#air plays dredge

[airs-headspace]

YEAH BAAABAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!

[airanke]

HI F R I E N D .

[demonic0angel]

I've been playing Dredge lately and had a thought:

Danny, a small seaside town's best fisherman, and his babies, Eldritch Dani and Dan, who prefer to live underwater and come up to see their dad, who goes out fishing every day.

His nets are always full, and his boat never encounters any problems. He always steers true, never goes off course, and keeps finding old sunken treasure in his haul.

Everyone in town knows Mr. Nightingale, and his boat sailing by becomes a sort of good omen for the folk of nearby towns. He always leaves on his own, comes back with his hold full, and two small children, which weren't in the boat in the morning, go running into town with their father at their heels. Then they all go to the beach at sunset, the children dive under the last big waves, just before the sun goes down, and twin masses of glowing lights swim into the distance, waiting for their father to go meet them again the next day.

It's good like that. The town prospers, the fish are good and plentiful for just having one or two fishermen go out every day, and the little family gets to live in a community that won't question their origins.

It's when one hero (whichever, Bat, Lantern, Martian or Super, whatever you prefer) in particular gets shot out of the air and washes into Mr. Nightingale's nets that questions start being asked, most importantly, where is the children's mother, and did Mr. Nightingale get intimate with the personification of the sea, like in Ponyo?

Extra: I know the favorite of the fandom is to ship Danny and a Bat, or a Super or Flash, or even Sam and/or Tucker.

But what if, in his late teens, Danny went off to learn from other Ghosts, met the ghostly embodiment of the ocean? They spent a few years being intimate, enough that they hosted Dani and Dan's unstable cores until proper maturity was reached, got two darling little ones out of the deal, and whenever Danny sails into the horizon, he goes to meet his partner in their own element, spends his time with them and comes back with gifts from his spouse, nets full of fresh fish, and gets the children for the rest of the day, so they can grow up in both worlds. They meet up at night at the beach so the little ones can play on the sand while their parents spend a few hours cuddling and watching the sunset.

Ooh, this sounds so interesting! Something about Danny being in love with an oceanic being sounds so ethereal? Like space and the deep sea, y’know? Two mysterious, deep places with hidden depths that humans cannot fully reach.

Not only does this remind me of Ponyo, but it also reminds me of the Pirates of the Caribbean (in a way), where two lovers are separated by sea and land. On that note, we could make Danny marry Davy Jones.

I have nothing to add, but I do think it would be funny if Danny was a hermit with a mysterious past and heroes start coming to his little sea port to ask for old, sage hero advice.

[espresso-haired-vixen]

really fascinating read. i had no idea that schizophrenia and autism used to be considered related disorders.

[sandsorghum]

synopsis: Higuruma makes *you* breakfast in bed for the first time

wc: 1.7k tags: fluffy! (unlike his eggs) . established relationship. romance.

a/n: inspired by @breekento's absolutely lovely photoset. a lil idyll, a smidge of indulgence. i couldn't help myself when he's so boyfriend-shaped [to the best of his abilities because...it's higuruma after all]

You were both supposed to be paying off some fairly massive sleep debts;and you hadn't even been incurring them in the usual fun ways.

The tradeoff of being slumber deprived to be a little depraved - ok, maybe more than a little - was hardly a dilemma for you and Higuruma; something you had figured out together early on in your relationship. Just one more way the two of you complemented each other, a pair of stubborn night owls turned lovebirds.

But work has been brutal; you're up to your neck in revisions to proposals for the sustainability bureau, and Higuruma's latest case had him building his defense strategy from scratch twice over now.

You can't remember the last time you shared a dinner that wasn't microwaveable. And pretty soon even the heaps of instant ramen packets were replaced by looming piles of onigiri wrappers, threatening to spill out of the bins - because fiddling with tiny sachets of powdered soup and rinsing out pots became too much of a luxury. So it was lots of take out, and very little making out.

You came to cherish the front doorstep to your apartments, a sacred altar where your bodies crossed each other in the morning bustle, swift as pedestrians, surrendering to serendipity; yet Cupid's best efforts could only conspire to the briefest, briskest brushes of your mouths before you hurried off towards your hectic jobs.

Evenings fared little better. Slouching past where he'd be collapsed on the couch at 2am, you'd drop a peck on his forehead when you could, if you had the strength to peel back the post-its with comments on penal code sections and the stacks of annotated alibis, gentle in your excavation of the mountainous documents, even as you know there's never any erosion of Higuruma's workaholism.

So you got good at deciphering the same crabbed handwriting on the fridge's notepad, mostly apologies and promises, before they dwindled down to hasty scratches of frowny emojis, blotting out dates on the calendar. All of it sincere, and all of it thwarted.

Weeks grated by like that, with their numbing addendums of cancelled grocery lists and rainchecks, strings of his snarky texts and your grumpy selfies becoming the lifeline of your relationship.

A month or maybe two, passed and finally, finally the pitches were accepted, as were the plea deals. Surely things could go back to normal now?

So, when you rolled over this morning anticipating a long overdue snuggle against Higuruma's chest, to instead find only a cold spot on his side of bed, the chagrin prickles through you so sharply it pierces through the groggy fog of sleep you still very much need.

"Hiro..." The pillows, absent of even his scent have the further audacity to muffle your grumble. But then you feel a slightly self-conscious chuckle roll honeywarm over your spine, and the dip of the bed as it welcomes the return of a weight that never should have left it at this hour.

"Sorry darling, I got hungry. Figured you might be too."

Your head creaks to the side, a warm scent wafting through the final defenses of your pillow fort. It's one you haven't smelled in a very, very long time.

"Masako's?"

Higuruma chuckles at the disbelief in your voice, still slumber-hoarse.

"That's right, made the pilgrimage all the way to Yoyogi. Just for you."

You hear the scrape of a knife and a rich, buttery aroma mingles with the morning air. Then you hear Higuruma's voice, dredged in huskiness from his drowsiness, drawling close to your ear. "So, forgive me yet?"

Your huff is already half buried in the pillow as you turn away from him and Higuruma sighs, wishing you'd at least treat him to your scowl. But he'll play along, after all it's been a while since the both of you could squander a morning on feigned pettiness.

"It's cute when you pretend to hold out on me," he muses, teasing his fingers through your locks before a heated palm comes to cup your cheek. "But the bagels are getting cold."

You can't help leaning into Higuruma's touch, purely instinctive, a vine supine toward its sun. But still you manage to mutter, "W'er s'posed to cuddle this mrngh."

You feel the grin in his voice long before it sneaks up to the corner of your lips. "We'll have the whole day to cuddle..."

Higuruma's aquiline nose dips down your neck, stopping just short of the spot he knows elicits a hitch in your breath. "Or not cuddle."

Drat him, and those nimble fingertips, just starting to skim beneath the hem of your shirt, summoning butterflies so swiftly you're uncertain if the swoop in your belly is from their innocently tickling antennae, or his digits' dexterous pretense of roaming your skin idly.

"For now, I'd like you to acknowledge the attempt I'm calling an omelette."

Now that has your eyes snapping open and jolting upright, shuffling around to stare at your partner who, for all his towering intellect, has never been able to distinguish a whisk from a sieve.

"You cooked? I didn't hear anything. What happened, were the batteries dead in the smoke alarm?"

"I'll have you know I actually replaced them recently."

Your skepticism retreats as you register Higuruma's mildly wounded expression. He turns to the side table, retrieving a breakfast tray and setting it before you. True, the yellow oblong by the perfectly browned discs is a little squat and misshapen, but it's distinctly missing the burnt, greasy odour you've come to reflexively associate with even his best attempts.

But this morning, you aren't even seeing any flecks of black. In fact, you start to notice the specks of green.

"Scallions?"

You raise the dish, squinting at the garnish, before lowering it to stare at Higuruma.

"Who are you and what have you done with my lover?"

"I guess I'm just some other man who's fallen for the charms of your terribly exacting egg standards," he deadpans, ruffling your hair and pressing a fork into your hand. "Now dear, if you'd be so kind as to make your judgment."

You take a sip of tea, made exactly how you like it (black, half a teaspoon of sugar, sans milk or creamer - maybe this man seated across from you isn't an impostor after all) and once you've washed down your bewilderment, set to properly tackling breakfast.

You take a breath, and let your fork cleave through the omelette. It cuts through cleanly, and doesn't wobble once on its way to your mouth.

It's...edible, you decide. Serviceable even, provided you were getting served at a road side gas station. But then you remember who cooked it, which practically makes it a 3 Michelin Star meal.

"It's good. Properly seasoned and everything." You smile, taking another bite.

"So how many dozens of eggs did you go through before you achieved this masterpiece?"

Higuruma shakes his head and huffs, casting his eyes heavenward. "Oh ye of little faith."

"In my defense, this is a novelty, Hiro. You've never spoiled me this way before."

You chuckle, tweaking his cheek, and his put-upon morose expression falters, as affection glimmers in his eyes instead.

"Three-quarters are still intact," he informs you, watching you sip your tea.

"Three quarters of the carton?" Your lip curls knowingly around the edge of your mug, and something stirs within Higuruma.

"Of the tray," he confesses, pulling your hand into his, starting to rub soft circles against your wrist.

"Couldn't be too cautious, hm?"

"I had Wikihow's assistance. And it's not my first time cooking eggs, you know."

You chew on the bagel for a quiet, contemplative moment.

"But the first time serving them?"

Your partner shrugs, but the way he averts his gaze for a moment tells you what you need to know. You squeeze his hand, and he looks back up at you.

"Thanks, Hiro. For making the morning special." You brush your forehead against his, savouring his happy hum reverberating against your cheeks as you put the tray off to the side.

"With this display of confidence, maybe you could even try tamagoyaki some time."

"Well, now that seems a tad ambitious-" Higuruma begins to equivocate but you shut him up with a kiss, tossing off the quilts and clambering into his lap, your appetite truly having been awakened at last.

He lets your hunger rush over him, falling backwards as his tongue greedily clambers towards yours, feeling a burden lift as your weight presses him back into bed, as your hips settle into their slow, needy grind against his. He kisses you, drinks you in more deeply, tasting the tannins of the tea he'd over-brewed while fussing with that dang omelette, but mingling with your scent and sweetness, it's nothing short of the most potent ambrosia. Higuruma groans, he's been parched of your taste and starved of your touch for weeks and weeks and he wants - needs you to drain him of these reservoirs of ache and desperation that have been suffocating him for so long.

Delirium and his desire floods through you, Higuruma's hands skittering everywhere, almost antsy enough to shred the fabric off of you. Higuruma nips urgently at your lips and you let his tongue, his limbs, his scent coil around you, entwined in his essence and embrace. His name spills from you in shallow gasps, pleading for a minor reprieve from the pleasure, but he persists, busying himself at your nape, suckling eagerly, flint-edged nose and canines planting tender bruises. It's only when you flinch slightly from the overstimulation of his roving mouth that he relents, reluctantly, tipping your head back to assess his efforts.

He likes what he sees; Your skin glowing in roses, dewy with his sweat and spit. Your famished gaze, devouring him as he devours you

"Maybe you should spend more time in the kitchen after all," you giggle, running your hands through his scalp, and you feel that burst of familiar wet heat as Higuruma quivers underneath you, a sodden spot growing and twitching against your core.

He presses his lips to you once more, his smirk both scalding and saccharine as he murmurs, "Never mind my rudimentary culinary skills darling, I'm going to spoil you in all the ways you already know, and then some."

@houseofsolisoccasum

[bbydoll18xx]

This Is Me Trying

'I just wanted you to know that this is me trying.'

Azzi Fudd x Reader

Based on this request (sorry it took forever lol)

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.1k

Themes: depression, mild alcohol abuse, hurt/comfort

A/N: hiii so here i am trying out writing for someone other than Paige, and I really hope you like it! If this is a decent success I may write for other people as well :) And of course it was time to write a fic to go along with my most favorite song of all time (folklore stans rise up)

Lets do thisss

also sorry this is lowkey kinda depressing i am a sad girly

~

Your lack of sleep was showing in deep purple bruises under your eyes that no amount of even the heaviest concealer could adequately cover. You haven't slept well in days, and today’s shift had not helped your exhaustion. The day was filled with incessant neediness, people cussing you out, and an endless amount of shit.

Literally and figuratively. 

You walk into your apartment, just wanting nothing but to fall into Azzi’s warm and loving arms, but you’re met with the still darkness of an empty home. Your girlfriend was in Las Vegas playing against the Aces, and she would not be home until tomorrow afternoon. 

She had promised to call you after the game, but you weren’t sure if you would even make it through your shower, much less wait up for her by the phone for another three hours. 

Your eyes fill with tears, the feeling of overwhelming loneliness mixing with your exhaustion, and as you throw your stuff on the floor, dredging your body into your bathroom, letting the downpour of water drown out your own tears. 

You had become quite accustomed to hiding your feelings behind bright smiles and fake laughs, desperate to clutch onto the need to prove to everyone that you were okay.

Even if you really weren't.

Your girlfriend had enough stress on her, and the idea of her needing to worry about you, too, was enough to send guilt shooting through your entire body. 

You had kept up your facade all throughout college, choosing to take long, solo car rides until you had to pull over, the tears swimming in your eyes nearly blinding you. And when you were strung along to the bars with Azzi and the rest of her teammates, you drowned your sorrows and fears with liquor, numbing your thoughts and your body until you were delirious. 

You were the golden girl. 

You knew what jokes to crack for which group of people you were around at the time. Your grades were stellar. And you had bagged the prettiest, sweetest girl in probably the entire universe. 

So, you resented yourself for feeling anything other than being on top of the world, because it was actually quite the opposite.

It got worse once you graduated. 

Azzi was often gone, traveling for away games, and that left you alone to process the unimaginable emotions that came with your budding nursing career. Feelings of loss and incompetence clouded your brain constantly.

Today was no different. 

You had lost a patient, a kind, gentle woman who finally let go, taking her last breath while gripping your hand, completely alone. 

It broke you, and the devastating reality had sunk into your chest, crushing all of the air out of your fragile lungs. And you were now gasping for air, leaving you feeling bereft and vulnerable, like an open wound. 

Maybe that’s all you’d ever really be, and you could not help but think that you were the festering wound in yours and Azzi’s relationship, threatening to slowly tear it apart until the two of you were left standing in the tattered shreds of what used to be. 

You wanted things to be okay so, so badly, but the overwhelming feelings of loneliness and longing had set in, chilling you down to the bone. And you were scared. 

So you would just continue on pretending. 

Azzi comes home the next day, and you put the mask back on the second she walks through the door. You’d be lying, though, if her presence didn’t make you feel the tiniest bit whole again. You melt into her arms, drinking in her presence, as she rubs your back soothingly, her face pressed into the crook of your neck. 

Maybe everything would be okay, if only you could be honest with her.

~

Azzi lays in bed next to you, and you indulge in the way her smell has permeated the soft bedsheets again, after days of the scent slowly becoming less and less potent. She smells warm and comforting, and you nuzzle into her, desperate for her to fix every little part of you that was screaming out in insecurity and despondancy.

A low sigh escapes your throat, secretly wanting your girlfriend to pick up on your mood, and because she knows you better than anyone else, she does. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” She questions, her tone filled with concern and worry. She places a hand on your cheek, coaxing you to look into her eyes, and the glow of the lamp on the bedside table illuminates the kindness emitting from her deep brown irises. 

“I–” You begin, taking a deep breath and then stopping. Trying to put all your emotions into coherent words was quite the task. And honestly, you were terrified of how Azzi would react. 

Her thumb strokes your cheek, as she sits up fully next to you in the bed, eyes still peering into yours. 

“It’s okay, it’s just me,” she murmurs gently, and something clicks inside of you.

It was Azzi. You could tell her anything, and it would never even come close to dimming any of the love she felt for you. 

In that moment, all the anxiety you felt about coming clean seemed silly, like it had been built up in your head to great heights, and here it was now, crashing down all around you.

“I’ve been really depressed,” you mumble, your cheeks feeling warm from her touch and the prickling of shame. “For a long time, actually. And I really fucking miss you. I hate feeling like a needy girlfriend, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

The confession pours out of you, and as the air stills between you, your heart races as you watch Azzi’s face contort into a look of hurt and confusion.

“Oh, baby,” she breathes, scooping you up and setting you into her lap, legs draped over hers as she interlaces your fingers with hers. 

“I’ve been missing you, too. And I didn’t want you to feel like you had to sacrifice your career for mine,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss onto your temple. 

Your shoulders sag in relief, and you connect your lips in a kiss. There were numerous unspoken words shared as your lips entwined in a sheer display of passion.

As you break apart, you gaze back into those dark brown eyes, pupils now blown wide. “Guess this means we’ll have a lot more time to be doing this,” you giggle, wagging your eyebrows at Azzi.

She shakes her head fondly. “Just want my sweet, happy girl back,” she whispers in your ear.

Little did she know, you already were.

~

I really hope everyone enjoyed this. I have been toying around with a lil Pazzi fic, so let me know if you'd be interested :)

xoxo katy

Taglist:

@fullladypanda-blog, @omg-imtumbling, @tenaciousglitternerd, @oldcrdigan, @paigebuxkets, @the-other-half , @patscorner , @dietcokesmom , @tndaqltoifwy

Want to be added to my taglist? Comment or send me a message!

[velvetdesir3s]

Override: Roman Godfrey x Reader

Summary: After a shopping spree, reader encounters her magnetic but unsettling ex, Roman Godfrey, whose limo ride reignites old tensions and unresolved feelings.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, coercive behavior, mature themes and strong language.

Author’s note: Tried something new with this one, hope you enjoy! :)

After a long day of shopping, I trudged down the quiet streets of Hemlock Grove, my arms weighed down by bags full of clothes and shoes. The setting sun casted long shadows across the pavement, and the cool evening air was a welcome relief from the day’s heat. Still, an unsettling sensation lingered—like I was being watched. Every time I glanced over my shoulder, the empty sidewalks and occasional passing car did little to ease my growing discomfort. A sense of dread began to gnaw at me, as though something dark was lurking just out of sight.

Then, breaking the silence, a sleek black limo glided to a stop beside me. The back window rolled down to reveal Roman Godfrey, my ex-boyfriend. His impossibly charming smile radiated from within the car, but something in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine. His gaze was intense, as if he could see right through my defenses.

"Need a ride?" he asked, his voice smooth, with a teasing lilt that sent an unsettling twist through my stomach.

I tightened my grip on the shopping bags, trying to suppress the flood of memories his presence stirred. Nights spent in his arms, feeling safe and cherished, were now tainted by the darker moments—when his charm turned icy, and his touch left me questioning my sanity. “No, thanks,” I said, forcing my gaze forward. I wouldn’t let myself be drawn in again. The pain of his departure had been unbearable, and I knew I couldn’t survive it a second time.

“Oh, come on. Those bags look heavy. Let me help,” he said, leaning casually on the window ledge. His tone was playful, but there was an undercurrent of insistence that made it clear he wasn’t asking.

I knew Roman well enough to recognize this was a power play. He wouldn’t give up until I gave him the attention he craved. I turned to face him, struggling to keep my voice steady despite the rush of unease and anticipation building inside me. “What do you want, Roman?”

His smile didn’t waver, but the glint in his eyes sharpened, almost predatory. “Oh, come on. Is that really how you greet an old friend? I’m just trying to be nice here.”

The term “old friend” felt like a punch to the gut, dredging up feelings and memories I thought I’d buried. How many times had he played my feelings off to dismiss my concerns, to manipulate me into staying when I knew I should leave? His casual dismissal of my anger was typical. Now that we’re not together anymore, I realized how effortlessly he could twist my emotions, bending them to his will. And how stupid I’d been to let him control me like that.

I struggled to keep my emotions in check, stepping closer with a confidence I didn’t know I had. “Don’t waste your breath,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside. “Someone needs to say ‘no’ to you for once, and you need to accept it.”

A tense pause followed my response. Roman’s smile faltered slightly, but he quickly regained his composure. It was clear he hadn’t anticipated such a cold rejection from me.

He finally spoke, breaking the silence with a smirk. “Attitude suits you,” he said. “But don’t pretend you’re not getting in this car.”

My eyes widened at his audacity, surprise and indignation flashing across my face. I let out a sharp, incredulous scoff. “Trust me, I’m not,” I said, shaking my head and turning away as I continued to walk, my heart pounding in my chest.

Roman’s voice trailed behind me, casual yet insistent. “Since when did you get so stubborn?” he chuckled, mockery lacing his words; he knew precisely how to push my buttons.

“Leave me alone, Roman! I don’t want to deal with you right now!” I waved him off, not looking back. The cool breeze made me shiver, but the warmth of the encounter lingered, unsettling me. How could he still have this effect on me after everything?

The limo caught up with me again, matching my pace with unnerving ease. “You really haven’t missed me?” Roman asked, his voice laced with genuine surprise, as if the idea was completely unfathomable to him.

“I haven’t,” I shot back, frustration rising. But even as I said it, I couldn’t shake the echo of old feelings stirring within me.

Roman seemed taken aback by my response. Despite all those times I’d come running when he called in the middle of the night, this time I was determined not to fall into old patterns. But the way he looked at me now, made it hard to remember why I’d left in the first place.

“Are you seeing someone new, baby?” he asked, trying to sound casual but with a possessive edge that made my skin crawl. It was clear that Roman didn’t want me for himself, but he couldn’t bear the thought of me with anyone else.

I felt a shiver down my spine when he called me baby, a term of endearment that had once made me feel cherished but now only reminded me of how he’d used it to manipulate me. Composing myself, I snapped, “Why do you care? It’s none of your business anymore.”

Roman’s eyes softened just a touch, though his tone remained cool and controlled. “Maybe I care because forgetting someone who was once significant isn’t easy,” he said, clearly calculating his words to his advantage. “Even if I’m not around, it’s natural for me to wonder how you’re doing.”

My gaze softened momentarily, doubt creeping in. Maybe he was being genuine this time? Maybe this was a rare moment of vulnerability? But as I considered his words, the realization hit: he was still playing his old games, still trying to weave me back into the web I’d worked so hard to escape.

With renewed confidence, I hardened my expression and stepped back into my guarded stance. “Nice try, but I’m still not getting in.” I said, my voice steady.

Roman propped his other arm on the window ledge, his posture relaxed but his eyes intense, as if he were dissecting me with his gaze. He shook his head with a hint of a grin. “You have your guard up,” he noted, almost admiringly. “I get it.”

He glanced around the empty streets with a casual shrug. “But these streets aren’t exactly welcoming at night. Why don’t you come inside? We can talk somewhere a bit more… secure. I’d hate for something to happen to you if I leave you here.”

The words hung in the air, a veiled threat wrapped in concern. I glanced at my bags, their weight suddenly overwhelming, as if they carried the burden of every bad decision I’d ever made. With no cabs in sight and my last change spent, I nodded reluctantly. “Fine.”

Roman’s eyes lit up with triumph as he signaled to his chauffeur. The driver took my bags and held the door open. As I stepped inside, the cool, luxurious interior enveloped me, a stark contrast to the chill outside. The door closed with a solid thud, sealing me in with him. After a few seconds, the limo glided away from the quiet streets.

Roman leaned back, clearly satisfied with himself. “Glad you decided to join me.”

I shot him a pointed look. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just wanted to avoid another argument.”

Roman’s smile stayed, but his eyes narrowed. “Avoiding confrontation? That’s a change.”

I stared out the window, struggling to keep my frustration in check. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white, I couldn’t help but think how far I’d come since leaving him and how being in this limo with him is a step back from all the progress I’d made. “Maybe it is, but I’m not interested in reliving old fights. I’ve moved on, and so should you.”

“Moved on, huh?” Roman’s eyebrows raised, his tone mocking. “That’s charming.”

I fought to suppress the flicker of vulnerability that threatened to surface. “Even if there’s something still here, it doesn’t change that it’s over between us. You’re not good for me.”

Roman’s smile softened just a fraction, but his gaze remained locked on mine. “Not good for you? That’s harsh. Things got messy, sure, but we had our moments. Some of them… unforgettable.” His voice dropped slightly on that last word, leaving no doubt he was talking about more than just casual memories.

I met his gaze, feeling the pull despite myself. The intensity of his stare was overwhelming, like he was drawing me in, making me question my resolve. “That doesn’t mean it was healthy. I’m not interested in falling back into old patterns.” I took a deep breath, willing the air to cleanse the memories crowding my mind. “I’m here because I had no other choice, not because I want to revisit the past.”

Roman tsked softly, his grin deepening. “You can tell yourself you had no choice, but deep down, you’re here because you wanted to be. Let’s stop pretending otherwise.”

He glanced downward, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Nice shoes.”

I looked down and realized that I had on the shoes he’d given me as a gift a few months before we broke up. The recognition stung like a slap to the face. I shifted uncomfortably, crossing my arms over my chest as if to protect myself from the fact that this wasn’t helping my case of proving that I had moved on. “I don’t need you analyzing me,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I’m not here for your psychological games.”

Roman’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Games? I’m just trying to have a conversation. Why does everything have to be so complicated between us?”

“Well, who decided it had to be this way?” I retorted, frustration clear in my voice. His intense gaze made it hard to stay composed.

I looked away, trying to regain my composure, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “Is this really the right time for a discussion?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly, betraying the control I so desperately tried to maintain.

“Maybe not ideal, but it’s the only time we have right now.”

His words, combined with his piercing gaze, made my resolve waver. I felt my defenses crumbling, the tension between us growing thicker, more suffocating. I stared out the window, trying to ignore the familiar pull of his presence, but the darkness outside only seemed to amplify the proximity of his body to mine.

Roman gently cupped my cheek, his fingers warm against my skin, sending a jolt of electricity through me. He guided my face to meet his, the movement tender but insistent. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes, finding myself looking into his piercing green ones. His gaze drifted to my lips, lingering there for what felt like an eternity. “I know you still love me,” he whispered, his voice low and seductive. The touch stirred emotions I’d worked hard to suppress, the ones that always lingered just beneath the surface, waiting for a moment like this to break free.

The word “love” made me cringe inwardly. I was worn out by its lingering presence in my life, of its power to stir emotions I thought I had under control. Deep down, I knew he was right. My feelings for him were always all-consuming, like an addiction I couldn’t kick. Roman is the kind of person who you never get over—he’s complex, captivating, and even with all his contradictions, he’s still irresistibly perfect.

His touch and words reached a vulnerable part of me I’d tried to bury. I felt my defenses weakening, caught between my feelings and the need to stay distant. His fingers traced my jaw, making it increasingly difficult to hold back.

Roman’s gaze locked onto mine, holding me in place. “You can’t deny it. It’s always been us, no matter how hard you try to fight it.”

He drew me closer, his eyes meeting mine before shifting to my lips. Slowly, he leaned in and kissed me. The touch was both familiar and electrifying.

The kiss deepened, and as I laid a hand on his chest, he wrapped an arm around me, drawing me onto his lap. The heat of his embrace and the intimacy only amplified the kiss, enveloping me in its fervent intensity.

Roman's hands roamed my back, his touch a mix of control and raw need. He pulled me closer, his lips teasing heated kisses along my neck. "You know," he murmured against my skin, "I've been with other women since we broke up, but none of them even come close to you."

His kisses traveled lower, each touch sparking a fierce desire. "No matter who I fuck, no one hits the spot like you do," he whispered, his voice loaded with lust. "You're the one I keep coming back to."

As his lips continued their descent, his hands explored every curve with a possessive grip. "I can't get enough of you," he said, his words dripping with desire. “Of your mouth, how you taste, how you feel when I’m inside of you, fuck— just everything about you drives me insane.”

His harsh confessions only heightened my arousal, the rawness of his words sending shivers through me. I found myself unconsciously rocking back and forth on him, trying to chase the intense pleasure his words and touch were provoking.

As his hands began to explore further, I felt him start to lift my dress. The unexpected touch made me gasp sharply, a jolt of pleasure shooting through me as he squeezed my ass.

"Lucky me," he said with a smirk, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he noted that I wasn't wearing pants under my dress.

“Roman, be gentle—” I started to protest, but before I could say more, I felt him grip my panties and tear them apart with ease. I noticed him quickly stow the torn pieces in his pocket, though he tried to be discreet about it. He swiftly smacked my ass, the sharp sting pulling a wince from me as I held on tight to him.

He chuckled softly at my reaction to his teasing smacks. Maintaining eye contact, he slid one of the straps of my dress down from my shoulder and drew me closer to press a kiss against my skin. “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a tender whisper.

I couldn’t help but feel my cheeks flush at his unexpected gentleness. Nevertheless, I enjoyed it while it lasted. But then, Roman’s hands grew rough again. With a decisive tug, he gripped the fabric of my dress and yanked it down violently, even as I sat on his lap. The fabric stretched and tore, the sound of ripping cloth filling the air. He pulled the dress off my shoulders with a fierce urgency, letting it fall in a heap around us. Each move was swift and commanding, his impatience palpable as he discarded the remains with a rough toss.

He surveyed my body as if seeing it for the first time, his gaze smoldering with a primal hunger. His hands slid to my waist, his touch commanding as he traced my skin. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, his whisper brimming with desire.

I smiled shyly, unsure of what to say. He noticed and chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face and tucking it behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my skin, and the moment felt incredibly intimate, reminiscent of the times we used to share. I closed my eyes, savoring the connection.

When I opened my eyes, I met his green gaze and pulled him closer for a kiss.

The kiss quickly turned rough. I kept my hand around his neck, squeezing to draw out his groans, while his hands roamed to my ass, each squeeze making me gasp.

As we continued to kiss, he slid his hands down to unbuckle his belt. The metal buckle clanged to the floor of the limo, and he swiftly freed himself. I kissed his neck as he thrust into me, filling me completely. I adjusted to his length, moaning as I began to ride him, my body arching with each movement. I wrapped my arms around his neck, our lips crashing together. He broke the kiss suddenly, his eyes locked onto mine as I breathed heavily, my mouth open with each needy gasp.

“I missed you—so much,” he groaned, his voice rough with desire as he guided my hips with each movement. His grip was firm but tender, his fingers pressing into my skin. I watched as his eyes fluttered shut, lost in the intense pleasure.

"I-I missed you too-fuck!" I moaned, my voice trembling with the intensity of the moment. Breathing heavily, I rode him with mounting urgency, each movement driven by our shared desire.

The plush leather of the limo's seats offered a soft cushion as I straddled him, our bodies moving together in a fevered rhythm. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer for desperate, urgent kisses. The confined space of the limo intensified every sound-the rhythmic slap of our bodies, our breathy moans, and the occasional gasp echoing around us.

As I felt the pressure building inside me, I moved my hands to his shoulders, gripping them for stability as my pace increased. The tension in my core surged with each thrust, my breaths coming out in uneven gasps. His hands remained steady on my hips, guiding our rhythm as we both were near of climaxing.

His fingers dug deeper into my hips as he leaned in, his breath warm and heavy against my ear. "I can feel you tightening around me," he grunted, his voice edged with strained pleasure as I hit a particularly sensitive spot. "Let go. Finish all over me."

I let out a high-pitched squeal as I felt myself coming undone, the ecstasy overwhelming me to the point of tears.

My body trembled uncontrollably, each wave of pleasure crashing over me as I moaned his name, the sound escaping in desperate, breathless gasps. As I reached the peak, I felt him shudder beneath me, his release coinciding with mine. His grip on my hips tightened, his breath coming in ragged bursts as we both climaxed together.

I pressed my forehead against his, holding him tightly as we both caught our breath. After a moment, I carefully slid off him and settled beside him, panting softly. As I lay there, trying to regain my composure, a thought crossed my mind: If I ever wanted to get over Roman, I'd need a twelve-step program.

[gxr25256]

The Ruins of Earth - Seekers x reader

🌵 Tranformers (Post-Apocalyptic AU).

🌵 The Decepticons have conquered Earth, leaving humanity in ruins.

🌵I'll try this for a bit. Remember: I'm not very good at it 👀.

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

The sky was a smudged gray, casting a cold, washed-out light over what remained of the city. Buildings stood like jagged tombstones, their edges crumbling, splintered, and silent. Some days, the wind would send a loose piece of metal skittering down the cracked roads or rattle the empty cars left to rust. Otherwise, everything was still.

Below the surface, in the belly of a half-fallen office building, you crouched among scattered papers, their edges yellowed, flaked, and cracked from dust. The basement was littered with remnants of a world you barely recognized anymore. You had been lucky enough to find this hideout after wandering the ruined streets, and here you had managed to carve out some semblance of a life.

The ceiling is cracked, tangled with exposed electrical wires, and the single window on the far wall had long since shattered. Every now and then, a patch of sunlight filtered through, glinting off dust motes that swirled lazily in the stale air. It reminded you of better times—a stark, painful reminder of a past life that felt both close and impossibly far away.

You settled down on the cold concrete, setting your pack beside you. Inside were your treasures: a faded family photograph, a pocket watch, and a collection of scraps—small things you’d managed to scavenge that had kept you going. Some days, you’d sift through these items, each one tugging you back to memories that hurt as much as they comforted.

You stared down at the photo, feeling a pang in your chest. It was taken on a summer evening just a few months before they had come, when you and your family had still gathered in the garden to laugh and share stories under the stars. You remembered the warmth of your father’s arm around you, the way your mother had laughed, and how the smallest things—a shared meal, a joke, a sunset—had seemed so ordinary back then. Now, those were the moments you clung to like lifelines.

But here, in the darkened shell of a building, they were ghosts that haunted you. The faces stared up at you from the photo, as if asking, How much longer?

You didn’t know how to answer. Each day felt like a small miracle that you were still alive. They had laid waste to everything, turning cities into rubble, hunting down humans with a relentless efficiency. Survival required caution, silence, and instinct. Your hideout, tucked in a labyrinthine part of the city, had been a haven so far. But each passing day felt like playing a game of Russian roulette, and you knew that eventually, luck would run out.

The floor creaked—a sound you’d grown used to, but still one that made your muscles tense instinctively. Any sound outside the room was dangerous. You rose, carefully checking the faint tripwire traps you’d set by the entrances, crude but effective. Your heart thudded faster at the thought of one snapping. If it did, it would mean they were close.

They. The Decepticons. Machines built for one purpose: total, merciless domination. You shuddered as your mind dredged up flashes of their patrols: enormous metal bodies moving with purpose through the streets, the deadly glow of their optics as they scanned the ruins for any sign of life. You’d watched from hiding as they tore through buildings, shredding walls like paper. They were ruthless in their search for survivors, sparing nothing and no one.

They didn’t just kill; they hunted. The knowledge of that, of being part of a vanishing species in the face of such a brutal enemy, wrapped around you like a cold, crushing weight.

The wind howled outside, sending a shiver through you. You’d learned to navigate the city’s ruinous maze, moving with the shadows, slipping through alleyways, always watching your back. But every day, the Decepticons seemed to draw closer, tightening the noose with their relentless patrols.

The last human you’d spoken to was a scavenger named Mira. She’d been tough, gritty, with a quiet intensity that had made you think she could survive anything. She’d warned you about the Decepticons’ latest tactics, their setting traps to lure out survivors, their growing patrols in this area of the city. But that had been weeks ago. You hadn’t seen her since. Her face lingered in your mind as yet another ghost.

The hum of an airplane engine broke the silence, sending a jolt of adrenaline through you. You froze, every sense heightened, listening intently. It was distant—likely a patrol passing through the streets above—but even so, the familiarity of it triggered an instinctive wave of fear. You’d heard that sound too many times. Each instance had ended with a building being leveled or a life snuffed out.

Your heart pounded as you crouched low, moving silently through the office wall to peek through the cracked window. Outside, the city lay in shattered silence, but a faint glimmer of metal caught your eye, just visible through the haze. A Decepticon, its massive form standing out from anything else around the ruins. It moved methodically, its gaze sweeping the rubble as if it could sniff out human life in the air itself.

You crawled away from the window, slipping back into the shadows of the room, praying that the dim light and debris would keep you hidden. Your heartbeat roared in your ears as you crouched, body tense, waiting. Minutes stretched on, stretching into an eternity as you listened for any hint that the Decepticon had moved on.

But the silence persisted, thick and oppressive. Part of you wanted to risk a glance, but your instincts screamed otherwise. That was the problem now; you’d lived in silence for so long that sometimes, even the slightest noise felt like a gunshot. Every step, every creak, every breath seemed like it could betray you.

As you tried to steady your breathing, your gaze drifted to a pile of old papers strewn across the floor. One caught your eye—a page from an old newspaper, yellowed and faded. The headline read, Hope for Tomorrow: Humanity’s Technological Golden Age. You almost laughed at the bitter irony. The hope they’d once touted had been torn away, replaced by cold metal giants who knew nothing of mercy or compassion.

A loud clang from outside startled you, pulling you back to the present with a fearful jolt. You remained still, barely daring to breathe. The footsteps outside were getting louder, a heavy, ominous rhythm. You recognized the sound: The unmistakable footsteps of the Decepticons, its weight causing the building to shudder faintly. They were close—too close.

The footsteps paused, and your heart seemed to stop with them. The faint hum of machinery echoed down, accompanied by the cold, mechanical sound of a voice you couldn’t quite make out. Your mind raced, considering your options. Running wasn’t possible; any movement risked drawing their attention. And yet, staying still felt like sitting in a cage, waiting for the predator to find you.

The Decepticon’s steps resumed, slower this time, each one punctuated by a metallic creak that reverberated through the building.

And the footsteps halted again, this time right on the other side of the wall you're leaning against, and you froze, body taut with fear. The building groaned under the heavy weight of machinery, dust drifting down in fine particles that tickled your face.The walls around you seemed to close in, your hiding place shrinking as the footsteps grew louder, closer. As if the Decepticon was zeroing in on your location, as if it were playing with your fears.

Then, with a metallic clang, you heard the Decepticon move again. Just when you thought the danger had passed, a deafening explosion ripped through the building, and the entire roof blew off with a force that sent you sprawling. A cry escaped your lips as you hit the ground, pain radiating through you.

Gasping, you struggled to your feet, but as you looked up, a chill gripped your heart. Through the swirling dust and debris, a pair of red optics glowed, locked directly onto you. Fear surged through your veins, and before you could even think, a scream tore from your throat.

Maybe your luck has run out.

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

[airs-headspace]

SIR????????????????

[trixy812]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ You have all my support ɞ˚‧｡⋆ pt 2

{Nanami Kento x reader}

ִֶָ࣪☾. Content: kento nanami x reader, just fluff, comfort, friends to lovers, nightmare, digimon mentioned!, i really think nanami looks at memes like parents look at memes xdxd (don't forget we are in year 2007ish)

ִֶָ࣪☾. Summary: It was inevitable. Kento Nanami and you became friends.

ִֶָ࣪☾. AN: Hello! I bring you guys part two, I took longer than I expected. Yesterday, I had a very calm nightshift and decided to finally write this second part, i really liked how it turn out. I really want to encourage you all to leave comments because that would help me a lot now that I'm just starting to write! extra: i really want to thank my twiniieee @totallygyomeiswife because she helped to organize my thought and how i want this fic to keep going.

pt. 1 - pt. 2

It’s been several months since Haibara’s death, and while Nanami remains the serious, reserved man everyone knows, something has subtly changed in him. In these past months, he’s allowed himself to trust you, finding quiet comfort in your friendship. You've always been there for him, offering support without demands or expectations. Yet Haibara’s memory still casts a long shadow, and sometimes his dreams dredge up painful scenes, reminding him of everything he's lost.

One night, after an especially vivid nightmare where he relives those haunting images of Haibara, Nanami wakes up, gasping for air. Without thinking, he picks up his phone and sends you a message:

Are you awake?

Your response comes almost immediately.

Of course! I’m always awake. You couldn’t sleep again, could you?

Despite the lingering weight of his nightmare, Nanami can’t help but smile slightly.

Do you ever actually sleep?

It’s my superpower! you reply, adding a sunglasses emoji.

Just as he’s about to put his phone down, he sees a notification from you—an image attachment. Curious, he opens it to see a meme of a concerned-looking dog, accompanied by the huge caption: “Your life is as worrisome as my face!” Nanami frowns, confused by the image.

Whose dog is that? he asks.

That doesn’t matter! Just laugh! It’s funny, right?

It seems we have different definitions of funny, he replies, teasing you. But he’s unable to stop himself from smiling, finding a strange comfort in your lightheartedness, and grateful for the brief escape from his thoughts.

Later that day, the two of you meet up at an arcade. You've set your sights on a claw machine with a Palmon plush, and after several failed attempts, you’re determined to get it. The lights and sounds around you barely register; all your attention is on the machine and on winning that Palmon.

Nanami watches from behind, arms crossed, his expression showing his skepticism. “Are you seriously going to keep going? You’ve already spent 4,500 yen. This is ridiculous.”

Without looking away from the machine, you throw him a quick glance. “Yes! I need it. Palmon is beautiful, and I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t win it.”

Nanami raises an eyebrow, doubtful. “Is it really that important?”

“Obviously!” You pout, looking at him with that mix of determination and stubbornness he’s come to recognize. That blend of energy and defiance stirs something in him, and he blurts out a suggestion he hadn’t even thought through

“Come study with me at Jujutsu High.”

The proposal surprises both of you, and you stop playing for a moment, though you keep your hand firmly on the joystick to hold your spot. Smiling, you look at him with a mix of affection and amusement.

“That’s not going to happen. I’ll never be a sorcerer. Not even you could change my mind, Nanami.”

A faint blush rises to your cheeks as you say his name, wondering if you’ve let slip too much. You seem about to say something more, but he interrupts, his voice soft and sorrowful.

“I’m alone now. I was left alone”

His words strike you, and though you want to tell him how much he means to you, how you've had a crush on him for months now but you know it’s not the right moment. He’s still too vulnerable, and you wouldn’t want to take advantage of that. Instead, you try to lighten the mood.

“My dad always used to say, ‘You go to school to study, not to make friends,’” you say, imitating your father’s voice and holding a finger under your nose as if you had a mustache. Nanami watches, but the sadness doesn’t leave his gaze.

Finally, you look him in the eyes, speaking with quiet sincerity. “You have all my support, Nanami. You know that, right?”

Nanami meets your eyes, and for a moment, his expression softens, the sadness easing a little. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and you notice a hint of peace behind his smile.

“After school, you probably have homework, just like me,” you suggest, taking a breath. “How about I come to your house every day after classes, and we do it together? Studying will be easier if we have each other’s company.”

Nanami looks at you, a bit taken aback by the suggestion, but he finds himself surprisingly comforted by the idea. Even though he knows your schoolwork might be very different from his own, the thought reassures him.

“And what about your hospital volunteering? Don’t you have to go?” he asks, concern creeping into his voice.

You wave his concern off. “I’ll do it on weekends. There are fewer people, and I can hide what I’m doing more easily. Don’t worry.”

Nanami nods, and without another word, he steps toward the claw machine, nudging you aside gently. Reaching into his pocket, he inserts 1,000 yen. And as the good sorcerer he is, it looks like magic, the claw captures the Palmon on the first try.

As soon as you see the plush descending, you let out a shout of pure joy, bouncing with excitement. Nanami pulls it from the machine and hands it to you.

“Thank you so much, Kento!” you exclaim, hugging the plush tightly, and realizing, as your face flushes, that you’ve called him by his first name.

Nanami blinks, surprised, but then he smiles, seeing you so happy. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of Haibara in your lively expression, just like that day when you met, and the thought fills him with an unexpected peace.

“So, what time will you be coming to my house to keep up with your ‘plan’?” he asks, his tone faintly teasing.

Unable to help it, your smile grew even wider, thrilled to have the Palmon in your hands, happy that Nanami won it for you, ecstatic because you know you'll see him more often, just as you've dreamed awake before going to sleep, you respond, “Let’s meet at Akihabara station after school, and then we can go together. Does that sound good?”

Nanami nods, satisfied with the plan. “Perfect.” With a slight blush, he murmurs almost to himself, but just loud enough for you to hear, “Keep calling me Kento.”

[fandomnerd9602]

Rusty Compass

Jack Reacher x Sibling!Reader

The neon sign of the Rusty Compass bar cast a jaundiced glow across Jack Reacher's face. He nursed a beer – his third, probably, judging by the empty bottles lining the counter. Rain splattered against the window, washing away the neon in blurry streaks. Not a bad night for a ghost town, Reacher thought, swirling the last drops of his beer.

Then, the bell above the door jangled. A gust of wind swept in, carrying with it the scent of wet asphalt and teenage angst. A skinny figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, blinking against the sudden brightness. Reacher squinted, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes.

"You lost, kid?" he rumbled, his voice as gruff as his military background.

The figure stepped into the light, revealing a mop of rain-soaked hair and wide, eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world. It was a young kid , barely sixteen, face pale and drawn. Yet there was a stubborn echo of Reacher's own face in there too.

"Are you Jack Reacher?" the person asked, with a voice barely a whisper.

Reacher raised an eyebrow, surprised by the question. He wasn't exactly in the habit of advertising himself. "Depends who's asking," he drawled, playing along.

The young adult took a shaky breath. "My name is Y/N. Y/N Reacher. I'm your sibling."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Reacher had no siblings besides Joe, or so he thought. His past was a tangled mess, buried deep within him like a scar. This kid, with their haunted yet familiar eyes, was dredging up memories he'd spent years suppressing.

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken questions. Rain hammered against the roof, a drumming accompaniment to the internal war raging within Reacher. Curiosity battled distrust, a tug-of-war played out in the depths of his gaze.

Finally, he sighed, the sound like a weary sigh of an old mountain. "Get yourself a lemonade, kid," he muttered, gesturing to the bartender. "Let's talk."

The next few hours were a blur of stolen glances and hesitant words. Y/N, it turned out, was the result of an indiscretion, a secret Reacher never knew existed. Y/N spoke of a childhood spent in shadows, a mother's love a fragile shield against a harsh world. They spoke of searching, of yearning for a connection that felt undeserved.

Reacher listened, the calluses on his soul softening with each story. He saw himself in Y/N’s eyes, the same hunger for belonging, the same wariness of trust. It was a mirror he couldn't ignore, a reflection of the man he could have been, should have been.

By the time the bar closed, a silent pact had been forged. Reacher wouldn't turn this scrawny kid away, wouldn't let them wander the same lonely road he once had. He wouldn't be the father the kid never had, but maybe, just maybe, he could be the sibling he never knew was needed.

They stepped out into the rain, the moon a pale smudge behind the thick clouds. The road ahead was still shrouded in mist, but it didn't look like an endless escape anymore. It looked like a shared journey, two Reachers, bound by blood and circumstance, carving their own path through the storm. And for the first time in years, Jack Reacher didn't feel alone.

The Rusty Compass faded into the darkness, leaving behind the echo of unspoken promises and the flicker of a fragile hope. The rain kept falling like a baptism, washing away the past and paving the way for the new. Jack Reacher, the lone wolf, had found his pack. And sometimes, that’s all the shelter you needed from the storm.

[reve-writes]

—i didn't know where else to go; kaz brekker.

ʚ kaz brekker x reader | grishaverse | 1,6k words. ʚ kaz brekker knocks on your door after your abrupt departure from the dregs. ʚ injuries; angst. ʚ a/n i'm impatiently waiting for season 2 to air. here's a little something because everyone needs more kaz brekker in life.

You are not a healer, nor do you make a habit of opening your door to anybody who knocks, bleeding through their shirt early when the morning is just starting to crack over the horizon. The hustle bustle of Ketterdam is starting to die down. The streets are steadily getting less and less crowded and the city starts to feel less like a living, breathing thing actively trying to suffocate you.

But it's Kaz Brekker.

“Brekker, why are you here?” You're still rubbing the sleep off of your eyes as you open the door.

He looks as if he's as confused as you are. His mind went on autopilot after he was jumped on by a group of thugs disillusioned into thinking they were a match for the Dirtyhands. While he emerges victorious in the fight, it doesn't mean that he's unscathed. The confrontation was a little too close for his comfort. His legs have somehow carried him to your door.

He heaves a deep breath and he thinks there's a bruise over his ribs. He croaks out, “I didn't know where else to go.”

That is a lie. Kaz Brekker owns more safe houses than you care to know, but you open the door a little bit wider anyway for him to brush past you, into your one-room living space. It isn't much. It's hard to have much of anything when the second you have a little bit of something in the Barrell, it's already taken the next second. You have a cot in one corner of the room, separated with a small divider you've found discarded and repainted. In front of it, there are a couple of chairs and a short square table.

“Have a seat,” you tell him. He immediately plops into one of the chairs with a big sigh of relief. His cane clatters to the floor. “How bad is it?”

He leans against the back of the chair, tilting his head upwards with his eyes closed. “I'm fine.”

He is clearly not fine. You were concerned from the moment you opened your door. Kaz Brekker's face is smeared with blood. Whose blood, this part you have yet to know. When he inhales, he puts more effort than one normally does. Not to mention, there's a sheen on his black shirt and you'll bet twenty thousand Kruge that it's his blood.

“You wouldn't be here if you're fine,” you retort. Your hands are already digging into your box of medical supplies.

He is silent because he knows you are right. Before your departure from the Dredge, he used to have no problem knocking on your door at ungodly hours. You had no problems letting him in, disinfecting and dressing whatever wounds he had. Saints, those moments when Ketterdam hadn't stirred awake yet but the two of you were—they were some of the most vulnerable moments shared between you.

Then, there's after. After you decided you had enough of Kaz. He's the type of person who would say things that'll leave a bruise for a couple of days in your heart, but never acknowledges it. It's partially your fault, mistaking his visits for anything other than convenience. He needed someone to patch him up and you were readily available.

You told him your feelings. He said something that both humiliated and rejected you. You packed up and left.

“How bad is it?” You ask once again, irritation apparent in your tone. “Don't make this a habit, Brekker. I'm not a public hospital.”

“I wouldn't be able to tell the difference,” he says airily.

You don't reply. Whatever Brekker's playing at, you want no part in it. If he thinks he can walk into your home to have a little nostalgic chat over tea then he's sorely mistaken.

“Coat off. Shirt as well. Stop bleeding out on my chair,” you reply, already pulling out a moderately-sized box with medical supplies.

You swear he looks as if he's about to run his mouth and say something witty as a joke, but he decides against it. There's a rustle as he takes his incredulous layers of clothing off. He's as lean as ever with scars littering his body. There are a small gash on his side and bruising all over him.

“I'll clean up the cut,” you tell him. Before, you would ask what happened and he would tell you the details of the fight. Now, you can't seem to bring yourself to ask. There's a line that you drew when you left the Dregs. Inviting him into your home is already tiptoeing around it. You don't want to blur the line by pretending that you're alright.

��A knife grazed me or a dagger. I don't think it's poisoned,” he says anyway. His dark eyes are boring into yours while you keep your gaze solely focused on the wound. He follows your movement, as if trying to come up with a sketch of you in his mind.

“Dagger,” you tell him based on the shape of the wound. “No poison.”

You clean up the cut wordlessly before covering it with bandages. As you work, you wonder why he didn't go to Nina instead. A Heartrender can do your job ten times better with less scarring and less pain. Then, you wonder why he comes to you at all—all those nights ago when Nina is always there.

“How have you been?” He asks as you're digging through a bag of salves for his bruises.

You scoff. “Never been better.”

You would've stayed if he had said no like anyone else would. A simple no, you would understand. A whole speech about how pathetic you are that you're clinging to the only person who comes to you for aid is uncalled for. A long paragraph about how replaceable you are, how easy it would to leave you behind if something ever goes wrong on a job—or as he likes to call it, an acquisition.

Brekker could've said no and left it at that, but he's never satisfied. He is the type of person to ram a knife into you and twist it until you remember every second of the pain. You left because if he considers you so easily replaced then he can do it.

Thinking about it makes your blood boil, but you keep it together. You hand him a small container and he takes it with a gloved hand.

“For the bruises. You can take it with you.”

Then, you're packing everything back into the box. Your job is done anyway. He shrugs his clothes back on, occasionally hissing. Kaz is still wondering why he's decided to knock at your door after desperately making sure that you're going to walk out of his life three weeks ago when he finally stands up. The small container is balled up in his fists.

“Thank you.”

His presence in your room is already suffocating enough, but as he stands there, staring at you when he should've been leaving—that takes the air out of your lungs. Everything he said then floods back into your mind. Word by word. You think you want him to leave. You know you want him to stay.

“You can go now. There's nothing else I can do for you. Ask Nina to look you over,” you say, pulling the door ajar.

He watches you as he walks towards the door. He lingers by the doorway, his cane is tracking blood on your flooring. Don't come back. You want him to come back anyway.

“Nina misses you.”

You almost laugh. “I see her every other week, Brekker.”

He doesn't know why he said that. He should leave. He has things to tend to: a revenge to plan, another acquisition to conduct and a club to run. What is he trying to do exactly? He remembers every word he uttered that night. Every single word is chosen carefully to drive you as far away from him as he can muster. All of them are personally tailored to you. They're all things that push on your buttons.

So, why did he come knocking at your door, as if he wasn't the one who kicked you out in the first place?

When he pictures Pekka Rollins begging at his feet, more Kruge than he knows what to do with at his disposal and a quiet, content day when he's finally done everything he set out to do, he realizes you're always there, too and he doesn't know what to do with that.

Before he can think against it, the words spill out of him. “I want to apologize.”

Kaz Brekker never apologizes. He can poke someone's eyeball out of their skull without so much as batting an eye, but he can't apologize without feeling like he's just been punched in the gut.

You're still angry but you relent because Kaz Brekker never apologizes. “Water under the bridge. I've been told worse things. Just, go home, Kaz.”

He's looking at you. Saints, he's been staring at you since the very moment you opened your door for him. You don't know what to do with all that intensity, especially after he's made it verbally clear that it's one-sided.

“Jesper wants you back on the team.”

You know what he's doing then. First, Nina. Now, Jesper. You roll your eyes at him. “Since when do you care about what anyone else wants?"

He is silent for a moment. “I tend to care if their wants align with what I want.”

“Say it, then. What do you want?”

He doesn't reply and as per his style, he walks out of your door. You sigh, ready to close it behind him, but he tilts his head back.

“Crow Club. 8p.m. Don't be late,” he says, taking a few steps forward before he stops again. “If it's what you want as well.”

Then, as quickly as he came, he's gone, leaving you to wish that you can read Kaz Brekker's mind.

[ ]

[lunar-years]

Thinking about Roy becoming sort of obsessive about Jamie not having to go through the same struggles to the same extent that he did when it comes to retirement, and so drilling into him early on that he needs to have a Plan in place for After and think about After and mentally and physically prepare for After. And also, he’s doing whatever he can to make sure Jamie doesn’t burn himself out like Roy did and takes care of his body in a healthy way and avoids playing injured…basically doing everything in his power to prevent Jamie’s retirement from being capital-B Bad™️.

And then, because there’s only so much you can control, and because no amount of preparation in the world can really prepare you for losing a thing you love, and because it was always going to be at least a little devastating for the both of them, wasn’t it? …What if, when Jamie does retire, after all that effort to avoid it, it still is capital-B Bad? Because for Jamie, Roy’s determination to make sure he’s Okay is really only another sort of Pressure making him feel like he HAS to be Okay (and even though he knows Roy doesn’t think of it like that, he can’t stop the way he feels). So he pushes aside that he’s struggling in order to pretend like the Plan and the Preparation is all working and he’s Totally Sound. Meanwhile, Jamie’s cheery insistence that All is Well is fucking disconcerting to Roy, who keeps waiting for the breakdown that feels inevitable despite himself because deep down he knows Jamie can’t be Okay so why is he acting SO Okay?

And my god would it be worse if Jamie is forced into retirement earlier than expected because of an injury (something entirely plausible yet completely out of their hands). Because then Jamie feels guilty for being injured even more so than he feels devastated about it ending his career early, as if it was his personal choice to ruin the Plan they’d spent so much time on and as if his body giving out on him despite Roy’s careful honing and perfecting of it is a Personal Jamie Shortcoming. He’s been in therapy long enough to know, realistically, that that’s his demon pigeon-brain speaking but he also can’t Stop. And for Roy of course, seeing his loved one injured like that despite spending a good decade trying to stop that from happening is devastating on many levels. Namely, that he hates nothing more than seeing Jamie in pain, but also that he hates seeing Jamie cover up his pain, and thirdly that it’s dredging up a lot of shit about his own retirement again that he was SURE he had finally fucking processed and accepted after YEARS of putting in the fucking Work.

So it’s all a bit of a mess until things finally come to a head and explode and Feelings are aired out at last and they both have a bit of a cry about it and then they are able to emerge on the other side of it, together. :)

[monkberrymoonsdelight]

A Monkberry Moon Delight lyrical analysis because it is the greatest song of the 20th century

Monkberry Moon Delight is a song from Paul McCartney's 1971 album Ram. The song is generally considered to be surrealist 'nonsense' lyrics a la Lennon's late Beatles work like 'I am the Walrus' and 'Glass Onion'. But if we know anything about Paul (and Lennon-McCartney in general), he tends to put deeper emotions into his songs, often with out meaning to and without his direct knowledge:

"I don't write anything consciously, Sometime when I'm pissed off with John over Apple business a line might creep in." - Interview with Disc And Music Echo (Nov. 20, 1971)

"Songwriting is like psychiatry; you sit down and dredge up something that's inside, bring it out front." - Interview with Robert Palmer for the New York Times (April 25, 1982)

" But in a song, that's where you can [share your innermost thoughts]. That's the place to put them. You can start to reveal truths and feelings." - Interview with John Wilson fork BBC 4's (May 24, 2016)

And my favorite because it's y'know...in a song: "And when I'm gone, I leave my message in my song" - Beware My Love (Wings at the Speed of Sound, 1976)

All that being said, in my opinion, Monkberry Moon Delight is a projection of Paul's feelings of anxiety about his post-Beatles public/critical reception and his reaction to John Lennon's antagonism post-divorce. Specifically, he details his writing of Too Many People as a response to John's antagonism and the making of Ram as an attempt to recapture public attention/praise.

For context: Monkberry Moon Delight was first written/demoed at some point from May-August 1970 on his farm in Scotland. Paul's late 1969-1970 Scotland era is complicated. He often describes it as being one of the most difficult periods of his life because of the break-up of the Bealtes, the Apple financial troubles, his frayed relationship with John, and starting a whole new life which all compounded into a deep depression and alcohol abuse.

Let's start with the title and chorus. In Paul's own words, Monkberry Moon Delight comes from his kids mispronunciation of the word 'milk' and establishes MMD as a fantastical drink like 'Love Potion No. 9'. I think Paul obviously hides behind the surrealism of the lyric but its association with family and domesticity makes an interesting contrast. Though he is happy to be in his escapist domestic fantasy in Scotland, he juxtaposes this with the underlying pressure to be acclaimed (especially after being considered the greatest artist in the world for ten years). Though the song has a peppy, jaunty beat there is an air of anxiety developed through the songs key of C minor and the staccato of the piano and bass parts. His vocals also have a similar strained desperation like 'Oh! Darling'.

The lyrics:

So I sat in the attic, a piano up my nose

And the wind played a dreadful cantata

Paul starts with himself, writing. 'The attic' may be a reference to John Lennon's recording studio that he had built in his attic in Weybridge where he and Paul would often go to write.

"We nearly always went up to his little music room that he'd built at the top of the house, Daddy's Room, where we would get away from it all. I like to get away from people to songwrite, I don't like to do it in front of people. It's like sex for me" - Many Years from Now. Whether or not this is a direct reference to 'Daddy's Room', Paul is known to prefer small, confined spaces for songwriting.

'Piano up my nose' to me shows a rapt attention, leaning so close to his piano its almost up his nose. He is intently and passionately composing his 'dreadful cantata', this cantata I believe refers to "To Many People". Based on this record of the order of demos on the Ram cassette, it seems that Too Many People may have been written (or at least recorded) before Monkberry, which furthers my belief that Paul is making a meta narration of the writing of his song which he recognizes was very pointed or dreadful.

Sore was I from a crack of an enemy's hose

And the horrible sound of tomato

Here he describes what spurred him to writing this song, and this album as a whole. The 'crack from an enemy's hose' could refer to Allen Klein's treatment of Paul during the final months of the Beatles and his attempted mishandling of the release of McCartney (1970). (Note: The crack could also be from Phil Spector, the press, Ringo, George, Yoko or John; Paul is kind of getting shit from all sides right now). The 'sound of tomato' implies the idea of throwing tomatoes at an artist to express dislike or dissatisfaction, referencing the poor critical reception of McCartney (1970).

Ketchup, soup and puree

Don't get left behind

Ketchup, soup, and puree; liquidy tomatoes because splat, splat, splat go the critics. And ketchup because catch up pun.

Don't get left behind is the central theme of this song. He is worried that the public is going to forget about him while he's depressed, away in Scotland, and making critical flops. This is him desperately clinging onto the hearts of the public. Because we all know how much Paul needs to be liked.

When a rattle of rats had awoken

The sinews, the nerves, and the veins

The 'rattle of rats' could be any of the number of people who were getting on his nerves, sinews, and veins (pissing him tf off) in 1970. This could again be referencing the great "Let's all gang up on Paul McCartney" game of 1970 but because of the subsequent lyrics, I think this may be more specifically about John (and Yoko). Either way, it was these rats who annoyed him into getting to work.

My piano was boldly outspoken

And attempts to repeat his refrain

'Boldly outspoken' again connects this song to TMP. The line is similar to the TMP lyric 'This is crazy and baby, it's not like me' in the sense that both show how audacious he sees this songs as. In 'attempting to repeat his refrain' I think Paul is using the 'well he started it' justification for TMP because he's sees it as a repeat, of him rising to John's level of insults.

So I stood with a knot in my stomach and I gazed at that terrible sight

Of two youngsters concealed in a barrel, sucking Monkberry Moon Delight

Ah yes my favorite moment in all of music ever. This is the verse that really convinced me that this song may be referencing JohnandYoko. The 'youngsters in a barrel' alludes to John and Yoko's bag piece, where they would get into a black bag for...peace? As seen in Get Back, this particularly irked/disturbed Paul. "Go get in your bag. The Merseybeat award for couple of the year, goes to John and Yoko" (Get Back Episode 2). He also refers to them as 'the young lovers' in Get Back during the infamous January 13th 'and then there were two' conversation. Even though it makes him nervous and sick, part of Paul releasing TMP and Ram is to face up to the JohnandYoko powerhouse which was a non-insignificant portion of his early 1970 criticism.

Well I know my banana is older than the rest

and my hair is a tangled baretta

Here I think he is reasoning to the listener, the public, over why he thinks they've abandoned him. Paul recognizes that he has been in this music game a long time (so people may have grown bored of him) and has been depressed (and thus out of the game), his tangled 'baretta' of hair like the wily depression beard he grew out while in Scotland.

Also banana = dick, just so everyone is clear (can anyone find that banana poem from his poetry book? Also this just perpetuates my tinhat theory that all the banana milkshakes Paul got in Paris were just **** **** but I digress). Also something about Paul likening songwriting with sex so him not being 'musically desirable' is because...his music dick is old? Ok Paul.

I leave my pajamas to Billy Budapest

And I don't get the gist of your letter

This is the one lyric I am pretty unsure about. Not that every line has to fit perfectly into my interpretation but I genuinely could not make heads or tails of it. My initial interpretation was that this was referring to Billy Shears, and how during this period the Paul is dead theory regained popularity. This reference adds to the feeling of dissolution he builds in this verse.

But mike on the Beatles Bible seems to remember Billy Budapest as being a children's pajama designer though I have found not evidence of this. However going with this shot in the dark, leaving his pajamas to Billy Budapest could draw back to the theme of his current domesticity and occupation with his children.

The letter in question I believe refers to the infamous letter John and George wrote to Paul changing his McCartney release date that they had Ringo deliver which really set Paul off and kind of began the messiness of the divorce.

Catch Up, cats and kittens

Don't get left behind

Finally we get the pay off to the ketchup-catch up pun and see the resurgence of the theme; Paul feeling like he's falling behind his contemporaries and desperation to catch up.

In typical McCartney fashion, Monkberry Moon Delight is a seemingly shallow and superfluous song but actually reveals a lot about his inner turmoil at the time. Him dealing with the rejection by the critics and John by turning to his piano and creating the absolute banger that is Monkberry. This is why MMD is one of Paul's best, because of how quintessentially Paul it is. Veiling tough emotions behind ambiguous and surreal lyrics masked by a fun and light melody. Oh, the juxtaposition! Oh, the Lennon-McCartney of it all.

Anyways this is a barely organized rambling of thoughts but Monkberry Moon Delight deserves a mega analysis because it is genuinely one of the best songs Paul McCartney has ever made.

[iridescentscarecrow]

struggling to put this into words but kind of obsessed with how the rain making ritual in aono-kun is such an undoubtedly public one, submerged in festival landscape & the open air, & yet the ugliness of the dreams it imparts is experienced intimately, personally, diverging from what is known & shrouded under the living/dead barrier...

the wedding ritual right after it relies on bloodline, the correct director, & it's enclosed in a small auditorium... unlike the rain bringing ritual, it imparts nothing unto you; it dredges the ugly & private bits out of yourself & shoves them at your audience, at your family, at the one hundred eyes upon you...

the shame associated with teenage pregnancy also seems significant here... it's so visceral, you're not emerging from the waterfall unharmed, your clay self has taken in a part of him, has mutated & this mutation is somehow *more* unspeakable of than the hair & the eyes... the horror in the wedding ritual isn't the paranormal occurences of the prev. volumes,, those are almost absent... it's the past, vomited out on stage, contained within the tragedy of the play's [love story]...

like a lot of aono's mom's masking, hurt,, even the way her rape is conveyed to us is through the red hot guilt of embarassment -> anger -> rage. idk,, i'm thinking about the neighbour at the door. abuse is presented in this absurdly /normal/ fashion (that one spread of aono studying as she beats teppei up) but it boils up into some other kind of tension with the issue of <making noise>,,, *that* is the transgression. the rain making ritual chops up bits of you & feeds you to the river, it places yuri into domestic life dream, it underlines this with ignorance: they keep having to /find out/ about structure, about the way it works and why, they need to get them off the mountain.

the wedding ritual confronts you with the bits that have been eaten up from people & their grief & messy rage.. its the cycle brought to completion here. the knowing is less about what's not found, it's about what's unspoken. yuri getting pregnant, aono killing himself, the abuse... all of this, to some extent, we knew... the clues were there, decipherable. but they're still brought to the forefront, they shake & rattle & scream & /make noise/ & that's terrifying.

and also ugh. especially the fact that all this, all these stories & meanings are conveyed through past ritual form.. you're trapped in it like fly in amber... you become just that signifier: the mother, the sister, these echoing ghosts of abuse bred in you, haunting even your rawest love. the boundary of ghostliness exists metaphorically here: both - you are your ancestors, you repeat your ancestors & are bound by them, by their blood & their mistakes & - deadness at least.. as thought of in memory.. a kind of evokation of this. death molds together the fragments of broken community into something truly inescapable, & at some point you only see your abusers at weddings & funerals, & yuri only ever knew aono through this shroud of mediation... this barrier informed by everything that came before...

[herearedragons]

micro story for dragon age (i'm hoping for some solaqun hehe), 8 and/or 16 <3

that is NOT a micro-fic but I did get 16. in dreams in there

micro-story prompts

"You are distracted, my friend."

There is no judgement or annoyance in Solas' voice; he's simply making a statement, and a correct one, in that.

Aqun runs back the last few points of their conversation in his mind, trying to understand what gave him away — and comes up empty.

"What did I miss?"

"I have just presented you with a glaring contradiction, expecting you to point it out. Imagine my surprise when you readily accepted that the Anchor does not expel energy, when we both know this to be untrue."

He says it with the light triumph of delivering a clever punchline, smiling briefly; a little too much gloating for just noticing that he wasn't listening, in Aqun's opinion.

The mistake is dumb, though.

"Damn it. Well, can you say it one more time?"

"Certainly; but I know study to be ineffective when forced upon the mind. Perhaps I can be of help with your trouble?"

He's right about that first part. Maybe about the second one, too.

Aqun thinks about the large, empty space of the rotunda echoing their voices up into the library; about the people walking past the desk they're both sitting at, headed to the upper levels.

"If we can speak somewhere private," he says.

*

"...Your meetings with the Ambassador?"

"She's doing her best, and so am I. But with the time we have, I'm starting to think my best won't be enough."

Skyhold's garden is empty at this time of day; even Mother Giselle and the apothecary, who frequent it often, have duties elsewhere. The open air and the rustling of leaves mean that the sound of conversation doesn't carry as far.

It's a good place to talk.

They sit down by the elfroot patch.

"I don't think I can understand the Game, Solas," Aqun says. "And I can't fake it convincingly, either."

There's a heavy feeling in his chest as he admits it, but that's nothing new; it's been there for the last week or so, growing worse each time he caught himself losing track of Josephine's explanations, or growing helplessly irritated with the complication of it all when he did manage to follow.

Fighting is fine. Giving speeches is fine. Keeping people in check is fine. Whatever "The Game" is, it's none of those things; learning about it is staring into an endless abyss, where every explanation of why only dredges up more questions.

"It is simpler than you believe," Solas says. "Every game is constructed from rules and props; the Great Game is no different, or they wouldn't have named it so. You have mastered much more complicated topics during our conversations."

Aqun stares at the swaying elfroot stalks in front of him.

"If that was true, I would have been at least half-decent at it by now."

"Perhaps the fault lies not with the game, then, but with the player."

"Maybe," Aqun says grimly. "I've spent most of my life away from people, you know. Kind of like you, but without the part about learning in your dreams what the rest of the world is like. I've traveled around since then, figured some things out, but I don't know if I'm equipped to handle high society."

To his surprise, Solas chuckles.

"You hold too much esteem for the nobility. It is the oldest con, perhaps: to build an air of mystery, mythology to lend one airs of grandeur. But I have followed them in dreams, through countless lies and bargains struck, and know that underneath they are no different."

Something about his tone is... fond, almost.

Aqun turns to look at him.

"Well, give me your opinion, then," he says. "If you were in my place, how would you handle the Winter Palace?"

"I would allow them to underestimate me; play the demure elf, let others speak, and listen to what they say when they believe their company is not intelligent enough to understand. But to you, my friend, I would advise a different course of action."

"...I'm listening."

"Act as you would in the field," Solas says. "Scout for danger. Tread carefully on unfamiliar terrain. When you come across something you do not understand, study it. Ask questions. Your instincts of survival will serve you just as well in the Orlesian court as they would anywhere else."

Aqun thinks about it for a moment.

"Wouldn't I appear ignorant?"

"You would appear careful. Besides," Solas adds with a tinge of amusement, "One can hardly blame the Inquisitor for being inquisitive."

That gets a laugh out of him.

"I should write that down."

"Now you sound like Varric."

"Well, Varric has a point about writing things down," Aqun says.

The heavy feeling, he notes, has lessened. It's not gone completely, but it's... easier, somehow.

Solas has given him a different perspective, something to think about, but, strangely, that's not even the most important part.

He actually believes that Aqun can figure this out.

And, well... If a wandering apostate can get a decent impression of The Game by watching it in his dreams, why wouldn't there be hope for him, too?

"Thank you, Solas," he says.

"I'm glad to have been of assistance," Solas replies with a slight smile. "That being said, perhaps we should return to our discussion of the Anchor later, once your duties allow it."

Aqun nods.

"I'll be looking forward to it."

"So will I."