talk for a bit, yeah?”

He hardly gives you a moment to reply before his head dips, his tongue curling up to stimulate your clit before he sucks on it entirely. He unabashedly moans into your cunt, introducing another finger into your entrance simultaneously.

Your head falls back, your hand delving into his hair to hold him impossibly closer to you, even though he seriously would get closer if he could.

“Sweetest pussy,” he murmurs into your heat, his voice rumbling against your wet cunt that he continued to eat like he would die if he didn’t. “Do somethin’ for me?”

You pick your head up to look down at him, nodding without question. He opens his eyes to look at you in return, pressing a kiss onto your mound before he turns around so that his back is now pressed against the front of your couch, still sitting on the ground.

“Sit on my face,” he suggests, tipping his head back onto the couch cushion.

He reaches for your hand to pull you forward, and you pivot on your knee, your front facing the back of the couch. He lays a light smack on your ass before he pulls you down the rest of the way to make you sit on his face.

Your hand reaches down, clutching onto his hair yet again while you cry out in genuine bliss. His tongue softens as he gives you long, deep licks into your pussy, wanting to taste every inch of you on his tongue.

And when your hips start to rock, he seems to be even happier. Much more incentivized too. He lulls his tongue out of his mouth, flattening it to let you ride his face as you so pleased. You made a mess of his chin, his mouth, his nose—he hardly cares.

(In fact, he doesn’t care. Not one bit. You might even have to pay him to care.)

“Y-You know,” you whine, grasping a bit firmer onto his hair while your hips continue to roll on his tongue, “I’m still mad at you.”

He nods his head, which only stimulates your cunt even more. “Mm, yeah?”

It felt so good. Everything about this was absolutely ecstasy, you can feel your eyes pricking with tears from how stimulated you’re growing.

“Yeah,” you choke out, resting your palms on the back of the couch to brace yourself. “I’m really fucking mad.”

Leon can’t help but grin, his hands brushing along the plush of your thighs. “I’m not too sure, sweetheart. Not with you riding my face like you love me ‘n all.”

“Shut… shut the hell up,” you moan, squeezing your eyes shut as your movements begin to grow even more crazed the closer you get to your release. He was right, but that didn’t mean you had to admit that.

“Okay,” he complies, his eyes fluttering shut while he starts to greedily make out with your pussy, feeling the way you pulsate on his tongue. “Shuttin’ me up real nice with this pretty little pussy. Cum on my face too while you’re at it, pretty girl.”

Not nice enough, but you cry out anyway, your head falling while your legs tremble on either side of his head. “I… Leon, ‘m cumming,” you say through an airy moan.

His movements slow as yours do, his tongue eagerly reaping the benefits of its labor in the form of your sweet release. He lets out a content sigh, pressing a few sweet kisses on your inner thigh.

You slowly rise up from his face, and he turns around to face you again, licking his lips, not caring about the rest of your thin slick that coats his face. You chuckle, running your hand over his face to wipe it away.

“So…” he drawls, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You’re still mad at me? Tell me more.”

“Later,” you reply, hooking your finger into the loophole of his pants to pull him closer to you.

With a chuckle, Leon pulls his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aimlessly on the floor of your living room. He gently nudges you until you’re laying back on your couch, his hands then moving to undo his belt.

“Ah, I see,” he teases, pushing his pants and boxers down in one motion. He kicks them away before he settles in between your parted legs, his hand pumping his cock.

You raise your eyes from his cock to his eyes, and you give him the most weary expression alive. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit,” you say.

It’s been too long, you were certainly not used to his size anymore. Leon knew it just as well as you did, but he didn’t want to make you nervous by saying that.

His brows knit together as he leans down to kiss you, his fingers moving a bit lower to prod your entrance. “You flatter me,” he says against your lips, his head dipping a bit lower to kiss your neck. “No need to worry your pretty little head, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

You nod your head, one of your hands cupping the back of his head while the other rests on his strong shoulder. “Okay… yeah, okay.”

He nods too, moving one of his hands to meet the one that you have resting on his shoulder. He intertwines your fingers, pushing your hand back onto the couch while he uses his other one to slide his tip along your folds.

“I promise,” he whispers, pulling back to look you in the eyes. “I’ll take care of you.”

He always has. Even after the events of tonight, you know that he always will.

“I love you,” you say without thinking. A flush rushes across your face, and you close your eyes in utter embarrassment. (Seriously? A confession of your undying love while he’s actively entering you? Time and place.) “I’m so sorry, I—”

“Nothing to apologize for,” he whispers, pushing his cock further inside of you until he bottoms out. “Mm… I love you so much,” he replies without a care in the world. “And I’m not sorry about it.”

Your eyes soften at that, and a small chuckle leaves your lips. “Well… that’s good, isn’t it…?”

His eyebrows knit together, laughing softly at your awkward reply. “You’re such a dork, baby,” he whispers, dipping his head to plant a kiss on your lips while he rolls his hips into yours. “A pretty one, though.”

Your eyes flutter shut as he presses a kiss on your lips, and they stay shut, even when he opts to just rest his forehead on yours. “Your dork,” you say, a bit breathlessly with a smile on your face.

“Mhm,” he nods in agreement, a toothy smile stretching across his face. “My dork.”

Such a lovely interaction that you nearly forgot that he was fucking you like there was no tomorrow, because the moment he falls silent, your eyes widen. “Oh, God…”

He smiles, kissing your cheek while he continues to thrust inside of you, his cock being swallowed whole by your pussy in a way that made him feel like he was finally home.

“See?” he whispers in your ear, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re taking me so well, pretty. So well.”

That makes you chuckle, but your laugh doesn’t last for long when the head of his cock rams into you even harder. Your hand smooths out along the expanse of his back, dragging your nails back up.

“You’re crazy,” you gasp out.

Leon smiles. “Crazy about you, sure.”

You laugh through an airy moan, tilting your head to the side as your eyes flutter shut. “Soooo corny,” you whisper.

He shakes his head with his same toothy grin, using his free hand to tilt your chin towards him again. His thumb brushes along your bottom lip before he kisses you, and it is just about the sweetest kiss that you could have ever asked for.

“You love it,” he murmurs in reply, a bit breathless as an overwhelming heat pools in his lower stomach.

You shake your head. “I love you.”

Leon clicks his tongue at that, giving your hand a squeeze. “And I’m the corny one?”

That makes you laugh, which makes him laugh. He loves hearing you like this, so happy yet so utterly ruined by the way he feels inside of you. He knows that the feeling is mutual, which only amplifies how much he’s enjoying this. Having you again.

He softly moans in your ear, his breath hot on your skin. “Pussy was made for me,” he rasps, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear. “You were made for me.”

After a few more strokes, he truly begins to lose himself. His cock twitches inside of you, and he dips his head into your shoulder. “Mmh, ‘m gonna cum,” he rasps.

He pulls back, but you only pull him closer. It’s been so long, he hadn’t truly thought that you’d be okay with that. But here you were, his favorite girl. Always surprising him. “I love you, sweet girl.”

You nod your head, wrapping your free arm around his neck while the other gives his hand another squeeze. “I love you more.”

He grunts when your walls clench around his length, his lips pressing a longing kiss to your shoulder. “Cum with me, baby, c’mon. I need it, honey, please.”

You’re in no position to deny him or yourself. Your body trembles beneath him, a gorgeous moan ripping through the air while he buries himself deep inside of you, stuffing you full of his cum while you find your own release on his cock.

The two of you lay there for a moment, out of breath and entirely engulfed by one another. He slowly pulls out of you, pressing a few chaste kisses along your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, until he eventually kisses your lips.

When he pulls away, you smile up at him. You chase his lips once more, giving him a tender kiss before you lay your head back down.

“Now, as for why I’m still mad at you…”

note. yeahhh i need him bad in a way that’s concerning to feminism. anywhoooo interact if you enjoyed i rly like writing for him :D thank you so much for reading!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[dantakeyoman]

the, “his secret mate.” part in your fic where she took the bullet from neteyam had me tearing up huhuhu can we get the detail of their intimacy in relationship before that war? not always to be nsfw, but fluff with full of lovesick moments aarghhwbd

You and Neteyam Mate In Secret (Slight-NSFW / Comfort)

Prologue of "You Take The Bullet"

CW: nsfw implied ( and a little described ), right after his second birth ( he is now a tribe-observed man, and part of the People ), you and Neteyam are so in love, kinda magical ngl, reminder that Utral Aymokriyä is the place Jake and Neytiri mated, Neteyam is a consent king

"You skxawng! Where are you taking me?" you laughed, Neteyam's hand in yours as he ran through the forest with you, his trademark smile plastered on his face.

"You'll see," he teased, jumping off a large tree root and landing on the mossy ground.

You did your best to keep up, jumping as well, but you landed off balance, and were about to fall.

Neteyam noticed this and quickly turned around, yanking you toward him so you landed in his chest, instead of the mud.

You sighed, pulling your face out of his pecs, and resting on it instead.

You were tired.

This man had made the both of you sprint from Hometree, all the way to....wherever here was.

Technically, the both of you weren't even supposed to be out right now.

Neteyam had just had his Second Birth, and was supposed to be spending it with the People.

But through the commotion, he managed to sneak the both of you out.

"I must show you something. Come!" his words echoed in your head.

If Neteyam wanted to sneak out, then it must be something incredibly important.

"Irayo," you panted, breathless as you took your quick break.

A dark tint of blue rested on his cheeks as he nodded, his hands instinctively going to rest on your hips.

"Kea tìkin," he assured, averting his eyes from you so you could not see his blush.

Noticing the slight purple-ish glow that was shining from behind him, you lifted your head, peeking over his shoulder and gasping at the sight.

Utral Aymokriyä.

"Oh, Neteyam!" you gasped, quickly breaking from the hug and walking over to the large tree.

It stood tall, and proud, like the might of thousands lay hiding in it's branches.

Despite being Omaticaya, you had never been to this place. Though you had constantly told Neteyam how you dreamed of doing so one day.

Out-stretching your arms, you walked toward the base of the tree, smiling as you allowed all of it’s tendrils to rake over you, softly.

Neteyam did the same, but not without letting his gaze linger on you.

He couldn't help but smile as he watched you experience the tree in wonder.

You were adorable.

The tree bathed you in purple light, accentuating your every feature.

Your beauty was a sight to behold, that was what caught his attention first. 

Your face was sculputure-like, ethereal.

Even if he were to stare at your face for hours, he wouldn’t be able to find a single thing wrong. 

You laughed, dancing with a tendril of the tree as if it were another person.

And your voice. It came out so smooth and silky, like his favorite song on repeat.

Sitting down on the ground, you rested your hands on the ground, shutting your eyes and allowing yourself to feel the beautiful energy the tree was emitting.

It wasn’t just your physical features, either.

It was the way you carried yourself, the way you were strong, and tough, yet soft and kind for your people and Pandora.

You had this man weak in the knees every time you crossed paths, and it was getting to the point where it was affecting his day-to-day life.

All he thought of was you. Eat, sleep, breathe, repeat. You.

You were a distraction, but a beautiful one. One that deserved to be protected by every ounce of his being.

"My mother took me here when I was no older than a baby," Neteyam started, walking over and sitting down next to you.

"She said this was a place for prayers to be heard. ....And sometimes answered."

He took his queue, making tsaheylu with a soft sigh, before turning back to you, who was watching him in peaceful, silent awe.

It made him blush.

You did the same, a soft gasp leaving you lips as you shut your eyes, the songs and chants of past peoples dancing through your ears, as clear as day.

When you opened your eyes again, Neteyam chuckled at your child-like expression, your mouth slightly gaped in wonder.

“I can hear them,” you nodded, eyes trained on the tendril you were bonded with.

Neteyam disconnected the bond, and looked up at the mighty tree, your gaze burning holes into his face.

"My mother told me that now I am truly one of the People, I can make my bow out of the wood of Hometree.....and choose a woman," he cheesed, the thought of you being his mate bringing a smile to his face.

But you did not think the same.

Oh. He has already chosen.

You expression fell, but you did your best to keep your smile happy.

"Who are you going to choose? We have many good women for a future Olo'eyktan," you tearfully recommended, a quiet gasp leaving you lips as a atokirina floated down to you, resting in your palms.

Neteyam snapped his head over to you, confused.

What in the world are you talking about?

"Eyati is a good hunter."

"I do not want Eyati," he quickly shut down, looking at you intently.

Lovingly.

"Oh," you nodded. He didn't want a huntress, then.

"Ilyena is a good dancer."

Neteyam internally facepalmed.

You were not understanding.

He thought he was being quite obvious with his admiration.

His frequent touches, talking of finding a woman, taking you to a spot where people literally go to mate.

You were the only one he wants. The only one he could ever want.

What else would he have to do to get that through your head?

Once the atokirina flew away, you returned your hand to the earth, where Neteyam smoothly interlocked his with yours.

"I do not think you are understanding. I have already chosen," he smiled, looking down at your conjoined hands.

"Oh," you sighed, averting your eyes from him. "Who is the lucky woman?"

Oh, for Eywa's sake.

He groaned, cupping your face in his hand and turning you to face him, where he roughly landed his lips on yours, practically knocking the wind out of you.

At first, you were shocked. All this talk of women, and now he was kissing you?

But you decided to let a good thing be.

You kissed back, matching his roughness as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

His hands immediately went to your waist, resting his hands on your hips as he pulled out from the kiss, staring at you like a lovesick fool.

And his heart seemed to pick up speed when he saw that you were looking at him the exact same way, a beautiful smile on your face.

It seems you liked it better when he showed, not told.

He would remember that for the future.

"(y/n), it is you. You are the woman I have chosen. I cannot think of anyone better to be at my side," he beamed, switching his gaze to the glowing tendrils around him, along with the many atrokirina that decided to make an arrival.

"Do you not see? Eywa has chosen us for each other."

You were on the verge of happy tears.

You had loved this man for so, so, so long, and so hard. And to hear that he has loved you with the same intensity, if not more, was something that warmed you from the inside out.

"I see you, my Neteyam," you smiled, cupping his face in your hands, resting your forehead on his.

"I see you, my love," he smiled back, giving your lips a peck.

It wasn't enough.

As he pulled back, you chased him, attaching your lips once more, throwing your arms over his shoulders.

He groaned, his hands softly caressing your hips as he kissed back with just as much fervor.

"My Neteyam," you sighed, trailing your kisses from his lips, down to his jawline.

He understood your quiet plea, shifting his position so he sat on his knees, before lifting you into his lap.

With this new angle, he peppered your chest with loving, heavy kisses, making you sigh once more.

You raked your hands through his hair, one sensually trailing down his braid and carefully holding up his kuru.

Using your other hand, you found yours, and were about you connect them when Neteyam stopped you.

"My love, are you sure? We do not have to do this if you are not ready," he asked, firmly.

Don't get him wrong. He wanted do to this more than anything in the world.

Having you in his arms, kissing him like this, was his greatest dream come true.

But just because it was his, did not mean it was yours.

And he wanted you to do this of your own volition.

"I am ready, Neteyam. I have always been ready," you assured, resting your forehead on his as you landed another heavy kiss on his lips.

With that, he nodded, and you made tsaheylu.

And the moan you two set loose surely reached the stars.

The feeling that enveloped the both of you was too much.

You could feel everything the other was feeling perfectly. Their heartbeat, their longing, their love.

Oh, the feeling of Neteyam's love was flooding your senses so much it was overwhelming.

Every piece of exposed skin he touched burned with fiery heat, but it felt so, so good.

You had no idea he loved you to this extent.

And as he lay you down on the mossy ground, him placing feather-light kisses across your exposed chest, the vision of children flashed through your head.

His vision.

They were your children, the kids running around the tent as the two of you lay in the corner, curled into each other.

Even in a moment so intimate, even as he entered you, his thoughts still traveled to something so wholesome and domestic.

It made you blush uncontrollably, and he sensed this.

"I....hnngh...see you, my (y/n). And there...fuck....is no one else I can see to be the mother of my children...shit...," he said huskily, peppering kisses on your shoulder with each thrust.

As tears welled in your eyes, you tightened your grip around his neck, another moan escaping you lips.

"I see you....ohhh!....my Neteyam," you sighed, bringing your hands to rest on his chest.

But for the first time, the both of you felt like that word didn't express enough.

Your love for each other expanded farther than just I see you, it was indescribable.

There was no Na'vi word for it.

But there was an English one.

One Jake had taught both of you, respectfully.

"I love you!" the two of you exclaimed in unison as you finished together, Neteyam making his final thrust.

And as you both lay on the ground, intertwined, coming down from your high, Neteyam said something that made you feel all the happiness in the world.

"I am with you now, (y/n)," he sighed, a tired smile on his face.

"We are mated for life."

[divinesolas]

hiii, how are you? I saw that your requests were open and I was wondering if you could do Jacaerys Velaryon x reader. Where reader is Alicent’s firstborn daughter, and they were married in hopes to reconcile the family. Could you do newly married headcannons for them, sfw and nsfw. They don’t necessarily show their hate 24/7, they married out of duty, and for their families but they don’t get along or make efforts to get along, if that makes sense. More like a subtle enemies to lovers. If you can do this, it would be great. And I hope you have a wonderful day 😊😊😊

a/n: hiii i am great i hope youve been well. <3 TYSM FOR THE REQUEST !! sorry it took me a couple days to get too !! i went a little overboard sorry i just loved this rq sm !! <3 hope you enjoy !! (this is more of a fic in headcannon format :3)

word count: 2k

warnings: smut, slight enemies to lovers, slight baela/jaacerys romance for the drama, happy ending not bulleted, not proofread, avoided the use of y/n

You didn't hate jacaerys targaryen. No, you never had strong feelings about him. Even in your youth as you grew up you never thought much about him. If anything the most you had ever had is a slight resentment towards him for his treatment of aemond.

Your engagement had come as a surprise. Especially knowing how much your mother didn't care for rhaenyra or her family, especially her sons. But apparently rhaenyra and Alicent had a moment together and the two managed to come to an agreement for the sake of the family.

You couldn't gauge his reaction when he heard the news, he did not seem as shocked as you, leading you to believe he had already been informed. The two of you stared at each other and you could sense his annoyance. You've never had any bad blood so you don't understand what he could be so annoyed about until his eyes stray from you and you turn your head to where he's looking and notice he was looking at baela who also had a saddened look on her face but covered it up well. The two of you barely speak during the wedding prep.

The two of you actually argued quite a bit about the ceremony. You had wanted one more to your faith, the seven, while he was insistent that you had a traditional targaryen ceremony and for it to take place at driftmark.

“Of course you would want it at driftmark.” you scoff His head shoots up and he gives you a glare. “What could that possibility mean?”

“Nothing my dear i just find it funny that you of all people want a ceremony at driftmark. What sort of relation do you have there? Wouldn't a place like harrenhal suit you better”

His hands slam on the table and he stands his eyes never leaving yours as his face turns angry.

You can hear your mother scold you but you just laugh and keep a smile on your face. The meaning of your words are very clear to him but as he opens his mouth to speak his mother interrupts suggesting just to have two ceremonies.

You roll your eyes as he sits back down and agrees. The two of you continue to make sly remarks at one another to many, It would just look like friends poking fun at one another but the two of you knew that you two could barely stand each other. It was easy enough to fool the public into thinking the two of you had been a love match. Especially since they had no clue the two of you did not speak outside of public appearances.

Your wedding was magical, without any of the magic. You would have two ceremonies, one of the more intimate traditional Targaryen ceremony and one longer three day ceremony for the faith. you ended up having the targaryen ceremony first. It was a very small ceremony with only your family there.

Even though you held no feelings towards the velaryon boy there's something so intimate about the tradition ceremony that it had even your heart skipping.

you couldn't tell if he felt the same, he had a clearly fake pleased look but you did notice he did not spare baela one glance but instead had spent that night dancing with you.

you two decided not to consummate the marriage that night much to your relief, and would wait till your other wedding night. The public had no clue the two of you were already married, during your wedding feast many would come up to you and spare their congratulations and provide a gift.

You and jacaerys sat at the head of the table. The night had been going fine until one particular lord came up and started saying some inappropriate comments about you.

You began to shrink in your seat and could not find a voice to say anything yet you did not have to as jacaerys was quick to shut him down, his tone had changed much from his kinder tone earlier while regarding guests.

He had laced his land with yours and quickly shooed him away. He had turned to you and asked you if you were alright and all you could do was nod. jacaerys keeps his hand laced with yours the whole night. Despite the fact the two of you are still at odds you find comfort with his warm hand in yours.

The next day was the tourney. You knew jacaerys was going to be competing. No one dared to ask you for your favor. When jacaerys finally was announced he immediately strolled over to the royal box where you had been sitting, “your favor my love?”

After you had reached out and tied it around his sword he grabbed your hand and pressed a kiss to the back before riding away. When your wedding rolled around it had once again been a pleasant ceremony. A part of you which you didn't want to acknowledge felt as though there was a small smile on Jace's face when the two of you kissed. The celebration afterwards has also been nice but a part of you felt dread as you realized the bedding ceremony had been right around the corner. Jacaerys had noticed at some point during the festivities you had been upset, “are you alright?”

You didn't want to mention it so you just nodded my head and didn't turn to face him. You could feel his stare and when you didnt turn towards him he sighed. “If you hold any worries about the bedding ceremony, put them to rest. I have already insisted it is not necessary.” You whip your head towards him in shock but he had turned away from you and was staring at the crowd drinking from his chalice. “You did?”

“Of course, there is no reason to. Though the maesters were insistent they checked you afterwards. I had attempted to avoid that as well but they were persistent.” “Why?”

His face scrunched as if he had been confused about your question. “You did not want to do it. Did you?” Your head begins to hurt as you think about the fact he had put in all the extra effort to make sure you did not have to do something you did not want to.

The two of you decided to call it a night and you attempted to ignore your brothers yells of encouragement as you quickly exited the room. You had arrived at your chambers first and were quickly stripped out of your extravagant dress by some maids and the pit in your stomach continued to grow.

There was no way jacaerys would be a cruel lover. Sure the two of you did not get along most of the time but you felt he had been kind to you today and the last couple days. Lost in your thoughts you barely noticed as jacaerys walked into the room still in his formal wear and dismissed all the maids. You stood up to face him and suddenly it became alarmingly clear to you that you two were alone in this room while he was fully dressed and you were wearing a plain white nightgown. No words are spoken between the two of you as you stare as he begins to remove his formal wear. “I am sorry.”

His back is turned to you as he removes his coat and you watch as he freezes “what for?” “This whole marriage. You clearly did not want this and I am sorry you are being forced into this. Maybe I do not want it as well but it must feel worse for you.”

Your head had fallen to the floor as you went on. His hand grabbed your chin and he forced you to lock eyes with him. He had a relaxed face as he gave you a concerned look. “It is our duty you must be upset about it as well. Why would it be worse for me?”

“I assumed you had relations with baela..” you trail off and try to look away but his grip immediately pulls you back. “I promise you I shall never be unfaithful if that is your worry. You are my wife. I could not imagine disrespecting you that way.” It is clear to you he does not deny the fact he has feelings for her but you choose to ignore this fact as he leans in and kisses you. It becomes painfully obvious to the two of you that you are both terribly inexperienced He leads you over to the bed as you gasp as you fall back onto the bed

He is a very kind lover though it was very obvious to him he struggled to know what to do His fingers were clumsy as he attempted to prep you (which you did not expect as your mother told you he would just stick it in) But once he got to the rhythm of it he was very good and soon enough you had your first come. “Are you sure you've never done this nephew?” He laughs and shakes his head, “never dear auntie though i did read up on it.”

He kisses down your neck as he slips off your dress Lost in the feeling you barely noticed that he had slipped off his trousers he was still wearing and was fully nude You would say he has a nice dick but you've never seen another one so you have nothing to compare it to You fight the urge to reach out and grab it He clumsily lines himself up and it hurts.

He presses kisses all over your face in an attempt to calm you down and waits for you to give him the okay before he begins to move. Your mother had spent the last week tell you to be prepared to just lay there and take it and you would find no enjoyment at all but in this exact moment you had no clue what she was talking about You had never felt this amazing in your life, he was kissing you as one of his hands was playing with your clit and another one was locked with yours next to your head.

He was slow, not the rough and hard pace you had been expecting. He valued your pleasure just as much if not more than his own. He was also much more vocal that you had expected, your mother told you men do not make much noise but as he laid his head right next to your ear you could hear ever groan and whine leave his lips He encouraged you to come first before he spilled himself inside you. When he got up soon after you felt a chill, your mother did say men did just quickly leave as soon as they were done. To your surprise all he had done was get up to alert the maids to draw a bath for you.

This however alerts the maester and your mother who comes running in, your mother obviously concerned when she sees you but you reassure her you are fine. Jaacerys was nowhere to be seen and did not return til you were already asleep. You had expected the two of you to have a better relationship after the last couple days have been nice but jacaerys has a very sudden shift in attitude and is back to his sly remarks. A part of you feels sick as if the last couple days had just been a ruse to not have to force you to bed him and he was just like all men. Even when he comes back to bed you he is certainly not as nice as the first time.

“Jaacerys must be rather upset these days.” your brother aemond says over tea one morning “However, would you know that?” “Baela has been betrothed to one of arryns.” Now it has made sense to you and you find yourself seething with anger.

When he comes to join the two of you for tea you quickly make some excuse and rush away ignoring jacaerys confused look as he looks after you. The next couple days follow a similar routine. He is up before you and you pretend to oversleep so you miss breakfast with him, you busy yourself with other activities and avoid even being in the same room as him and when he tried to see you before bed you were already pretending to sleep. After the third day of this you hear him sigh as he sees you in bed already.

That next morning you expect things to go a similar way as the last couple had but were shocked to see jacaerys there instead of aemond who you were supposed to have tea with. “Jacaerys.” “Sit” “I'm supposed to be meeting with aemond-” “And you're meeting with me instead. Sit.” You begrudgingly sit and speak no words as he pours you a cup and you wordlessly take a sip. “You have nothing to say?” “Should i?”

He rolls his eyes, “we have not spoken in many a moon.” “I have been busy.” He scoffs, “busy with what?” You grow angry at his tone, “I apologize my prince but just because some of us aren't crowned princes that does not mean the things we spend our days doing are unimportant.” His face immediately drops as he rubs his hands over his face, “I am sorry, my lady, I didn't mean it like that.” You say nothing just look off to the side “I have just missed you.”

You laugh and his face grows angry once more, “what's that?” “Are you sure it's me you miss?” “Whatever does that mean.” You continue to laugh, “surely it must be your dear baela you miss not i. I heard she is to be married off.” His face turns confused, “what does baela have anything to do with this?”

“She is the reason you are upset, no? Why have you been upset?” He sighs and puts his head in his head. “No, I mean yes but no.” “What does that mean?” “I am not upset that she is betrothed.” You keep silent as he continues, “i thought we were meant to be ever since i was a young kid and i do admit that i was more than angry when i had been informed i would be marrying you and even angrier when we continued to argue but after a while i realized that i had enjoyed your company more and more, especially after our wedding.” A light blush dusts his face, “and when i heard the news of baelas betrothal i had expected myself to be filled with rage but i felt nothing. And that terrified me. The only thing I could think about was you.”

“I avoided being short tempered and nasty with you so I apologize but these couple days without speaking to you have been tortuous. I have come to realize I need you.” You are frozen as a warm feeling fills you, you can tell by the look on his face he means every word. “I love you jacaerys.” “And I love you my beloved.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 2: Tiger's Eye]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.7k

💜 All my writing can be found��HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

💎 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💎

The taxidermied tiger head hangs above the fireplace in the sitting room, its jaws agape in a perpetual roar and its eyes polished spheres of metamorphic rock the color of dusk. Daemon shot it in Burma years ago—valleys of saturated green earth, mountain ranges like a crooked spine—shortly after opening his third black opal mine in Australia. You stare at the disembodied creature and she stares back, a silent scream, a doomed eternal terror in her tiger’s eye gaze: Help! A man is killing me. A man is taking me from where I belong. A man is nailing me to a wall so all the world knows he is the one whose bullet severed my aorta, filled me with hemorrhaging blood until I sank down, down, down.

You say, still looking at the slayed beast: “Did we really have to bring that with us?”

Daemon glances over as he fastens his cufflinks, onyx with red beryl in the shape of a three-headed dragon, the Targaryen family crest. “I’m sure you’d prefer a finger painting from that Italian tosspot you’re so enamored with. What’s his name, Pizarro?”

“Picasso. And he’s Spanish.”

“Even worse.”

You turn to Daemon, and you can feel yourself wilting, becoming pitiful, vulnerable, needy. “Where are you going?”

He smirks as he stalks past you. “Wherever I want.” Then he passes through the doorway and out into the hall, flanked by the ever-grim Edward Rushton, black suits and polished leather shoes.

It’s midday on April 12th, and you and Fern are now alone in the Targaryen staterooms. Laenor is down on F-Deck enjoying the Squash Racquet Court with his new Parisian companions, Rhaenyra is in the Reading and Writing Room with a group of ladies led by the Countess of Rothes, and Dagmar has taken Draco…somewhere. Meanwhile, your sweet-tempered maid is flitting around making beds and collecting empty cups and soiled linens. “Fern?” you call.

She peeks out of Draco’s bedroom. “Yes, ma’am? Do you need something?”

To leap overboard and swim back to Ireland. “Would you like to take a stroll around the Promenade Deck with me? Breathe some fresh air, look for dolphins and whales, have lunch at the Verandah Cafe?”

Fern is apologetic in that soft, skittish way that she has. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I have to finish cleaning the rooms before Dagmar comes back.”

She doesn’t say why—that would be insubordinate—but you know. Just like on the family crest, the dragon has three heads: Daemon, Draco, Dagmar. All must be appeased lest their fire turn you to ash. And Fern lives in terror of the gaunt Scandinavian tyrant. “Right. I understand.”

“I should be done in an hour or two. When you return from your walk, I’ll make you tea.”

“You’re too kind.”

She is confused. “It’s my job, ma’am.”

“Still, I’m glad you’re the one doing it.”

Fern smiles, small and hesitant. “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your walk.”

Outside on the Promenade Deck, the sun is bright and the wind brisk, just warm enough to forego a coat, black mink or white ermine or grey rabbit or reddish fox, pelts harvested, creatures butchered. Your dress is a cheerful yellow, as if attempting to conjure the golden-haired magic of the Targaryens, their willfulness, their invincibility, their habit of bending the world’s truth in their hands until it snaps. Yet none of them are here with you; you are alone, you are unnecessary. As you walk, you pass women reading novels on teak deckchairs, children playing with spinning tops and dominoes under the watchful eyes of fathers and governesses, men smoking cigars as they debate business and politics and which gemstones they should purchase for their sweethearts. You have to get away from them.

You take the Grand Staircase up to the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and to distract yourself you count the covered lifeboats that are stowed there. This does not assuage your anxiety; you see only twenty, and while you have made a practice of avoiding sailing and therefore are no expert on the issue, this does not seem like enough. You go to the railing—about as tall as your waist—and lean over it as you stare, thoughts troubled and brow furrowed, into the wild, uninterrupted blue of the North Atlantic, five hundred miles from the coast of Ireland. To your left is a man painting a sheet of paper clipped to an easel, a palette held in his hand, viscous globs of color from small silvery tubes. Seventy feet below where you stand is the sea, thrashing against Titanic, a wood-and-steel intruder. You lean a little farther over the side of the ship. The water is cold, you imagine; cold, deep, dark, silent.

If I fell in, this would all be over, you think. No more Daemon. No more anyone. The only people who would miss me are my parents, and they’ll never see me again anyway.

But no; you cannot abandon Draco. He’s a piece of you, even if he doesn’t know it. You cannot allow him to become a monster.

The viola player peeks out from behind his easel. “Not thinking about jumping, are you?”

You gasp, startled, and then cover your face as you groan. “Why are you always out here?!”

“Aw, fancy rock lady needs a member of the perpetual underclass to malign,” he says as he adds brushstrokes to his painting. He has procured a suit somehow—black, slightly too big for him, likely stolen—to better masquerade as a first-class passenger. “What’s the matter, rock lady? Did your servants not put enough sugar in your tea this morning? Did they tug a little too hard as they brushed your hair?”

“You’re not well mentally. You need a straightjacket.”

“I’m not the one about to throw myself into the Atlantic Ocean.”

You glare at him, bitter, defensive. “I wasn’t going to jump.”

“Then what were you doing?”

You can’t answer; you wring your hands and press your lips together so tightly they ache, watch dark smoke billow from the nearest funnel, coal shoveled into blazing furnaces, treasures of the earth extracted like teeth and consumed.

“Hey, I didn’t, um…” The viola player lowers his paintbrush, repentant. “It wasn’t my intention to upset you.”

You ask to change the subject: “What are you painting?”

“People,” he says, grinning, then turns his easel to show you. It’s a father holding his daughter so she can look over the railing and pointing to show her something out in the waves, dolphins, perhaps. His work is excellent, you are surprised to see: wispy curls of hair, irises alight with emotion, shadows and wrinkles and cheeks ruddy from gusts of wind, imperfections of reality.

“It’s good,” you manage once you’ve gotten your bearings.

“And of course you’re shocked.” He points to a scuffed brown leather portfolio resting against one leg of the easel. “I have plenty more, if you’re interested.”

You open the portfolio. There are men worriedly counting coins, women waiting on park benches, children beaming as they feed ducks or tend to their dolls, people giggling and scowling and burning up with clandestine longing, people sipping drinks in smoky pubs. In the bottom right corner of each painting is a moniker for the subject: Crystal, Big Red, Sunshine, Baron, Carnation, Tiny, Mars, Archer, Harpist, Pennies, Henry VIII, Belfast Belle. Unwittingly, you smile to yourself. “You give them names.”

“I watch people, but I don’t usually talk to them,” the viola player explains as he dabs thick oil paint on the paper clipped to the easel, treated to resemble the texture of linen. “I like to catch them unawares. Keeps the moment genuine, truthful. Otherwise they start acting for me.”

“Why paper instead of canvas?”

“Easier to travel with. Lighter and less bulky.”

You recall what he told Daemon at O’Connell’s Bar back in Galway: Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact. You gingerly slide his paintings back into the portfolio and tease: “Who do you think you are, Picasso?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. His sand-colored hair trashes in the wind that blows off the ocean, salt and mist. “I am under no such delusion. I’ve met him, though.”

You gawk at the viola player. “You’ve…you’ve met Pablo Picasso?”

“Yeah,” he says casually. “In Barcelona. I love his Blue and Rose Period stuff. Now he’s doing some weird cubism bullshit.” The viola player shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s his art, he can paint what he wants. But I prefer something a little more…real.”

“I do too,” you confess. “I went to Paris once with my parents. I saw some of Picasso’s work in a gallery, but he wasn’t there at the time. I bought a few paintings.”

“Which ones?”

“Mother and Child from 1905. Flowers from 1901.” You hesitate. It’s a bit scandalous. “Blue Nude.”

But the viola player neither cringes nor makes a joke. “I remember that one,” he says softly, watching you. After a moment he asks: “Are they hanging in your rooms?”

“They’re in a trunk. Daemon doesn’t like them.” And the animosity in your voice is an act of treason, however small. You glance around for Daemon, Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra, Laenor, and thankfully find none of them. You avert your eyes, ashamed. A husband you hate, and fear, and obey, and lie awake at night conspiring how to please.

There is something that ripples across the viola player’s face—sympathy, distress—and then he resumes putting the final touches on his portrait of two unnamed passengers. “Do you paint?”

You laugh. “Very badly.”

He offers you the paintbrush, saturated with a reddish-gold color like dusk. “You can help me fill in the man’s scarf. That’s hard to fuck up.”

Your jaw falls open.

“That’s hard to mess up,” he amends.

Smiling shyly, you take the paintbrush and add a few tentative strokes to the scarf. The viola player accepts the paintbrush when you forfeit it.

“So besides making awful paintings, how did you spend your time back in Galway?”

Reminding my father who he is. Taking long walks through the fields with my mother. Sitting in the garden wondering how my life went so wrong. Trying to stop my only child from becoming a demon like his father. “I read a lot. Mostly Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, and Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” he echoes, amused. “Recite some for me.”

You take a moment to decide on a passage.

“Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar and the rocks pure gold.”

“The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” the viola player says, much to your amazement. He’s a thief holding a third-class ticket, and yet he’s learned. This is rare outside the blue-blooded aristocrats and the titans of industry. Fern can barely read and write.

“Where were you educated?”

“The world,” he replies, grinning.

“And the world included lessons on Shakespeare?”

“Sure, sometimes.”

“Alright then, let’s hear an excerpt.”

He considers this, tapping the handle of his paintbrush against his lips. Then he says:

“My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen: my crown is called content:

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.”

“King Henry VI,” you say, admittedly impressed. “I didn’t know poor people read Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare’s plays were written for everyone, fancy rock lady. Standing tickets at the Globe cost pennies.”

You study the viola player as he paints, feeling a bewildering combination of curiosity, amusement, fondness. “What’s your name?”

He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say, then gives you a sly, crooked grin as he replies: “Picasso.”

Now a steward is approaching, and the viola player is alarmed, perhaps anticipating being revealed as a fraud and dragged back to the third-class accommodations; but the steward is only passing by with a tray full of champagne flutes, offering them to illustrious passengers as they stroll the decks. You take two glasses and he continues on his way. You down one flute in just a few gulps and offer the other to the viola player. He smiles politely but does not reach for it.

“Thank you, but I don’t drink.”

“Really?” Have you ever met a man who doesn’t? You can’t think of one. And you are suddenly aware of how quickly you finished your champagne—unladylike, improper, but surely no great disgrace in front of this audience—and how yearningly you’re already glancing at the second glass, carbonated amber, fool’s gold.

“I’m not someone who can stop at just one or two,” the viola player says. “I’ve learned that about myself. Tried to fight it for a while, turns out acceptance is easier. I hardly even miss booze anymore.”

“How long did you fight it?”

“Ten years.”

You are caught off-guard. “What? How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Since he was thirteen? Can that be right? “We’re about the same age,” you say instead, taking a distracted swig from the glass that would have been his.

“Yeah,” the viola player agrees thoughtfully.

You finish the champagne and hand both glasses to a passing steward. “I should go,” you tell the viola player. “I don’t know where Daemon is on the ship, and…” I don’t want him to see us. I don’t want him to hurt me.

“Sure. I get it.”

“Good luck with your painting.”

“I’ll make one of you next,” he promises, and you’re certain he’s joking.

You smile and turn to leave. “Whatever you say, Picasso.”

You walk towards the Grand Staircase that leads back down to the Promenade Deck. As you pass the Gymnasium, you steal a glimpse through one of the windows and see them inside: Draco giggling as he rides the electric horse and yanks gleefully on the reins, Dagmar beaming as her gnarled, arthritic hands hold him by the waist so he doesn’t slide off.

You lay your palm against the cold glass, separated by a few steps that might as well be miles, wreckage peering up through the darkness from the bottom of the sea.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fern helps you dress for dinner: a glittering gold gown, a tiger’s eye amulet from Burma. Laenor has brought a companion, one of the Parisians he’s become so well-acquainted with, a count’s son named Hugo. As Laenor is preoccupied, Daemon escorts Rhaenyra to the First-Class Dining Saloon down in D-Deck. They meander together, her arm linked through his, murmuring gossip about the other passengers and snickering contemptuously. You trail behind them, feeling invisible, a sun that casts no warmth.

All around you are other first-class passengers descending the Grand Staircase: Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress two decades his junior, John Jacob Astor and his pregnant eighteen-year-old wife, railroad tycoons Charles M. Hays and John B. Thayer, steel industrialist George Dennick Wick, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown, the eminent journalist W.T. Stead, the White Star Line’s managing director J. Bruce Ismay. But your gaze keeps drifting to Macy’s department store owner Isidor Straus and his wife Ida, neither young, neither beautiful, and yet so evidently devoted to each other. You wonder how that feels; surely nothing like a bruise, a reproach, a back turned to you in the marriage bed.

On the A-Deck landing of the Grand Staircase is the viola player, his horsehair bow gliding over four thick strings to loose an energetic, jubilant song, standing there in his suit that no one else notices is too big for him because they don’t really see him at all. He is less than a fixture of the ship; the first-class passengers marvel at the glass-and-wrought-iron dome overhead and the Neoclassical clock on the wall and even the bronze cherub statue at the base of the steps, but the flesh-and-blood machinery of Titanic wears a sort of camouflage, unremarkable and interchangeable, uncomfortably human. The viola player gives you a wink and a quick, subtle smile as you pass by him, and you smile back. And for a moment, it is like you have a friend aboard the ship, a groundswell of fleeting joy, gratefulness, peace.

Dinner is oysters, salmon with hollandaise, corned ox tongue, chateau potatoes, asparagus soup, Waldorf pudding, other things that you pick at without much interest. You miss Lough Cutra Castle, you miss your parents, you miss Ireland, you miss your life before Daemon Targaryen stalked into it with his ever-glinting green eyes and his talent for making you so desperate to satisfy him. Instead of eating, you mostly drink champagne, draining glasses of it until your cheeks are warm and your thoughts hazy. You look around for the viola player, but he never appears in the First-Class Dining Saloon. Instead, the five-piece string ensemble that welcomed you aboard Titanic yesterday is playing Alexander’s Ragtime Band.

Daemon has invited a guest to share your table, chief designer of the ship Mr. Thomas Andrews. He is gracious and even-tempered, exactly the sort of man Daemon likes to entrap and enchant and have his way with. As you drown in champagne, Daemon tells Mr. Andrews about surviving a hurricane while mining Larimar in the Dominican Republic, domesticating a ring-tailed lemur in Madagascar (Daemon had named it Aegon and kept it on a leash), getting lost for three days in the Australian Outback and resorting to eating snakes and dingoes, bludgeoned to death with rocks and roasted over campfires. Rhaenyra observes all of this with a proud, radiant smile, encouraging Daemon with nods and oddly girlish giggles. Laenor, meanwhile, is chatting with Hugo and paying little attention to anything else. He and Rhaenyra have three young sons back in England, though they resemble Laenor Velaryon far less than they do Harwin Strong, Viserys the Duke of Beaufort’s former Master of the Horse and Rhaenyra’s rumored lover. The virile, dark-haired Harwin Strong was killed last year in an unfortunate riding accident, whereupon Daemon rekindled his previously strained relationship with Rhaenyra in the interests of helping her cope with the loss. As it turned out, Daemon’s niece had grown up to be much the same as he is—daring, sarcastic, charismatic, incorrigible—and as if you didn’t have enough difficulty winning his affection before, now you must compete with his kindred spirit, a golden-haired wildfire only a few years older than you and who Daemon can delightedly torment his estranged brother with by capturing her in his orbit.

Daemon is saying, his elbows on the table and miming clutching a massive gemstone in his palm: “As a famed French fashion critic once wrote, The jewel, which is so well adapted to a woman’s adornment, is a combination of the riches of nature and art.”

“Not just any fashion critic,” you say without thinking, the champagne parting your lips before you can reconsider. “Charles Blanc. And I’m the one who gave you his book, remember? It was one of my wedding presents to you.”

Everyone turns to stare at you, as if abruptly being made aware of your existence. Laenor and Hugo appear puzzled. Rhaenyra is frowning with disapproval. Mr. Andrews nods politely. Daemon, after a moment, chuckles in that low, rolling, sardonic way that he does.

“Yes, dear, you certainly did. Clearly it made an impression.” He looks to Mr. Andrews. “You’ll have to forgive my wife, good sir. I’m afraid she has a weakness for champagne.”

“Don’t we all?” Mr. Andrews replies diplomatically.

“The truth is,” Dameon says as if he’s confiding in the shipbuilder; and yet there’s an exhilaration he can’t entirely disguise, a malicious triumph, proof of the power he has over you. “She’s petrified of sailing, has been for years. And this journey…well…it’s been quite an ordeal for her. But under no uncertain terms was I leaving Ireland without my family. Where I go, we all go.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your rattled nerves, Lady Targaryen.” Mr. Andrews’ eyes are soft with pity for you, a neurotic and illogical woman, tortured by her own nature. “Is there anything I can say to alleviate your fears? Have you been on a ship that’s run into trouble before?”

“No, no sir, I just…” You push through the warm, amber-gold fog of the champagne to explain. “I’ve never been able to stop thinking of all the water beneath us, and a ship…even one as large and luxurious as Titanic…it seems too vulnerable to me. One puncture and we all go straight to the seafloor.”

“That’s why I built Titanic with watertight bulkheads that go up to E-Deck,” Mr. Andrews says, smiling reassuringly. “There are sixteen total, and the ship can stay afloat with several of them flooded. This is meant to contain any possible breach in the hull.”

“Oh, how ingenious!” Laenor exclaims. “Hugo, isn’t that extraordinary?”

Mr. Andrews continues: “Truly, Lady Targaryen, I have built you an unsinkable ship. You have nothing to worry about here on Titanic.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Daemon agrees.

“And there are lifeboats, I suppose,” you say. “Although…I didn’t see very many up on the Boat Deck. What is their total capacity, I wonder…?”

“Over 1,000 souls, ma’am,” Mr. Andrews replies.

You are horrified. “That’s half the people onboard.”

“Yes,” he concedes. “But as I said, Titanic cannot sink.” Again, he smiles blithely. “Besides, in the event of an evacuation—engine failure or damaged propellers or some such thing—the lifeboats would only be needed to ferry passengers from Titanic to the vessel we’d hail to rescue us with the wireless telegraph machine. The lifeboats were never intended to be able to hold all the passengers at once, that would be absurd.”

“Impossible,” Daemon concurs. “What on earth would necessitate a swift and total evacuation?”

“What about an iceberg?” Hugo says as he eats a heaping spoonful of Waldorf pudding, vanilla custard mixed with nutmeg, apples, walnuts, and raisins.

Mr. Andrews titters patiently, as if this is the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. “No iceberg could damage Titanic enough to flood more than three bulkheads. And we have lookouts employed to spot them and sound the alarm so we can turn in time. Icebergs are not a concern whatsoever.”

“Très bien!” Hugo declares, redirecting his full attention back to his Waldorf pudding.

Mr. Andrews looks to you, his voice kind but patronizing. “Do you feel better now, Lady Targaryen?”

“Much better,” you lie.

“Good. Then no more worrying. And no need to drink yourself under the table either.”

Daemon says with a derisive snort: “Well, she is Irish.”

Everyone laughs; everyone but you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Back at the Targaryen staterooms, Rush is waiting by the door to take your coats. Laenor and Hugo bid everyone goodnight, then depart; Rhaenyra, seemingly reluctantly, takes her leave as well. She and Laenor have separate accommodations as they always do while travelling, not unheard of among first-class passengers but also not helping to dispel the rumors concerning her sons’ parentage.

Dagmar is perched on one of the sofas like a falcon on a branch, her talonlike fingers knitting a forest green blanket for Draco. Your son, meanwhile, is sprawled on the sitting room floor and at war with Fern, who is trying to coax him out of his shoes and day clothes and into his pajamas.

“Draco, please, my love, it’s time to get ready for bed now—”

“I want to go back to the Gymnasium!” he screeches, wriggling out of her grasp. From the sofa, Dagmar chuckles as if this is charming behavior, a portent of superb athletic fitness, perhaps. “I want to ride the horsey!”

Fern is exasperated. “Darling, the Gymnasium is closed, no one is allowed to use it any more tonight. But I promise you’ll be able to go back tomorrow—”

“No!” Draco shrieks. “Now! Right now!”

Fern finally manages to slip off one of his shoes, and faster than anyone can stop him, Draco draws back his hand and slaps her across the face, open palm, a sharp crack in the air, and of course he’s too young and too weak to do anything but stun her, but he won’t be four years old forever.

One day he’ll be able to hurt people. He’ll be able to break them, bruise them, ruin their lives.

“No!” you shout, then bolt to Draco and drop to the floor to hold him by his frail little shoulders, firm yet careful not to harm him, no scratches, no bruises, no pools of trapped blood that will ache with violent memory. “You never do that! You don’t hurt people! You don’t hit women!”

“Mam?” Draco whimpers, his lips quivering and tears shimmering in his eyes; and he almost never calls you that, he almost never acknowledges you as his mother at all. But he knows, he must, this proves it. “I’m sorry…I won’t do it again…please don’t yell at me…”

Immediately remorseful, you embrace him, and Draco clings to you as he sobs. Fern is watching you with huge, frightened eyes; then they flick to someone standing behind you.

Rush grabs you by both arms and wrenches you away. You yelp in shock and pain; Dagmar swoops in to take Draco and vanishes into his bedroom, glaring at you over her shoulder, frigid lethal fury. Fern is covering her mouth with her hands so she won’t scream.

Rush hurls you to the carpet and backs away. When you look up, Daemon is standing in the doorway of your bedroom, orange dusk-like light spilling out from behind him.

“Come here,” Daemon says, beckoning you with his right hand.

You are terrified; you are shaking. “No.”

“The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

“No,” you say again. You glance at Fern, but she can’t help you; she turns away, stifling a cry with her palms. The room is spinning, your thoughts are slow, your skull aches with rhythmic pulses like blows from a hammer. You peer up at Rush, blinking blearily. “Do you like working for a man who beats his wife?”

Rush doesn’t reply; his face is grave but otherwise unreadable. Fern curls up on the floor, shaking her head. The taxidermied tiger head roars silently from above the crackling fireplace.

Daemon says from the doorway: “Dear, I’m losing my patience.”

There’s nowhere else to go. You crawl towards him, then at the halfway point stagger to your feet. Daemons steps aside so you can cross through the threshold. He closes the door and locks it. You stare at him, swaying a bit, your hands hovering in front of you. You’re trying to figure out where he’s going to hit you, but he’s good at not letting on, and you’re drunk. You guess stomach, but it’s your face, just like Draco struck Fern; his open palm sets your cheek on fire and rocks your head back. You lunge for him, fingers clawing and knuckles jabbing at his ribs. Sometimes you fight back and sometimes you don’t—occasionally he finds it endearing and leaves you alone, more often it exacerbates the situation—but tonight you are overwhelmed with wrath for this man who has taken everything from you, your home, your parents, your son, your future.

You shove Daemon into his writing desk, then he pins you to the wall, slides open a drawer of the desk with his free hand, pulls out his gemstone-studded dagger and lays the blade against your windpipe. And you scream, because for all his roughness and his threats Daemon has never done this before. No one appears to rescue you; no one would dare.

“You will not correct Draco,” Daemon says. “He is my son, and I will deal with him.”

You seethe, teeth bared: “I don’t want him to be like you.”

“Think about it, dear,” Daemon hisses, the blade cold against your throat. You can feel it stinging, a thin slice like a papercut you’ll have to cover with makeup tomorrow. “We’re on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. If you were to take a tumble over the railing, who could say if it was an accident or a suicide or a crime of opportunity committed by some third-class scoundrel? There would be nothing to investigate. You would be gone, and that would be the end of it. Draco is past the fragile years of infancy, he is healthy and he is fierce. Your father’s quarry is already under the control of my managers. What do I need you for now? Why the fuck would I tolerate any further obstinance from you? Your usefulness has come and gone. You stand on the thinnest of ice. One wrong step, and you’ll find it splintering beneath your feet.”

He lifts the dagger away and strides out of the bedroom. You stand there in the tawny lamplight like a sunset, trembling all over, gasping for air, your hands flying up to your neck. When you check your fingers, they are sticky and copper-smelling with a small amount of blood.

He could have killed me. I think he wanted to.

There is a tall oval mirror by the bed, its frame gilded and glowing in the ochre lamplight. You stare at yourself, tears flooding down your cheeks, a gold dress worth more than you are. Everything you own is Daemon’s. That will be true for as long as he lives.

You flee out onto the small private deck attached to your rooms, through the back exit, and into the labyrinthian hallways of B-Deck. You run towards the stern of the ship, dodging stewards who ask if you need assistance and men sauntering back from the First-Class Smoking Room after dinner, puffing on their pipes and their cigars, nursing stout glasses of brandy to keep them warm. When you break out into the open air, it is bitterly cold. The ocean is a vast lightless void; you could mistake it for nothingness if it wasn’t for the thunderous rumble and salt spray of the waves. Your gleaming gold dress billows around you as you sprint to the metal railing that encloses the stern, grip the top rung with shaking hands, stare down into the roiling depths churned by the propellers.

Where can I go? There’s nowhere to go. There’s nowhere else to run to.

“Hey,” the viola player says; you recognize his voice immediately.

You turn away, not wanting him to see the swelling on your face, the traces of blood at your throat. You are heartbroken, you are humiliated. You agreed to marry a man and now he’s ruined your life. You wrap your bare arms around yourself and sniffle, shivering, swiping tears from your eyes.

After a while, the viola player says cautiously, realizing you aren’t in the mood for disclosures: “It’s cold tonight.”

“Obviously.”

He takes off his black wool coat, presumably stolen like the suit he wears underneath, and offers it to you. “I have more layers on.”

“I don’t want you to be cold.”

“Please shut up and take the coat, okay?” You accept it and put it on, and instantly you begin to feel better. The viola player asks gently: “Does he hit you?”

You shrug, petulant like a child. “Sometimes I hit him back.”

The viola player sighs, but he’s not just disappointed; he’s saddened, he’s pained. “Look, I know what it’s like to get knocked around. That’s why I left home.”

You remember what he told you when you first realized he’d followed you onto Titanic: I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit. “Why would you ever want to see them again?”

“Things are different now. I’m older, I’m not afraid to walk out and be on my own, I’m confident that I can advocate for myself better than before. And they aren’t all bad. I have…” He hesitates. “I have two brothers and a sister in New York, and I miss them.”

“What are their names?”

“Um,” he stops to think. Clearly he’s making them up. “Arnold, Henrietta, and Dean.”

“Do you actually have siblings or is this some sort of metaphor?”

He laughs. “No, they’re real. The names might not be, but the people are. Want to see your painting?”

“You were serious?”

He carefully pulls it out of the brown leather portfolio he’s carrying under one arm. And if it’s supposed to be you, he’s failed, but still the image is mesmerizing: a young woman—too beautiful, far too beautiful—glancing over at him from where she was pondering the waves under a clear midday sky, her hair in disarray from the wind and her eyes fearful, an oil-paint snapshot of desperation, defenselessness, wonder, hope.

“It’s very nice,” you say at last. “But I don’t look like that.”

“Yeah you do.”

You examine the bottom right corner of the painting to see what he’s named you. You skim your thumbprint feather-lightly over black cursive letters, drawn with the smallest of brushes. “Petra,” you murmur.

The viola player says self-consciously, as if hoping you’ll approve: “It’s Greek for rock.”

You smile faintly. “I know what it means.”

“Oh, fancy rock lady took Greek lessons in school.”

“Of course I did.”Greek, Latin, French, Irish Gaelic. You muse softly, still studying the painting: “Petra and Picasso.”

You don’t have to look at him; you can hear the grin in his voice. “Guess we’re friends now, huh?”

“I’ve never had a poor friend before.”

“Well, firstly, you can’t call me your poor friend. That’s offensive.”

With great unwillingness, you surrender the painting and give it back to the viola player. “I can’t keep this. I’m sorry, I want to. But Daemon might find it.” And then he’ll push me overboard and I’ll be dinner for the sharks.

He tucks the painting safely into his portfolio. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

“Forever, you mean.”

“You might not always have to worry about Daemon.”

You share a dark, horrible truth: “I’ll never be free of him.”

“We’ll see,” the viola player replies, undaunted.

We’ll see.

[misfit-mccoward]

me my entire adult life writing fic: i support the ykinmk life but i don't really like writing sex, and i would definitely feel weird taking prompts

me in the later half of 2024: OH YOU VAGUELY MENTIONED A SMUT CONCEPT? HERE YOU GO--

anyway, itakarin concept fic from the itachi's picnic discord server ->

the concept was basically "karin as a prison warden and itachi as her prisoner." i play hard into the power dynamic so it's one of those fics that's technically dubcon from a real world logic standpoint, but it's not particularly dubcon from the porn trope "oh he WANTS it and my magic powers confirm it!!" standpoint. so there's your warning for that

also i had a whole plot concept but i couldn't figure out how to execute it in like 500 words or less. so rn there's just bullet points ion the middle, but i figured i'd post the porn in case i never finish the bullet points lol

****

Playing warden is all one big game, really. That’s what Sound is. Karin looks at the board, analyzes the pieces, and then she makes her move. 

The keys jingling at her waist are part of it, a part of the strategy. She rolls her hips as she walks down the hall intentionally, to make that noise. So people know she’s coming. So they know to straighten up, to be on their best behavior. So they go limp and placid without realizing that Karin has no high level jutsu to her name, that she’s just some bitch with a rude tongue. 

It’s not so hard. Karin can monitor every chakra signature in her care with ease. If she feels one snap, she can send her little underlings to take care of it, and then show up right as that prisoner breaks, every single time. From the outside, it will always look like Karin is the primary factor associated with subjugation, because that’s how she plays this game. It’s an illusion of power, but it’s still power. Inmates still dip their head to her when they hear her coming. 

It’s not hard, but that doesn’t mean she enjoys it. Karin has her own goals. None of them involve playing warden to a bunch of Orochimaru’s discarded experiments. She would leave if she could, but the game is part of the trap. Even if she’s winning, even if she’s ahead, she’s still stuck in the game. 

And then, finally, something changes. 

Karin gets no real explanation for why she’s handed over Uchiha Itachi. She doesn’t even get real security measures for him besides the standard chakra-dampening handcuffs. She preps a blindfold for him, because she has studied the sharingan in depth and knows how dangerous it can be. Because she’s been given no orders, she makes up a sealing jutsu on the spot just for the blindfold and has no idea if it will work. 

(It doesn’t have to work, she tells herself. Itachi just has to think it does.)

Karin half wonders if Orochimaru expects Itachi to burn down this hideout. Karin has been trapped here for years and years since Sasuke disappeared, ordering around abandoned specimens. Itachi killing them all would probably be high entertainment for Orochimaru. 

Itachi doesn’t make any moves to kill anyone, though. Karin is acutely aware that he could, if he control slipped for even a second. His chakra is subdued when she first marches into his holding cell, but it’s big and dangerous and deadly. 

So Karin marches in, keys jangling, and does her best boss bitch act that she can. She’s aware of Itachi watching her warily as she orders people around. She doesn’t meet his eyes. 

His chakra finally hitches when she goes to tie the blindfold on him. Karin doesn’t let her hands falter, doesn’t let her outward confidence slip for a second, but she does tense at that. He doesn’t make a move against her. 

****

*Establish Itachi also wants to find Sasuke for non-nefarious reasons

*Karin wants to join forces with Itachi but doesn’t know how without risking her personal safety because he’s obviously recovering from some horrible illness but he’s still Uchiha Itachi

*she has an epiphany while in his cell alone with him 

*Karin has accidentally pavlov trained Itachi to be sexually attracted to the sound of her warden’s keyring (in like 300 words somehow)

****

Karin straightens her back and holds up her key ring up so it rests in the crook of her index finger. Then she twitches her finger just once, just enough to make the keys jingle. 

Itachi’s hips jolt just slightly. A smirk slowly spreads over Karin’s face. 

“Can’t help yourself, can you?” she mocks, then jingles her keys again. “How pathetic.”

Her words elicit a full body shudder, only invisible to Karin in that she’s looking for it, and Itachi’s chakra tightens up right at his core in an absolutely delicious way. Then, to Karin’s utter glee, she watches something shift in his pants. Uchiha Itachi is definitely getting hard, his ugly prison pants tenting as his hips twitch, just for her. Just for her moving a single finger. 

Obviously, Karin does it again. 

“S—” Itachi bites out, squirming against his restraints. “Stop.”

He says that, but Karin can feel his chakra, dark and tight and aroused. She’s never felt anything like this before, someone both hungry for her and entirely under her power. The idea excites her. She could do anything she wants! 

“You want me to stop?” Karin repeats in her sweet voice, the one she used to use on Sasuke. She struts forward, swinging her hips even though Itachi can’t see them with the blindfold, and straddles his lap. “You don’t want me doing this?”

She rolls her hips forward, so she comes down over him, pressing down on his erection with her own pelvis as her breasts brush against his chest. Itachi twitches but his chakra doesn’t tighten the way she’d wanted it to. 

“You dare question your warden?” Karin tries. 

This time, Itachi’s chakra rolls with arousal. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. His hips presses upwards, increasing the pressure of her own groin over his. 

I see how it is, Karin decides. She likes this. She likes this a lot. An ache is forming between her legs, and it takes all her self control not to grind herself into him. 

She reaches forward carefully and wraps her fingers around the base of Itachi’s neck. Then she slowly runs her hand upwards, over his throat, until it’s under his chin. Then she forces his head backwards, getting up on her knees so she can hover over him. 

“Desperate, aren’t we?” she says in a mocking, sing-song voice. She runs a thumb over his bottom lip, and Itachi grunts. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to untie you, and you’re going to be a good little prisoner for me.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. She stands and snaps off his restraints, all business and in control. The moment he’s free, Itachi pounces on her, hands going for her neck. 

Karin had been expecting this. Her hand tangles in his loose hair, and she yanks. “No,” she commands, and Itachi goes limp before her, his chakra coiling up inside him. 

Holy shit, Karin thinks, dragging Itachi’s hair down enough to force him to kneel. Holy shit!

She covers his face with one hand, her nails digging into the skin of his cheeks, and he whimpers. She forces her index and middle finger into his mouth. “Suck,” she commands, and he does. 

Karin feels an insane rush of adrenaline as she does this, putting herself into someone else’s mouth on purpose, as an act of her control over them instead of the other person controlling her. Her stomach flips in a way that almost makes her moan herself. 

Karin has never been more turned on before in her life. She’s theoretically had this power over prisoners this whole time, but none have given it over like Itachi does, and so easily! None of them have wanted this like Itachi. 

What do I do next? Karin wonders, sticking her fingers back far enough into Itachi that he starts to gag. This makes his chakra go haywire with lust, and so she reaches forward with her other hand and buries it in his hair to prevent him from pulling back as she moves her fingers back and forth. 

He doesn’t even fight her. He willingly kneels in front of her, letting her facefuck him. Clearly Karin has not spent nearly enough time on fantasies of being a sex dungeon master, because this is the hottest thing she’s ever seen. 

Karin has never fucked someone like this before. She’s never had sex like this before. She’s had no real practice for the logistics of it. But she’s done all sorts of things to herself with toys and the power of her own imagination, and that seems close enough. 

She holds up the key ring again. 

“Does someone want to be warden’s dildo tonight?” she coos, and jangles the ring. 

Itachi moans around her fingers. There’s drool welling up at the corners of his mouth, spilling over her fingers. His lips are obediently tight around her, sucking at her as she presses down on his tongue. She’s sure someone like Uchiha Itachi would have no problem biting her fingers off if he wanted to. But she’s also confident he won’t. The thrill this gives her is downright addicting. 

Karin retracts her fingers and commands Itachi to strip. He does so quickly, pulling away the ugly prison uniform but leaving the blindfold in place. Karin keeps a close watch on him as she pulls off her own clothing. She re-buckles her belt around her naked waist, clasping the keyring to it. 

Karin shoves Itachi down onto his back and then sits on him. She doesn’t take him into her quite yet, instead sitting back for a moment to enjoy the view. Itachi looks good, with his hair tangled and spilled across the concrete floor of his cell. 

I want to take off the blindfold, Karin decides. I want to see his whole face. 

She’ll have to be careful to maintain power over him to do this. She’s confident, based on the way Itachi’s chakra is buzzing in anticipation below her, and given he made no move to remove the blindfold himself, that he wants this. That he’s as turned on by this as she is. He wants her calling all the shots, wants her to be the one that graciously frees him. 

Karin lifts her hips a little, and then guides his length inside of her. She’s turned on and wet enough that it slides into her easily, and it stretches her out in the best way. Underneath her, Itachi’s fingers tense and try to dig into the concrete floor. 

“You like this,” Karin says. It’s a statement, not a question. She sets his hand over his abdomen and watches as goose bumps spread up his skin. “You want me to fuck you.”

She keeps her hips firmly in place, unmoving as she traces her fingers up Itachi’s body, across the plain of his abs and pectorals. He’s not as built as she’d expect for a close-combat ninja, but she supposes being sick in prison will do that to you. He’s still pretty, though, gasping and sweaty beneath her. His chakra is tumultuous, lustful in torturous anticipation for her. 

Karin doesn’t give it to him, as much as she wants to just give in herself and ride him until she has her own screaming orgasm. 

“Tell me you want me to fuck you,” Karin says, fingers ghosting up his throat. 

Itachi lets out a guttural groan but continues not to say anything. Karin leans forward slightly, achingly slowly, letting him shift just slightly inside her. The keys slip against her hip and let out a single jingle. The noise that comes out of Itachi next is a little higher, more throaty and definitely more desperate. Karin slowly slips a thumb under his blindfold and pulls it up. Underneath, his dark eyes are glassy and unfocused. 

“Tell me you want me to fuck you,” Karin commands, looking him directly in in the eyes. “Or else I will sit here all day until you beg me.”

Karin kind of wants to hear Itachi beg. But also, she would like to hurry up and get on with riding him into oblivion. 

Karin clenches her walls as best she can, just to give him a taste. Itachi gasps, blinking hard, his mouth open and panting. 

“I…” he finally stammers out. “I want you to fuck me.”

Karin pats his cheek. “Good,” she tells him in her sweetest voice. 

Karin sits up, but still doesn’t make a move to actually fuck him. Instead she sits back, staring down at her conquest. Itachi lies there helplessly, even with all his physical restraints removed and his eyes given back to him. He stares back up at her, face flushed and eyes pleading. How long can she bear to just sit here like this, drinking in the view…? 

“Please,” Itachi says after a minute. His hands go over her thighs, although he makes no move to grip her or move her. His hips twitch but he makes no move to buck into her. “Please,” he begs.

Karin wants to make him wait longer, to make him beg her harder, but she’s too turned on to wait herself. She rolls her hips, slowly and deliberately, and his dick feels so fucking good inside her as she moves. The face Itachi makes is exquisite, his eyes squeezing shut as she finally gives him what he wants. 

Karin puts her hands over his and moves Itachi’s hands up further on her legs to her hips, so he can grip her better. 

“Fuck me back,” she commands. 

She rolls her hips again, and this time Itachi matches her, thrusting upwards. The keys jangle at her hips, and Karin lets out a throaty oh! at how fantastic it feels, Itachi moving against her and filling her perfectly, perfectly teasing the line between being painful and feeling like complete ecstasy. Her cunt aches as he thrusts into her, and she commands he go faster and harder, and so he does. 

Karin loves the way chakra feels mid sex. She loves feeling Itachi’s darken with lust and then roll with satisfaction when she finally gives it to him, and she loves knowing this is all under her control. She rides him, rides the wave of his chakra, and lets herself get as loud as she wants, her voice drowning out the sound of her keyring at her side. 

When she can feel Itachi coming close, his chakra rising and tightening with fervent excitement, Karin decides she wants control even over this. She wants him to associate his orgasm with her, with seeding everything about him to her. And so Karin shoves her forearm into his mouth. 

“Bite me,” she commands. Then without waiting for a response, she shoves his jaw upward with her other hand to make him. 

Usually, Karin requests no biting or teeth from her sexual partner. It’s something that, in her childhood, she associated with a complete loss of her own agency. But as an adult, Karin gives her powers to who she wants, and she wants a full-strength Uchiha Itachi under her, writhing with pleasure for her, his hands and eyes on her only for her own pleasure. 

Itachi moans pathetically as her chakra rushes into him, forcing his body to heal itself, convalescing itself in his lungs full of scar tissue. He shakes, gasping and whimpering as he finally cums inside her, mediated by Karin’s own chakra, and Karin grins down at him with all her teeth. She does her best to ride him through it, even as she comes undone herself. 

“What…” Itachi starts, blinking away confusion. Karin slides off of him, brushing her hair over her shoulders. 

Karin stands and then, just for a little treat, sets one foot on Itachi’s chest. The movement makes the keys jingle one more time, and Itachi gasps again and makes a face like he had in the middle of having his brain blown by Karin. She smirks down at him. Itachi is at full strength now, and he simply lies on the floor for her, messy and covered in both their fluids. 

“You’re going to be my pretty little prison lay from now on,” Karin tells him. 

Itachi glances down himself at her foot, and then turns his head slightly to look up at her. 

“I’m not going to agree to this indefinitely,” he says finally. He still, Karin notes, continues to simply just lie there. 

“No,” Karin tells him, “you are. Because if you sit pretty and put on a big show of following my every command, of being my loyal little sex toy, then I will help you break out and find Sasuke.”

After all, how much power can she flex over this place, if she has an unrestrained Uchiha Itachi at her beck and call, letting her put him on a leash? She’ll be able to burn this place down herself. She’ll be able to leave. 

And also, she is going to get dicked down and eaten out as much as she wants. 

Itachi blinks down at her foot again. 

“...alright,” he says at length. 

Karin presses her foot down over him. “Every command, Uchiha,” she insists. 

Itachi lies back, relaxing under her. 

“Yes, Warden,” he murmurs.

[shiftylinguini]

Fuck I Can't Write Crisis Pack:

@phoebe-delia asked in response to this fun lil ask game:

Do you have any advice for getting out of a slump/getting writing confidence back? . (for the ask anything) Do you have any advice for getting out of a slump/getting writing confidence back?

Now THIS. This is a good question, and something that is very much on my mind and has been for a while, as I am currently absolutely in the midst of this and trying to army crawl my way out. I don't have any magic bullets (is that the saying? idk) but I have been here before and i do have a small arsenal of tips or methods that I find can help me. 

Here is my Fuck I Can't Write Crisis Pack (In no particular order):

Write anything 

This is hardly groundbreaking advice, and it's also the hardest thing to actually do (imo) so do not beat yourself up if it takes a while to get to this. Basically, write ANYTHING―it can be aimless, it can be pointless, it can be crap (crap is subjective!! don't let the brain gremlins win!!). 

Don't think about posting it, don't worry about anyone else ever reading it, just fling a few words onto a page and feel the rusty faucet turn on, proving to yourself that it still works. 

Try and sus out what it is that's blocking you 

Again this one is hard and annoying but functional. Once you can put your finger on the particular reason you're staring at a flashing black line on a blank page it can help you kick that reason off your lawn and into the bin. 

And then, take it out of the bin and be kind to yourself about whatever that reason is. Maybe you feel shit because you're comparing yourself to others, your last fic felt like a lead balloon, you can't muster enthusiasm for what you once loved doing and fear that it's gone forever, you're projecting in a Tumblr post―whatever it is, it's something all the writers you admire and aspire to be like have felt, and been annoyed with themselves for, and so you can wrap it up in a blanket and put it on a shelf and be kind to it so it, (respectfully) shuts the fuck up. 

(and remember, everyone feels insecure about their stuff. Like literally everyone, at some stage, feels like their stuff is rubbish)

Cheat on your OTP 

Okay this one might not work for everyone, but it really does for me lol. Ruts (not the sexy kind) can often come with not wanting to engage in my usual ships, being annoyed by my lack of ability to fucking write them/anything/all my ideas taste like cardboard/bleh, and stepping out on them and reading something new can snap me out of it. Just, an injection of new ideas or scenarios or words or even just a little reprieve from being fed up with myself, which ideally, is why we're all here anyway. 

(And then I come crawling back, and am welcomed with open arms haha)

In a similar vein:

Engage in media 

This subtitle is genuinely terrible, i am sorry, LMAO, but essentially: find a piece of media that makes you go "oh, helLO sailor", unhinge your jaw like a snake, and consume it whole. 

Let it nourish you, inspire you, excite you, making you feel SOMETHING, and then take that and think "fuck, what if i wrote bleepbloopblarp" and even if you write nary a single word, you've thought about it and that fucking counts. 

It might be an album, a book, a song, a show, gifs of a hot person, the wikipedia summary of a movie, literally anything counts here if it makes you feel a twinge of creativity. 

Ask yourself, what would Astolat do? 

No for real. @candybarrnerd and I genuinely use this haha.  

Worried your idea is stupid? Astolat would say write it. 

Worried it's too weird? Nah, just write it. 

It's dumb and no one will read it? Just write it for you *waggles eyebrows* (and then find out that yeah, nah, someone else will absolutely read this and be real fucking happy about it haha.)

Worried you're a one trick pony and have already written this fic before, like, and not even once before, and also you're projecting again in Tumblr post? WRITE IT AGAIN! As Astolat once said, "it's a fic so nice, I wrote it thrice". 

It's good advice. 

Make a friend or lean hard on the ones you have here

Misery loves company because it knows they'll come out of this together :). I know, I know, that's fucking NAFF, but fandom is all about finding like-minded freaks and blowing up their DMs because you saw a gif and now feel a kind of ways about it. 

And lastly: 

FUCK STATS! 

I mean I love stats (yay validation!), but god can they make you feel like a worthless shit (hey where did my validation go :((( ). It can be really insidious, so piss that right off when it starts to fuck with your confidence or outlook on your own writing.

Hopefully there is something useful here, even if it's just looking at this advice and thinking "no that's shit, it's writing POISON" cos then you can maybe do the version you think is NOT shit, and that might work. 

Good luck, fellow travelers!!

[immortalbutterflycos]

I've come to realize something important in writing. (specifically in my personal experience)

(TLDR; I have ADHD and writing is hard even though I'm still doing it every single day. Make it make sense.)

If you have a story in your head that means a lot to you, and you need to take more time to develop and fully flesh it out before posting it, that's totally okay! In fact, in my experience, it has the potential to make the story better over time, really forming it into what you imagine it to be.

Here's an example because I just typed a lot of words and right now I can't seem to process whether they make sense or not.

I have a fanfic that I've been working on for a year now. (For the Marauders fandom if y'all are curious)

It's one that I haven't talked about much because every time I do, I end up losing the motivation to write. This is what happened to another one of my fics for the Haikyuu fandom. (well that and the Marauders.. yeah they fucked me up in the best way and Freckles and Constellations has really suffered because of it smh)

So the reason why this fic is taking so long is because it is such a specific AU that I'm out here trying to meld magic systems, and I've got like EIGHT MAIN CHARACTERS to write backstories for to fit this AU while also being true to them and even though I know the basic plot, there are just so many little details and aspects that will make this fic what I desperately need it to be.

And no one knows just how intricate it is or how important it is to me. Which is totally fine. I don't even know if people are going to read it when I finally manage to post it. This fic is purely self-indulgent.

let me just break down for you what I have prepared for this already:

countless drabbles and scenes and plans written on the backs of receipts and on bits of scrap paper

a 3" 3-ring binder that I've been trying to organize it all in

a google doc titled "TAoRfOL Doc Masterlist" that has links to every single doc I have for this one fic. (it's dated back to March of last year and as of this month has 93 total links. Only 5 of those are reference links.)

notes and ideas i have written in my phone to transfer into docs so I can add them to the masterlist

Hero Forge digital models of those 8 main characters because I wanted to see what their group would look like outside of my imagination

Multiple Spotify playlists dedicated to this fic and the characters which I listen to every single day. (currently @ 494 songs)

And you know what? I just recently, at 6 am this morning, finally figured out the solution to a fucking plot hole I could not work around.

Basically what I'm saying is that I needed all of this time. Every single day I see things and get inspiration. Every day I learn new things and fix errors in my own plans.

As much as I crave the validation and recognition for all of my hard work on this project, I know that If I had just bit the bullet and posted the first chapter without having done all of this research and all of this planning, then it would not have lived up to the story I have in my head.

I admire people who can just write without all of the added steps and in some cases, I can do that. I haven't been able to in a while (which is why that Valentine's Day microfic was actually really big for me to have posted) but that's just how my brain works.

I needed all of my experiences and all of my daily thoughts and all of my collective playlists for this fic to be able to write the story I intended and that is exactly what I'm going to do.

(though if I'm being honest, this timeline is rough. I really want to just write and post this first chapter so so so bad. ToT)

[kalegrinch]

Can I have a headcanons request Rocky from Lackadaisy having a mom type of friend from a coven?

✨Lackadaisy’s Witch✨

Rocky Rickaby/Reader

1k~ words

OH MY GODS it took me SO LONG to write this fic bc I felt burnt out after my last one lmao. While this fic can be read as romantic if you really want it’s meant to be platonic. I’m not really used to writing (or even reading) platonic fanfiction if I’m being honest, and this turned out to be longer than I’d anticipated and isn’t my best work but I hope y’all like it.

SUMMARY: Your first rum-running gig with Lackadaisy and Rocky as a Healing Witch

WARNINGS: Little bit of blood and violence w/ guns but nothing too bad

=========

Rocky is always getting himself into trouble

Everyone knows that

But something everyone does not know, however, is that you are one of the most powerful healing witches in the entirety of St. Louis

AKA the one force keeping Rocky from his succumbing to his death

And no one cares more for his safety than you do

Your expert healing skills always aid him after a long time out completing odd-jobs for lackadaisy

And you've found you’ve needed to heal him more often day by day

Sometimes its internal bleeding, this one time it was pneumonia

(And there was also that ear he never let you touch with your magic)

But most commonly its bullet holes

You still remember the first time you healed him

And you still bring it up wherever he does or suggests doing something stupid by himself

Shortly after you applied to join him on his quests for The Lackadaisy he took you with him to a random abandoned house in the middle of the night

It was a mansion built in the early 1800’s that could have once been a beautiful, eloquent structure, but was now no more than an old, creaking pile of wood

It stood tall in the night sky, a silhouette in front of the pale moon

The mansion casted long shadows that stretched across the barren farm fields it resided, shadows you and Rocky currently stood in

The objective of your first mission with Rocky was to retrieve an old case of whisky that hid deep in the cellars of the manson for the Speakeasy

A rather unnerving mission for an already eerie night

Being the motherly figure you were, you had tried your absolute best to hurry the expedition up

You knew when you signed up to work with Rocky that there would be trouble everywhere

But because of the fact that you obviously could not ever get him to stop working for Mitsi you decided patrolling the missions Rocky went on was good enough

Your so called “Patrolling” seemed to come up short because right after clawing your way into the house a suspicious figure seemed to move ever so slightly in the opposite side of the house, shaded in darkness

That figure held a gun

A bullet flew straight into Rocky's chest

With no time to heal or fight, you decided fleeing was your best option for survival

Taking Rocky's falling body into your arms and heaving him onto your back, you ran through the dark night

Gunshots sang behind you, some whizzing past too close for comfort

But all you could do was run as fast as your legs allowed you with Rocky’s dead weight on your back

And no, he wasn't very heavy (Which was something that concerned you from time time)

Your legs continued to pump into the earth until you reached your car and haul Rocky into the passenger seat

Turning the engine on and stepping on the gas, you made your way past the barren farmlands of the Manson as fast as you could and into an overgrown forest

Trees and leaves and bushes and shrubs were all a mixture of brown and red and yellow bathed in nightlight as you sped past them

You hadn't realized how much time had passed until your came to a screeching halt the top of a falling cliffside at the edge of the forest

The cliff overlooked the Mississippi River, which eventually gave way to the twinkling night lights and tall gray buildings of St. Louis you had come to love

You let out a long sigh as soon as you saw the site, realizing you’d been holding a long breath since your escape from the manson

Unlike the Mississippi River and golden lights of St. Louis, you did not like the sight right beside you

The one you had forgotten since leaving the manson in your previous terror and panic

He was breathing so heavily, on the verge of unconsciousness

A paw pressed against the bullet hole, a futile attempt to stop the blood from seeping out

The red, red blood now a shade of mahogany in moonlight

Fear rushed through you

Rocky had been so nice to you

He didn't mind your witchery in a place where your people were discriminated against

He had shown you a job in a place where money was scarce and people slept hungry

He had made you laugh more times than you believe you ever did in your childhood, more times than you ever imagined you could when you first moved here and were one of those people sleeping hungry in the streets of St. Louis

Even though you were the person who took care of others, the “mother” of the Lackadaisy Speakeasy, Rocky had taken you under his wing

Holding a hand out in front of the hole, you set to work with determination

Light radiated from you, washing the car in the color of your magic

The light cascaded out of the car and into the forest

Even though you couldn't see yourself, you knew your pupils had turned your color, too

Internally you chanted your mantra as you focused all of your energy into healing Rocky, binding and knitting his skin and flesh back together at an achingly slow pace

Luckily the bullet had not hit any vital organs, straying to the left of his body

If it had, though…

You shivered

A couple of minutes later you felt that familiar satisfying feeling of healing course through you and you knew the job was done and his skin was okay again

The night had turned to dawn before you realized it, and all that was left to do was to wake Rocky and return home, tired and beaten

You took some time breathing in and out after the nights events, recollecting your thoughts and turning back to the wheel to start the car up

Rocky eventually opened his eyes as you passed over the bridge that brought you closer to home

You noticed he was awake when he shot up and grimaced, shutting his eyes and hissing as he settled back down

Even still Rocky managed a sleepy smile in your direction as he croaked a low “Get me some pancakes later, will you?” before falling into a more peaceful sleep than earlier

You finally felt relieved as you drove back to The Lackadaisy, making a mental note to scold Rocky later

Even long after the whole ordeal of your first mission with Rocky everyone in the speakeasy made remarks on your relationship with him, commenting on how you baby him around as if he was no intellectually smarter than an infant

Not that those comments offended Rocky or you

For everyone also knows Rocky’s a 22 year old going on 12

[bellaxgiornata]

Do you have any tips for people who really enjoy writing fanfiction but struggle to actually get themselves to write it? Like I love writing specific scenarios in my head (mainly because that’s what I really want to read but no one else has written that yet) but I struggle to actually just get the motivation to do it, so my ideas just stay in my brain as a “I want to write this” and then the interest dies off and it never gets written.

I completely understand this feeling so much. Before I started writing in the Daredevil fandom I often just daydreamed in-depth scenarios in my head. I usually wanted to write them into stories but then I just...never did it. Even though I have been writing different fanfics in different fandoms for a really long time, I more often than not just created up scenarios that lived in my head and then that was it because I never wrote them down. So nothing ever came of them and I was never able to share them with anyone. I could have written so many more things if I'd just sat down and tried.

(As always, I'm long winded so more below the cut 😅)

In all honesty when this happens, I think the best thing to do is just that. Just sit down in front of a blank document and free write whatever comes to you. Take the pressure off of yourself first and foremost, though--you don't have to share whatever comes out with anyone. Don't tell yourself that it has to be good, either. Have literally zero expectations for whatever ends up on the page. More often than not, that really helps the words start to flow. When you sit there and nitpick how you're starting a sentence or a scene or a word choice, that's when you start second guessing everything and that can often lead to thoughts like "I can't do this" or "no one will read this" or the classic "I suck at this" (which I still hear in my head some days). Ignore all that bullshit and just focus on whatever it is that's in your head--a conversation between some characters, maybe an entire scene you've had playing out in your mind, a fight scene, or whatever it is that you're currently excited about. Just sit down and try to get it out with no expectations. Because you can absolutely always come back to it and edit it up how you want after the fact and make it into a story or a one shot or whatever if you want, but the hardest part is just getting something out on a page.

But truthfully, the only way to write something is to make yourself sit down and do it. I don't know of any other tips to give besides that. Sure, you can make a playlist or a mood board for the vibe of a story or a character. You can make outlines of what you're seeing in your head that'll give you bullet points of what you picture happening. But really you just have to get excited enough about whatever it is that's on your mind and write it. And I think that's part of the beauty of writing fanfic when you do share it and people interact with it. The commentary and interaction from readers is what helps keep the excitement for a story alive for the writer, which then gives us that necessary motivation to keep coming back to work on a story. Because any writer will tell you that sitting down and getting the words out is hard. Some days it sucks and you have to slog through it to keep going, but that's just a part of the process. Over time it becomes a habit, though.

Hopefully any of that somewhat helped, but unfortunately there isn't some magic answer to make it easier to get started. Having other writers to talk to about your ideas really helps, too. Or just someone to talk with/at about whatever is on your mind. Breaking an entire fic idea into chunks chapter by chapter helps if you're making a big story, but just picking a starting point and writing it is your best bet. I actually first wrote the entirety of Marci and Fog's wedding for FFTD and then worked my way backwards afterwards to start that huge ass series. It all started with those two installments and the idea/scene in my head that I didn't get to until "The Breaking Point" far later. So you can absolutely just start with an idea and expand on it. But unfortunately, you kind of just have to force yourself to start somewhere 😅

[cha-melodius]

Aaaaaaah congrats on 100 fics! I’m so excited that you’re doing this! Can I request Lokius in a western/cowboy setting?

(You were a prophet when you sent this back in August, Old West Lokius is quite the in vogue thing now lol. I hope you enjoy!)

Ain't No Place for a Better Man

(3k, M; read it below or on AO3)

They’ve had easier jobs, that’s for damned sure.

Protecting an entire train of stagecoaches was always going to be a strain on his crew, especially through this territory. They’re good, but they’re not that good. Mobius should have insisted that the client cough up the money to bring on another couple of folks, but they’d been reluctant and Mobius hadn’t wanted to risk the job going to someone else. And really, against most bandits, they’d probably have been fine.

They weren’t up against most bandits, though.

Mobius flips a blood-streaked silver dollar at the barkeep and collects a bottle of whiskey and four glasses in return without a single word exchanged. His crew is damn-near legendary in these parts; people vacate ‘their’ table when they enter the saloon, tip their hats when they pass on the road, and generally treat them with the kind of wary respect they’ve worked hard to cultivate. Mobius’ crew may be nominally ‘good’ guys, but a hard world makes hard people, especially ones who are hired to protect what passes for civilization out west.

Verity grunts in appreciation when he deposits the glasses on the table and sloshes a generous helping of whiskey in each one. Wincing a little as he leans forward, Mobius pushes two across to the others then settles back into the rickety chair. He tosses his hat on the table and kicks his feet up next to it, crossing them at the ankles and ignoring the dirty looks from the barkeep. The burn of cheap whiskey flows down his throat and spreads out in his chest, dulling the ache of what’s probably a bruised rib. 

“How do you think he found out they were moving the gold?” Casey asks, fidgeting with his glass. Twitchy guy, but surprisingly good with a rifle. He’d been riding with the trailing coach on the job and had caught the butt end of a pistol to the face when they’d been boarded, which is now darkening to a mottled purple across his cheekbone. Hadn’t gotten shot, though, which was a small blessing.

“How does he always? He’s got his ways,” Mobius returns with a shrug. “Weren’t one of us.”

“Obviously,” Verity snorts. “Slippery bastard has his fingers in plenty of pies, and people are easily bought. What I don’t get is how no one has managed to shoot him off his horse yet.”

Mobius snorts. “You’re the marksman, Ver. You tell me.”

“Swear he’s goddamn magic. One of them spirits. No one should be able to dodge all those bullets.”

“I assure you, he’s just a man.”

“And how exactly do you know, Mobius?” Verity counters, a too-shrewd look on her face.

Mobius blinks at her slowly and takes another sip of his drink. “Didya forget how I got this?” he asks, tugging aside the collar of his shirt to reveal an ugly scar twisting just under his collarbone. “He was flesh and blood when he drove that dagger into me.”

She looks chastened, but not completely convinced. “Could be he takes human form sometimes,” she mutters into her drink. 

“I heard of spirits like that,” Casey puts in. “One of the girls at the Mariposa was tellin’ me about this guy who comes in—”

“Enough,” Mobius says. His voice isn’t particularly loud or sharp, but everyone falls silent nonetheless. “You tell these stories, you let him get in your head. He ain’t a spirit, or a witch, or whatever else has been said about ‘im. Bleeds as red as the rest of us. Now,” he says, swinging his legs off the table and throwing back the rest of his whiskey, “I’m beat. And I’m takin’ this with me.” He grabs the bottle of whiskey off the table, ignoring their protests, and tugs his hat back on before he turns and walks away.

His steps are onerous as he climbs the stairs leading to the rooms over the saloon, heavy with a deep weariness he can’t seem to shake off these days. He’s getting too old for this shit, that’s for certain, but there’s something else weighing him down that he’d rather forget about in the bottom of this whiskey bottle tonight. He takes another swig as he kicks open the door to his usual room, only to find it already occupied.

The black-clad figure is little more than a lump, sitting hunched over in a chair next to the a small table with his hat pulled down low so that the broad brim of it hides his face from view. He doesn’t react when Mobius enters—unconscious or dead or just uninterested in the newcomer is difficult to say. Mobius’ hand is on his pistol before he knows he’s moving, even as something familiar twinges in his mind at the shape of the man’s shoulders.

“Think you’re in the wrong room, buddy,” he says evenly. “This one’s spoken for.”

The man looks up, a curtain of dark hair falling back from his face, and his lips twist into a wry smile. “I’m exactly where I intend to be, in fact.”

“Shit,” Mobius swears, his hand falling away from his gun as he takes another long swig from the bottle. Kicking the door shut behind him, he pulls his hat off and tosses it onto one of the bed posts. “You know they’re all downstairs, right? This is the last goddamn place you should be.”

“Didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

“What are you doing here, Loki?” Mobius sighs.

“I can’t want to see you?” Loki asks, trying for flippant and falling short by a mile.

As Mobius draws closer, he can see that Loki’s even paler than usual—which is really saying something—and he’s still hunched over, clutching his shoulder. Mobius reaches out and gently takes hold of Loki’s slender wrist, tugging his hand away and sucking in a breath when it comes away covered in red.

“You took a bullet today.”

“Astute observation,” Loki returns dryly. “I fear that Verity of yours is going to shoot me dead one day.”

Mobius squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, forcing his hand not to tremble. “She’d like that.”

“And you, Mobius?”

“Don’t you dare ask me that, Loki.”

Loki bows his head again, and Mobius turns away before he accidentally says something powerfully stupid. He steps out into the hallway and flags down a maid for a basin, a rag, and some clean water—well, clean as it gets, anyway—then returns to dig through the saddlebag slung over the foot rail of the bed for the sewing kit within, the one that’s mended more flesh than fabric. He leaves it on the table next to Loki along with the whiskey and goes to fetch the basin and water at the sound of a light knock on the door. The legs of the other chair grate loudly against the rough wooden floor as he pulls it around in front of Loki and settles into it, close enough that their knees are knocking together where they’re interleaved.

The silence stretches out between them, somehow heavy with unspoken words and comfortable all at once, even as Loki flinches when Mobius pushes his jacket off his shoulders, even as Mobius’ fingers find a familiar path in the buttons of his shirt, even as Mobius takes another swig of the whiskey before passing it to Loki. A subtle shine to the fabric of his black shirt is the only visible trace of blood on it, but when Mobius carefully peels it away from the wound, the bright red staining his pale skin tells another story. The disturbance brings a fresh surge of blood oozing to the surface, and Mobius pretends that he doesn’t notice Loki trembling under his hands.

He works with movements far gentler than most people would think him capable of, and the water in the basin steadily darkens as he cleans around the wound. Even though Mobius’ attention is focused on his work, he can tell Loki is watching him raptly the entire time, his eyes fixed on Mobius’ face, until Mobius pulls out the long forceps he keeps in the kit just for this purpose. Only then does his trepidation show on his face, the knowledge of what’s coming only too familiar at this point. Mobius shoves the whiskey bottle at him again, and Loki dutifully drinks before handing it back. The muscle of his jaw jumps when Mobius pours a glug of the alcohol over the wound, but his stoicism is put to the test under the assault of the forceps. Loki inhales sharply and turns his face to the ceiling when Mobius goes digging for the bullet, as if that might hide the tears welling in his eyes.

Fortunately, the bullet comes out easily along with the bit of shirt that it pulled in with it. The unassuming hunk of lead clinks dully when Mobius drops it into the basin, the sound of it a bleak reminder of how close he’d come to losing Loki entirely. Another few inches…

Mobius shoves the thought out of his head. He can’t let his mind travel down those roads, not when he needs his hands steady to finish this hellish task. One thing at a time, one stitch at a time, until the hole in Loki’s shoulder is finally closed and Mobius lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He rinses his own hands, then dampens the rag again and carefully takes Loki’s, gently wiping the now-dried blood from his skin as best as he can manage.

Loki’s head is bowed when he finishes, and Mobius reaches out with both hands to cup the sides of his face. His expression is impassive, but dried tears streak his cheeks, leaving pale tracks through the dirt and grime, and Mobius can’t help but rub his thumb through them in an ineffectual attempt at wiping them away.

“You’re all right, sweetheart,” he says, barely more than a murmur. He lets one corner of his mouth tug upward. “Gonna take more than that to take out the legendary Loki Odinson.”

Something fractures in Loki’s expression. “Mobius—”

“Shhh,” Mobius hushes, pressing a thumb to his lips.

Then he pulls his thumb away, leans closer, and presses their lips together instead.

It’s chaste at first, the barest brush of contact, but a moment later Loki is gasping into it, almost a sob, and his hands come up to curl desperately in Mobius’ shirt. He deepens the kiss hungrily, his teeth tugging at Mobius’ lips and tongue licking into his mouth, until the angle becomes untenable and he’s climbing into Mobius’ lap instead.

“Loki, you can’t—” Mobius protests, but can’t is not a concept that Loki is well-versed in, and he’s swallowing down the rest before Mobius can put voice to it.

He kisses Mobius like a drowning man in the desert slaking his thirst with Mobius’ lips, sinking his good hand into grey locks to pull them ever closer together. Mobius’ hands find the narrow dip of his waist without really meaning to, only that he could never resist that spot, the way Loki’s wiry muscles flex under his grip, the soft smoothness of his skin under hard calloused palms. His own shirt long discarded, Loki sets to work on Mobius’ instead, and despite the way his cock is definitely taking an interest, Mobius stills Loki’s hands with one of his own.

“I just sewed you up,” he scolds, a frown settling into his features.

Loki has the audacity to look annoyed. “And now I’m fine, can we move along—”

“You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Mm, not in my nature,” Loki says bluntly, leaning for another kiss before Mobius can reply. “That’s why I’m here,” he murmurs against Mobius’ lips, “because I know you’ll take care of me.”

“Loki,” Mobius exhales on a shuddery breath, squeezing his eyes closed against the emotions threatening to choke him.

A moment later, Loki’s forehead contacts his, and he brushes their noses together. “Please, Mobius,” he whispers into the narrow space between them. “I could have died today—”

“I know,” Mobius grinds out.

“—so I need you to fuck me until both you and I forget about it.”

Mobius can’t deny it’s an appealing prospect. “But your shoulder—”

“You’ll be careful,” Loki cuts him off. His lips twist wryly. “You’re always careful with me, even when you shouldn’t be.”

For two people who are constantly at odds, Mobius has always been terrible at saying no to him. He doesn’t manage it now, either. “Alright,” he surrenders, his hands already sliding over Loki’s back, lingering in the dip of his spine. “Alright.”

It’s not easy, between Loki’s shoulder and Mobius’ own injuries, but Mobius takes his time. He presses endless kisses to Loki’s skin, perfect in its imperfection, marred by countless scars inflicted over the years. Some by Mobius’ own hand; more by his crew, including the starburst that will form at his shoulder, no matter how neatly Mobius stitches it closed. If Mobius had his way, he’d never gain another one.

In this, Mobius knows he’s destined to be disappointed. Instead, he focuses making sure the pleasure overwhelms the pain, in treasuring every moment like it might be the last. He works Loki open with endless care—well, Loki wasn’t wrong—sinks into the impossible heat of him, rolls their bodies together as Loki urges him on, chasing the moments where they are just this. Not opponents, not adversaries, but two men seeking comfort in each other’s arms, finding what solace they can in a hard world.

In the aftermath, Loki tucks himself against Mobius’ side, pillowing his head on his shoulder, leaving no trace of space between their bodies. He’s unusually quiet, and Mobius doesn’t know if it’s just the trials of the day or something else weighing on him.

Loki’s hand moves idly over his chest, eventually finding the very scar under the collarbone Mobius had showed off earlier that evening. “Do you remember this day?” he asks, trailing a finger over the gnarled flesh.

“Are you asking if I remember the day you stabbed me in the chest?” Mobius returns incredulously.

Loki shrugs. “You’ve had closer calls.”

“Not from someone I love.”

Loki’s hand stills, not unexpectedly. It’s not the first time Mobius has said it, but he doesn’t deploy it often. It tends to make Loki… skittish.

“You didn’t know me back then,” Loki says eventually as he spreads his palm out over Mobius’ heart.

“I know you coulda killed me, but you didn’t.”

“I fear you’ve always made me soft, Mobius,” Loki murmurs, like a confession pressed against his skin.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is in this life.”

“Don’t have to be,” Mobius says. “Not all the time, anyway.”

That, apparently, was a step too far. Or maybe this was always going to be the end of their limited time tonight. Loki doesn’t reply for a long moment, letting the statement hang in the air, then his hand curls into a loose fist.

“I should go before anyone finds out I’m here,” he says. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and grips the edge of the mattress tightly. “I’ve already lingered too long.”

“You don’t have to run,” Mobius tries.

Loki laughs, without a single goddamn trace of humor in it, as he stands and grabs his trousers off the floor, tugging them on and doing up the buttons. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” Mobius insists. He sits up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I have contacts. People in the marshal’s office, they could get you a deal—”

“And what makes you think I want a deal?” Loki snaps, though a second later his shoulders sag. “I appreciate that you’re willing to stick your neck out for me. I do. But just because you’re on the side of law and order doesn’t mean you’re in the right.” He bends down snag his shirt off the floor, wincing as he tugs the bloodstained garment on. “How do you think your employer got all that gold, hm? It certainly wasn’t by asking nicely.”

This is not the first time they’ve had a similar argument. 

“Don’t know. Don’t care. The law says it’s his,” Mobius answers with a shrug. “You expect me to believe you’re stealin’ out of some kind of highfalutin moral righteousness?”

Loki flashes him a wicked smile as his long fingers fasten his shirt. “Of course not. I’m stealing it because I want it. Which I’m fairly certain is also true of the man who’s paying you.” Once he’s finished with the buttons, he crosses back over to the bed and stands between Mobius’ legs, lifting a hand to the corner of Mobius’ jaw as he stares down at him. “You and I, we’re not all that different, in the end.”

Mobius slides his hands under the loose tails of his shirt until his palms find warm skin again. “In that case, if I asked you, again, to come join me…”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Loki murmurs, bending down to press a lingering kiss to his lips. “I can’t. Not— not yet.”

“I’m never gonna stop asking, you know,” Mobius tells him.

A melancholy smile tips onto Loki’s lips. “You’d break my heart if you did.”

That, right there, is why Mobius will never be strong enough to end this. It’s the hope that kills you, so they say.

“When will I see you again?” he asks instead.

“When’s your next job?” Loki jokes. Or not. It might not be a joke.

“Not funny,” Mobius huffs. 

“I’ll find you,” Loki tells him, then quickly adds, “not during a job, all right? I’ll always find you.”

It shouldn’t be so comforting. Nothing is certain in this life—especially not for men like them—and yet this, he’s come to rely on. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

“All right,” Loki promises. “just for you.”

[caycaysdiamond]

Only For You ~ protective / how they show they care

Request for Anon : Hii could I request GN!reader with Kalim, Jamil and whoever you’d like being protective or caring about the reader?

having writing issues w doing a fic request rn so here's another request I had that wasn't particular about format, getting back into writing after a break is so hard

Characters: Kalim Al Asim, Jamil Viper, Idia Shroud, Ortho Shroud Non-prefect or prefect reader, platonic only for Othro, platonic or romantic for the others, bulleted list

Kalim Al Asim

Kalim is absolutely one of the sweetest men in the world and he cares about everyone a lot, especially you dear reader!

The problem is Kalim's love language is gift giving so he shows his care for you by lavishing you with gifts

He overheard you talking about something you need? oh, it's magically in your dorm. saw something at a market that made him think of you? oh, it's already bought along with the 10 other things he saw that day.

Reign him in on the gifts please, he doesn't know when to stop and you’re gonna run out of space quick asf.

Gift-giving isn't the only way Kalim shows he cares for you though, he also constantly likes to check up on you throughout the day/week

He loves to text you throughout the day with little affirmations and quick messages about how his day is going and encourages you to do the same!

Kalim also encourages talking face-to-face too, during those times he tries his best not to speak until you're done and tries not to give advice unless asked

Tries is the keyword here

He's very eager to help you and also isn't the best with his words so sometimes it can cause some tension between you two. It usually doesn't last long however and Kalim is getting better at watching his actions and words, especially after Jamil's over blot!!

When it comes to being protective over you, Kalim definitely is always defending you if he hears someone speaking down on you! He's always ready to speak about your character :)! You're a jewel to him and he needs everyone to understand that.

Jamil Viper

Jamil shows he cares in subtle ways: he’ll drop by with food and disappear or text you when he knows you’re up studying late to go to sleep.

Likes to leave you little notes around in odd places also, just so you know he’s thinking of you.

You’ll find them all (eventually).

He’s definitely a more private person, so don’t expect a lot of grandeur gestures but that doesn’t mean he isn’t doing special things for you!

He’s a busy guy but whenever he has time the focus is on you—whether that be a “date” or just simply hanging around.

Speaking of him being busy, he’s protective of your time together! He doesn’t like to be bothered by others when you two are alone.

Big listener whenever you need to rant, or just anytime you talk tbh. He’s always paying attention to you!

Also gives pretty solid advice when asked! He’s straight to the point and blunt. Not afraid to call you out if you’re in the wrong too 🥱

Jamil really isn’t a unsolicited advice giver (he hates that a lot) but if he notices you’re really struggling with something and hasn’t come to him, he might casually drop something vague in conversation to show he’s aware and encourage you.

I think his love languages are definitely quality time and acts of service <333

God he’s kinda a great friend/boyfriend.

Idia Shroud

Hm.

Hmmmmmmmmm.

Idia shows he cares in weird ways and not normal-ish cute ways like Jamil. Bro is just…odd.

You know Idia cares about you at least a little because that floaty tablet of his will actually approach you AND he’ll talk.

He also will allow you to come into the sacred palace known as his dorm room.

He also text you a lot!! He’s always on his phone/computer so…

Will get some of your favorite snacks/drinks/food delivered to your dorm randomly. It’s great.

If you’re a gamer too, great cause he’s making you play some of his faves and also buying them for you if you don’t already own’em

He also sends you stuff in game. Rare items, money, skins whatever…he’s like a gaming sugar daddy???

Idia will act like he doesn’t care about you but he cares a lot he just shows it in his own idia way.

He isn’t really super protective of you in irl situations because he rarely leaves his dungeon room but in any games/forums/etc he got ya.

Speaking of never really leaving his room, if you ask enough about going somewhere with him sometimes he’ll bite and go along.

Love language wise, I think Idia is another big gift giver and quality time (whether it’s a few seconds of your time or hours, he treasures the time!)

Ortho Shroud

Ortho is 100% one of the best people to have as a friend !!!

He’s constantly checking in on you, hanging out when you both have free time and going off on fun side quest lol

You both often find comfort in just talking and listening to each others respective struggles

Definitely quality time is one of his top love languages, he just loves spending time and being around ya

Doesnt mind if other things get in the way of like a planned hangout or something either, he’ll just shrug and yall reschedule

If you’re struggling he gives a lot of advice based on things he’s researched and looked up so often very solid advice!

Does send good morning and good night text always used emoticons like (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻ and (●´⌓`●)

Good morning name!! I hope you had good sleep bc I did not because of my raid in ffxiv last night. WOO!!! -(๑☆‿ ☆#)ᕗ

Ortho WHAT !!!

Anyways Ortho is super protective of you! Y’all are besties!!!

Whether it be online or irl he’s got your back always

Has definitely threatened to shoot someone with that laser of his because he heard them shit talking you from across the hall

(Stop him please)

Also had definitely stole Idia’s card to buy you stuff before. Idia pretends not to notice.

[k0k1ch1111]

Death puzzles !!!!

quote log from a fic I rlly am obsessed with rn

“Yeah, I lied! My parents are actually in Russia,” Kokichi told him gleefully, his eyes narrowed at the block he was very carefully wiggling free from the tower. “I haven’t seen them in years since I’m actually forbidden from entering Russia.”That was probably a lie, but Shuichi was curious how far this story went. “...why?”“I ran for president,” his classmate sighed mournfully. “Now I can never reunite with my family.”

If you’re neither, then congratulations, I think.

"Hmm, yeah… that’s too sweet,” Kokichi hummed thoughtfully, seeming to see an entirely different problem than he did. “How about babygirl?” “And I am stopping this conversation here,” Shuichi decided, rolling onto his side away from his classmate. “Goodnight, Kokichi.”

he had always had a bit of a soft spot for physical comfort. Maybe his parents didn’t hug him enough or something.

Shuichi got to have a full night of sleep full of peace and ignorance while Kokichi got to die of heatstroke in the night. Overall, it was a pretty fair deal in his books.

The second grave he dug up was also incorrect, he noted in despair. Also, he almost got whiplash seeing what looked like a girl in the coffin, and he didn’t even want to think about the implications of what the gravestone meant if this kid was what he thought they were. That was an absolute nightmare scenario for Shuichi himself, and he couldn’t imagine being killed over it…

Our bathroom’s gonna look like a crime scene,” Kokichi groaned, throwing his head back and letting it droop to the side. “Once my hands are cleaned up, I’m dealing with yours. You look like you’re about to cry.”I am about to cry, he thought depressingly.

This guy had bounced from borderline manic to the childish, game-loving prankster he had come to know in the Objective Room.

What's there to talk about?” asked Kokichi, thankfully lowering the gun. “It’s like Monokuma said! It’s a puzzle of luck. Either I die and permanently traumatize you for the rest of your probably very short life, or I’m totally fine. Seems like pretty even odds to me.

”I’m glad you asked!” A list appeared on the screen next to Monokuma, which he read out. “Shooting yourself with just one dummy bullet will earn you entertainment for the Objective Room. Watching you two argue about the earth being flat killed some of my brain cells, so I figured that you could do with some books or board games or something.”

"I didn’t know I was that still of a sleeper…” Shuichi admitted sheepishly. “Do I really look that bad…?” “Yes,” replied Kokichi without hesitation. “Yes, you do. Watching you sleep makes me want to spontaneously buy a coffin for you, flowers and everything.” “You watch me sleep?”The room went deathly quiet as the two of them stared blankly at each other.

“Not sure.” Kokichi shrugged, sitting on the pulled out chair and crossing one leg over the other. “You were sleeping for a reaaaally long time though. Why do you sleep like you’re a child from the 1300s dying of the plague?”

He decided that it was better to just let Kokichi get all of the Kokichi-isms out of his system before asking about the puzzles.

I haven't updated this in like. Many chapters oopsiesss

I won’t be able to do it myself… s-so please, Kokichi. Let’s survive this together.”“...we are so fucked up,” Kokichi whispered with a drastic shudder.

Maybe they had left for a vacation? That was okay, he supposed– they worked hard enough. Even organs deserved a vacation… little hard workers. So noble.

He briefly wondered why his hand wasn’t closing around anything.And that’s when he finally remembered, oh, right. That’s gone.

“So you have synesthesia,” Maki concluded.The minute those words left her mouth, Himiko broke out into a sweat, casting her eyes downward. “N-No… it’s my magic.”

It’s not that bad,” he choked out. “K-Kokichi took most of the beatings, even when he didn’t have to. I’m fine…”He didn’t even have to look up to see Hajime’s skeptical expression. “Shuichi, your hand is missing.”

“Where’s the others?”

“Saving the ecosystem,” Shuichi told him in barely a mumble.“Supposedly,” added Maki. Somehow, Hajime managed to look even more tired. He massaged his temples with two fingers each, squeezing his eyes shut.

Why would she put us through the trouble of putting it on if she’s just going to take it off!? he thought in outrage, fighting to get the stupid thing off of his head. It was so liberating to have his jaw entirely free once again– it felt like he was human again. Did she just want to humiliate me…?

Y-You really shouldn’t be walking around on a fractured ankle…” the woman continued stammering, her hands on her head. “I-If malalignment develops, then H-H-Hajime’s the only one who’d be able to fix it! You should r-really lay back down!”

“You should try ketamine,” he retorted dryly. “You sound like you’d benefit from it.”

You thought I was gonna die?” Kokichi scoffed, disguising his teary voice underneath a snicker. “Yeah, right. Like I’d die in a stupid locker.”

So apparently. The world ended.

And yes, he knew he shouldn’t be walking around yet. That was something Mikan, Shuichi and Hajime all reminded him of daily. Was that going to stop him, though? No. No it wasn’t.)

The rules were stupid,” Himiko insisted fiercely. “I’m glad you guys are okay now. I was casting all kinds of protection charms for you, but I wasn’t sure if they ever reached you.”Protection charms.Kokichi had nearly forgotten about it after what happened in the Seating Puzzle, but with that reminder, he could feel his body heating up.

“Or we can just… have a nice picnic somewhere,” Shuichi suggested hurriedly. “No one needs to slit open their stomachs.”Kokichi pouted. “Not even a little bit?” “What does a little bit even mean…?”

Maki made it… for Kokichi? Shuichi cast a surprised look back at his partner, who had stood out of his wheelchair and limped into the room. He gave Shuichi a similarly confused look, seeming to lack any form of an answer too.. Well, she was the one who found us. I was really aggressive over him when that happened…

Ah, barns. Shuichi didn’t imagine that he was going to be visiting that place anytime soon. Big animals were nice, and he always found horses a little fascinating, but up close? They were a little terrifying.

Hajime rubbed the side of his head, exasperation flicking across his face. “I wish I knew which god to curse, but no, I brought this upon myself. Let’s move on to our next topic: a recovery plan.”

He’s definitely going to run away from our sessions,” Hajime muttered under his breath as he closed the door.“A broken ankle will definitely not stop him,” Shuichi agreed fondly. “When are his sessions, anyway?”Hajime put on a small smile. “I’ll keep it a surprise, at least for now. He’ll be easier to catch if he doesn’t know when to flee.” “That– um, that sounds terrifying.”

You’re… feeling dysphoric?” Kokichi somehow found the bravery to ask.“What’s dysphoric?” Kaito whispered.

Obviously, that’s a lie. Vampires don’t exist, silly goose,” Kokichi declared. “Clearly he’s a ghost.”

“Also, even if you were high, why would you two be kissing each other? How bored do you gotta be?” “I can think of an emotion other than boredom that’d lead to it,” Kokichi snickered. Kaito paused, thinking deeply. “...curiosity?”Clearly, that wasn’t the answer Kokichi was thinking of. The only reaction he gave was a deadpan stare.

ONE CHAPTER LEFTTRR AGAHWHSJJD

Invisible paint brushes streaked lines of orange and yellow across the darkening sky, and he thought for only a moment, Angie must love her new canvas.

Every drop of color drained from his face and his head snapped forward, facing the sunset as he coughed awkwardly. Kokichi, probably curious, sat up and looked back at their apparent audience, forming an ‘o’ with his mouth when he saw them.“Busteddd,” Kokichi whispered, not sounding bothered in the slightest.

“I’m not jealous!” Kaito defensively shouted. “I’m just… really freakin’ confused!”

“What’s so hard to understand? Is it ‘cause we’re both boys?” Kokichi guessed, his voice layered with something akin to amusement. “Have you never seen two boys kiss before, Kaito?”

“That’s… that’s not the problem! I’m confused ‘cause I wasn’t expecting…” Kaito gestured wildly at them, his mouth open helplessly before he managed to spit out, “you two, yknow!?”

I wasn’t moping,” Shuichi protested at the same time K1-B0 exclaimed, “jetpack shoes!?”

As expected, K1-B0 looked even more surprised. “What? Kokichi and Shuichi are dating!? When did this happen?”

“This cannot get any worse,” Shuichi mumbled into his hand.“Nyeh!? What are all you guys doing here?”He stood corrected.

“The stars look great tonight, don’t you guys think?” Kaito spoke up, lifting a finger skyward.“You say that every night,” Maki pointed out.“That’s ‘cause the stars are freakin’ awesome!” Kaito shot back with an enthusiastic grin

Hell yeah, Keeboy! Embrace the robot!” Kokichi cheered, clapping his hands together excitedly.

"Whoopee! Keeboy, you’re flower girl.”

“What!? Why am I the flower girl?” K1-B0 demanded, visibly frazzled.“It’s like when you have your dog bring you the rings. You’re perfect for the role!” Kokichi exclaimed, practically having stars in his eyes as he excitedly pumped his fists up and down. “Himiko’s my maid of honor.”

“Nyeh!?”

TGE ENDDDD AUGH ILOVED DEATH PUZZLES SO DEARLY THANK YIU TO THE AUTHOR FOR WRITUNG IT.

[captastra]

The collection of 19 fics I've written for Writer's Month 2023!

AO3 Series or full break down under the cut! Biggest shoutouts to @kourumi @poetikat and @kyber-infinitygems for all your support and assistance throughout this whole experience <3!

Day 1; Day 11

Suicide Squad: Recovery and Redemption (The Suicide Squad, Words: 5,492, Chapters: 2/?, Rating: T) (Chapter 2)

Living in a world with meta-humans hasn't stopped Renée Watts from doing what she does best, helping others as a nurse. But when she befriends one particular patient, she finds herself learning what it truly means help others. Rick Flag wasn't meant to live. Peacemaker had made sure of that back in Corto Maltese. But when he wakes up in a hospital months later, he finds himself left wondering: what will he do now? His sense of emptiness gets challenged when he befriends a nurse that shows him that there can still be purpose and recovery for him.

Day 2; Day 9; Day 15

Statesman: Four Roses (The Outer Worlds, Words: 10,214, Chapters: 3/?, Rating: T) (Chapter 2; Chapter 3)

Felix Millstone, aka Agent Whiskey of the Statesman agency, has devoted his life to taking down the underground criminal mastermind, Charles Rockwell. So when he is assigned a simple protection duty of a UDL scientist, Rhea Hawthorne, he feels all his hard work has been for naught. But as he comes to know Rhea, his secret plans to bring down Rockwell may come to harm his new companion.

Day 3; Day 10; Day 12; Day 27

A Beach Vacation (Bullet Train, Words: 3,776, Chapters: 4/4, Rating: T) (Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4)

Lily, Tangerine, and Lemon enjoy a beach vacation together.

Day 4; Day 19

I Don't Need Your Love (The Suicide Squad, Words: 2,707, Chapters 2/2, Rating: G) (Chapter 2)

Renée and Rick are faced with the reality of their world when Rick is called to lead another suicide mission by Amanda Waller.

Day 5

To New Beginnings (Mass Effect: Andromeda, Words: 2,543 Chapters: 1/1; Rating: G)

Kiara Ryder struggles to process what happened at the Eos Vault, despite the restart being a great success. A chance to chat with Kandros helps her realize she doesn't have to face her problems alone.

Day 6; Day 26; Day 29

Along the Right Path (Resident Evil; Words: 6,576; Chapters: 3/3; Rating: G) (Chapter 2; Chapter 3)

A recreational hike through Arklay Mountains takes a turn when Jill and her friends get lost, but a certain handsome park ranger comes to their rescue.

Day 7; Day 21

A Promise for Another Day (Haven; Words: 2,133, Chapters 2/2, Rating: G) (Chapter 2)

Duke attempts to surprise Paige with a promise to get away, but fate has other plans.

Day 8

Watermelon Candy (Z Nation; Words: 753; Chapters: 1/1; Rating: G)

Enjoying a rare moment together, Annie shares a sweet treat with 10k.

Day 13

Fanning Their Feelings (The Outer Worlds, Words: 2,164, Chapters 1/1, Rating G)

Mayor Odie supports Deputy Felix with his crush on the new schoolmarm, Miss Rhea. Only problem is he won't court her, so Odie decides a little meddling in their affairs will help matters along.

Day 14

By the Fireside (Baldur's Gate 3, Words: 716, Chapters 1/1, Rating: G)

Everlith and Gale's friendship starts to blossom on their first night at camp.

Day 16; Day 20

In You I Can Trust (Baldur's Gate 3, Words: 2,600, Chapters 2/2, Rating: G) (Chapter 2)

After revealing the truth of his magic absorption, Gale still worries about whether Everlith truly wants him to stay by her side. But a nighttime conversation shows just how much he is truly wanted.

Day 17

When Dreams Become Nightmares (The Suicide Squad, Words: 1,006, Chapters: 1/1, Rating: T)

What started out as a peaceful getaway for Rick with Renée turns into a nightmare when reality comes crashing down.

Day 18

A Nurturing Hand (Elden Ring, Words: 1,307, Chapters: 1/1, Rating: T)

The animal shelter Aisling works for rescues an extremely angry feral cat. With Malenia's help, and a lot of patience, their family gains a new member.

Day 22

An Enchanting Encounter (The Outer Worlds, Words: 2,008, Chapters: 1/1, Rating: G)

Becoming a wallflower at her own celebration, Rhea's evening takes a turn for the better when she encounters a mysterious winged figure.

Day 23; Day 30

Waiting Out the Storm (The Outer Worlds, Words: 3,352, Chapters 2/2, Rating: G) (Chapter 2)

A surprise thunderstorm offers Rhea and Felix a chance to learn more about each other.

Day 24

Stolen Kiss (Baldur's Gate 3, Words: 1,001, Chapters 1/1, Rating T)

Gale and Everlith steal a moment alone on their journey to Baldur's Gate.

Day 25

Just You and Me, Alone (The Suicide Squad, Words: 536, Chapters 1/1, Rating: T)

Rick and Renée get to go on the vacation they deserve.

Day 28

What Promise Awaits (Baldur's Gate 3, Words: 1,248, Chapters 1/1, Rating: G)

Gale Devrakis had accepted that his life was one of solitude and reflection. Being summoned to Elminister's tower promised a possible solution to his magical condition, and companionship from his new assistant, Everlith S'aer.

Day 31

The Light In The Darkness (Baldur's Gate 3, Words: 1,793, Chapters: 1/1, Rating: G)

Gale and the others attempt to enjoy an evening around the campfire while traversing towards Moonrise Towers. But even as darkness and evil surrounds them, Everlith reveals her feelings to Gale as Wyll supports their budding romance.

Taglist: @olliesaurus-rex @roofgeese @kyber-infinitygems @poetikat @confidentandgood @spaceratprodigy @darkfire1177 @jillvalentinesday @theelderhazelnut @shegetsburned @awhellstothejoe @oh-nostalgiaa @seliviawanders @thisisrigged4 @poisonedtruth @bitchesofostwick @transcaster @incognito-insomniac @kirjanikv6ilill @madparadoxum @gayafsatan @euryalex @mxanigel @eclecticwildflowers

[emanation-aura]

Veluriyam Mirage fic, but if we followed Klee’s assignments and made it an RPG, complete with infiltrations, strategy, and classes. Contains mild spoilers for things mentioned in the 3.8 event quest.

(Quick reminder: Klee = Mage, Eula = Swordmaster/Magic Knight, Traveler = Knight, Collei = Healer/Medic, Kokomi = General/Strategist, Idyia = Mascot/Insider, Kaeya = Master Thief/Rogue)

"General," goes the sly Kaeya, lounging on his deck chair lazily, "how should we go about this heist?"

Lumine raises an eyebrow. Heist is an interesting word for infiltrating the Veluriyam Mirage’s compound, implying that this band of rag-tag travelers is going to steal something. Well, their team Rogue always knows more than he lets on, so she lets him be.

"We'll split into... hm, four groups," General Kokomi says. She quickly unfurls the map provided to them by Idyia, marking various points Lumine doesn't understand before turning to the assembly. "Alright, we need four things for this infiltration."

"First, we need a main group to frontally assault the Veluriyam compound. The goal of the attack is not to bring down the compound, but to assemble all of its defenses in retaliation. That means we need to send our two strongest warriors."

"I'll go," Lumine dutifully raises her hand. As the token Knight of the group, she has plenty of experience fighting through hordes of enemies, and she reckons she has the highest endurance of anyone in the group. "If it's enemies that need wiping out, then I'm fit for the job."

"Agreed," the General says, summoning one of her water fish and colouring it golden. It appears on the map, directly in front of the Veluriyam compound. "Swordmaster Eula, perhaps you would deign to lend your strength to our Knight of Honours?"

The General has dodged a bullet— despite having met the Swordmaster mere minutes ago, she has already accurately tuned herself to the aristocrat’s wavelength. 

"You need my help?" scoffs Eula, but Lumine can see the faintest trace of a smile across her lips, and hurries to say yes before the General is too confused by their Swordmaster's perpetual shield. Hm... with that kind of shield, perhaps she'd be better known as the Tank, except Tanks don't exist in this universe, do they? Well, she hasn't been to Fontaine yet, and the Ruin Guards come pretty close...

"You two are the Cryo Squad, and will be attacking the compound head on." Kokomi's voice drags Lumine out of her thoughts. "Collei, do you have enough material for three vulneraries each for them?"

Their Healer squeaks, not used to the direct attention. She nods hesitantly, though, and whips out her cauldron immediately, muttering under her breath as she counts out the thirteen-and-a-half cups of Nilotpala concentrate needed for each vulnerary.

"Good. Next, we need two people to enter the compound after its defenses have been drawn away," General Kokomi says. "It probably requires lockpicking and a good knowledge of dismantling elemental mechanisms, so Kaeya, you're up."

The Rogue sits up straighter, although the lazy glint in his eyes doesn't go away. "Aye aye, captain," he drawls.

Although Kokomi turns her head for a moment, Lumine can still catch the roll of her eyes. "Anyway, Idyia, you should go with Kaeya."

"Me?" Idyia squeaks, suddenly looking around frantically. "What use am I in infiltration? I'm not a thief, and I don't have the skills to fight off enemies."

It's true— this team is in deep trouble if they have to fight, but the General doesn't have much of a choice, since all their hard-hitters have to go front stage. Kaeya is owns way too many knives for his own good, anyhow, and Idyia has a strange connection with water that perhaps their Master Thief could coax out with his signature snark.

"Idyia, your skill specifically lies with the Veluriyam Mirage contraptions within the compound," the General expounds, ever-patient. "Kaeya may have generalist knowledge in all types of traps and mechanisms, but you are the only one of this group who knows how to handle the Veluriyam contraptions."

This seems to mollify Idyia, who nods with more confidence, and the General places two more fish at the side entrance of the Veluriyam compound, dark and light blue, labeled Hydro squad: no doubt something about the poetics of water being formless, changing shape and entering cracks and crevices.

"Now comes bombardment," and the General's sigh is audible, given that everyone gathered immediately turns their eyes to Klee. The girl in question jumps a little at all the attention, but quickly gives a big smile and thumbs-up. 

"General Fish-Lady wants me to use my bombs?!" She squeaks in delight. "Klee will be sure to deliver!"

Klee is... technically their Mage. Lumine wishes she could introduce her companions to the concept of artillery, though, because that suits Klee far better.

All Kokomi does is sigh and pull Klee over for a private talk, which leaves Lumine some time to converse with her designated squad member.

"Swordmaster Eula?" Lumine addresses respectfully, if not a tad cheekily, saluting her as well. "We may as well discuss tactics while the General schools our Mage on acceptable levels of bombardment."

Eula nods stiffly, stifling a smile at their youngest member's antics. "Very well. Have you any ideas?"

"Well, I must warn you that no plan survives contact with the enemy," Lumine says, hoping she sounds sagely instead of pretentious. "But if you'll take no offence to it, I suggest using me as a shield, while you deal out strikes safely from behind."

Eula scoffs, but she doesn't immediately shut Lumine down, so that's a win. "An insulting offer," she tilts her head haughtily. "One is very much capable of attack without your protection."

"I make the offer not to insult you, Swordmaster Eula, but to increase our chances of success," Lumine consoles, trying to match the aristocrat's respectful and dignified air. "We will be fighting for as long as the other groups need to pull off their plans. There will be no opportunity to pull back and regroup, nor to lick our wounds. Minor injuries, therefore, may become deadly as well— therefore we must minimise damage to ourselves more than maximise damage to the enemy. It does the team no good if we are both fall before the objective is achieved."

"And you believe yourself capable of sustaining the damage meant for two people?" Eula asks, but there it is, that slight tone of concern that simultaneously makes Lumine want to crawl into a hole and die and also puff out her chest in pride.

"I mean not to boast, Sir Eula, but I am a Knight of the Cosmic— well, Knight of Honours now, well-versed in defensive tactics," Lumine puts her arms on her hips. "With me as a bulwark, you may freely dance without fear of being injured."

Eula narrows her eyes, but acquiesces with a slight nod. Perhaps the word 'dance' helped win her over— only Lumine knows, after all, that their Swordmaster's deadly weapon is not her strength or speed, but the unyielding grace with which she weaponises the Dance of Aphros.

"Alright, you are Pyro Squad,” the General huffs as Klee, who has been appropriately schooled, goes back to join the group. “To keep up our Archmage’s strength, Collei, you should join her.”

“...Archmage?” Collei blurts out, and Lumine sympathises with her confusion. Even if she did know what the word meant, it’s impossible to understand why the General promoted Klee— maybe that was the reason for the private talk? Promotion in exchange for not causing collateral damage? But Klee doesn’t seem the type to want to have a higher class than anyone else, given her nature, so maybe it was to boost her stats? No wait, hold on, wrong world...

“Yup! I’m Archmage Klee now, da-da-da!” Klee gives an adorable grin that doesn’t quite mesh with the number of explosives clutched in her hands. Only ever-observant Kaeya is quick enough to react, tapping her on the shoulder, a silent signal: explosives away. She stows them away reluctantly. “What was it that Mom said? Pleasure to be working with you, Miss Collei!”

Collei flushes red, but the General cuts in with her command before Collei can bury herself in shame. “Collei, it’s not a very glamorous job, but bombardment requires incredible physical and mental endurance. Once the signal is given, your medical knowledge will be invaluable to make sure our Archmage doesn’t run out of strength halfway.”

“Right!” Collei snaps to attention, seemingly calmed by being given direct instructions. “I suppose I’ll need to prepare mana tonics? Perhaps some fireproof elixirs, too... ah, but Master Tighnari always said elemental elixirs need their opposing reagents for maximum effectiveness, and there won’t be any Cryo Whopperflower nectar nearby...”

“Well, I can simply donate some of my elemental powers,” Kaeya says, drawing an icicle with his fingertips idly. “And as I understand, you wield the power of Dendro, correct? Our little Archmage’s bombs do quite a lot of damage, but wouldn’t it be more efficient if you could combine your elements to trigger widespread Burning?”

“An excellent idea, Master Thief,” the General pointedly says. Lumine gets the feeling she doesn’t like being superceded, even though Kaeya’s suggestion was fairly reasonable. “You’ll need some time to get ready, so Pyro Squad, go work on your preparations now.”

Klee and Collei dutifully disperse to one of the campfires. With a nod from Kokomi, Kaeya also leaves, generating icicles on request from an emboldened Collei.

“Now, as for me... I thank you for appointing me the General, but what use is a General if they do not fight with their team?” Kokomi smirks, a flicker of pride making its way to her usually serene countenance. “I alone will take charge of the fourth job: sabotage.”

Idyia is the first to raise an objection, surprisingly. “With respect, General... isn’t that Hydro Squad’s job? The Master Thief and I are due to switch off all their defenses and turn the Veluriyam Mirage contraptions to our favour.”

“You are correct, Idyia.” Kokomi nods, once again mollifying the anxious woman. “My sabotage will not be conducted on the compound itself. If I had to summarise it...”

The General smiles, and this time, it is a terrifying visage— the teeth of an anglerfish, the predatory yawn of a tiger. 

“Let’s say our enemies are going to be... excessively inconvenienced.”

~~

Not sure if I’m going to continue this, but this idea possessed me in the middle of the quest and I had to write it down before I forgot it all.

As a side note, I imagine Lumine is like the “pre-promote” unit from FE (think Seth or Frederick). That’s the Knight: tanky and good at offense. Ignore the fact she looks like a teenage girl, because Lumine could probably pull off some extremely dextrous and impressive tactics if the game would let her wield more than two elements at the same time, hello.

Eula as “Swordmaster” (she’s called Magic Knight for some reason in CN?) would fit more into the Critical Hit Beast archetype. High ATK and Crit, but relatively low defense (despite her metaphorical shield). She’s analogous to characters like Lyn, Catherine, Lucina, and Say’ri from Fire Emblem. (Perhaps Dancing = Critical Hit?)

Klee is Klee. Kaeya is the Thief who could probably die in one hit but gets all the lockpicking/chest work done. Idyia is the NPC who knows stuff. Kokomi, as the General, is the Player of the RPG game. Collei is a weird pick as Healer but I went with it. I forgot about Paimon, but I simply don’t want to write about her.

[copperdaisy]

Apparently there is a YGO OC challenge week? Well, heck, sign me up. Not sure I can squeeze seven ficlets out of my brain given the amount of opening shifts in my work week but I'll give it a shot. I originally planned to use two characters for it but reality set in so maybe I'll do another week of ficlets for the other OC. For now I'm going to focus on - you guessed it - my girl Sanura.

The actual 'day one: introductions' prompt will be featured in a ficlet that I will (hopefully) finish up after work (I'm already 1.2k words in, send help) but have a bullet list of basic background info about her. As you can tell from her outfit she is a character from the 'Ancient Egypt' era but is not one that has a counterpart in the 'modern day' era.

Sanura is the youngest daughter of a minor nobleman. She has two older sisters, two older brothers, and two younger brothers.

She is roughly 20 years old when she comes to the palace.

Her skillset is centered around household management, but is eventually expanded to include childrearing and defensive training.

She has no magic and no Ka Beast to call but can hold her own in a fight against a regular human opponent... for a few minutes, anyway.

Dance is her main hobby. Girl loves a good rhythm.

Sanura has no counterpart in the 'modern era' of the story but with enough digging one will find her in the ancestry of the Ishtar siblings. She is their many-times-great-grandmother on their mother's side. Their mother's goldish eye color is a hereditary trait passed down through her line.

I decided to go with fics for the prompts because I am not much of an artist these days. They will be in chronological order, more or less, and include snippets from different points in her life at the palace. We'll see how far I get in the challenge. It's been a few years since I cranked out that many words at once. The actual prompt fill will come later this evening after I get home from work.

(@ygoc-week)

(Art credit included in the alt text of images. All artwork aside from the first image you see up top were commissions; some may be cropped for size reasons.)