#and that reminded me that i still have plenty of old WIPs that i never posted

[impressions-of-downton]

Old WIP from that AU where Vera haunts Bates but somehow only Bates and Thomas can see her

[nausikaaa]

WIP Wednesday

thank you to everyone who has tagged me these past few weeks, though I haven't had much to share! I'm still fiddling around with part two of my Trojan War novel, so here's some more Briseis.

Lyrnesses was not a rich city by any stretch, but every slave had their own room, handmade clothes, and went to bed at night with a full belly. To some that may have meant nothing. They were still slaves, and that was its own indignity that no amount of kindness could lessen, I had learned. But my own father, born to a wealthy family in Ethiopia, was taken by pirates as a child and sold as a slave. He arrived at Lyrnesses as a young man, where he was freed, eventually attracting the attention of my mother, who fought for her right to marry him, dismissing every wealthy suitor her father offered her to until he relented. They were a rare love match, and I grew up hoping to model their affection in my own marriage.

My father never forgot his mistreatment, and understood how quickly and startlingly a person’s fate could change, and so he was always kind to those less fortunate. I wondered if he ever could have anticipated how my life would turn out to echo his own, to be free, enslaved, and then freed again. But as a woman, I was never as free as he became, and knew I never would be. I would be forever tethered to that part of my life by the children I carried within me.

I thought of my mother. Her deft hands braiding my hair, her clear voice singing along to a bard’s lyre as she did so. My father crooning back to her, making her very name a song. “Hippodamia…”

“Briseus…” She would reply, and tug at one of my curls. I was named after him, and the reminder always made me grin.

a long discussion of Briseis's appearance, plus tags, under the cut:

Briseis is an interesting case when it comes to visualising her. Most greek myth characters are depicted as roughly the same as they're described, but Briseis is so inconsistent! she's described by Homer as fair, and by Ovid as incredibly pale. most renaissance depicts her as blonde, and Natalie Haynes describes her as such in A Thousand Ships. but plenty of more modern art makes her brunette, as she is in the film Troy and the series Troy: Fall Of A City.

and then there's Madeline Miller's The Song Of Achilles, one of the most popular books to feature Briseis, where she is black. I have issues with the writing of all the women in Miller's book, and dislike Briseis being presented as a commoner, who can't speak greek and worships foreign gods, when she was a Queen, and the Trojans had the same gods. not to mention that Miller also kills her off (spoilers? the book is over a decade old) when we simply don't know what happens to her after the Iliad. the entire point of my writing is to fill in that gap in her story.

anyway, i don't mind her being black, and like the art the book has inspired. though i've seen some people say they dislike this choice, as Briseis was a slave, but ancient Greek slavery was a very different concept from the slavery of America and the colonies, and less about skin colour than simply being on the losing side of an invasion or war. that isn't to diminish what those people must have gone through, but there are more slaves in the world right now that there were in any period of ancient history. my Briseis is also given her freedom before the story kicks off.

so in the end, i decided to combine elements of all these depictions. i like Briseis having African heritage like so much art depicts. i like her being pale and looking good in dark colours like Ovid says. so, my Briseis is half Anatolian, half Ethiopian, and has albinism. a mix of this sculpture and this model is pretty much exactly how i envision her.

as for the people who get up in arms any time any person with more than a slight tan is depicted in Greek myth tellings, quite frankly, i don't care to hear it. it's fiction. there are gods meddling in people's lives and you're critiquing the accuracy of someone's ethnicity? anyway, there was an African man in the Trojan War, Memnon, the son of Eos, the goddess of the dawn, and presumably he brought other African soldiers with him. freaking Aphrodite is an evolution of Inanna, a Mesopotamian goddess. Andromeda, the wife of Perseus, was from Ethiopia, and Poseidon is also said to be visiting Africa at the beginning of the Odyssey. the ancient Mediterranean was a melting pot of cultures that was well aware of northern Africa long before the Romans conquered Carthage- which is also visited by Aeneas and his fellow Trojans!

tags: @forabeatofadrum @j-nipper-95 @artsyunderstudy @that-disabled-princess @prettygoododds @confused-bi-queer @imagineacoolusername @ic3-que3n @aristocratic-otter @larkral @hushed-chorus @ivelovedhimthroughworse @shemakesmeforget @fatalfangirl @ebbpettier @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @cutestkilla @youarenevertooold @alexalexinii @shrekgogurt @bookish-bogwitch @thewholelemon @supercutedinosaurs @shutup-andletme-go @theearlgreymage @ileadacharmedlife @alleycat0306 @carryonsimoncarryonbaz @comesitintheclover @blackberrysummerblog and @orange-peony

[bagheerita]

Writing Interview Tag Game!

Thanks to @aintgonnatakethis for the tag! (I've copied his idea and posted the template in a "read more" if you decide to go ahead and play, so you don't have to pick the questions out from between my answers)

About me

When did you start writing?

I’ve been telling stories since I was old enough to remember words, but probably only writing them down since about high school. Crossover ideas about my favorite characters meeting each other and having adventures have been my bread and butter since I was in the single digits though. 

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

Oh yeah. There’s plenty of things I think I’m not very good at writing that I love reading, especially really grounded realism and humor. Also I do not have the patience for the really fantastic speculative xenobiology that I absolutely adore reading.

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

Not that I want to emulate. A teacher told me once that my writing reminded her of Danielle Steele, but as I've never read a Danielle Steele novel I'm not sure how accurate that is, or if it even applies anymore because that was 20 years ago. I feel like I tend to emulate whatever author I’ve been reading a lot lately, but I don’t read a lot anymore. I used to really love Patricia Briggs (I mean, I still love the books I've read, Dragon Bones is probably one of my top favorites ever, but I haven't been as impressed with her recent offerings) and I feel like there was a point where a lot of her werewolf psychology bleed over into the way I write Wraith.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

So at the moment I mostly write on my phone at work during breaks. The space is both chaotic and tense, and very boring and low-key. I do final edits on my computer though: that set up involves 2 screens, which is really handy for edit comparisons between an AO3 window and my backup document, and there’s a cat bed under the desk for Bug to hang out. 

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Over the past few years writing has become a way to channel my anxiety about the world, so I tend to write more when I’m anxious or when I’m stuck sitting somewhere that isn’t mentally stimulating but I have enough energy that I’m not completely zonked out. 

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Um in a specific sense probably no? I mean, I would say that how you grow up is extremely formative to who you are and what you write and that holds true for me. But specifically the only story influenced by the place I grew up is “Sunlight”; the setting is based on a place near where I grew up on Lake Michigan. 

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

Love will save the day. I don’t mean sex or romance, I mean the affection, compassion, and consideration that humans are capable of having for each other and for creation in all circumstances. And I don't mean “save the day” in a eucatastrophic sense, though I like that too, but that living in love is what saves us as people and reminds us that we are communal creatures who need each other. No, that doesn't surprise me. 

Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

Lol, well I’m currently obsessed with Tora Ziyal from DS9. I'm planning to abduct her, and Ellia from SGA, and throw a Canon Doesn't Deserve You/Won't Treat You Right party. But that’s a story I’m not actually writing yet, so probably Todd? I’m also kind of currently obsessed with femdom and power dynamics among Wraith, and just generally with Todd’s dynamic with Carter because I feel like there’s a lot that was unexplored there in canon. I have one story for them which I’m posting that's all just sex, and 3 more ideas in various stages of wip that are more adventure bases. Somehow sex is easier to write than plot. 

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

lol

Look, I spend my time trying to get into these people's heads to figure out what makes them tick, putting them in Situations, and orchestrating their sex lives. Would you be friends with someone like that??? 

(For me) the entire point of this is that fictional people are not real, and do not exist in real life. 

Which characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

I have 4 different answers for this one....

See above.

2. I feel like the point of these questions is really to ask about Original Characters and... I can't answer that in this case because Spoilers.

3. I feel like the other point is that "dislike" doesn't necessarily mean "hate," but rather "we wouldn't be friends." So, back when I was a 12 year old girlchild with a television, watching Deep Space Nine, I adored Jadzia Dax. Rewatching the show recently I find her far more immature than I remember (though may be it's just because the writers had no idea what they were doing with her), and honestly the more I learn about Curzon Dax the more I think he sounds like an absolute nightmare of a person. I do not think I would be friends with Dax. Not maliciously, just complete incompatibility of personalities.

4. But the fandom answer for characters I hate is: in a general Stargate sense, I utterly loathe both Frank Simmons and Lucius Lavin and would most certainly throw garbage at them if I existed in the stargate EU and happened to meet them. In addition I loathe Naraku from Inuyasha, would plot to murder the Head Founder from DS9, and would certainly cheer for anyone in The Last Kingdom who stabbed Aethelwold repeatedly and left him to be eaten by wild dogs.

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

When I have a role that needs to be filled or a scene that needs to be populated with a character, I create a background character to fill it, who then tends to take over my brain and develop all sorts of traits. The process can vary a lot from character to character, but I'll use Sara as an example. 

I start with the problem: I need an OC who will present Ronon with an unconventional take on the Wraith in order to help him shift his worldview. This needs to be someone whom he does not find physically threatening. Also they need to have had an opportunity to develop a relationship with the Wraith, likely with a single specific one. So, most likely I'm looking at a child, and an orphan, and they will need to be cut off from other humans because of Circumstances in order to have the opportunity to bond with the Wraith character. Very early on in developing Sara, I was influence a lot by the character of Rin from Inuaysha, who is an orphan girl who travels with a powerful demon whom most humans fear. I chose the name Sara because it's both a very common name and simple enough to be translated to another galaxy easily. Because I based the character on Rin she is "Japanese"/East Asian when I describe her physical appearance, I imagine her name being pronounced in the Japanese way (both a's with the same vowel sound and a soft "r"), and her people practiced a religion inspired by Shinto. Because I tend to eschew the canon proscription against the existence of queer people, I wrote her as being Asexual and Sapphic, though I had more difficulty than I wanted trying to make that aspect of her character textually obvious, since she doesn't really have the vocabulary to explain it and it's not focal to the plot.

So, this was intended to be a rather side character, but she herself became much more of a central part of the story than I was intending, rather than just the effect she would have on Ronon, which was what was supposed to be the focus of her character's contribution to the story.

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

Not really? I do feel like I have to fight harder than with the canon characters to make sure that they don't all share my values and outlook.

Since I mostly write for SGA, and most of the characters already present are cis het white men, when I create characters I usually try to make them… not that in some way. (Though I do also assume that all characters who exist in stories that I write, including canon characters, are bi unless the fic clearly states otherwise.)  

How do you picture your characters?

I don’t usually “picture” characters. I guess because the show is already visual I’m bad at remembering to create visual descriptions for the characters I create? Does that make any sense? Or maybe because the story is visual in my head there are parts of it I forget to “export” to the page. When Eos used to beta for me, she would badger me all the time, like “but what do they look like??” and I’ve been a lot better at describing things since then. Though still, I'm not really visual in that way I guess. 

My writing

What’s your reason for writing?

There are stories inside of me and they want to come out. There are stories I want to read and no one else is writing them.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

All comments are fantastic, but my absolute favorite is when they quote a line from the chapter because 9 times out of 10 my response is “I know!!! I loved that line too!!”

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I do not want to be perceived lol

Honestly this is not something I’ve ever really thought about? Like, I hope they enjoy my writing, but I don’t think I care about what they think about me. 

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Enjoying myself.

What have you been told your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

I used to say my greatest strength was characterization (and I do still believe that any character action or reaction is believable if you justify it correctly in the text) and I used to be a lot more interested in writing stories that aligned with canon or progressed believably from canon. I don’t so much care anymore, though I’ve had several comments praising my characterizations.  

How do you feel about your own writing?

I love it. I wrote it for me to read. Even the older stuff that is bad now, it’s great to see how much I’ve grown and changed as a writer, and also how some things stay the same. 

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

Probably not? The stories exist inside of me. Writing them down only accomplishes two things: 1) allows others to read them and 2) gives the story a static form. Without the need for 1 I don’t think I would bother to write them down, and they would stay in my head and continue to change and evolve and become other stories. 

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

Both. I write what I want to read, but I do like to push myself to write things I wouldn’t normally try; especially last year I wrote a bunch of prompt fics which was a lot of fun (and also left me with a handful of ideas I couldn't finish but still want to try lol). I also do a lot of read-throughs and edits to try to make sure the story is as good as I can make it because I do want others to be able to enjoy it. 

NPT: @anonmadsci @chaniis-atlantis @adriankyte-writes @the-itzy-bitzy-spider @annwayne

@tiltingheartand @ladyaldhelm @mx-seraph @only-in-december

About me

When did you start writing?

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

Which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

How do you picture your characters?

My writing

What’s your reason for writing?

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Have you been told is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

How do you feel about your own writing?

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

[sky-neverending]

24 the kanej letters

this is still very much a wip, but here!

Inej laid her head against one of the wooden columns below the deck of the ship. The storm on the other side of the walls brewed on, sending the boat bouncing across the waves, teetering and swaying with the wind. 

The rest of her crew was asleep, all tucked away in cots across the main floor of the inner ship. She could hear their breaths from her office, the heavy snores and light shuffles of bedding protruding through the cracks in the door. 

With a sigh, Inej pulled away from the column and made her way toward her chair. The lantern on her desk provided the only light in the room at the moment, illuminating the maps spread out across the wooden surface. They were littered with dots and marks, red and black ink symbolizing the places she had been and the places she still needed to go. She stared at it for a moment, and then pushed us away gently. It was far too stormy, and she was far too tired to focus on something of that significance. 

As she pushed the map to the side, another piece of paper slid toward her. The corners were bent, the faded yellow of the page covered in the start of a sentence she had never finished. 

Dearest Kaz,

I’m writing to you from the seas, but this letter will be-

The sentence stopped there, the piece of paper long forgotten since she had written it days before. She stared at it for a moment before picking up a pen and bringing it toward the page. 

Dearest Kaz,

I’m writing to you from the seas, but this letter will be delivered to you from the ports of Novyi Zem. We’re expected to arrive by sunrise, as long as the storm doesn’t delay our journey. 

We have encountered plenty of storms in my year out at sea. Each one reminds me a little bit of you. The boat rocks and the winds howl, the pittering of rain against the upper decks sings my crew to sleep on calmer nights. They’ve become familiar, comforting despite the intimidating nature of their very being. 

I wonder if it ever rains in Ketterdam at the same time as it rains out at sea. If we are ever under the same storm. 

I miss Ketterdam. As much as I love what I'm doing now, part of me longs to be home with you and the others. Tell them I’m thinking of them. 

I must go now, for the candle is burning low and tiredness is starting to come to me. I hope you’re doing well. 

She stared at the ending of the letter, trying to figure out how to sign it off. Taking a deep breath, she began to write once more. 

Love, 

Inej

P.S. I hope the gloves I sent with my last letter are up to your standards. I noticed your old ones were getting worn out before I left.

[genuflectx]

I've been thinking a lot again about being an artist online since I've been taking a break from things, and about the eternal struggle between wanting art to be seen vs. wanting art to satisfy you without external validation. Mostly because negative thoughts remind me of when I stopped posting on my old SFW account, specifically the DeviantART.

A handful of years ago, not too long after leaving college, I got frustrated with the lack of results I was seeing on my SFW account despite the increased efforts placed towards my art. I felt bitter, and missed the old DA days of having a small but vocal community of artists who interacted with each other. I got so frustrated that I posted a journal asking if anybody would even notice if I just stopped, and when nobody replied (despite the 200+ watchers) I felt so discouraged I hid the large majority of my work and did just that. Stop. Of course, I was still active as Genuflect making NSFW art, but I had been on my SFW pseudonym for I'm guessing about 8-9 years at that point. So that stung.

Sometimes I think about if a similar thing might happen with "Genuflect." Art online is a game of who can post the most frequently, be the most personable, be the most relatable. When you stop, you fade out of the memory of people who have a world of other "content" to consume. It's just how things are. I've forgotten plenty of artists who disappeared off the face of the internet, only to remember them when I see I'm still following them years later. I always wonder what happened to them, if they're alive, if they moved accounts, if they just gave up.

Anyways. "Parasocial" goes both ways, I think, where artists can put too much stake into the opinions/attention of fans who they... don't really know. Does it hurt when familiar names disappear? Or when you take a break and they hop over to somebody else then just never come back? Yeah, but... it's not as if you really knew them, you never had a conversation, never did art exchanges, never roleplayed or hung out or mutually hype each other up. They're just... little numbers that give you a bit of validation for your hard work. Not friends. Isn't that what parasocial means?

But that is easier thought than practiced, it's still going to feel bad when you think nobody really cares if you stop or disappear online. I didn't know those 200 people watching me on my SFW DA in any personal capacity, but it still hurt like a bitch when not a one wanted me to stay. Because really... 8-9 years online and not one liked the art enough to leave a comment saying "wait, no, don't go?" Youch!!

I guess flipping the hurt feelings around into positives is the only way to go, if you want to find more satisfaction in creation without the opinions of strangers. That the opinions of friends/family is ultimately more valuable, that learning new things is fun and worthwhile on its own, that if nobody cares if you disappear then nobody really cares if your art ends up being "shit," either, so go wild. It removes a lot of pressure to try and think that way instead, while still acknowledging the hurt feelings are natural, especially in the modern online landscape.

One of the most treasured accounts I have is my VRC account, full of silly pictures with friends and little WIPs of 3D art and avatars. Know how many followers it has? 8. And it's the one that makes me smile the most. Being a nobody, or being forgettable, isn't so bad.

[bohemianboynton]

Needed It (Thomas Raggi x f!reader)

Summary: it's just porn with very little plot lmao

Warnings: SMUT, sexual intercourse with so many details, the reader is a virgin.

Author's note: I wrote this in one day and came up with so many details (aka thinking dirty thoughts when I shouldn't have) over the course of less than an hour or two. This is also probably the first actual Thomas smut I've completed, but I have plenty of WIPs saved. >:) Let me know what you guys think!

Word Count: 1.4k, short and sweet

--------

You’d only met him at a local pub in Rome, your host city, but he definitely made a lasting impression on you. He was with friends having a few drinks, but not too many. 

You didn’t realize who he was at first until you took a second glance at him: Thomas from Måneskin. You were a casual listener of the band, and while studying abroad in Italy, how could you avoid mentions of them?

You chatted with him, and it eventually led to being invited to his house. One thing led to another, and the two of you were soon engaging in some heavy petting. However, before you could move on to something below the waist, your phone’s alarm went off to remind you to go home. But you did get his phone number.

Many friendly messages over a few days later, you both agreed to hang out at his house once more. 

The make out session continued, but you got even farther this time, as if you both had the idea of, “now, where were we?”

It got to the point where he (and you) were ready to do the real deal: old fashioned intercourse.

But there was one problem. You were still a virgin. Sure, you had been with other guys before, but the farthest you got with them were blowjobs and handjobs.

This time though, you really craved penetration. You were beyond tired of using your toys and lube, and needed the real thing. Something throbbing and alive. That, and you were tired of being alone for so long.

Thomas was taking off his pants when you told him, with you watching him strip a few feet away from where you were watching him while lying on your stomach on the still made bed.

“You’re a virgin?�� He asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. I’ve never had sex.” You replied with a nervous tone.

“Well, if you don’t feel comfortable having sex, you could just, you know...” he said, making an awkward jerking off gesture to signify a handjob. 

“No, no. I need it so badly right now.” You blurted out, immediately turning red in the face.

Thomas smiled and laughed a little. “I’m not going to lie, I liked hearing that.”

He continued to unzip his pants while you took off the last of your clothes. 

Your eyes immediately turned to the prominent bulge in his underwear. 

You already felt so nervous at the thought of how his dick looked: how long it was, how thick it was, and even how hairy and veiny it probably was. 

He gave you another look before revealing his genitalia. 

He slowly pulled down his briefs and his cock sprang free, released from the restricting fabric. 

To say he was well endowed was a bit more than fitting. He was definitely bigger than the guys you previously dated, and to top it off, he was rather well groomed down there. Aesthetically pleasing, yes, but that was the farthest thing in your mind: all you could think about was how he could possibly fit that cock inside your cunt. You definitely wouldn’t be able to walk straight after doing the deed, that was for sure.

He must have caught you staring with wide eyes, because he cleared his throat to get your attention. 

You looked up at him, embarrassed. “Oh. Sorry”, you said with an awkward smile.

“It’s perfectly fine, (Y/N), don’t worry. I find it flattering that my cock has your attention, actually.”

You laughed nervously. 

“There’s a condom in the nightstand drawer. Do you need any lube? I have some in another drawer.” He asked in a rather caring tone.

Getting up from your position on the bed, you nodded and dug around in the nightstand drawers for what you feel like you required and handed the condom and medium sized bottle of lube to him before laying on your back. Thomas opened the package and put on the rubber protection, and proceeded to rub some lubricant on his covered dick. He tossed the bottle to you, and you got everything down there slick. Well, slicker. Your body was eager for this to happen. Your cunt was aching for him to penetrate it, your body was trembling, and your heart was racing as you tried not to breathe too much and too heavily. 

Thomas came closer and climbed onto the bed, right above your body.

“Are you sure you want this?” He asked. It was obvious he was dying to fuck you and needed some action, but he was willing to change his mind if you decided to back out.

You stared at his face. He had a look in his eyes that could be described as craving and lustful. 

You took a deep breath and ran your fingers through his shaggy blonde hair, not breaking eye contact. His face was inches away from yours. You spread your legs as wide as you could without hurting yourself and braced yourself.

“Yes.” You replied.

“Just let me know if I’m hurting you, okay?” He said as he pulled back slightly and looked down at his dick, grabbing it to guide it to where it needed to be at that moment.

Your eyes were still trained on his face.

Suddenly, you felt it. 

A gasp left your mouth as his penis slowly stretched your vagina with every inch passing through your lubed up labia. 

You looked down at what was going on, and your pussy clenched for a second, causing Thomas to groan a little. 

You knew he wasn’t in pain, quite on the contrary, you recognized the familiar noise of a man trying to keep it together and not prematurely cum. 

As he kept going in, you felt the veins on his cock throb through the condom, and it made you tremble even more. 

He stopped when both of your pubic areas touched. His dick was all the way inside of you.

You looked back at him with the widest eyes you’ve ever had and breathed heavily. He looked right back at you, not breaking eye contact until he leaned in for some sloppy kisses, and you gladly reciprocated his actions. 

He moved his head away and looked behind you at the headboard, focusing as he began to move, slowly pulling almost all the way out, only to nearly slam back in. You gasped and he grunted in response. 

He thrusted again, but slightly quicker. And it only got faster. And faster. So fast to the point where you were feeling ecstasy, unable to control your moans.

Thomas was moaning too, and he got even louder as he chased his high and as wet skin began to slap rapidly. You wrapped your arms around his body and pulled you closer, so close to where his chest hair was almost rubbing against your breasts and erect nipples. It only made things more heavenly for you, as you let out a scream before calling out his name at the same volume. 

Your walls clenched hard around him a final time as you felt an orgasm being drawn out from your body. 

Thomas kept going for a few seconds, his eyes having been trained on your face before your release. It wasn’t long until his cock twitched and he slowed down as he emptied his load into the condom. 

He pulled out, took the condom off, and tied it before throwing it in the trash can on the other side of the bed. All the while you were both sticky with sweat and panting heavily.

Thomas collapsed on his back onto the bed beside you and pushed the hair out of his face. You turned to face him and he did the same, with a small smile as his chest heaved repeatedly. 

“I-um.…” you began, after catching your breath. 

He laughed. “You don’t have to explain anything. That was amazing. I really needed that. I’ve wanted to do this ever since you came over to my house the first time. Before your phone went off.”

You laughed slightly. “Thanks?” You said without much thought.

He reached out for your hand. 

“Trust me, I really enjoyed that. You weren’t bad for a virgin, not bad at all.” He said with a goofy grin as your hands weakly and shakily gripped each other.

A feeling of warmth spread across your face and chest as you turned your head to look at the ceiling. Post sex glow.

Thomas pulled you closer to his body and wrapped his long, skinny arms around you. He gave you a short but sweet kiss on the top of your head. You turned your head to face him once more and gazed into his relaxed eyes. 

It was safe to say that you both needed that, and very much so at that.

[aphroditestummyrolls]

Time for a spare prayer WIP game :))

Hiiiii! Chapter 3 has just been posted ❤️ this little moment is from chapter 5.

“Nina is… strong-willed. And outspoken.”

The Fjerdan sat down beside him with a half a smile. He couldn’t tell if he was apologising on the Ravkan’s behalf, or if he was simply stating facts, but Colm didn’t like it either way. There were plenty of things to be said about this place and the people in it without tearing a woman down for having an opinion… even if that opinion was rattling around the Kaelishman’s brain like a stray bullet casing.

“Neither are bad things for a lady to be.” He replied shortly. He had no patience for the Fjerdan culture— reminded him of The Wandering Isle he grew up in all those years ago, in the worst way. Old fashioned, oppressive, discriminatory; it was as if the bad weather had frozen Time itself up in mighty Fjerda. At least the Wandering Isle thawed and grew over the decades. “If you have a problem with that, you ought to go find a nice girl back home.”

The Fjerdan huffed. “Nina is my home. I only meant that she is protective— of all of us, of course. But Jesper, most of all, I think.” Colm looked over at the bar, where the pretty red-clad woman was polishing glasses. Her cheeks were still flushed and she was muttering to herself.

“Because they’re both grisha?” He guessed. It wasn’t a difficult deduction.

D’you have any idea what you’ve done? How unhealthy it is to bury your power inside like that? Her words echoed. He traced his fingertip absently through the condensation on his pint glass. Tell me, is it all grisha who should be made to hide in shame, or is it just your son?

The Fjerdan hummed an affirmative. “Apparently, they were not always so close, before I was freed. But, when Nina discovered he was also drüsje? He came to her asking all of these questions, looking for help in training and directing his power; she immediately took him under her little red wing.” He chuckled. “At first, I was almost jealous— but, of course, Jesper was jealous of me as well! He misinterpreted my closeness with Wylan.”

Colm blinked, wading through the words as though the meaning was getting lost somehow. What was the point of this? It set his teeth on edge.

Freed? Drüsje? Who was this man?

“Of course, Nina explained. To have a fellow grisha among us reminds her of The Little Palace— we’ve all made a home here, yes, but we all have places we cannot return to.”

“Jesper doesn’t.” He immediately replied, feeling a sudden knee jerk defensiveness, meeting the young man’s gaze. He hoped he looked more defiant than desperate. “Jes could’ve come home any time he wanted to. He knows I’d be there whenever he needed me.”

The Fjerdan was looking placidly at him, and Colm got the impression that he was quite a bit more intelligent than his brawn would imply.

“Mr. Fahey, Jesper clearly did not think that.”

I am having so much fun right now just letting the characters chat??? Like, Matthias and Colm? They have so much more in common than Colm knows, but already, Matthias is becoming the first person he’ll come to trust in the crows.

Building a voice for Matthias is also so interesting. Marrying show and book matthias, and bringing he and Jesper together as friends when Kit and Calahan never got to work together? It’s so fun. (I still hope that maybe one day 😭 we’ll see them bond).

Thank you for playing!

[cursedonyx]

Taming the Serpent - Ch 25 excerpt

A little fluffy excerpt from my secondary fic, Taming the Serpent, in which Ominis misses his best friend and the fun they used to have when they were younger.

The whole story (currently a WIP) can be read on wattpad

⚠️Warning⚠️ The story itself features heavy themes of trauma, SA, infidelity, and plenty of (planned) smut.

“’Lo, Ominis,” Sebastian greeted him as he slid into the seat next to him. “Got much homework?”

Ominis grimaced. “More than I care to tackle right now,” he muttered. “I was looking for you, actually.”

“Oh?” Sebastian closed his book, his tone decidedly wary. “What’s up?”

Ominis shrugged, feeling suddenly awkward. A few years ago, it would have meant nothing to ask his best friend to join him in the Undercroft, to while away the hours doing nothing of any great importance. But time had passed. Things had happened. Claire had arrived, taking Sebastian from him, leaving him out in the cold. She had encouraged Sebastian to delve deeper and deeper into the Dark Arts. Sebastian had killed Solomon. And somewhere along the way, sometime in those years spent fretting and longing, the ease of their friendship had never quite recovered.

“Nothing much,” Ominis hedged. “I just thought you might be bored, that’s all.”

Sebastian gave a low laugh. “Me, bored in a library? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Well, are you?”

“A little,” Sebastian admitted. “I’m just reading up about colour-change charms for Ronen.”

“Ah, yes. He wants twenty inches by next Friday, doesn’t he?”

“Yep. Figured I’d make a start, at least. I’ve been helping Claire with Hecat’s essay on Lethifolds.”

“You wrote it for her, you mean,” Ominis replied, unable to remove all the venom from his voice. He hurried on as Sebastian turned to him. “Never mind all that. I’ve just been thinking, that’s all. Now that Anne’s better, it’s reminded me of all the mischief we used to get up to.”

“You want to prank someone?” Sebastian asked. “I won’t say no to that. Weasley’s really been pissing me off lately, he keeps looking at me like he knows something I don’t, then acting like I’m being stupid or strange when I call him out on it. Claire keeps telling me I’m imagining it, and maybe I am.”

Ominis twisted his mouth. “Perhaps not that,” he said. “I’d rather we avoided detention this year, if you please.”

“Then what?”

He smiled a little. “Remember when we used to just hang out in the Undercroft? We used to do everything there, our homework, all our talks, hell, we used to steal food from the kitchens and sleep there.”

“I do remember,” Sebastian said, wistfully. “Those were good times, just the three of us, when we were kids.”

“You asked me before if I wanted to spend a night there,” Ominis said. “Just us and a campfire, like old times. I’d like to take you up on the offer, if it’s still available?”

Sebastian chuckled softly. “I’d like that. I’ll ask Claire if she-”

“No,” Ominis said, quickly. “Can we not just have an evening without our respective…” he trailed off, and winced. “Well. You know.”

He could sense Sebastian’s wicked grin. “So… you and Silver getting a bit more serious then? Is that where you’ve been all day? With her?”

Ominis passed a wintry glare in his direction. “My offer stands,” he said. “I wouldn’t expect a full evening, we’re far too busy for that. But why not take some time to just enjoy ourselves a little? Merlin only knows we won’t have this again once we’re through with this year.”

“Good point,” Sebastian said. “I can spare a little time. What do you want to do?”

“Why not play a few rounds of gobstones? We haven’t played for ages.”

“That does sound fun,” Sebastian said, then sighed. “I can’t. Claire hates the smell of it when I lose.”

“So don’t lose,” Ominis said, and grinned.

[purplesigebert]

WIP Wednesday: DW Crossover #7

Continuation of Week 1:

“Yes, but why did you go there? Why are you continuing to go there?” Martha asked.

“Not to mention the week that you asked the TARDIS for a bed to be added to the room and slept in there, for a week,” Donna oh so helpfully added.

“Those were special circumstances! It was during, like, the weeks after Pompeii, the landscapes calmed me and helped me with the nightmares I had.” 

Caroline couldn’t stop thinking about all of the people that were buried under the remnants of the ash cloud that had settled over Pompeii.  Twenty-thousand people; they were responsible for the deaths of twenty-thousand people. The three of them had pushed the lever that made Vesuvius erupt. The Doctor's justification of Pompeii or the world hadn't provided her any comfort in the last three weeks. Night after night she would wake up after gasping for breath, the screams and the looks of panic and fear on the people’s faces was the worst. The only thing she could do to calm down was to push the covers off, tip-toe into the galley, make some vervain tea, and go to sit in the gallery.  When she was in there, the TARDIS providing her favourite fluffy blanket and pillow, a mummer of thank you, Old Girl, she would have to only stare at the paintings for a few seconds before the tension started to drain out of her.

Caroline refused to look anywhere near Klaus, she didn’t want to see his smug face. Her gaze wandered over to Tyler and she couldn’t help but flinch at the reminder of his rage when he had found out that Klaus had drawn her after the ball.  Never mind the glass he had thrown at her when he learned that she had traded one of his hybrid buddies' lives in exchange for a date with Klaus.

She didn’t see that Donna noticed her reaction to Tyler, and how she resolved to have a talk with her blonde friend. He has a violent look about him. Donna thought as she looked at the boy with the short brown hair.  She looked back at Caroline, who was blushing again. I wonder what the whole story is? I’ll have to call her in the future. Present?

Time travel was still so confusing but she knew that she wanted to hear the full story in the future.  There would be plenty of time, maybe the Doctor could drop her off. 

“And what are your excuses for sleeping there when you don’t have nightmares?” “I’m not answering that with him in the room!” She whispered, very pointedly not looking in Klaus’ direction.

Still, she could absolutely feel the jerk smirking.

[galateagalvanized]

For the WIP name game: I’m very excited about the Highwayman Obi-wan fic but I feel like we already know what that’s about, so can you please tell us about “the devil went down”?

(Public okay!)

this one's very much a character study + porn so I'll just let y'all read the beginning and find out lmao

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

Jamie Kirk’s short brown curls splay across the hospital pillows in a wild abandon that matches the preferred state of their owner. Today, though, she lies perfectly still, with no drumming fingers or bouncing knee to mark her as Jamie Kirk, unstoppable object. Stillness is an anathema to Kirk, and the sight of her laying in drug-induced placidity drives needles into McCoy’s heart. 

Kirk doesn’t have any needles left in her, of course; the IV cocktail of drugs necessary to keep her body from tearing itself apart while Khan’s blood integrates itself with her system feeds neatly into a cannula in her arm. The IV system itself is fairly medieval technology, but Kirk is, of course, allergic to anything trying to keep her alive. 

McCoy settles into her chair, watching Kirk’s vitals scroll across the screen connected to the biobed, a serene seismograph of calm and continuous activity. At last, she sees the mountain range of her heart rate rise from a sedate 52 to 56, 61, 65, with Kirk’s breathing rate and body temperature following similar slow inclines. McCoy moves closer to the bed, reaching out two fingers to seek, unerringly, the beat of Kirk’s heart in her wrist. It’s an old habit from southern Georgia, where the old guard still have a distrust of the infallibility of technology carved into their bones.

Focused on the pulse beating across her fingers like ocean waves on the sand, McCoy almost misses when Kirk first opens her eyes. Kirk usually springs awake in the morning, horribly cheerful and already more energetic than McCoy is after her third cup of coffee. Now, though, Kirk’s eyes open slowly, groggily, struggling to keep her eyelids in a full upright and locked position. She has to try twice to focus on McCoy’s face.

“Hey, Bones,” she croaks, her voice rasping through her throat like sandpaper skating across a desert.

“Hey, yourself,” McCoy says, as soft and gentle as she knows how, and she passes over a cup of the gel-pack lozenges that are really just medicated ice chips. Kirk groans. 

“Pain?” McCoy snaps, already calculating morphine totals in her head while reaching for her hypo.

“No, no.” Kirk laughs, a dry rattle of a thing that pulls McCoy up short. “It’s just that you’re being nice to me. That’s never a good sign.”

McCoy glares while gesturing for her to suck on a glorified ice chip, trying and failing not to put her hands on her hips in the way Sulu says looks matronly. “Got plenty of anger in here too, darlin’,” she says, voice still quiet, but edged in a hardness that brooks no quarter. “Fortunately for you, I’ve got more patience than that walnut you call a brain has ever held.”

“You? Patient?” Kirk says, grinning, and her teeth are starting to stain just a little blue from the medication designed to hydrate and reduce soreness in a recently-intubated throat. McCoy’s glare deepens at the reminder.

“I think I’ve been more than patient with your antics,” McCoy grumbles, turning away from Kirk to fiddle with a hypospray. Because of the IV, McCoy hasn’t been able to justify stabbing Kirk once with a hypospray. She’s irritated at being deprived of even this small revenge on Kirk for trying, once again, to martyr herself for the good of the universe. 

A pale white hand flops on top of hers: the skin is pocked with the faint shimmer of new skin over red burns, and the nails are brittle and nearly translucent. McCoy makes a mental note to check the nutrient transfer capacity of Kirk’s healing intestinal system, then looks up.

“Thank you, Bones,” Kirk says, her voice slow and sincere even though her eyes are glassy with exhaustion, and McCoy’s heart lodges firmly in her throat. 

“You gotta stay with me, kid,” McCoy chokes out, turning her hand over and lacing their fingers together. She can see Kirk’s heart rate starting to drop back down into the rhythms of a natural sleep.

Kirk manages to squeeze McCoy’s fingers even as she’s dropping off. “Tryin’,” she slurs, and McCoy holds on as tight as she dares.

“Try harder,” she says, emotion coloring her words in a way she would never allow if Kirk were awake. McCoy’s been here every minute of the last week and a half, through every flatline and code blue, and she’s so, so tired. She’s tired of this room, and she’s more tired of Kirk throwing herself into the gaping maw of danger every chance she gets. 

Kirk doesn’t answer. Her heart rate is a peaceful mountain range, shallow and slow, as even and worn-down as the Appalachians of the home McCoy hasn’t seen in seven years.

“Try harder,” McCoy repeats, low. “If not for you, then for me.”

[late-to-the-fandom]

Hi there buddy, my name is Athena. I'm coming to say hi, see how you're doing and this is a chance to ramble about your wips. Have any of your wips been influenced/inspired by podcasts or any other media?

Hi Athena! Today I CAN ramble about WIPs because I wrote some 😭 it was such a glorious, being able to write day. I finished almost half my next chapter of Wend in the Shadows and had a blast doing it. Even though I told myself I wasn’t making my Denathrius smut specially canon, I couldn’t stop myself threading some of that perspective into his dialogue and attitude in this chapter and I think that actually makes it more fun (or more fun to write anyway). I’m still a bit strapped for a chapter name, but I have an idea for that problem too. The only disappointing bit was coming out of my writing spree and realising I still half the other half of the chapter to write 😂

On the subject of podcasts, I am that rarely seen breed that doesn’t listen to any. I would say it’s because I’m old, but actually plenty of old people love podcasts and I never loved talk radio either (which is what podcasts remind me of). I just never got the appeal of hearing someone talk at me about something they may or may not know anything about, but I fully appreciate that is a me problem and not a disparagement of podcasts in general.

Happy STS!

[magnetic-pens]

The Trickster's Mask (Excerpt); An Onion's Meaning

Here's the full scene since I can't get it out of my head. Bear in mind that it's still a WIP excerpt so it might not be done and/or vague. Anyways, I'm really proud of it regardless. Here you go;

"An onion? Is this some metaphor for how people are multi-faceted?" Perendale asked as he took the vegetable from the masked god. Something briefly hummed against his palm, signaling it was enchanted if only barely. He brought it to his nose to sniff and felt his stomach growl with the reminder that he had forgotten to eat lunch again. The mask shifted to gold, hardening and reflective, mirroring his own face back at him. He swore he heard them chuckle, "Something like that, old friend. Your task is to show me as many layers as you can. And explain the connection to the people of this world."

"As many as I can, huh?" Perendale turned the onion over in his hands, thinking. With a careless shrug, he lifted the onion and took a large bite, as if he were biting into an apple. The onion was raw, given the crispness as it crunched audibly in his mouth. Whatever magic it had been imbued with, it did nothing to the sharp and pungent flavor that had his eyes watering for a moment. He chewed and swallowed, showing the Trickster the onion's remains with a bright smile.

The Trickster stared at him in silence for a moment, then lowered his head to the onion. "What...you just...ate it?"

"No sense wasting food, and I doubt you wanted to poison me so...yeah," He shrugged again and pulled the onion back to him to take another bite.

"Most people like to cook their food before eating it, you know," The Trickster's mask softened to velvet, but those void-like eyes swirled with every color imaginable. His body shook slightly, as if with laughter but there was no trace of it in his voice. "You truly are capable of anything, aren't you, Perendale?"

"Most people are, given the chance," He chuckled and took another bite. "In a way, people are like onions in that way, too. There's a lot of variability and versatility in people. They can make even the smallest thing mean both nothing and everything."

"Nothing....and everything...You really do catch on quickly, given that was the true purpose of this test." Now the god before him broke out into a burst of laughter, the very fabric of the world itself vibrating with the sound, colors brightening and objects shimmering with sharper details that faded away with the sound. It almost made him sad to realize how rare something as simple as laughter probably was for the God, and how powerful he must be for a simple change in mood to affect the world so strongly. It didn't change the fact that Perendale still counted the god as among his friends, but it did put things into perspective just how important the Trickster was to the world. How important Perendale could become, if he ever accepted the offer of replacing his friend.

But then his friend would be gone, right?

Perendale sighed and ran a hand through his dark curls, "Yeah, well, I've had an interesting enough life to know that things aren't always so simple. Thanks for the food, though."

"Your welcome," The god turned his head, as if listening to some distant sound. "I'll consider the anwser you have given me in better detail later. Until then, we will meet again another time."

"See you around," He agreed, reaching out a hand to the deity. After a moment's hesitation, a gloved hand-as soft and supple as lambskin leather-slipped into his and clasped him around the forearm. The grip was strong, reassuring him that there was still plenty of time before Perendale or maybe even someone else would be forced to make a choice one day. "I'll miss you."

"I am never far," The Trickster assured him, then with the passing of the wind, he vanished from sight. Peren's hand still tingled slightly from where they had touched and he shook out the feeling before remembering the onion in his other hand.

He smiled and took another bite, finishing it off slowly, as he walked back to the caravan where his fellow theater troupe were waiting

[facewithoutheart]

Thanks @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @fatalfangirl, @artsyunderstudy, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @cutestkilla, @forabeatofadrum, @captain-aralias, @palimpsessed, @confused-bi-queer, & @ionlydrinkhotwater for the tags. I am in awe of your talent!!!

Instead of making progress on any of my WIPs I wrote a drabble today inspired by @martsonmars. Here, have the story of the last rat in the catacombs to remember Baz:

One does not easily forget death when one lives amongst the bones of greater beasts; still, the rats need their reminder to stay strong, guarded.

Scraggleton never fails to deliver.

They gather after the weaning. Eloise delivered twelve pups this time, Sophia ten, and Julia fifteen. None have broken records; the mischief’s largest litter was nineteen. As for the least… well. This isn’t a metric they’ve ever kept. Why track such a gruesome thing, when there’s already so much to fear?

It’s been too many cycles since the boy last came, someone must hold the memory. Share it.

At three years old, the grey-haired rat is almost as blind as the pups have been for the past few weeks. But now their eyes see.

And so, Scraggleton shows them.

“Basil,” he rasps, taking a drag off the fire-stick that soothes his trembling limbs, “I haven’t heard that name in many cycles.”

The thirty-seven children gather closer, braving the smoke he blows to hear his tale.

“But I speak it sometimes, in my sleep.” Scraggleton shudders at the memory; of lifeless, drained husks of brown fur scattered across the stone floor of their home. Scattered amongst the bones, until they become them.

With a sweep of his eyes, Scraggleton draws in the crowd. His own are milky-white and frightening. It adds to the terror.

“He always spared the women. Some said it was a gift. To feed only on the males ensuring our continued survival.” Another drag. “I say it was a cruelty.” Exhale. “Sure, he ensured our survival but to what end? To cower in the shadows for fear of his darkness falling on our path? To live in constant terror that the next skittering of pebbles heralded our last breath?” Scraggleton inhales more of the poison smoke, blows it out onto the face of one young pub, who sneezes in response.

“Or perhaps he just preferred the taste of men,” Scraggleton suggests, one boney shoulder lifting in a shrug. “Who really knows?” He’s losing focus; he jabs out the smouldering white stick at his audience. “What I do know is you should heed my words and remember. Remember the tall boy with sharp teeth and a sharper blade. Remember the sound of his footsteps, and the fall of his shadow, and the blood that trailed his every step. For we may live in times of plenty, but dangers lurk in the dark corners of our home.”

There was supposed to be more but I can’t be bothered & @sillyunicorn & @martsonmars said it was fine as is. Insert HC about the rats leaving a dandelion at the grave of Natasha Pitch to ward off Baz from visiting, since he always laid flowers at her grave.

Tags & BIG TENSION-RELEASING HUGS to @sillyunicorn @martsonmars @mostlymaudlin @urban-sith @whatevertheweather @stardustasincocaine @aristocratic-otter @moodandmist @johnwgrey @takitalks @jbrrring @excalisbury @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @tea-brigade @creepyspice @bookish-bogwitch @bazzybelle @dragoneggo @letraspal @orange-peony @nightimedreamersworld @messofthejess @basiltonbutliketheherb

[shig-a-shig-ah]

LAYING CLAIM

» pairing: dabi x fem!reader

» cw: dubcon, revoked consent, noncon (we’re going on a journey, okay?), rimming, anal fingering, anal sex, crying, gratuitously fanon characterization. 18+, minors DNI.

» a/n: Started this months and months ago, and since I’m finally getting around to wrapping some WIPs, I guess you can have it now. Thanks @thebiggergroove​ for beta-reading!

» wc: 5.3k

» ao3 mirror

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The thing about Dabi is he's not usually a possessive guy. Fucking is fucking, as far as he's concerned—it doesn't really matter who is doing it with whom as long as everyone is getting off on it. But goddamn if there isn't something about you that makes him want to make you his.

And he's gotten that, more or less. It took some sweet talking and cajoling, and a few late nights where he made you come until you couldn't see straight, but you agreed not to go sleeping with anyone else. Sure, you've made him promise the same, but that's fine. Not that he's going to actually stop, of course, but he goes out on recruiting missions alone and he figures what you don't know won't hurt you.

That's all enough to satisfy him, at least for a little while. But then a few weeks pass and there it is again: that stupid jealousy and all those unbidden thoughts about the people you were with before him. People he knows. You never talk in too much detail about your past hookups, but he's not stupid, is all too aware that he's not the first one in this ragged band of miscreants that you've crawled into bed with. You've fucked Jin, and Shigaraki, and probably even Magne, god rest her soul—Dabi hadn't missed the way the two of you had huddled up giggling in the corner of the old bar one night, disappearing together unusually early, making those bedroom eyes at each other. And in theory that's fine. Nothing wrong with two girls having fun together, after all. Hell, bi chicks are hot and Dabi wouldn't mind taking advantage of that someday.

But first he needs to find a way to get the image of you with your legs spread for half the League out of his goddamn head.

If he's being honest, it's Shigaraki who bothers him the most. Magne is dead. Jin is a decent dude and, Dabi has to imagine, tame as a kitten in the sack. But Shigaraki, well...Dabi can tell just by looking at the guy that he's a freak, and the idea of you riding Shigaraki's dry, crusty dick, of letting him do who-knows-what filthy shit to you? It just gets to him.

And then Toga has to suggest that stupid game and go putting ideas in his head.

You're all sitting around the crumbling office space that passes for a hideout, drinking to celebrate the League's first successful double-amputation (because fuck that germophobic, transphobic prick), and blondie is just begging to play a drinking game. Normally Dabi doesn't go for that shit—why anyone needs an excuse to get wasted is beyond him—but he's in a good mood, and you make that adorable pouty face as you tell him that you played in college, that it's really fun, and somehow he finds himself sitting in a circle on the dusty floor with the rest of you losers playing 'I haven't' or whatever the fuck it's called.

It's all bland shit to start. Toga's never driven a car, Shigaraki's never gone to school. But, after you've made your way around the circle once, everyone seems to be loosening up and Spinner takes one for the team by getting to the interesting shit and admitting he's never slept with a girl. It spurs a moment of awkward silence made all the worse by his red face and obvious self-consciousness about being a virgin, but then Compress stage-whispers "Neither have I," before winking salaciously at the blushing lizard and taking a dramatic pull from his beer bottle. It's enough to lighten the mood.

After that, Dabi's forced to admit it's a decent game. There's not much he hasn't done sexually or criminally, and since those are the two topics everyone focuses on, he finds himself getting hammered faster than usual. It's a good thing too—his buzz makes it easier to ignore the look you and Shigaraki exchange when Jin announces that he's never tried watersports, easier to pretend his gut isn't twisting at the knowing smirk on your leader's face as he raises his beer bottle to drink and you follow suit.

That particular moment makes it all the more surprising when, on your next turn, you hide an embarrassed face behind your hand and announce that you've never taken it in the ass.

Dabi can't stop thinking about it the rest of the night. Obsessing over it, and the idea of being your first, your only, even if only in some less than conventional way. The thing is, it's downright tame in comparison to a lot of what you two get up to, so barely even kinky that it's almost impossible to believe you've never tried it. Sure, you've never done it together, but he'd just figured neither of you were all that into it, since it hadn't come up when you were doing lewd shit to each other.

That kind of sex is fine from his perspective, but only fine. He doesn't actively seek it out because in his mind nothing beats the feel of being balls-deep in a warm pussy, but that doesn't mean he hasn't done it. He's hooked up with plenty of girls that were into it and has always been happy to oblige; hell, he's even taken it more than once, on account of the fact that when it comes to the bedroom he's willing to try anything twice.

But doing it with you? Well, that thought sticks. The two of you finally go to bed and Dabi's so turned on by the idea of your virgin ass that he can't help testing the waters, prodding teasingly at that tight hole with one spit-slicked finger until you're squirming away and whining. He doesn't manage to convince you right then, but he makes those puppy dog eyes that are far more effective than they have any right to be, and you agree to give it a go in the future.

"Not here," you specify, the words fuzzy on your drunken tongue. "Someplace nicer, with a real bed." You already have your reservations, and you certainly don't relish the idea of undertaking that particular venture now, on a worn mattress in this falling apart building, with its paper-thin walls and complete lack of hot water. Between your booze-fueled haze and the seeming interminability of the League's poverty, you mostly forget about that casual promise by the following morning.

But Dabi doesn't. He picks up a small bottle of lube the next day and carries it around in his pocket shamelessly, a little reminder that he has something to look forward to besides roasting that prick Endeavor, and he strokes himself off to the idea more than he's proud to admit as he waits for the League to move on to better things. He can be patient, when he needs to be.

That patience takes a toll though, and the minute the League settles into their new digs in Re-Destro's sprawling villa, where there's actually privacy and clean, comfortable beds, Dabi shows up at your door with a cheshire grin and every intention of finally getting something from you that's just for him.

You grimace when you remember that promise, try briefly to talk him out of it even, but he isn't so easily dissuaded. It's made all the harder by the fact that you can't give him a specific reason why you've never tried it, beyond that it seems uncomfortable and you hadn't particularly enjoyed the couple instances when you'd allowed someone to slip a finger or two in there.

"C'mon, baby girl," Dabi coos, his breath hot in your ear as he pins you to the wall, working two unnaturally warm fingers into your cunt. "I'll make sure it's good for you. Be gentle, get you nice and warmed up first, all that sweet shit."

It really is unfair how persuasive he can be when he fixes those pleading turquoise eyes on you. The way the pads of his fingers are curling just right deep inside isn't helping either, and he teases you like that until you give in to his cajoling, though you still insist on waiting a couple nights so that you can do your research and make sure you're entirely prepared. Dabi demonstrates his appreciation by burying his face in your cunt and not surfacing for air until you've come three times and are begging for a break.

When the night finally arrives, Dabi's feeling positively giddy. He slips into your bedroom with a bottle of wine and a couple glasses he's brought, a little something to help you relax because he's a gentleman when he wants to be. It should be good booze too—he lifted it from Re-Destro's private stash, and he's certain baldy doesn't drink anything that costs less than ¥30,000. Of course, Re-Destro doesn't love sharing either, but the uptight prick is too scared of Shigaraki to complain about anything the League does. They all take advantage of that, because they can and because it's fun to watch him bite his tongue when they piss him off.

You don't make it easy for Dabi to focus on pouring the drinks though, not when you're reclining in that armchair by the window, freshly showered and fidgeting nervously. He was half-erect before he got here from just thinking about what he was going to do to you, and the sight of you acting like you're some blushing virgin spurs him all the way to rock-hard. By the time your glasses are close to empty, he's straining uncomfortably in his pants, and can't fight back his impatience any longer.

"What do you think, doll?" he murmurs, setting his glass to the side and standing up, shrugging his jacket off before leaning down to ghost his lips over your neck. "You ready to move this to the bed?"

The way you chew at your lower lip anxiously before nodding makes his dick throb.

You empty your glass with one final, large swallow, your heart racing as you rise. You know it's stupid—you and Dabi have fucked countless times and a lot of it hasn't exactly been vanilla—but it's been a long time since you've actually tried anything new. His obvious excitement doesn't help either, paradoxically; it leaves you fretting about what will happen if you're somehow bad at this, or if you can't take it and have to stop. You've never really worried about disappointing him before, but now the thought weighs acutely on your mind.

It's with halting steps that you approach the bed and then, when you can't realistically drag your feet any longer, you finally tug the nightgown you're wearing off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor to reveal what's underneath.

"Damn, baby girl," Dabi breathes, looking you up and down. You'd figured that since it was a special occasion you might as well dress up, donning a strappy bra and panties. They're little more than elaborate, crisscrossing pieces of lace, all white since he'd seemed so fixated on this pseudo-innocent, first-time act. His reaction doesn't disappoint, eyes lighting up as he stares at you hungrily.

You let yourself fall back on the bed, nestling against the many pillows. The look on his face has your stomach fluttering, and the wine has helped you to relax a bit despite your nerves, a pleasant warmth spreading throughout your body. It's joined by a different kind of heat when you feel the mattress dip beneath Dabi's weight as he positions himself over you, one knee resting between your thighs, just barely brushing against your center, a hint of what's to come.

"You look so good I could just eat you up," Dabi whispers hotly against your ear before tracing his lips over your jaw. Even though he wants to take his time, let himself savor this, it's taking every ounce of patience he has to keep the promise he made to get you worked up and ready for him, to not to tear those pretty bits of satin and lace off and have his way with you right then.

You whine eagerly when his mouth slants hungrily over yours, savoring the feel of those mismatched lips, the way the rough skin of the bottom one contrasts so deliciously with the top. Hot hands run over your sides as the kiss deepens, your tongues tangling together, and you moan against him.

When you finally break for air, Dabi moves his lips to your throat, his tongue lapping at your pulse before he sinks his teeth into you. He loves to mark you up, loves making sure everyone can see that you're indisputably his, and it's even hotter now that he knows he's going to fuck you in a way no one else has. You're shivering beneath him as he works, your hand tugging insistently at his hair, and Dabi lets out a low, throaty growl.

"Guess I'm not the only one who's eager, huh?"

Your hips tilt in response, pressing needily into his firm thigh, and Dabi can feel the skin on his cheeks straining against his staples as he grins. He traces one hand up over your ribs, cupping at your supple breasts, teasing your hardening nipple through the flimsy fabric of your bra. Those deft fingers work under the seam of your lingerie as he shifts his weight, increasing the pressure against your center while he pinches and tugs at the peaks of your breasts until you're whimpering, spreading slick along his leg even through your thin panties.

Dabi pulls away abruptly, rolling onto his back and tugging at you to change positions, shaking his head when you move to mount his hips.

"Come here, baby girl," he says, his tongue tracing over his bottom lip. "Like I said, I wanna eat you up."

The promise in those words sends a bolt of heat straight through your core as he guides you to straddle his face, hot breath tickling your inner thighs. One calloused thumb brushes your clit lightly through your underwear, blue eyes sparkling when your breath hitches at that soft touch. When he pulls that useless fabric to the side and runs his tongue over your already-damp slit, you shudder.

Dabi lets out a pleased groan at your reaction and gets to work more earnestly, lapping at your sensitive nub, licking and sucking until you're moaning and only then shifting a little so that he can lap at your insides, that same rough thumb replacing the pressure of his tongue on your clit. It strokes firm circles as he buries that hot, wet muscle inside you, the metal barbell there teasing your inner walls as you grind involuntarily against it. You can't help but whine when he withdraws it, but that disappointment is quickly replaced by you startling as that same wet muscle extends further back to tease at your puckered entrance.

"A-ah, Dabi, wait," you protest, your face heating up self-consciously almost at once.

Dabi pauses, shifting just enough to keep his reply from being muffled as one warm hand runs reassuringly up your thigh. "I don't think I can help myself, doll," he says, his slick-coated lips splitting into a wide grin, "you just taste too good."

That heat in your face worsens as he dives back in, not even waiting for you to respond before he's flexing his tongue to poke at that tight ring of muscle. You still try to squirm away, feeling unprepared for this. You hadn't even considered it among the possible activities were volunteering to participate in, but Dabi is holding you firmly in place with the hand not working at your clit, and when another whine of protest escapes you, it's weaker than the first. The foreign sensation of his tongue against your neglected hole has you hyperaware of the press of his thumb at your apex, and you can feel tension building in your core even as you writhe in embarrassment.

It's as though he knows, too, and you suppose maybe he does; after all, he's the one who's done this before. He thrusts his tongue a little deeper, rolling your clit between two hot fingers with enough pressure to cut off any further protests. A long moan is the only sound you can muster as you spill over the edge, your thighs clenching around his head and your hips jerking shakily as you ride out your climax with his tongue still buried obscenely in your rear.

Dabi's face is covered in your juices by the time he slides from between your thighs, and he wipes it away carelessly with one arm as he repositions you again, pinning you on your back and wasting no time peeling away your now-soaked panties. He grins at the sight of your glistening folds and swollen clit before stripping off most of his own clothes, kicking them unceremoniously to the side and relaxing between your legs, kissing at your still-trembling thighs.

He teases at your sensitive cunt with his fingers, coating them in your juices as you whimper. "Ready for a little more?" he asks, and you nod despite the fact that your cheeks are still burning from before and your stomach is knotting with nerves.

"Just...go slow, okay?"

"Of course, baby girl," he promises, "I told you I'd take good care of you." With that, he starts to work you open, dipping one finger into your tight hole just until he reaches the first knuckle, working it in and out slowly. His other hand toys at your clit, stroking and rolling that puffy nub again, making you mewl.

Dabi waits until you're relaxed before trying any more, pulling away from you just long enough to dig the lube from the pocket of his discarded pants, coating his fingers with it. He works that lone finger deeper this time, in and out until it's buried to the last knuckle.

The sensation is strange, but not entirely unpleasant; even if you think you'd rather have that finger curling in your cunt, the slight stretch is still adding to the faint throb already growing inside you, the one that worsens when his thumb returns to your apex.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Dabi growls when one well-placed stroke of his thumb has you clenching lightly around his finger. He ruts his hips against the sheets, trying vainly to find some relief for his aching member, but it's not enough—he needs to feel you, needs the vice-like grip clutching his fingers to be wrapped around his cock, and he needs it soon.

You feel him withdraw to add more lube, and then he's fingering you again, adding another digit to stretch you wider. It comes with a stab of discomfort when he forces his way past the second knuckle, and you reflexively try to pull back. "Dabi, that's too much."

He abandons his soothing attentions to your clit, one warm palm pressing you tight against the mattress to keep you in place, stroking soothingly at your hip. His breath tickles over your inner thigh as he chuckles softly. "If you can't take this, how are you ever gonna take me, hmm?" he says teasingly. "You're doing great, baby, just relax."

You will yourself to unclench, trying to picture Dabi's satisfied face once you're taking him, that adoring look he sometimes gives you, the one that you relish. Your efforts are only marginally effective, but Dabi keeps pushing deeper, fucking you slowly but insistently with those fingers, and when you don't complain again, his thumb returns to caressing your sex.

"That's a good girl." Dabi picks up the pace, cursing under his breath. "You're doing so good."

You're wriggling against his hand now, trying to increase the friction at your center, not quite minding the foreign sensation of his fingers and the uncanny fullness they bring so much now that there's heat thrumming in your core. "Y-yeah, like that," you pant encouragingly, and Dabi grins.

"That doing it for you?" he purrs. "Think you can take more?"

You start to shake your head—the stretch now feels like all you can handle—but Dabi's already adding a third slick finger, shoving it in with less restraint than before. You feel more than discomfort this time when three knuckles breach your asshole, and it quickly dampens the arousal that had been steadily building. "Dabi, slow down," you gasp.

"Aw, are you sure you can't handle it?" His blue eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide with arousal as he looks you over with the hungry gaze. "'Cause if I'm being honest, it feels like you're trying to suck me in. Like this greedy little hole wants to get fucked."

The huskiness of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, even as another whine of discomfort escapes you. For just a second his expression darkens slightly, but then he's slowing his movements, twisting his fingers instead of thrusting them in and out.

"Better?" he asks, and you think you catch an edge of impatience in his voice.

It is better though, a little at least, enough that you can focus on the way your cunt flutters every time his thumb strokes over your clit. So you just nod; it's not like this wasn't bound to be a little unpleasant at points, right?

Dabi's smile stretches wider, his thumb working faster. A mewl slips from between your lips and Dabi takes that as encouragement, his fingers resuming their persistent thrusts. It's still uncomfortable, though not quite as bad as when he started, and your teeth sink into your lower lip to bite back your complaints. You let your eyes fall closed instead, trying to focus on his attentions to your hooded nub, on the heat that's pooling in your lower belly. You're inching towards another release, and you let a hand lift to your breast, tweaking at the pebbled flesh of one nipple to help yourself along.

"D-dabi, I'm close," you stammer, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Yeah?" His movements speed up, his voice breathy and excited. "Do it, baby girl. Come for me and then I'm gonna fuck this tight little ass of yours."

You swallow hard, trying not to dwell on those words for now—you can tell you've loosened up more, tolerating the jab of his fingers, but his cock is substantially larger than those, all too intimidating. Thankfully, it's not hard to remain distracted, to focus only on your approaching peak.

Dabi can feel that orgasm rip through you when it hits, your asshole clenching around his fingers as you keen, and it's then that he reaches the limits of his patience. He needs you now, needs the thrill of burying himself in your tight ass and claiming you for his own, of reaching his own release deep inside and then watching his seed spill out afterwards. What a satisfying sight that will be.

He scrambles up from between your legs to catch your lips with his, fumbling his boxers off as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, his eyes are bright, needy. "Ready for me?" he asks.

You're not, not really, but you can see the fervor in his eyes, hear the urgency in his voice, and you convince yourself that he won't be able to work you open much more with his fingers no matter what. Your agreement doesn't matter anyway—he's already rolling you onto your side and slotting his chest against your back, his straining erection poking at the cleft between your thighs.

"Like this?" you ask, surprised by the choice of position.

"Just like this," he pants in your ear. His teeth nibble at your lobe as he slicks his cock generously with lube. "Want you spooned against me so I can see those cute faces you make, feel you squirming when you take me."

And fuck, when he slips one hand back down to finger your asshole one last time, it doesn't disappoint—your body ripples against him when that invasion catches you off guard, and he can see the way your lips part obscenely as you gasp at his touch. His fingers abandon your tight hole almost as quickly as they'd entered, and then Dabi is aligning himself with your entrance, using the last of his restraint not to slam his hips forward and bury himself inside with a single thrust.

You can feel the spongy head of his glans, and the slick coolness of the ring that adorns his tip, prodding at your rear. One of his arms worms its way under your side, his hand groping distractedly at your breasts as you tense in anticipation.

"Relax, baby girl," he murmurs, but he doesn't wait for you to even try. He's already slipping in, moving slowly until he encounters resistance an inch or so inside, and then pausing.

He has to struggle to keep his composure. Even like this, with not even the full head of his cock in your ass, his balls are tightening, just the thought of what he's doing nearly enough to send him over the brink. He waits until he's sure that won't happen and then starts moving, pushing insistently to work you open around his length with shallow thrusts.

"A-ah, Dabi, g-go easy," you stutter, already squirming. You can feel your body resisting the intrusion, so much larger than his fingers, and it aches slightly every time he tries to breach that inner ring.

"I am, baby, don't worry. I'll take care of you." His cheek is nuzzling against yours, his lips kissing and sucking wherever he can reach, but his motions don't change at all even as he murmurs so sweetly. He only slings one arm over your hips, toying lazily at your clit. That attention helps you relax, helps distract you a little, but it's not enough to prepare you for when he drives himself in further, finally surging past that taut band of muscle.

The invasion brings a sharp pain, one that has you crying out. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your body reflexively contorting to try and escape the cause of that hurt, but his arms tighten around you, holding you in place as he continues to work himself deeper with every thrust.

"Dabi, that hurts." Your words are sharper this time as each stroke sends another unpleasant throb through your overstretched hole, but his only response is to plunge the fingers rubbing at your clit into your dripping cunt.

"Shh, you're doing great." He curls his fingers, stroking against that spongy spot deep inside. It makes you writhe, but that does nothing to address the pain between your legs as he fucks you.

"Dabi, don't, that's not helping, I—"

"It's okay, baby girl, you're taking me so well," Dabi coos. You'll adjust, he knows you will—you're usually up for anything, of course you can take this. And fuck, there's no way he can stop now, not when it's even better than he'd imagined—hotter and softer, your pillowy walls enveloping his length every time he plunges into you, the exquisite tightness of your entrance massaging his shaft with each thrust.

"I'm not— I don't— I don't want to do this anymore." You can hear the desperate edge in your voice now. Your heart is racing and there's a cold sweat forming on your skin as tears of pain and confusion start to leak down your cheeks. "Dabi, stop."

"Shh, shh, you're fine. You—fuck—you feel so amazing. 'S never been this good with anyone else, fuck."

"I don't care, I don't want this." You can't understand what's happening, why he's not listening. You twist your head to look at him, pleading with your eyes, but he's barely even focusing on you. His blue eyes are glazed and half-lidded as his lips wander over your shoulders and your neck, all the while murmuring those useless reassurances against your skin. You're thrashing now, your feet scrambling for purchase on the sheets as you try frantically to pull away, but he keeps his tight grip on you, one of his legs hooking around your own to hold you in place. "Dabi, I said stop!"

He shushes you again, rutting into you harshly, and a choked sob escapes you when he bottoms out inside you, his hips flush against your backside as you struggle against him. You feel sick to your stomach, and it only worsens when he pulls out until nothing but his tip remains, then drives himself back in with one agonizingly rough thrust.

You keep begging, pleading, wracking your brain and trying every past safe word you can recall, but he only continues to pound into you, his breathing erratic as he pants in your ear. "It's okay, baby. You're taking my cock like such a good girl. You're—ngh—making me feel so good."

The ache between your legs is diminishing slightly as you adjust to his girth, your body entirely unconcerned with whether you want that or not. He's still fingering your sopping cunt too, his palm grinding against your oversensitive clit with each plunge of his long digits, the lewd squelching sound of those attentions mingling with the sharp slap of his hips against your ass as he fucks you.

"You like this?" he asks, but you know he's not really asking. "You like knowing I'm the only one? That I'm making you mine, just mine, just like how it should be?"

"Dabi, stop. Please stop." Your appeals are feeble now, far more for yourself than for him as you continue to utter them between quiet sobs. Dabi's somewhere far away, awash in the tight heat of your ass and the satisfaction of finally staking his claim on you, aware of your supplications but not hearing them, not really.

You slump, still sobbing, and let him take what he wants. His attentions to your cunt have a coil tightening in your gut, but when your climax hits it's perfunctory and mechanical, no real pleasure to be found even as your hips jerk and your holes spasm, a joyless whine passing from your lips.

No real pleasure for you, at least. But fuck, the feel of you squeezing around his cock as you come is what Dabi has been waiting for, your insides massaging his length as though desperate for him to decorate your walls with his cum. It's a gift he's glad to grant—he rocks his hips more urgently, keeping his thrusts shallow now so that he's sure to get it all deep inside.

"Fuck," he groans against your neck. "Gonna make me come, baby girl. That what you want? Want me to fill you up?" You shake your head, but his movements are already growing spurtive and erratic, his grunts louder and throatier, and then you can feel his cock jerking inside you, a hot rush of cum flooding your guts.

Dabi doesn't stop then, either, keeps fucking his seed into you until he's softening, not quite able to work himself in and out of your tight, abused hole any longer, and only then does he finally pull out, a dribble of cum leaking obscenely down your thigh.

You're sniffling, drawing shaky breaths, and you try to pull away the moment his arms relax around you. They only tighten again, his lips planting soft kisses along your temple.

"Shh," he murmurs. The sound of his shushing makes you want to scream. One hand lifts to wipe at the tears on your cheeks. "You were so good, baby girl, there's no need to cry. You were fucking incredible." He means it too, doesn't think he's ever come so hard in his life as he did now, making you his.

Dabi can't wait to do it again.

[thetruearchmagos]

Swift Seas And Whirlwinds

An Excerpt: Night Lives

Wow, it's been a while since I touched this WIP! Hope you all enjoy what's here for ya!

Tagging @sleepyowlwrites , @athenswrites , @sanguine-arena , @lividdreamz , @muddshadow , @moonscribbler , @theprissythumbelina , @marinesocks , @orphicpoieses

It was a cold night, like most in the far southern city of Cagnan. The rain came down in thick sheets that hammered the narrow stone streets, and at this late hour, few were out. Even with the weather, it was unusually lifeless scene. Lights in the streets turned out, shops closed, curtained, and locked, the wartime curfew in full display as it blanketed its grasp across the teeming metropolis.

Yet, it was not all lifeless. The new state, fresh off the culling of the old, had yet to fully flex its full grasp. Here and there, forms and figures moved around unseen, in alleyways never known at the best of times and in wards best left far away. Those forms, listless and ethereal, would have shirked away at the break of light, yet here they were free to play.

One such figure seemed to move in an altogether different manner, however. Hands in thick coat pockets, a broad brim hat drawn low over the head, this shape walked with a quiet purpose that could be felt without even being seen. Stalking through the dark, doubling back every so often before continuing on its unreadable path, soon enough its nightly voyage came to an end.

At long last, the cloaked figure turned a final corner. There they ttopped, brought to a long street flanked on either end by the towering facades of terraced homes, with doors behind wrought iron fencing that hid them from the world. There was perhaps the only lights in the land, these homes of plenty, yet even here the ones who could make their lives in this luxury were still forced to turn the curtains in over their light, though it did little to hide how little they resembled the state of the homes around them, and the faint sounds of life within.

There, they stood, the rain pouring down all the same, and for a moment it might have not been there at all for all it did in the face of all around it. The thunder crackled in the pouring sky, the glare of lightning bringing some faint shape to the scene, if only for a moment before it was swept away in the torrent.

Finally, something changed. A movement, imperceptible, as a high up curtain shifted ever so slightly, and another as the figure crooked its head up to meet it.

The next moment, the heavy door of the house swept open, though the darkness within matched the darkness without, and all was still shroud in the black. The figure stepped forward, swung its long legs over the fence without pause, and walked into the house.

The door closed, silent, lest it betray the secrets that now lay within.

------

Elsewhere on this cold night, two men sat in leather chairs in a small, deep, badly lit room. Their uniforms were worn, slept in and unchanged for three days by now. Coups left little time for such niceties, especially for skilled and active intelligence officers, as the two men were.

"Remind me when our dear poule is coming to roost, again?"

This man had already lit a cigarette, the flame shining in thin spectacles, doing as much to light up the scattered papers and machine on the small desk as the ceiling lamp did. Opposite him, another man sat, heavyset and reaching for his own to light up, looked up from his tasks. He had two stripes on his shoulders, the other had four, and that meant all the difference it needed too.

"Je suis désolé, Monsieur. Eight, not sooner, I am told. He will be there for an hour, not more, and then will attempt his évasion."

"Well then, let us not let him wait for us, or he may get tired and make leave, non? If we want to catch our quarry, we must act fast, and sure."

He stopped, leaning forwards, elbows on table, to take a long drag from his light, before letting out a stream of grey smoke in the still air. He turned back to the papers, a quick sweep across them all, lingering for a moment on the blurred, colourless, cloaked figure caught midstride in one.

"These pictures, our teams have them, yes? Good, they may seem useless, but these types, they always have their little quirks they keep around, their little marks. With this, we can do much. Still, for now, let us wait.

And let us watch.

------

"Good to see you're still alive, Malik! Thought the rain would've killed you before the Nouvo's did, imagine trying to get a medal out of a light shower!"

Malik, for his part, was busy dumping freezing rain out of his boots, and half hoped the water damage would be too high for his host. She stood there in the half dark, though now a single candle in her hand offered some sight.

"I think we're supposed to call those torrential storms, and the damages exposure and hypothermia, Amelie. Why couldn't you have picked somewhere near public-bloody-transport!"

Amelie merely gave him a smirk, leaning against the rose-coloured walls of her castle.

"You know perfectly well why, my friend! If you want to meet and greet the rich of the land, you must live among them, and here that means quite far away from the trolley lanes."

"Live among? I know how much you've billed for fine cognacs, Ame's, you're living just like them!"

The two agents shared a laugh, Malik now squatting, back against the wall, and stripping from his sodden coat, as Amelie reached out to help pull him up. The pair quickly walked off, winding their way through carpeted corridors lined with mahogany furniture and lit by light of gas. Finally, they reached a room on the fourth floor of the estate, a quiet sitting room with a good view over the high class homes of the district, with a warm rug and two plush sofas around a solid low table, and a fireplace Malik promptly sat himself before.

Amelie rolled her eyes at this, but went on.

"So, I take it you've finally gotten whatever it is they want back at Central? Let me guess, they finally found out about that nasty mole on the Grand-Duc's chin and are plotting blackmail?"

"I'm afraid I can't say, Amelie, not to you at least. Though it is certainly not that!"

"Oh, you're no fun. Wait here and get dry, I'll work up the transmitter."

With that she went off back into the labyrinth, while Malik opted to stand up and search the reading room for some of those fancy butter cookies he knew Amelie kept in fresh stock.

------

The mood in the basement office was growing ever thicker, as was the air. The two men were on four cigarettes each, and they had to open the thick metal door that connected their room to the rest of the underground compound for fresh air.

"Puis-je demander, what is taking so long? Were you, perhaps, misinformed?"

"Excusez-moi, but I do not think so. The weather, a strong front was coming in as I came down here, and I imagine it has broken out by now. Our target, he prefers to walk in public, you see, and I suppose he has merely been delayed by the weather."

The older man clenched his cigarette tight, taking a deep draw of its vapours before smashing it out on an ashtray before him, its silver already hidden under a mountain of ash.

"You are excused for the delay, I did ask you for your assistance after all. Still, after such work as we have done tonight, one would hope to be rewarded. Alas, ---"

A loud ring cut him off, and in an instant both men turned to the large, wire-clad machine that had until then sat on the table to their side, almost forgotten. In an instant, two circular reels popped out from its top, and began to turn, with a reel of black tape driving between them. Dials began to turn, spinning around frantically, and pings and the whirring of gears came from the now live contraption.

"Sacre-bleu! The tapes! They've started their signal!"

------

Amelie reentered the room for a second time, now bearing a cup of tea for herself, and black coffee for her accomplice, to accompany the now open pack of biscuits she'd found.

"Do you always type that loudly, or do you reserve your noise for times of great secrecy and stealth?"

Malik jerked up from where he sat, with crumbs slightly falling from his mouth and giving Amelie something to laugh at.

"Loud? Please, this is nothing, and the sound of typing is the least of our worries."

He sat on a sofa cushion he had laid on the floor, hunched back to work but now reclined against the soft furniture with his coffee in hand. Taking up most of the space on the table, a large grey box as large as a torso sat, with a small screen and a series of switched, dials, and slides facing where Malik sat, with a small keyboard perched on what little bare space was left.

Scattered all about, documents bearing a sigil Amelie faintly recognised as the one used by the Nouvoloian military and government lay on the rug. One by one, as she reclined on the other sofa she saw him feed the documents through a small slit in the machine, which soon closed and let out a shrill mechanical whirr, then spat out the old paper to take in another.

"So, how much longer do you think this'll take? I suggest you leave before sunrise, it would be hard to explain this strange man in the home of the wealthy foreign socialite. Or... interesting?"

The coy smirk she finished with was met with a bark of laughter, that she quickly joined. They had enough time, and outside, Malik thought, it appeared they weren't the only ones around up late, with the faintest glows of light peeking through the curtains of some of the surrounding rows of stately homes.

Then, with a flourish, a row of those glowing homes, went dark.

------

"That was Block-717, sir."

"Merde, their still on the air! Try -718."

The two men were now frantic, rushed with the sudden realisation that their quarry had gotten one ahead of them. They had called for a field telephone, one connected to the local government bureaus and utilities, and each had a headset tight against their head, the younger man tapped into the power system and the elder with their own personnel, now in their black vans and with weapons in hand, ready to rush out into the rainswept streets at the call.

The power manager, for his part, was utterly confused at the call, and having gotten his wits together was about to challenge these strange orders to black out half his district.

"Monsieurs, may I ask what you are doing? Do you know how many homes you've had me shut down-"

The elder man dropped his headset, and snatched the other straight off the youngers ear, jamming it against his head.

"Bonne soiree, director, I am sorry for the intrusion. My name is Captain Girauld Castex, of the Service de Sécurité de l'État, and we are in need of---"

"Ca alors! Monsieur Capitaine, I am so sorry, how can I please assist-"

"I was about to get to that! You may start by doing exactly what we say, when we say it, and end by never speaking of this to anyone! Is that clear? Good! So, -718, shut them down!"

As he barked his orders, keeping track of the numbers as they counted along, he kept his eyes locked firmly on the machine. Listening into the airwaves, the dials whirled around and around, and a stream of ticker tape filled with meaningless nothing had crept out from it as it honed in. He was waiting for it to stop.

He was waiting for his prey to show.

------

"The devil was that?"

Amelie, watching the wind and rain whip by the outside world, thought she saw something, and felt a sudden unease grow in her gut. It must have shown on her face, because soon Malik had risen from his place, papers forgotten for a moment as he shot to where she was standing.

"Wait, the lights! Weren't they still on earlier?"

"I think so, yes. Might just be a blackout, you know. Ever since the new regime took over, we've had six officials put in charge of the power system in half as many months, hardly helpful to a stable grid."

She may have made sense, but she was well aware that her optimism was not taken seriously at all, even by herself. Something was up.

Suddenly, the lights flicked on again. The very next moment, another row of lights and homes was swept by darkness, as if a great curtain had been pulled over the whole street. It was now obvious what was happening, and immediately the two bolted to the table and the secrets that lay on and around it.

"Shit, Ame's, they're rolling black-outs! I'm getting the hell out of here, you turn off the transmitter and you can try and get the papers out whenever you can---"

"Absolutely not! They're going to send their search teams soon enough, and I'm not cleared for the papers anyways! You sneak out the back with them and send them to the Consul directly!"

Even as they argued, they conducted their fieldwork with an exacting unity. The many papers were soon in their cases, and then the leather satchel they had arrived in. The machine was emptied in minutes, and soon, Amelie stood over the power socket it was bound to, hand firmly clutching the power port, eyes locked on the block two streets away.

With a hard yank, at the very instant the lights went out far away, she pulled the plug.

------

The machine that had filled the air with its great, whirring noise, went silent. It was replaced by frantic shouting.

"Mon Dieu! Their transmitter out, we have them!"

"That was -720! Call in the teams to -720, tell them to breach every door and home, I don't care if some stuffy old tycoon tells them off, I want ever rock searched!"

The young man was happy to oblige, and in seconds six dark black vans wheeled out from the squat grey compound under which they worked, and sped out into the storm.

The hounds were loose. Their scent, however, was false.

------

The transmitter machine was gone as quickly as it had come, hidden away in broken down pieces across the home.

The pair stood again behind the great door, their actions in reverse as Malik quickly slipped into his still wet clothes and boots. However, the two then made their way further into the house, with measured steps taken to keep the silence sure. Eventually, they made it to a second door, a much smaller and simpler affair.

"So, Ame's, quite a night, eh?"

"Indeed, Mally, though nights with you are always fun."

They shared one final laugh. Malik let out his hand, and Amelie shook it, pressing tight before letting go.

"Good luck out there, agent. Good luck in the dark."

[rays-of-fire-and-ice]

📓📓📓 ~(￣▽￣)~

Drop me a “📓” and I’ll share a wip with you

Since there's three, you're getting three wips! >:D

First is from the same fic as this wip:

Before she can turn back to Toshiro, his right arm comes around her shoulder and he's bent over with his opposite arm coming under her knees. She can’t prevent a wince from escaping when he carefully lifts her. For her part she wraps her arms around his neck, trying to find something to hold on to that wasn’t the ice encasing his shoulders and the back of his neck, or the wings she only now just realized were not actually connected to him but instead floating a few inches away from his shoulder blades. She ends up grabbing on to the back of his haori.

He hoists her a little higher, angling his right arm in such a way that he holds her using his elbow and upper arm rather than his forearm and hand, allowing him to still hold Hyourinmaru upright. It also makes it that she’s closer to the side of his face. Again, if not for the situation and his injuries, she’d probably laugh at how he’s carrying her…or maybe blush, or both.

“This okay?” he asks without looking at her. There’s something resolute about him, but she isn’t sure if it’s regarding the situation ahead of them or to not turn his head and accidentally knock into her.

“Y-Yeah,” she confirms. “It’s fine like this.”

It’s then she notices the thin sheen of ice cover cuts and abrasions on his temple, cheek, and jaw. It’s no wonder they are sealed over this ice; he’s freezing, and she has to raise her reiatsu just to not shiver. It reminds her of the air around them, how cold it’d become. That’s when it hits her. The air wouldn’t have just changed here, but also in the town. And that meant… “Wait!”

Another snippet from As Time Goes By, As Seasons Change part 2 for @whipplefilter (because this fic is too long for it's own good, so there's plenty of snippets to share XD):

It’s not a minute later when he finds her leaning on the veranda railing, her back turned to him and her head bowed. She hasn’t noticed him, doesn’t even flinch when an orange autumn leaf flutters down from the maple tree and brushes past her arm. It lands at Shinji’s feet, joining the others on the floorboards.

It takes a lot to make Shinji concerned or worried, but something about the way she holds herself, the way her reiatsu flickers, and the fact she was here instead of closer to the office has him on edge. Rather than say anything, he watches her carefully as he steps outside and shuts the door behind himself, loud enough for her to hear.

Hinamori startles and spins to him, eyes wide and face pale. “Oh, Captain…”

He frowns at the papers in her hands and is slow to approach. “What’re you doing here?”

“I was…” She bows her head in shame. “I got distracted.”

“I can see that. What by?” he asks, trying to keep his voice neutral.

She holds out the papers to him without raising her head. He watches her for several seconds, waiting for an explanation that never comes, before he takes the documents. At seeing a familiar face on one of the old brochures, his frown deepens. He shuffles through them, and almost all of them have Aizen’s on them, and her name is credited at the bottom of each on as the artist. If it weren’t for the subject matter, he’d compliment her again on her drawing skills. “Ah, I get it now.”

Final one is from another Hitsuhina Week fic I'm working on, You Are the Snow:

Momo watches from her window as the first snow falls over the Seireitei. It’s later than usual, normally happening sometime at the beginning of December – if it happens at all, as was the case for some years.

Those outside in the courtyard or leaving the Fourth Division stop for a moment to watch as well. Their breathes fog in the air, and despite the breeze that blows through, noen are deterred to move or shiver from the cold. Most smile and appreciate the white specks that fall in lazy circles over them, others hold out there hand to catch a flake.

It’s almost impossible to not be reminded of Toshiro when the first snow comes.

The thought of him makes her presses a hand to her chest, over her robe and the bandages secured over her wound. She knew the truth of what happened, but even so, she can’t stop the tightening sensation in her heart or the threat of tears in her eyes.