#because if there are. and there’s a steady flow of fics like mine i will just. stop writing lmfao

[endious]

HIII im sorry if uve already been asked this before but i love your writing and its hard to find anything like it, do you have fic recs for writing that is similar to yours or fics that you love yourself because im sure you have great taste

unfortunately like you’ve said, it is extremely difficult to find anything like what i write. if you’re looking for hardcore shit like i write i unfortunately dont have any recs because there’s just nothing out there (from all that i’ve searched) that’s similar to what i write. that’s the whole reason i even write in the first place, because there’s nothing out there that interests me and there certainly isn’t any fics that do jeff justice as a fuckin’ sicko. he’s either too soft or not nearly gross enough but to each their own.

however,

Head first in the dirt 、MANIAC 、Taken (<- this one inspired me to even think of writing a full story like ??? two years ago and I constantly go and reread it)

this are full fledged stories (wip stories. they arent completed but are worth a read) and not oneshots just because i literally can’t find any that i read more than one paragraph of before closing the tab. no hate to anyone i’ve read fics from i just have a specific taste and how i view jeff but those stories i’ve linked above just itch a certain scratch for me. i havent read the first two (both are written by same author btw) that much but i love the pacing of the story and their writing is overall really pleasing and keeps me interested. of course i can be a shameless whore and plug my own story that’s got the same elements i always write but i wont lmfao

[frostdayz]

Bed

loki x reader

genre: Fluff

summary: You and loki tangled in each others arms and words while laying in bed.

note: Such a shit summary but this is just something small and loki themed because I recently read a long ass fic on ao3 that was a 10/10

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

I blinked my eyes open, slowly adjusting to the brightness. For a moment, I forgot where I was, but then I felt it—the warmth, the steady rise and fall of a chest beneath my cheek. I was curled up against Loki, our legs tangled together under the blankets.

I smiled to myself, savoring the rare moment of peace. Loki wasn’t exactly a morning person, and I had a feeling he was still asleep. Gently, I lifted my head to get a better look at him. His dark hair was tousled, a few strands falling across his forehead, and his face was relaxed, almost boyish in its softness. It was a side of him that few ever got to see.

Unable to resist, I reached up and brushed the stray hair away from his face. My fingers lingered, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. He stirred slightly, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Mm, what are you doing?” His voice was thick with sleep, and I couldn’t help but smile at how endearing it sounded.

“Just admiring the view,” I teased, resting my hand on his chest.

He opened one eye, peering at me with a mixture of amusement and mock annoyance. “You’re awfully chipper this morning,” he remarked, his lips quirking into a smirk.

“Maybe it’s because I woke up next to you,” I replied, unable to keep the affection out of my voice.

Loki’s smirk softened into a genuine smile, and he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer. “Flattery will get you everywhere, darling,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

I let out a contented sigh, snuggling against him. “We should do this more often. Just…stay in bed, with no worries, no responsibilities. Just us.”

He hummed in agreement, his fingers lazily drawing patterns on my back. “That sounds like a perfect way to spend the day,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “But you know as well as I do that our lives are rarely that simple.”

I pouted, though I knew he was right. “Can’t we pretend, just for a little while?”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “For you, my love, I’ll pretend all day if you wish.”

I grinned, my heart swelling with warmth at his words. “Then let’s stay here forever,” I declared, burrowing deeper into his embrace.

Loki tightened his hold on me, resting his chin on top of my head. “As you wish,” he whispered, his voice filled with a tenderness that made my heart skip a beat.

We lay there in comfortable silence, the world outside our little cocoon of warmth and love feeling miles away. It was a rare and precious moment, one that I wanted to hold onto for as long as I could. In Loki’s arms, everything felt right. The worries and challenges of the world could wait. For now, all that mattered was this—just him and me, wrapped up in each other, in the quiet beauty of the morning.

“I love you,” I whispered, the words flowing from my heart without hesitation.

He tilted my chin up, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that took my breath away. “And I love you,” he replied, his voice soft but unwavering.

He leaned down, capturing my lips in a gentle, lingering kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of all the things words could never fully express—a promise, a reassurance, a shared truth. When we finally pulled apart, I rested my forehead against his, our breaths mingling in the space between us.

“Let’s stay like this a little longer,” I murmured.

“Forever,” he agreed.

[flowerxbunnie]

Hola! Soy Dora! —

okay wait no for real tho.. can you pretty please write a nasty lil big bad b bernard matty boy fic? like where he’s big daddy dom and he’s got an unspoken relationship with y/n? like they’ve not spoken the words, but they belong togetherrr 🎶 okay but for real.. that, and they have a night together where they’re just drinking and vibing with one another (just them) and it takes a turn 😈 and he’s being like all controlling and makes her ride his thigh while he touches himself to the sight, and then and then and then just rails her into oblivion? loooadddds of filthy speak because i am a slut for that right there! pretty please with a cherry on top? 🍒

Carnal

Matt x Fem reader

Warnings: pure FILTHY smut. Dom!Matt, daddy kink, deg/praise, thigh riding etc :)

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT OKAY WITH SMUT OR ARE A MINOR

I throw back the last sip of my drink and hand my cup to Matt, the alcohol tasting like candy but burning just the same going down. I take the gummy worm off the rim and suck the sugar off, Matt’s eyes watching my every move closely. My skin is warm and my veins are filled with a buzzing feeling. He stacks the plastic cup on top of the others we’ve collected on the coffee table throughout the night, a chuckle escaping his lips as he counts them in his head.

“Damn, we gotta slow down soon.” He shakes his head slightly. “I’d like to not have a migraine tomorrow.”

“I’m feeling good, don’t know about you Matty boyyy..” I draw out, sitting back on the couch.

He sits back along with me and throws his arm over the back of the couch, turning his body slightly to face me. He has a half full cup in his other hand, his finger circling the rim slowly.

“Oh, I’m feeling good.” he smirks, bringing the cup to his lips and sipping as his eyes stay locked onto mine.

I can feel the slow and steady beat of the bass in my chest, his playlist playing quietly on the speaker on the table. We spend a while scrolling through my liked TikToks, cuddling and laughing together.

I find myself spending most of my Saturdays here in his living room, drinking and talking all night while Nick and Chris are away. My relationship with him is complicated. We’re definitely more than friends, but also less than lovers. I think we both have a problem with labels, feeling far more comfortable leaving things unspoken. I can’t help the thoughts that live in the back of my mind, like an itch I can’t scratch. A worry that maybe I’m not the only one he spends nights like this with. I know he’s my one and only, I can’t even fathom another man making me feel the way Matt does. Whether I’m in his car cracking up at his road rage or in his bed with the headboard thumping against the wall, I’m always filled with insane butterflies for this man.

But even though I’m sure of my feelings, he’s never outright spoken his. We’ve never had the conversation of if we want to date around or keep this situationship we have going on between us two. I feel selfish for wanting him all to myself, but he makes it hard not to.

“You good, baby?” He asks in his raspy voice, the nickname flowing off his tongue like honey and making my heart flutter. “You seem a little zoned out tonight.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, sitting up to grab another prefilled cup off the coffee table. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” He asks and brings his hand to the small of my back, his warm fingertips brushing beneath the hem of my shirt and sending shivers up my spine.

I just shake my head and give him a smile before throwing back a big gulp of my drink, melting against his touch as his hand inches higher up my spine. His rough fingertips run up and down slowly, my tense muscles going soft as he adds pressure.

“You know that’s not an answer, Y/n. Come on, talk to me.” He speaks sweetly as he sits his cup down.

His hand wraps around my waist and pulls me back down next to him on the couch, hooking his hand around my legs and bringing them up onto his lap. The look in his eyes is serious, even through the glaze the alcohol has brought on.

“I don’t know Matt,” I play with my fingers like I always do when I’m nervous. “I’m just having weird feelings tonight.”

His eyes soften like he already knows what I’m going to say. “Tell me, love.”

I sigh and let my back fall into the soft cushions. “I’m just scared.” I start, watching as the look on his face stays the same, unwavering. “I’m scared for the day you find someone else who you’re ready to make things official with. I’m scared that I’m not the only one you fix gummy worm drinks for.”

He chuckles and my heart drops, my suspicions feeling all the more real as he breaks out into a fit of laughter. His hand leaves my legs and comes up to rub his eyes, his head shaking from side to side. “That’s what you’re all worked up about?” He asks through giggles.

I nod and feel the tears threatening to spill over, my drunk emotions amplified insanely. He doesn’t even notice, he just keeps laughing and brings his hand to his chest as it heaves.

“I don’t see how it’s funny..” I speak softly, my voice cracking at the end, my cheeks heating up as my weakness becomes obvious.

He immediately stops laughing, his head snapping back to me and his eyes softening. He brings a hand to my cheek and moves his thumb back and forth, his eyes flicking back and forth between both of mine.

“Baby, I thought it was obvious.” He tilts his head slightly, his eyes scanning my face slowly.

“Do I need to call an Uber?” I croak, still sure that he’s about to tell me I’m dumb for thinking too deeply about the way he felt for me.

“What?” He says shocked, his eyes wide and his hand halting its movements on my face.

It’s like the realization flashes in his brain, he closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. He doesn’t say anything, just brings his hand back to my leg and traces it up to my thigh and gives it a squeeze. My body is reacting in a way I don’t know if I like, blood rushing to my heat between my legs despite the hurt I’m feeling.

But like Matt always does, he makes it all better. “You’re all I need, Y/n. All I want.” His hand trails higher, gripping and squeezing my skin along the way. “You know I’m not good at speaking my mind.”

My breath hitches as his fingers trace around the bottom of my shorts leaving a burning trail in their wake.

“But trust me,” he starts, his fingers dipping ever so slightly beneath the fabric, “I know that you’re it for me. Now stop worrying so much.”

His hand trails back down my leg, my thighs instinctively pressing together wishing for the friction I never got. He leans over and grabs my cup, handing it to me and sipping on his own. “Let’s finish these, hm?”

I grab the cup and down it quickly, squeezing my eyes shut at the burn. He chuckles and tilts his head back, his jawline sharp and defined in the ambient light of the lamps and candles. He sucks his teeth as he grabs my cup and stacks it into his, discarding them along with the rest.

“Take your shorts off.”

I’m taken aback, the conversation feels so unfinished but my head is swimming with thoughts of how his body would feel against my own. I still oblige, hooking my fingers into my waistband and slipping them down my legs, tossing them onto the coffee table. He gives me a slight smirk and grips onto my left ankle, lowering my foot onto the floor. He turns his body to fully face me and brings my right leg to the other side of him. My thighs open and my clothed core is exposed to him.

“You wore my favorite pair.” He coos, his thumb coming up to ghost over the fabric.

The smallest whimper leaves my mouth, my pussy aching for his touch. He moves up slowly, almost as if he’s memorizing the pattern in the lace, his thumb running up to the hemline and resting against my lower abdomen.

“Did you do that on purpose?” He questions, hooking his index finger into the elastic and pulling. “Did you know it would make daddy get all worked up?” He lets go and it snaps against me, a pulsing sting etched into my skin.

“N-no, not on purpose,” I lie, my heart speeding up at the dirty name. I knew damn well what I was getting myself into when I grabbed them out of my drawer.

“I don’t like when you lie, baby.” He moves his hand to my hip and gives it a squeeze. “Tell daddy the truth.” He begins slowly pulling my panties down, stopping when I don’t speak right away.

“I’m s-sorry daddy. I like the way you get so turned on when you see them.” I breathe out, a satisfied hum coming from my throat as he resumes pulling them down.

“That’s better.” He helps me maneuver out of them, bringing them to his face and placing a kiss against the fabric. “I think I’ll keep em’.” He smiles smugly as he slips them into his pocket.

He runs his hands up both of my thighs, his eyes raking up along with his movements. He brings his thumbs against my folds and spreads them open, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of my arousal.

“So wet already, baby.” His thumb rubs against my swollen clit once, my pussy clenching in response and a whine falling past my lips.

He bites his lip as he does it again, watching intently almost as if experimenting and seeing if he’ll get the same reaction. He does- my pussy clenches and tightens around nothing and my tender bud begins throbbing. He looks up at me with lust filled eyes.

“I love seeing your pussy beg for me. I’m barely doing anything and you’re already clenching up.”

He presses his thumb down suddenly with increased pressure but holds it still. I arch up and whine out, my heat aching for anything more than what he’s giving me. His free hand roams up my stomach and underneath my shirt, finding my bare breast and toying with my nipple. His thumb remains stagnant and still on my aching clit.

“P-please daddy. Please… more.” I whimper and rock my hips against his touch, moaning as I finally feel relief.

He pulls both hands away quickly, a disappointment filling his expression as he narrows his eyes.

“W-why? I need more.” I pout and reach out for his hands, only for them to be pulled away roughly.

“You wanna get off so bad, huh?” He sits back against the couch. “Do it yourself.”

I suck in a breath, taken aback at his harsh tone. I swallow thickly and bring my own hand down slowly to my heat, shaking slightly as he watches me intently. I begin rubbing slow circles onto my clit, speeding up because my body doesn’t react the same underneath my own touch. I bring my bottom lip between my teeth and close my eyes, trying to imagine it’s Matt’s fingers instead of mine, speeding up and bucking my hips up, desperate for any sort of relief. I keep going and even add a finger, curling it up inside my walls and hoping I’ll feel the euphoria soon.

But I don’t. I let my head fall back in frustration, removing my hands and giving up. I hear him laughing, taking enjoyment out of my struggle.

“Can’t get off without daddy, can you?” I look up as he begins unbuttoning his jeans, a visible bulge straining against the denim.

He pulls them down and keeps his boxers on, his erection still confined beneath the black fabric. He adjusts in his seat, leaning back and opening his legs wider.

“Come on baby. Use my thigh.” He pats his leg and motions his head for me to come over.

I sit up and try to control my shaky breath. Matt’s always been the dominant one, but it’s like something else has taken over, an almost devilish look in his eyes. I position myself onto him, my legs straddled around his right thigh and my pussy hovering above his skin. His hands run up to the hem of my shirt, pushing it up and pulling it over my head. His eyes become half lidded as he drinks in the sight of my exposed chest.

“What are you waiting for, princess? You were so eager a minute ago.” He rasps, his hands settling on my hips and lowering me down to make contact with his leg.

I suck in a breath at the sensation. My mind is buzzing from the alcohol and the arousal, I feel like I’m floating until I focus on the throbbing between my legs. I slowly rock back and forth once, my clit rubbing against his thigh with no resistance, my own arousal lubricating it perfectly. I swear I can see his cock jump beneath his boxers.

I let down all of the weight I’ve been subconsciously holding up off of him, the pressure sending a shockwave through my body as I begin grinding against him. I let out whimpers and moans as I circle my hips, crying out when he lifts his leg higher up to press against me.

“Such a naughty girl getting yourself off on my leg. So desperate that you’ll grind on anything I give you, hm?” He speaks lowly, bringing his arms up behind his head and watching my every move.

I bring my hands down to his chest and run them down until they settle on his abdomen to give myself some stability. My muscles are starting to tire but I keep going, rubbing and grinding against his thigh as my stomach begins to twist into knots. It’s like he knows I’m close to giving up, close to stalling. He begins to bounce his leg over and over, vibrations shooting through my body as his heel comes into contact with the floor roughly.

“F-feels so good, daddy..” I whine out, digging my nails into his shirt and twisting it, needing to do anything to release some of the pleasure flowing through my veins.

His eyes are glossy and dark as his hand comes into contact with his erection, palming it and tightening his grip repeatedly. I watch in awe as his veiny, slender hands work against himself. He pulls his boxers down just enough for his cock to spring up, groaning as he pumps himself. His tip is dripping with precum, swollen and pink with need. He swipes his thumb over his slit to gather it and brings it up to my mouth, rubbing the juice onto my tongue as he presses it into my mouth.

I gain a sudden burst of energy and arousal and begin grinding down against him with everything I can, inching myself closer and closer to release as I watch him jerk his cock underneath me. His free hand reaches up and grasps onto my breast, his large hand encompassing the tissue completely as he kneads the skin. His palm rubs against my taut nipple, sending waves of pleasure shooting through me.

“Come on baby, make a mess on daddy’s thigh,” he encourages, “I won’t get mad as long as you help me clean it up.”

I cry out in pleasure as the knots in my abdomen wind so tightly they snap, the pressure releasing and my thighs shaking as I come apart on his leg. I grind down and my pussy clenches and throbs as my juices leak out onto his skin, his thigh now slick with my release.

“Good girl, that’s it. Such a good job.” He coos and praises, bringing his hand up and stroking my hair as I catch my breath. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’ve got a big mess to clean up.” He motions to the spot where we connect, a sheen of liquid across his skin.

He pushes my shoulders down to encourage me to my knees, and I oblige. I look up at him through my lashes, hesitantly licking a stripe across his leg and tasting myself on him. His hand grips around his cock again, pumping slowly as I kitten lick his thigh.

“Doing such a good job.” he croaks, a moan sneaking it way out.

I continue cleaning up my mess, lapping up all the evidence I had left behind. His motions around his dick become quicker as I pull back for a moment, a string of my arousal shining in the light between my tongue and the skin of his thigh.

His hand stops pumping and comes to lace into my hair, pulling me upwards. I lick up his leg, sitting higher on my knees and trace my tongue up to his base, flattening it all the way to his tip. I take it into my mouth just enough to wrap around his head, sucking lightly and batting my eyes.

“Hmm, don’t even have to be told what to do. Daddy’s precious girl.” He says sweetly while caressing my cheek.

I hum around him and feel my cheeks heat up at the praise. I slowly take more and more of him into my mouth, his droopy eyes watching as I gag at the feeling of his head touching the back of my throat. He smiles in satisfaction, bucking his hips up to elicit the same response once more. My mouth fills with saliva and it drips out and down his length, providing the perfect lubrication for my hand to grip around what I can’t fit into my mouth. I twist my hand around him and his head falls back in pleasure. I bob my head up and down, taking his cock in and out of my mouth as groans fill the room around us.

His cheeks are rosy and his forehead slick with sweat, half from the alcohol warming his body and half from his arousal. He grabs onto his shirt and pulls it over his head, the muscles in his arms and chest flexing deliciously. He wipes the fabric against his forehead before he tosses it to the side, his eyes fixing back onto me with blown pupils.

Both of his hands come down to grip onto my jaw before he disconnects my mouth from his cock, pulling me up with a popping sound. “You’re gonna have to bend over for daddy. Need to feel that tight pussy around me.” His voice is low and commanding, almost rumbling through my chest.

He pulls his boxers the rest of the way down before he grabs my hands, pulling me to my feet as he stands up himself. He turns me around and guides me towards the arm of the couch, pushing me down until my chest is pressed into it.

“Arch up for me,” he instructs, his hands grasping my hips as he helps me get into position for him. “So good at listening to instructions.”

He keeps one hand on my hip to keep me in place as he lines himself up with my entrance, dipping in and out teasingly.

“P-please daddy, I need it.” I speak up, wiggling my ass back and forth in hopes he’ll be convinced.

“Need what, baby?” He taunts, running his tip through my dripping folds until he brushes against my throbbing clit.

“Need… n-need your cock inside of me.”

“Those are such naughty words to be coming out of your sweet little lips..” he chastises and pushes only his head into me. “Tell me more.”

My breath hitches as he gives me another inch, slowly pulling out once again. “F-fuck I… I wanna feel your hands all over me while you fuck me, daddy.”

His hands rub from my ass up to my back leaving a trail of warmth and goosebumps. “Like this? You like when daddy grabs all over you?” He questions, bringing his hands to my hair and making a makeshift ponytail.

I nod and bite my lip to contain my noises as he pulls my head back roughly, bringing his other hand down to smack my ass and rub out the sting. He pushes halfway in and stalls, but I can feel his cock throbbing between my walls.

“You want daddy all you yourself, hm?” He whispers as he releases his grip on my hair and moves his hands down my sides, tracing along my curves before settling on my ass.

“YES! … Y-yes, daddy, please. Wanna be all yours.” I squeal as he bottoms out, his tip brushing against my g-spot.

He starts pumping in and out, his hips slamming against my ass with the depth of his strokes. I reach around desperately, looking for anything I can grip onto. His hands reach down and grab mine, crossing them behind my back and gripping my wrists together with one hand. His other hand squeezes and massages my ass, smacking every now and again to give me small stings of delicious pain.

His thrusts are calculated and controlled as he pounds into me. Our pants fill the air as we inch closer to our climax together, his free hand roaming my body. It’s all slippery and sloppy and animalistic. Lewd, wet sounds echoing into the room and low grumbles escaping his throat.

I feel his dick stiffen to get impossibly hard, twitching and jerking inside of my heat. “F-fuck. Help me out baby.” He croaks as his strokes start to become sloppy.

He releases his grip on my wrist and grabs my hips as I begin meeting his thrusts halfway, throwing my body back against him. My name falls out of his lips over and over in a whisper as his fingers dig into my skin.

“S-so close..” I whine, my head swimming and my stomach clenched.

“Shh.. it’s okay baby. Give it to daddy.” He encourages.

That’s all it takes for me to unravel, my pussy throbbing around him as cries of pleasure sound into the room. He releases alongside me, his warm load spurting into me and filling me up as he continues fucking into me. We continue until we can’t anymore, and he pulls out with a wince.

He pulls my aching body up and spins me around, wrapping his arms around me and placing my head against him. His heart pounds against his chest, so hard I can almost feel it thumping against my ear. Our bodies are sticky and exhausted, but nothing is uncomfortable.

He places a kiss onto my hair, his hot breath fanning down over my shoulders. “Did that tell you what you needed to know?”

I only nod, unable to form words. He pulls back and hooks a finger under my chin to bring my gaze to meet his own. He looks at me intently and comes in to place a lingering, passionate kiss against my lips. When we disconnect he places his forehead against mine and whispers sweet nothings, his soft skin brushing against my still-swollen lips.

He gives me one more kiss. “Let’s go get cleaned up.”

tag list: @lustfulslxt @whotfisade @soursturniolo @recklesssturniolo @lxvlysworld @chrisolivia4l @kiarastromboli @mattnchrisworld @cupidsword @kvtie444 @xplrfear @knowingnothingnoel @karlybbx @chrisfavoritepepsi @mwah0mwah @starsturniolo

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Hiii, hope you're doing well.

We've really really missed you’re writing please tell me there's more projects you're working on?

No pressure ofc, i just missed your writing

Hope you're okay x🫶🏻

Thank you for the kindness, I have been in serious need of it lately.

I promise that I have missed you all so, so much just as much as you have missed me. Life has just gotten in the way of so much and it has made things difficult for me. Not gonna make excuses because that isn't me. I also promise that I have not stopped writing though, it's just been a hell of a lot slower than it was.

I have several projects coming down the line, I am just trying to kind of have a few things ready before I start posting so that I can set up a more steady flow of work. Cause if you think I'm going anywhere, you're wrong. I am still wanting to make all our Simon Riley fantasies come true.

So, how about a little excerpt from a piece that I'm working on to tantalize?

This is from a fic that will be titled: Closing Time. It's a friends to lovers piece and this is the moment that everything goes down.

Those full lips of his ghost themselves over your own until the proximity makes you tremble from the seduction and your eyes flutter shut a moment as let yourself succumb to the anticipation of when exactly he will break the distance. He waits on baited breath until your eyes slowly flit back open and your gaze meets his before he finishes his thought. “I wanna make ya mine so fuckin’ bad, luv.”

A smile crosses over your mouth as you hold his longing stare. You know he’s giving you an out, a way to step away if this isn’t really what you want, but from the moment your lips met back at the bar, there was no turning from this. “Then what are you waiting for?” you ask in the softest whisper as you can almost taste his breath from the proximity.

You hear the deep breath he intakes before all at once he leans into you in a frenzy, not able to hold back that overwhelming tension for another second. The grip from his large hand palming through your hair is strong and keeps your head safe as he shoves you both into the wall, his firm torso pressing tightly into your curves as the brunt of his need and months of pent up longing is forced upon your lips with a feverish intensity that makes you instantly lose yourself as explosions like fireworks light up inside your mind.

Over and over he captures your mouth with aggression until your lips start to burn from the friction the harder he presses into them. You try to draw in air, but his frenzied advances on your mouth makes it almost impossible to breathe; still, you wouldn’t let him pull away even if he tried. The sparse dusting of brown stumble along his jaw pricks your cheeks and the skin around your mouth as the taste of the whiskey that he had just downed for courage floods the inside of your mouth from his breath and it hits your tongue with its sharp bite.

Your own hands decide they need to explore the man currently devouring your lips and you run up the back of his muscular neck to the bottom of his mask only for your fingertips to be met with cropped hair at the back of his head. The feeling of your fingers brushing over the short strands near the nape of his neck makes him shiver as the pleasure of the act snakes down his spine and you sigh into his mouth.

Lt. Riley is completely and utterly captivated by you…and he needs more.

Stay tuned my dears because we have got some good things coming. You can count on it!

[b-o-e]

cookies

Howdy Pillar x Reader

Warnings: tickling aghahbg, howdy uses his many hands for evil lol, kissy kissy fluff yuhhh, I was gonna scrap this fic n don't wanna look at it anymore so it may have mistakes lol

You and Howdy bake a batch of cookies together, and it is quickly learned how impatient you are.

“And there we are!” 

Howdy placed the sheet of cookies on the stove top, shutting the oven. Two hands rested on his hips, the other pair crossed over his chest, puffed with pride.

 “They look perfect!” He grinned. “Surely because of your help, of course!” He hummed, nudging you gently as you ogled the freshly baked treats.

“They smell so good,” is all you could utter. 

You were so tempted just to grab one of the ooey-gooey pastries, despite the fact it would more likely than not immediately fall apart. Howdy could sense this oozing desire.

“Now, don’t go burning yourself. I know that look of temptation in your eye,” 

Your gaze met his, your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You flashed a sheepish smile, slumping.

“They just look so tasty…” you sighed dreamily, eyes returning to your awaiting prize. The two of you had put so much work into making them. Howdy made a great mixer with all those arms! Made for easy cleanup, too!) How could you not want to test a sample?

“They’re not quite ready yet. Just a little longer, bug,” he assured, watching your hands clench in and out of fists with resistance, finding it to be nothing less than amusing. 

“No touching, okay? I’m just going to run these eggs we borrowed back to Sally, then I’ll be right back!” one of Howdy’s hands set on your back as he moved around you to grab the carton. 

“No touch,” he pointed a finger at you, squinting playfully as the others rested on his hips. He repeated, “I’ll be right back. I’m sure they’ll be cooled by then. Just wait for me,”

“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up!” You laughed, pushing him along towards the door. 

With a final promise he would return quickly, Howdy was off, leaving you and the cookies alone. Unsupervised…

And man, it was tempting. It really, truly was. You looked over your shoulder at your foe on the stove, glaring. You’ll be mine soon…

You stole a glimpse at the clock, exhaling dramatically. The two of you had already tidied up your mess while waiting for the timer, so what were you to do now? Admire your wondrous creations from afar?

Unable to come up with anything else, that’s quite precisely what you did. 

Your elbows rested on the countertop, chin on top of your hands. The sweet aroma wafted through the house, a gentle breeze flowing in from the open window.

Tick, tock, tick, tock 

The steady click of the clock made time feel like it was moving extra slow. Each second dragged on for what felt like an eternity. Huh. You had less self control than you thought…

Your fingers drummed against the counter. Your toes tapped against the floor. Your eyes darted between the cookies and clock again. Come on, Howdy, what was taking so long?

Another hefty sigh escaped you. A look at the clock, a look at the cookies. Just one couldn’t hurt, right? It was Howdy’s fault you were waiting an eternity!

Despite the slight pit of guilt in your belly, you reached toward the sheet, knowing the satisfaction of the cookie would fill that pit right up. Finally, it was yours!

A hand grasped your wrist, an arm looping your waist.

“Ah-ah-ah,” 

 Whelp, spoke too soon. You tried!

“What do you think you’re doing, you little stink bug?” Howdy hummed, amusement dripping from his tone as he turned you around to face him. Ah. Trapped between him and the counter. Not a good place to be for what you reckoned the consequences to your actions would be

“Come on!” You drew out, giving a pleading pout. “You were taking so long!” 

Please let you be spared, please let you be spared… it didn’t look too promising with the quirk of his brow and smirk he wore.

“I was barely gone five minutes!” He cackled with mirth. “And you know how I feel about thieves,” 

That smirk seemed much more threatening all of a sudden.

“No.” You eyed him warily, knowing exactly what was to come. “Don’t you dare,”

“I think you deserve some form of punishment,” he shrugged with a grin. His upper set of hands had taken yours into his grasp…

“Howdy…” You attempted to reason. “Please!”

No chance.

His fingers glided along your sides, digging into the carefully. You laughed and squirmed, begging for him to stop.

“You need to learn your lesson somehow!” He chuckled, pausing his attack to give you a chance to own up to your actions. “Will you try to defy me again?”

You only giggled, body twisting away with what you knew would come after your response. 

“You’re asking for quite a lot there, mister…” You really weren't doing yourself any favours, were you?

His fingers returned to their attack, poking and jutting into your sides.

“Okay, okay, okay! I yield!” You cackled, the pitch to your voice fluctuating. To your pleas, Howdy paused.

“Have you learned?” He eyed you warily.

“Yes,” you panted out with a grin. “Yes, I have learned.”

“Well, I think you owe me an apology,” he said, “some compensation, you know?” He smiled innocently, earning a roll of your eyes. His hands had found your waist, the two that had trapped your hands trailing to rest on your sides.

“Yeah, yeah. Close your eyes, there, big guy,” you played along, a hand cupping his face. Once his eyes were closed, though, you made your move.

Your free hand snuck to the stove top, snatching up a treat.

“Mm,” you hummed in delight as you took a bite, 

“Why, you deceiving little–”

“Have a taste!” you grinned, pulling him in for the smooch you knew he desired. It took him by surprise, but he was not opposed. 

When you pulled away, you snickered softly at the shock on his features.

“We did pretty good, right?” You flashed an innocent smile, taking another bite.

“I’ll forgive you this time,” he grumbled, cheeks pink and a playful glare on his face. “But you’re a little scoundrel sometimes, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

howdy!! I hope you liked this lil oneshot B) this is just something to fill in some space so I can hopefully have some more time to try to get ahead again on wally stuff. I was going to scrap this fic, its been in my docs for like a week and a half or two, n I'm not the biggest fan, but maybe I've looked at it for too long. I'm not sure if I'll write for howdy again, this may be all I've got in me for him, but I hope you enjoyed it B) here is a link to my silly lil wally fics in their recommended order if you would like :) these can also be found on my ao3 B) I also have a ko-fi if you'd like to support me!

likes and reblogs are extremely appreciated!! DOPAMINE!!! RAGGGHHH!!

Posted Thursday, May 4, 2023, at 12:06 PM

[quietlyimplode]

Black Widow Fest - Day Five

Wild Geese (cruelty is easy)

Warnings: death of widows, implied (not graphic) torture, Natasha in the Red Room.

Word Count: 2154

Pairing: Black Widows, Widows, Natasha-centric (Clint/Nat implied)

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. - Mary Oliver. Wild Geese.

Head warnings. This is not a happy fic, words in their essence are something that can be so benign but can have ripple effects. Words said in grief, anger, pain, can have lasting impacts in ways we don’t know. Be careful with your words, you’ll never know how they may ricochet. Take care friends. <3

Cruelty is easy. You’re not special for choosing it.

1/

Chains around her wrists, toes barely touching the floor, the woman spits at the Widow.

“Why do you hold your secrets, when you could so easily just tell me? Where is your husband?”

Blood on her chin, still the woman snarls.

Like a rabid dog, she drools and snaps when the Widow comes close.

“You’re going to die here anyway, why not make your last hours easier?”

The woman, dehydrated, delirious, laughs.

“Cruelty is easy. You’re not special for choosing it.”

It give the widow pause.

The woman laughs again.

“You’re not special at all. Just a cog in the machine. Doing someone else’s bidding. How does it feel to be the puppet?”

She sighs, spits, and leans heavily on the chains.

“So kill me, because I don’t know what you want to hear. My husband is nowhere. He’s everywhere. He’s in Malta, Dubrovnik. He’s in the Maldives, in Sri Lanka or…”

The gun shot to her head silences her and the body falls heavily against the chains, it’s weight now dead as there’s steady blood flow from the the wound.

.

2/

Natasha watches the older widow as she instructs the anatomy class.

Blood flow, large veins, nerves. It’s fascinating the way that the human body works. Out of all the things that Natasha learns, she finds this the most interesting.

The Red Room teaches them these things for the use of information extraction, for field medicine and to show them that they are not immortal.

Even though they think that they are.

They’re drilled daily, and it becomes Natasha’s favourite.

The older widow seems to see it, her love of learning and how she absorbs the information.

After class, she asks the Widow to teach her about cranial nerves, how they can bring pain. How it can impact on thinking.

The widow pauses and takes Natasha’s hand.

Touch is always a strange sensation.

She craves it and strays away from it.

This time, the touch is insistent.

The words are said urgently, whispered as though a secret in shame.

“Cruelty is easy, Natasha. You are not special for choosing it. Kindness, grace and patience, sometimes those are things that matter more in the moment.”

Abruptly, she lets her hand go, and stands.

“We will learn more on the cranial nerves over the next week.”

She hands Natasha a book.

“Read this. And write me a essay on how you would provide the field medicine in case study, 600 words by tomorrow.”

The book is heavy, but it’s the words that were spoken in secret that run in repetition in Natasha’s head.

‘Cruelty is easy.”

She wonders if it’s a challenge, if she’s suppose to learn to extract information in other ways. Through words rather than pain.

She walks out of the room, wondering just how that would work.

.

3/

Georgia stares at Natasha.

“So what, like the whores of Odessa, you want to go in me what? Ask them for the information?”

Natasha feels the fear flow through her.

She stands straighter, hardens her face and nods.

“They’re going to invite us in graciously. They’re going to tell us everything we want to know and we’ll be done in less than 2 hours.”

She pauses.

“Unless you want to follow the mission parameter, take the man and his daughter and torture them both to see who breaks first.”

She knows Georgia is not smart enough to understand what she is going for. That she can show them that she can do things in a creative way.

She doesn’t like torture. It’s messy and gives her a feeling in her gut that doesn’t go away for days. The images replay in her mind.

But she can’t tell anyone that.

Georgia shrugs.

“Okay. But if we die for this Natalia, I’m going to kill your in the afterlife.”

Natasha bristles at the nickname and passes an easy smile.

“I’ll get the blame, just follow my lead, okay?”

Natasha stands, folds money in her hand and smiles.

The door knock is met with a crack of an opening and a girl, no older than twelve peeks around the corner.

“Hello?”

“Hi hun, I’m Irina and this is Svetlana, we are here to see your mum, is she home?”

The girls eyes widen, and sadness fills them.

“Um. No, she’s not.”

Natasha knows well that the woman is dead.

“Oh, okay, can you leave a message for us?”

The door opens wider.

The girl more trusting now.

“My dadda’s home,” she starts, “I can get him, if you want?”

Natasha smiles, “oh sure, that would be great.”

The girl leaves them standing at the door and Georgia moves nervously from foot to foot.

“Are you sure about this, Natalia?”

Natasha reaches behind her and squeezes her hand in reassurance.

“Hello?”

The bearded man appears, his face drawn and tired.

“Hello!” Natasha says brightly.

“Alina gave us this address when we last met up, she said to come visit if ever we were in Vladivostok.”

The man frowns.

“We went to school together.”

Natasha is betting hard that the man will remember his wife’s ramblings of her childhood friends, but not their faces.

“Oh,” he nods.

“Irina and Svetlana,” the girl says, helpfully, as though she knows.

“Oh,” the man says again.

“She’s dead.”

The words are heavy and the girl retreats behind her father as if the words won’t find her there.

Natasha schools her face into one of grief, like the woman wasn’t killed at the hands of the KGB in partnership of the Red Room.

“Oh,” she echos, “how? When?”

The man opens the door wider, and invites them in.

The follow the couple into the kitchen, where the girl starts to make some tea, taking the role that her mother must have left.

The man sits, offering chairs to the Widows as they’re offered tea.

“It is perhaps a long story,” he opens, looking to his daughter.

Natasha is quick.

“And I want no pain in reopening a wound.”

She pauses.

“She was my friend. She was kind and honest and dear to us.”

She sighs dramatically, and rests her head in her hands, Georgia taking the cue to offer comfort.

“Is there anything we can do?”

The girl sets down the tea, and they wrap their hands around it.

She looks small amongst the big table, and squeaks a response.

“What was my mother like when she was young?”

Natasha lies with the truth.

The words woven and soon the man is drunk.

The little girl tired and secrets spilled without his knowledge.

They help the girl put her father to bed, and she gratefully thanks them, offering them her meagre stash of lollies.

Natasha declines, but Georgia takes four, then closes the girl’s hand around the rest.

“Thank you,” the little girl says, spontaneously hugging them both.

They hug her back, and leave the way they came, no one worse for the meeting.

“That was more exhausting, Nat.”

Georgia tells her, getting into their car.

“But no bad dreams,” Natasha sighs, leaning back.

Georgia snorts.

“No, no bad dreams.”

The getaway is smooth and smell of sweets emanate.

“Do you think they’ll punish us for going off mission?”

Natasha shakes her head.

“Given the information we just gathered, and the relationships we made, no, I don’t think they will.”

“You tell them then.”

“Mm,” Natasha nods, non committal to the instruction.

“Why?”

Georgia hands over two hard lollies and Natasha takes them both, wrapping them and revelling in the sweetness.

“Cruelty is easy, we aren’t special for choosing it.”

Georgia doesn’t say anything but seems to ruminate on her words.

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Madam Simzar,” Natasha chooses to disclose.

Georgia smiles.

“I miss her.”

Natasha ducks her head, unable to keep the pain off her face.

“Me too.”

.

4/

Natasha exits Fury’s office.

Making a bee line for the door, she brushes quickly past Clint and disappears.

Clearly not good news then.

He follows her to find her gone, disappeared in a matter of seconds.

He wonders where she could have gone, and walks quickly to the library hoping to catch a glimpse of her hair.

She’s not there, and she doesn’t appear to be anywhere. He swears under his breath before returning back to Fury’s office, hoping for some insight into what made her run.

He thought they might have been passed this, but, he supposes, Natasha’s go to self preservation will always be to hide her feelings, conceal her grief, hurt and sadness.

He feels that’s what this is, judging the way she wouldn’t even make eye contact as she brushed past.

“What happened?”

He’s not usually so abrupt with his boss, but he needs to know whether in this moment, Natasha needs help.

No time for pleasantries.

“A widow Natasha defected, overdosed.”

Fury’s words are flat.

The pictures he passes over shows the graphic image of a woman overdosed.

Clint feels sick.

The could be Natasha.

He knows at once where she’s gone, and leaves the room without another word.

.

The park is quiet.

Big dark clouds ruminate overhead, and he wraps his jacket around himself tighter against the cold.

The playground is dead, just as he assumed it would be, the children home and getting ready for night time routines.

He’s glad.

They used to come here and swing on the swings when Natasha needed to get away from herself. The rocking motion seemingly soothing.

Clint finds her exactly where he expects to.

The swing next to her inviting for him as he sits down and says nothing.

They stay in stasis, swinging slowly.

“Her name was Georgia.”

Natasha rests her head on the swing lengths, and swallows.

She wants to tell him about her, but the grief is too much. A tear slips out, and she hastily wipes it away.

“Cruelty to yourself is easy, Clint,” she says tiredly.

Clint looks at her, really looks and notices the slip of blood in her hand, clutching the small pairing knife.

“I’m not special for choosing it,” the words said in a whisper.

She hands him the knife, unwrapping her hand from around it.

“It’s harder to be kind.”

He pauses, the knife gone as soon as he touches it.

“I’ve heard you say it before.”

He didn’t feel how dangerous losing a widow might be for her. Certainly didn’t expect the knife.

He wants to know how safe she is, how she won’t be the dead girl, overdosed.

“Is it a reminder?”

She looks at him, shrugs, nods.

“Cruelty is easy,” she whispers.

Natasha pauses at the statement, aware she’s just repeating herself, the words though; they seem important.

The mission they went on, replaying in her mind, with Georgia smiling in the car.

“Georgia was a friend,” she looks to Clint. “One of a select few, and her passing feels personal.”

“She was a widow?”

Clint knows but asks anyway.

“Yes.”

Natasha starts swinging, slow movements, dragging her feet on the ground.

“Was she…”

Clint doesn’t really know what he’s asking.

“Free?”

She finishes the thought anyway.

“Yes. No. Are any of us ever free of that place?”

Clint doesn’t know how to answer.

“Drugs.”

Natasha pauses.

“She wasn’t kind to herself.”

“She felt the need to be cruel.”

Clint starts swinging too, feeling the heaviness of the night pressing down. He wonders just how much and how close Natasha was to this girl when they were young.

“To herself?” he wonders.

“Yes.”

She’s hastily wipes at her face again.

“But you aren’t.”

He says it as a statement and hopes that it’s true.

“Sometimes I am.”

Natasha pauses. Thinks.

“I beat myself up with my thoughts. But I’m better at recognising it. Stopping it when it comes.”

The introspection is not lost on Clint. It’s taken years for them both to realize when their thinking patterns have not been… optimal.

“She was not.”

He cringes at the past tense, the death fresh.

“No.”

She drags her feet.

“She was not.”

Clint’s not really sure what to say. He wants to hug her but knows it’s not appropriate.

“I’m sorry she let you down,” he opts for, pushing back and forward on his toes.

Natasha shrugs, slowing her movements.

“She didn’t let me down, her actions have nothing to do with me.”

There’s a pause, as Clint is at a loss for words, not used to Natasha’s nonchalance at the death of her friend, or wonders if she’s just masking her grief.

“It’s a reminder,” she continues.

“I choose to be kind.”

She says it with a strength, even as her voice wobbles.

“Cruelty is easy, to others, to yourself.”

Clint nods, pushes off a little more heavily.

“Yeah. It is,” he agrees.

He slows with his feet and then repeats the process.

“You are kind, Natasha,” he tells her.

But it’s met with silence as night covers them in darkness.

.

[quaddmgd]

Reina Iwakura - Signalis

I've been thinking about how to expand Amsel for a long time and ideas just weren't flowing in. I had some base info on Amsel's neural pattern though and thinking about her/them both during my night shifts led me to fucking gold mine.

See, I wrote a general synopsis for Amsel's neural pattern shortly after I created the replika, but the draft laid dormant for the time being. Working on Amsel made me go back to Reina though (literally guilty by association) and thinking about her, and where she ended up in the end made me relate to her, and the ideas started flowing in. At some point, each night I could come up with at least one small scenario, more often a few, and in most of them I could see vague parallels to my own feelings during certain phases of my life. I could relate to her to a point where I couldn't imagine her look different from a picrew of myself that I have on my blog so that's how she ended looking like (with some minor changes).

Reina was a government IT technician. She lost her parents in an attack by Eusan Nation and ended up being raised by the government. She always was great with computers and her results in school got her a steady government job in cybersecurity. She wasn't happy where she was though. Filled with grudge and hatred towards the Nation, she leaked a lot of government data and ended up being on the run. After ending up homeless and injured, she was found by people of the resistance who took care of her and over time made her finally feel purpose and a bit of hope.

I'm constantly thinking about Reina and I'm writing her story in journal entries with joining the resistance as a starting point. I just can't stop thinking about her, the woman she ends up falling in love with, her feelings, struggles, moments of happiness…

…and most importantly, parallels between her and Amsel, in true Signalis fashion. While Reina completely took over my brain, developing her also helps me with Amsel. I came up with so many traits and small details for Amsel to share with her neural pattern and I can't wait to actually write all of them into their respective journal entries, maybe even whole fics.

Time for pics! Using a picrew I mentioned above for the time being because drawing is not working out for me lately.

That's her working for the government, during homelessness, some time after getting into resistance and after getting new glasses, respectively.

[crazybutgood]

20 fic writer questions~

I'm procrastinating and feverish and in pain, so I figured I'd distract myself and finally do this,, thanks for the tag lovelies @the-francakes (x) @lumosatnight (x) and @orange-peony (x)

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

44 including origami, fics, a mixture of those (all mine and also collabs), and podfics

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

Noo this would be a bitch to calculate

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I used to write for the HP fandom

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

You Light Me Up

I Just Want You to Know (collab with @sugareey-makes-stuff)

Language of Love

[FIC & ART] Heart on Your Sleeve

Kuch Meetha Ho Jaaye

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try!! But I often fail. Reasons: Partially sometimes I get overwhelmed and/or am too shy and dk what to say, but mostly it's because I am so so incredibly burned out

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Damn,, idt I have one. I do HEAs! At least in fics, and so far

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All are happy I think,, and omg how does one quantify and compare happiness?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not yet

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Nope! Like reading it, actually incapable of writing it

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I haven't! Idk if I will! There is one published novel one that I want to read tho omg ;-; ok sorry going off track

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I sure hope not :') But to my knowledge no

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yeah with Krissy! Linked in question 4. We didn't even know it was each other haha cos it was an anonymous epistolary exchange but ye it was fun

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

Don't ask me that!! There's lots of ships to love, and idh the same ride or die (or any, tbh) feeling for my previously main one anymore. Goes to show that it just changes with time (maybe this current answer will too!)

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

SIKE I don't start things I know I won't finish (involves an elaborate planning procedure, ask @getawayfox ) and once I start them I push through it even if I have to drag myself crying (I'm insane I know)

16. What are your writing strengths?

I love writing dialogue, and some people have told me it's nice, so I shall go with that!

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Ohh loads I reckon,, I'm going to stick to sharing run on sentences and can't write long plots. Cos I have to do lots of academic writing and copywriting, and that's going pretty steady, so idw to break that and spiral by thinking too much about this :') esp cos idh much time and energy to write fiction rn

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Yes if done right! Like you do things to make sure you don't throw off those who don't know that language and like make it part of the flow. And/Or footnotes! I've done dialogue in Hindi in my fics, and I've written an entire one in a script play format in Hindi too for @curlyy-hair-dont-care

19. First fandom you wrote for?

HP

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Listen :') I have mixed feelings about my writing, so I genuinely can't answer this

Tagging @andithiel @curlyy-hair-dont-care if you wanna do this, and anyone else who hasn't and wants to as well!!

[shredsandpatches]

sunday snippet (homo fuge remix edition)

I have like five different WIPs that I'm actively working on at the moment and the Helen of Troy one is closest to being done so I'm actually trying to get it polished off. Have a bit! It's gross!

The idea of renewing the contract in writing comes from the Spiers Faustbuch and its English translation; it does also appear in Marlowe but sort of peripherally so we can get to the sexy Helen bit. I expanded on it a little because I thought it would be thematically appropriate to this particular fic. There's also a bit I lifted directly from the Murnau film. The choice of writing support, however, is my own invention. As noted: it's gross!

--

"Shhhh." Mephistopheles crouches down to maneuver Faustus' head into his lap, and his fingers are in Faustus' hair now, exquisitely gentle. Faustus curls around himself, blinking back tears as Mephistopheles continues. "I know you have doubts—but I couldn't bear it if I had to tear you apart now, my Faustus. We have so little time left."

Faustus swallows hard; it tastes of tears and rheum and just a hint of blood. He reaches up feebly and feels Mephistopheles' hand grip his own, so tightly that it hurts. He has always liked when it hurts.

"What must I do?"

Mephistopheles releases Faustus' hand, helps him to his feet, and slowly, deliberately begins to unbutton his doublet. In nearly twenty-four years he has done so more times than Faustus can think of to count, sometimes innocently, other times—

"Don't get all excited," Mephistopheles murmurs, indulgently. Faustus feels his cheeks grow warm as he realizes his breathing has grown rapid and shallow, but by now Mephistopheles has finished unbuttoning him, and Faustus stands as passive as he can while Mephistopheles eases the doublet off of his shoulders. He sets it aside and begins to roll up Faustus' shirtsleeves, first the bloodstained left one, then the clean right one. He raises Faustus' right hand to his lips, presses them briefly to the inside of his wrist.

"Hold still," Mephistopheles says, and then his teeth break the skin.

He raises his head to smile up at Faustus, licking the blood from his lips with the same unhurried sensuality with which he'd undone his doublet—and then his sharp nails are at the wound and Faustus feels his eyes roll back in his head as Mephistopheles, just as deliberately, begins to peel back the skin from the soft underside of his forearm. He does not scream, even as he feels it come away from the flesh, but through the red haze that descends before his eyes he thinks he can see the same words that had been inscribed in his skin, all those years ago, shining through the net of tissue and sinew and blood that now lies open and quivering in the air.

HOMO FUGE: yet shall not Faustus fly.

His blood had congealed then. It flows freely now.

Mephistopheles' arm is around his shoulders, now, steadying him, guiding him as he lurches toward his desk, half in a faint; he helps him to sit down. Faustus cradles his bleeding right arm as Mephistopheles spreads a sheet of parchment before him, finer and fairer than the best-prepared vellum, and yet Faustus knows that only moments ago it had been torn from his arm. He reaches out, gingerly, to touch it; his blood drips onto the surface, where the drops smoke acridly for an instant before being absorbed like ink on paper and then fading entirely. He breathes deeply and carefully, dizzy with pain.

"You could have used ordinary parchment," he says.

Mephistopheles makes the odd little sound that usually passes for laughter with him. "Oh, and I suppose your own blood will be enough this time?" He shakes his head, gestures toward the reopened wound on Faustus' left arm. "Now. Write."

Faustus reaches for his quill, almost instinctively, and Mephistopheles' hand grips his wrist once more.

"Use mine," he says, producing a black pen, untrimmed of its barbs; there is an intense odor of burnt feathers as he presses its tip into the wound, and when he presents it to Faustus it is hot to the touch. "Write," he repeats.

"What do I say?"

"Confirm your former vow," Mephistopheles says. "Do it quickly, and with unfeigned heart." His lips twist again. "You'll know what to write," he says.

[lovipop]

Rainy Days and Mondays

An: I feel like Yuta is a bit ooc in this fic ough. If anyone gets the reference I made Ily/p

Characters present: Clementine and Yuta

Word count: 1,589

The soft beat of the rain ranged in my ears as people walked past me. Their colorful umbrellas and idle conversation light up the gray atmosphere. I sighed as a small cloud of air left my lips before I looked up at the sky. The once blue canvas was now painted over with a sea of gray and black storms.

As I stood under the patio, I pressed my finger against a button on the umbrella. But the purple fabric didn’t rise. I pressed it again and yet nothing happened.

‘Out of all the days for this thing to stop working, why now??’ I thought

Wrapping my hand under the purple fabric of the umbrella, I tried to force it open. But it wouldn’t budge no matter what I did. I looked back outside as the rain was now pounding the ground. The crowd of students was now sparse. Taking a glance at my watch, it read 5:30.

‘It’s getting late. I should start heading home, I thought to myself

I walked down the steps of the patio. The drips of rain felt cold against my skin as I started running. I shivered as the water splashed with each step I made. Suddenly I heard a voice yell out.

“Clementine!”

I turned around to see Yuta running to me, away, as he had an umbrella in his other hand. Once he caught up, I had a clearer view of him. A few drops of water were on his face as a light blush dusted his cheeks. He adorned his white jacket as he gripped a green umbrella. His black hair was messier than usual as he smiled awkwardly. He took a deep breath before asking, “Do you mind if I walk you home? Since you don't have an umbrella”

I nodded my head as he moved the umbrella over my head. Yuta glanced at me before running his hand into his pocket and pulling out a blue handkerchief. Holding the handkerchief, his hand goes toward my face before stopping.

“Can I…?” He whispered

“Sure” I chuckled

I could see his ring twinkle as he wiped away the water with the soft cloth. His movements were gentle and steady, but slowed down as the cloth reached near my lips. His eyes briefly glanced down, then returned to meet mine. Our eyes met the air still. All I wanted was this moment. I held my breath as the butterflies fluttered like a bird. When he looked away and pulled back, the butterflies suddenly stopped. His face was flush with red as he placed his handkerchief away, we walked down the pavement. The sound of our shoes clicking against the wet ground filled our silence.

My head was a buzzing mess. I couldn’t focus on what was happening as I kept replaying what had happened earlier. I tapped my two fingers together as my eyes went over to Yuta. His stare focused on something in the distance.

“Thanks, Yuta”

His shoulders rose before going back as he sighed and spoke. “I-it was nothing,” He said sheepishly

“You know…you always seem to come to my rescue…like a hero”

“A hero? I’m no hero..” He shook his head.

“Come on, I mean you’re strong, selfless, and caring… I think that makes you a hero…at least in my book, head.” I replied.

“I’m…” He pauses for a bit before speaking again. “I don’t think I’m like them…The only reason I’m even a sorcerer isn’t for some noble cause…I just didn’t want to be lonely”

“Well, it may not be some big thing like bringing world peace, but it’s something you know,” I answered

I stopped walking, staring into the puddle before me. Small ripples flowed through the puddle, distorting my reflection. I could feel Yuta staring at me. “You know… Yuta, I’ve always looked up to you…”

“Really?” He questioned

“Mhm, cause of how strong you are…Compared to the rest of you guys I’m so weak….I just keep holding the rest of you guys back because of my abilities.. “

Yuta shook his head before speaking. “You aren’t weak, Clementine! I think you’re.. one of the strongest people I’ve met. You always keep your calm during battles and you’re optimistic and…so much more.”

His hand scratches the back of his neck as he thinks to himself before he finally says something. “What I’m trying to say is..you’re stronger than you think.”

He tilted his head slightly as the corners of his mouth perked up. I couldn’t help but smile back at him. “Thanks, Yuta..” I murmured

We reached the end of the crosswalk as a flurry of cars zoomed past us. The lights from the buildings shone in the area as Yuta pressed the silver button. Traffic slowed to a stop as we walked down the path. As we made it to the other side, we saw little puddles littering the road. I looked over at Yuta. The same look he had before was present. Lost in thought, his focus was somewhere in the distance. I reached my hand out and tapped his shoulders. A gasp left his lips as he looked at me.

“Is something wrong, Yuta?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Well it’s just you looked like you were thinking hard about something”

“Well, it’s just..whenever it rains I can’t help but think about an old story I was told as a kid” He spoke as he glanced at me.

“Can I hear it?”

“Well.. there was this traveling musician who had a magical instrument. The music it played sounded horrible until he met a village girl. He fell in love with her and would practice so he could play for her again” Yuta paused before continuing the story

“When he came back, he got good and would play the songs for her. People would hear about his talent and he ended up having to leave the girl to perform. He would be gone for a long time, but when he came back, the girl had waited for him.”

I chuckled to myself. “I didn’t know you were a sucker for romance Yuta” I nudged him as a playful grin reached my lips.

He looks at me, embarrassed, before his gaze goes down. “It was just a story. My mom used to tell me a lot as a kid…”

“Maybe it’s because the protagonist is a lot like you,” I mumbled.

Yuta looked at me weirdly as I decided to continue. “Well, it’s just…you two had this sort of thing that wasn’t seen as good, but with practice, you turned into something useful.”

“I never thought of it like that…”

I looked to see my apartment complex in front of us. It was a tall, brown building. People walked in and out of the glass doors.

“If I am like that traveling musician…I’d like to show my feelings like he did…” He whispered

“Do you like someone?”

His face became flush with red as his eyes darted looking anywhere but at me. His mouth kept opening and closing before he finally nodded his head.

“May I ask who it is, then?”

I leaned in close. The only thing I could hear was the soft tapping of the rain against our umbrella. As Yuta stared at me, his eyes felt like it was trying to tell me, but whatever it was, I couldn’t understand. His finger was moving around his gold ring as he was about to say something. But then he stopped and simply smiled before saying “I’d..like to keep it a secret for now”

“Aww don’t keep me hanging like that Yuta now I’m really curious” I sighed

“I’m not telling you”

“At least give me a hint,” I teased

“Well….uhh…they’re really pretty”

“That’s not a very helpful hint you know…” I groaned

Yuta smiled, then a chuckle came out of him. I couldn’t help but chuckle as well, but soon we ended up laughing. Yuta’s arms wrapped around his stomach as my hand rested on my cheek. It was like our laughter covered the sound of the storm above us. Giving us a shield from the world and all the problems we face It was like, in that moment, all that mattered was the joy we had right there and then. Soon, our laughter died down. As we looked at each other, a sense of calm washed over us. Yuta smiled at me as I did the same. But an ache pushed away the warm feeling, knowing our walk was over. All I wanted to do was walk with him longer and listen to whatever he had to say. But I know that would be selfish of me.

“I should get going Yuta, it was nice seeing you,” I smiled

He nodded his head as he waved me off before walking away. The rain hit me as I watched the tall figure disappear into the distance. The butterflies slowly fluttered like the wind before hitting me like a train. My hand rested on my chest as I felt my heart throbbing. I turned around and walked down the path. With each step, it had a little kick in it. But my feet slowly picked up pace before I started running. The icy rain that showered me felt so nice I couldn’t help but giggle.

[witchoil]

Twenty Questions for a Fic Writer

Stolen from @augustmourn! Thanks for posting, this was fun!

How many works do you have on ao3?

52 connected to my account/pseuds, several anon'd

What’s your total ao3 word count?

344,041

What fandoms do you write for?

I bounce around fandoms a lot AND write for exchanges pretty frequently, so i'm not as much of a steady fandom person. You can go to my user page and expand fandoms to see just how true that is. Old standbys are probably Star Wars and Naruto, as insane as that sounds.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Me and You and a Dog Named Boo - 1,411 kudos. Venom movies Venom/Eddie/Reader cross-country roadtrip with some mild plot and lots of porn. I wrote this with my partner and a close friend and it may have taken us 5 years to finish but we had an immense amount of fun along the way.

General Organa's List of Things You May No Longer Do - 750 kudos. Short humor fill for a SW kinkmeme prompt from back in 2016. Writing-wise I don't think it's anything special but it was my first fic posted to AO3.

Artemisia in Snow - 402 kudos. Reylo hypothermia fic, simple as. Did a lot of research on hypothermia for this one. I think it ranks so highly in kudos simply because it's one of my few T-rated fics.

Vestal - 394 kudos. Short short short Kylo Ren character study. I wrote this one night and posted it immediately, but I'm still very fond of it. Lots of gender going on. I feel proud that it was so well-received and kicked off a long-term fandom friendship of mine.

Take a Slice - 310 kudos. Kirikacchako threesome fic, what more is there to say? Also written with two close friends in a round-robin format during an in-person visit. Very fun, if not all that complex.

These fics are all fun and great but ultimately overall they don't represent my best writing or my personal favorite fics that I've written.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Deep sigh I wish I was better about this. I almost always respond to exceptionally long comments because they're SO important to me, but otherwise it can be hard. I have a huge backlog that I'll likely never get to if for no other reason than some of them are SO OLD.

What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Maybe Hard Cover. Obi-Wan/Qui-Gonn Bad Guys Made Them Do It noncon where they walk away with their relationship is kind of in tatters and, worse, we know that the river of canon will flow on. I find the idea of them not getting to resolve what happened before Qui-Gonn's death way more devastating than the death alone.

Caw, Caw, Koodle-Yah is also pretty angsty.

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I can't lie I'm a sucker for happy endings, so I think a lot of the fics I write have them? (Outside of all the noncon that makes up about 1/3 of my output.) Maybe the happiest to me is Come Calling in that it involves a nice getting together with the promise of a future. The ending is very rosy, but it came from the heart (and the hole).

Do you get hate on fics?

Once or twice. I had someone get MASSIVELY upset at me for choosing not to spoil a surprise in one of my fics in the tags. We had a short interaction in the comments that didn't satisfy them so they sent me an EMAIL complaining about it further and demanding that I "admit" I did it out of spite, which I definitely didn't.

Do you write smut?

HAHAHAHAHA. Yes. Prodigiously.

Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I do not. I don't want to knock anyone who does but they've always seemed vaguely silly to me? I prefer canon-swap AUs to straight-up crossovers.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I think once or twice I've had someone request to translate a fic into Russian, but I'm not sure if they ever went through with it.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I don't speak another language, so I probably wouldn't go there unless I was close enough to someone who did that they could help. I sometimes find it a bit cheesy when people do this but ultimately it won't stop me from reading a fic.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, many! I love co-writing. Having someone to cheerlead you through the tough sections and share the load of writing is really nice. I enjoy the creative process of bouncing ideas off of each other and most of the time this outweighs the difficulty of making compromises.

What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Most of my favorite ships are ones that I don't write for, or even read for. Often they're ones where the text has everything I want. That said, it's probably Ashitaka/San from Princess Mononoke or Cam/Pal.

What’s a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Probably the unpublished Arcane fic that's about Cait/Vi failing as a relationship and slowly breaking up disastrously because of their experiential differences. The idea of them just crumbling apart fascinates me but I haven't been able to find much momentum to really write the damn thing.

What are your writing strengths?

I think dialogue! I really like writing it, the process of tweaking it, AND it's my favorite part of a fic to read.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Eurgh....plot. Plot is so hard for me. I'm not a gardener or a pantser, but an architect with aphantasia. I'll have an idea but how to get there just makes me draw a blank. It takes a lot of effort to structure themes, ideas, and theses into actual stories, which is a bit embarrassing to admit. I still love to write, though.

First fandom you wrote for?

Naruto! I was about 12 I think and wrote an unfinished Sakura/Gaara fic based loosely on an existing fic that I really loved.

Favorite fic you’ve written?

Probably either Fires That Fence the World In or Steal the Blush.

Fires is my first Locked Tomb fic and a true labor of love. I put a lot of work, some actual research, and a great deal of elbow grease into that fic and feel a great, tender affection for it in my heart.

Steal the Blush was a gift for my partner where I had free reign to play with the Hannibal dolls in an omegaverse setting however I wanted, and I did exactly that. Omegaverse isn't a trope I'd ever write for myself (and squicks me out in many cases), but it was a fun challenge to make it work for myself. I also think I got the character voices JUST right.

Tagging anyone who wants to do this, feel free to tag me in your response!

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Playing for Keeps - a Malevolent fic

It was time to meet with the mysterious Outer God, the Keeper, to unravel the problem of Arthur Lester and his broken mark.

There was no way to prepare for this. No way to be ready.

And absolutely no way she was as kind as she seemed.

Part of the Surrogate series.. Written with @sepiabandensis

AO3

——

The sacking of Ishara went by many names. This was partly because the place already looked sacked before the Lord of Interstellar Spaces took it (and looked less sacked after, which… what do you even call that?), and partly because no one had actually liked the Dukes to begin with. It made for great bard fare, certainly. The bards had a lot to sing about.

The citizens had their own term: The New Year.  

The twin manors burned for days, a symbol of freedom. The city itself had been emptied of people, and then razed to ash with the terrifying power of a Great Old One. Then, without pause, it was remade. 

Homes and businesses, parks that had never existed, places for children—all created in less than a day, and all citizens gently rehomed inside as if they were fish transferred to a new tank. (And yes, the style was distinctly Carcosan, and some people complained, but never to his face).

It was clean. It had proper drainage and plumbing. Access via the docks changed—invading moonbeasts would face cannon fire and magical barriers they could not break through or set ablaze. Carcosa also arranged delivery of produce, which Ishara had always lacked—though land had been set aside for future crops and orchards so they could supply themselves.

It all happened so fast—barely a week, from start to finish. The Dweller in the Depths hadn’t even come by in the day, though his servitors had, redirecting the flow of gold from the mines. 

Ishara belonged to Carcosa now. There was no question of this; but did anyone really care? 

Nope. The Dukes were gone, along with their corrupt personal army, and the citizens celebrated as the blaze of the twin manors turned the night sky orange for miles.

Some feared the Dukes would return. Molly knew they wouldn’t. She’d been given the task of helping the serving girls escape before the manors went to hell, and had heard those men screaming at the hand of the King in Yellow.

(Oh. Oh, how they screamed. She shuddered whenever she remembered, grateful she’d never drawn the ire of a god.)

Molly had been paid far more for that simple kindness than it was worth, but understood why. It was gratitude—and maybe buying her silence about certain things. She would have kept that secret for free, anyway. Justice was rare in her experience, but when it did come, it was a beautiful thing.

If it came at the hand of the one who’d be her god now, so what? It was better than the Dukes, and her child finally had enough to eat.

#

Faroe sat at breakfast, tired, muscles strained. I want to be a warrior queen, she’d told Dis, and boy howdy, did Dis up the game. The new exercises would make Faroe mighty and fearsome and strong in time. Right now, they made it hard to pick up a fork.

It didn’t matter. Never again would she be a victim. Never again would she feel weak.

“Good morning, baby girl,” said Arthur (also-dad), giving her the smile he always did, giving her that uncomplicated love that healed her by inches every day.

“My daughter,” added Hastur, his dark warmth and pride somehow unchanged and steady beneath her like a firm foundation as she found her balance.

“Salutations, lovely princess,” said Larson, and Faroe did her best to pretend he wasn’t there. (She sort of envied Parker and Sunny, who were still down in the training grounds, and would be until Larson was gone.)

Hi, said John shyly. That greeting mattered most of all. He was trying. He was really trying. 

He still had no business being John, but… she was trying, too. “Hi,” she said to the piece of her father, the piece that kept him from being whole—the piece that had never liked her, and blamed her for Arthur’s pain, and she didn’t know how to feel about anymore.

Nibbles Lester rumbled and dropped another slice of toast on Arthur’s plate. Nibbles was trying, too.

Toast. From the goat.

“Thank you, Nibbles,” said Arthur, picking it up at once. Arthur suspected it would be some time before breakfast returned to normal. The table was quiet, just the five of them plus Nibbles, as Parker was still refusing (avoiding?) the invitation to breakfast, and Larson—

Well, the less said about that, the better. Involuntarily, Arthur clenched his right hand around the fork at just the thought, but at least this time, it didn’t spark and bend. 

What lessons do you have on the docket today, Faroe?

“History,” she said. “Working on my languages, too; we’re studying Welsh.”

“Welsh?” said Hastur, sounding surprised.

“Ph’thylloh says it’s similar enough to R’hyehian and Aklo that learning it can help both my tongue and my mental development.” She shrugged. “Also, there are some neat ancient spells.” Also,  King Arthur had been Welsh, but she wasn’t going to say that part.

She was never going to say that part.

“That is a human language,” said Hastur.

Faroe just looked at him. “Yes, it is.”

Another drop of tension in the ever-filling bowl that was Carcosa. Great. Fine. “Very well. You’re old enough now to discern between foolish things and useful,” Hastur allowed.

Arthur exhaled. 

“I could help her learn it,” said Larson. “I speak Welsh. Had to, for some’a those spells.”

Everyone ignored him.

“Also bladework,” said Faroe, moving right along. “When we were… when I… after the Storm, my bladework was sloppy. I didn’t react as I’d been taught.” Her throat tightened. “I won’t let that happen again.”

Hastur touched her hand gently. “You might like to know that we found the one who got away.”

She gasped. “You knew? You found him? The spawn of Dagon?”

“The spawn of Dagon. He was boasting about your power.”

“He was? ” said Faroe, eyes wide.

Arthur snorted. “You scared him so badly that he called you the Sea Witch and tried to claim you brought the storm.”

Faroe snorted. Then she giggled. So did Arthur. Nibbles bleated. 

“Storm?” said Larson. “That hurricane everybody was talking about?”

“That’s so stupid,” said Faroe, still giggling.

“We killed him, of course,” said Hastur, and the room trembled with the memory of his violence, making the dishes rattle.

Faroe clenched her spoon. “Good.”

“As if I would let anyone harm you and walk away,” said Hastur.

“He suffered,” said Arthur, low and vicious.

We fucked him up, said John, trying to be part of things.

“I love you, Arthur,” Faroe whispered.

Arthur teared up over his goat-given toast, and Nibbles nuzzled Faroe’s cheek.

Hastur, John said. You should give Arthur weapons training, too.

“Funny you should say that, John. Arthur begins his training today.”

Dead silence met this. Arthur turned his face in Hastur’s direction.

He will? said John.

“Yes. As the host of a young god, it is essential that he learn to defend himself.”

Arthur gawked. This was new. “O-oh,” he stammered.

It’s about time! John snapped. I think we should start with knifework.

“Dis already has a plan. You will follow it.”

“Wait, I don’t have time today,” said Arthur. “I need to finish the Rite.”

“You will,” Hastur said. “Later. First, you and I will be meeting with someone.” 

“Who?” said Arthur.

“Someone,” said Hastur. “But before we leave, Faroe, I have something for you.” And he placed the kalimba on the table.

Oh! Arthur! It’s the kalimba! He found it!

Faroe inhaled. Tears slid down her cheeks.

It was hers. There were a few little marks around the jewels, like some moron had tried to pry them out, but it was hers. Whole. Home. She turned to stare at Hastur. “Dad?”

“I believe the superficial damage can be repaired in Celephaïs, should you desire,” Hastur said.

The need to react like an adult lasted less time than a note plucked on one of the kalimba’s prongs. Faroe leaped from her seat and threw herself into Hastur’s many arms, quietly crying. “Dad!”

“No tears,” Hastur rumbled, holding her. “We have had too many of those, yes?”

“Yes,” she sobbed, and managed to turn it into a laugh. “You’re incredible. Undefeatable.”

“Not undefeatable, sweet one,” Hastur said so quietly.

Arthur licked his lips, clutching his fork like a weapon. “You got those bastards? The Dukes?”

“Yes.” A low and threatening tone.

“Dukes?” Larson sounded spooked. “What… Ishara? You took down Ishara?”

“Ishara belongs to me now,” said Hastur like a coming thunderstorm.

“Damn,” breathed Larson, sounding awed.

“Tell me what you did to them,” Arthur snarled.

“I will—after our meeting, and after court,” Hastur said.

Do we really have to keep doing that? It’s humiliating, John said.

“Only because you persist in spouting every thought that comes into your head,” said Hastur more fondly than expected. He played with Faroe’s hair, undoing some tangled curls, and brought her berry-filled porridge to her so she could stay in his arms and eat.

“I don’t get why,” Arthur said. “I still don’t understand.” 

Arthur, said John in the very specific tone that meant Larson is listening.

Which he was, silently sipping tea, glancing between them.

With amazing timing, Parker’s voice rose from outside, cheering over some accomplishment he’d managed, followed by Dis’ sharp laugh.

Arthur’s face transformed into hang-dog longing.

Will you just talk to him? John rumbled.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” Arthur said.

It’s fucking Sunny that doesn’t, said John.

“John,” said Arthur in the very specific tone that meant Larson is listening.

“Eat. Our schedule is tight today,” said Hastur. 

It’s tight every day, lately, John groused. 

Faroe sniffled. “Thank you, dad. And… Arthur.”

Hastur added a few more tentacles around her.

Larson watched, and delicately cut his salmon, and chewed with his mouth closed, and did not say another word.

#

It was a bit alarming, Arthur realized as he waited for John to just fucking pick something, that he was looking forward to being alone with Hastur again.

The road trip had been… good. If they hadn’t had the constant fear of Faroe missing—

Well. If they hadn’t, Hastur would have been untenable. But she had, and Hastur had been… all right. Different. Arthur wouldn’t necessarily say a friend, but not not a friend, either. Hastur, alone, without anyone to impress, was not the same person. Arthur wondered, with everything that happened with the Oracle, if he’d ever see that Hastur again.

That ass, said John, huffing, snatching that outfit from Arthur and throwing it onto the growing pile. 

“John,” said Arthur. “You’re making a mess.”

I’ll show him a mess. More clothes hit the floor. 

“Hastur doesn’t clean the mess, John. You’re making work for some poor person.”

John threw more.

Arthur sighed. “I know you’re not all right.”

I’m fine.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I’ll give you talk about it. More hangers. 

“John, for fuck’s sake.”

John shoved something into his chest. This. Wear this.

Arthur felt it. “Which one is this?”

It didn’t fit you at first, he said, smug as fuck. Third Rite. But by the fourth, it did. It’s gorgeous on you.

“Sure,” said Arthur, dubiously. “And it is?”

Form-fitting.

“Not this again.”

There’s a cape . No one will see your precious ass.

“Hell, John,” Arthur muttered.

Also, it’s blue.

“Blue?”

Sparkly. Night sky.

“Sure,” said Arthur, dubious. 

It’s just right, John said, low, watching Arthur put it on, enjoying the play of muscles under Arthur’s skin as he stretched and angled to pull the thing over himself.

#

Hastur swept to his personal archive.

This was no public library. His family could use it. Certain potentates could use it in certain moments with permission. But the rest of the time? It was all his.

He’d gathered knowledge here like few had ever seen. Books and scrolls from worlds long lost; symbols carved, sharp-edged and brown, into old skin in languages even he couldn’t identify.

He was fairly sure the Keeper already had most of it, honestly—but there was one person here who might be able to help.

The Librarian was where he’d expected, sorting through stacks of books it had pulled off shelves while reorganizing and recataloging. It straightened up immediately at his approach, the tome that comprised its head flipping open to its customary greeting, and one of Hastur’s favorites: Iä, the King whom Emperors have served approacheth!  

Ahh… it felt good to read that, sincerely meant. “Librarian. All is well, I trust?” Hastur said.

The pages of its head flipped, revealing a crude drawing of the Librarian buried under a mountain of scrolls and books. It set its white-gloved hands on its hips, shoulders light with good humor.

Hastur chuckled deeply. “Well, my faithful servant, that becomes difficult to address when none can be found to match you.” 

The Librarian’s head riffled through pages, creating a sound that very nearly was a purr. It bowed, one arm uncoiling and snaking behind it to pick up a stack of papers regarding new acquisitions, and held it out with the excitement of one who unquestionably loves its job.

Hastur did a quick calculation. (All of his time was quick calculations now, and he hated it—dearly missed the freedom to enjoy, stretch out, take his time. But there was no time.) “Let me see.” 

He gave ten precious minutes to what was presented, complimenting, asking questions. Touching everything with intimacy and care, standing quite close. He let his heat and his power flutter over the Librarian’s form, wafting approval. Maybe even stood a bit too close, tentacles just encroaching, surrounding.

The Librarian, of course, welcomed him. How many years had it served him? They seemed uncountable. It soaked up his approval, as completely and quickly as if he’d dripped perfume onto the pages of its head, arms springing out and retrieving tomes he referenced as soon as he’d asked. Finally, its pages flipped to an impressive woodcut illustration of Hastur holding a book in the palm of his hand—questioning.

“I have a challenge for you, my faithful Librarian,” Hastur rumbled. “A true challenge. Today, I go to see the Keeper.”

The book that made its head half-snapped shut, then flipped back open to a lovingly-rendered image of a wrapped gift.

“Yes. I need something to bring to her. More than one thing. I need something from her, and  I was… remiss to ignore her for so long.” And that was a hell of an admission.

But he knew the Librarian. Its lips—so to speak—were sealed, and it knew this offer of trust was worth more than the intimacy and approval of the past ten minutes.

The Librarian’s head shut with a solemnity and it nodded—and then, unsurprisingly, it loped off between the shelves at speed. It returned with a veritable stack of potential tomes and scrolls that it wrapped in one coiled arm while the other cleared its desk. From there, it set them into four piles, lovingly arranged, and stood behind its desk to observe as Hastur perused its offerings.

Mildly, Hastur said, “Do we, ah… have copies of these?”

The Librarian looked briefly offended, its head nodding vigorously before it flipped to a crude drawing of itself slaving painstakingly over a copy of the Legend of the White Snake . It then stepped forward, one of its white-gloved hands snapping idly, before selecting one pile and holding it out to Hastur. It flipped to another drawing, respectful even in its crudeness, of Hastur presenting it to a veiled being that could only be the Keeper, who apparently received it with delight.

Hastur took two books with a gracious nod. “Thank you. She’s not been known to demand the only copy of anything, at least. At any rate, even if she should wish for such a thing, I will not sacrifice you.”

The Librarian flipped to a drawing of an amorphous figure dragging it out of the archive, its white-gloved hands creating curlicues of wood as it clawed at the floor.

Hastur laughed softly. It was his first real laugh in a while, and it surprised him. “Thank you. May you swim in newfound knowledge before I return.” It was time to see what John had done to his Composer.

#

Arthur did not fill out that blue bodysuit with its little cape quite the way he had three years ago. Not at all. Well. “Would you like to paint his face, as well?” said Hastur. 

“What?” blurted Arthur.

Fuck you, said John. He looks delicious.

“He does. I am teasing you,” said Hastur.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Quit it.”

“Are you ready?” said Hastur, sounding calm and composed, but he was neither calm nor composed. Everything depended on the rumors being true. If they weren’t—

“Sure.” Arthur said. “What are we doing?”

“We are going to see an Outer God.”

Arthur’s entire body tensed. “What the fuck?”

“This is the one your Aria mentioned.”

“She’s not my Aria—”

“The Keeper has a good reputation. She does not extort; her prices are fair. And she has more knowledge than anyone regarding the arcane.”

Are you fucking kidding me? More Outer Gods? What’s wrong with you?

“I’m out of options, John. Unless you secretly know someone I don’t whom we can ask about Arthur’s marks, we have no choice.”

John gripped Arthur’s arm. Fuck.

“What am I expected to do?” said Arthur, breathing too fast.

“Be honest. She’ll likely know if we’re lying, anyway.”

“She will?” said Arthur, voice high.

“From what I’ve heard.”

“So she’ll know if you call John ‘offspring,’ or whatever.”

Hastur hesitated. “I am working with that assumption. Yes.”

“And that Faroe is my daughter?” Arthur’s voice rose.

“She’s Kayne’s sibling. I assume she already knows.”

“She’s what?” And now, Arthur was yelling.

“Do you or do you not remember what Aria said to you?” said Hastur with the kind of patience that made Arthur want to hit something.

“Do you know what we’re walking into?” Arthur countered, snapping.

Hastur exhaled slowly. “Yes. The only option I have left to save you.”

Oh, great, let’s go see the Outer God you know jack-fuck about and see if family ties mean more than some stranger’s trade! This is a great idea!

“I have things I know she wants,” said Hastur. “This will work.”

“Are we risking Faroe?” said Arthur.

That was complicated. Themselves? Possibly. Faroe… if they died, or disappeared, Faroe would be alone. But if he failed at this and they returned without answers, she would be alone, anyway, and Carcosa unshepherded.

There was no good choice. There was only the one with more potential to benefit. “No,” Hastur said.

John was still snarling, his arm wrapped around Arthur’s chest.

“John, calm down.” Arthur said.

I’ll bite her.

“With what?” Hastur almost wanted to keep that silliness going, but their allotted thirty minutes were done. “It’s time.” And with no further warning, he opened a portal.

Blasting cold air smacked through, stealing Arthur’s breath, stinging his face with snow. “What the fuck?” he said, stepping back. 

“She allows portals to her home, but not inside,” Hastur murmured. “We must wait on her doorstep for entry.”

Where the fuck even is she? John yelled, his hand now clamping protectively against Arthur’s bicep.

“Leng,” Hastur said gravely. “On the road to Kadath.”

Oh, fuck.

“What does that mean?” Arthur asked, his teeth chattering. 

“It’s a dangerous area—or it would be without me .” 

He’s holding out his hand, John said. 

Waiting. Not grabbing. Arthur noticed. Without a second thought, he took Hastur’s hand.

They stepped into that shockingly cold air. Arthur gasped, lungs shocked, already shuddering. Hastur pulled him closer into the aura of heat he gave off, and draped several tentacles around him like some weird coat.

“This is the Scriptorium,” Hastur said.

We’re standing on a cleared patch of stone before a huge, multi-story building with peaked spires and intricate runework around the many windows. Flying buttresses support the higher spires; they’re so delicate they almost seem organic, like protruding ribs. I can’t see inside—the windows don’t appear to be made of glass. The door is massive, a dark wood with heavy-looking iron banding. 

Arthur’s teeth chattered. Hastur extended his power and curled two more tentacles around his back, warning him. Hastur’s robe gleamed as though capturing sunlight from distant worlds. More tentacles lifted, curling, creating a frame of power and oceanic grace, a presentation of glory. And he knocked.

Without warning, they were instantly inside.

#

Arthur’s breath was loud in the sudden, rich silence. Bookshelves rose like buildings, skyscrapers of knowledge, shadowed and silent. The smell of paper, manuscripts, and various oils permeated.

No one came to greet them.

Hastur didn’t let go. He waited.

It’s enormous, John said. I think the place might be larger inside than it first appeared. Books are everywhere, shelves so tall it’s like we’re back in New York. We’re in a lobby with polished wood floors and a variety of desks and benches along the walls: there’s a double staircase that sweeps upward on either side of it. I can see… Arthur, there’s so many books. The windows are made of some sort of stone, I think, that filters the light and turns it soft and warm.

“Wow,” said Arthur softly.

Yes, yes. Books. What Hastur saw was power. There was so much contained in this place that it made his eyes water. Perhaps the rumors were true. The Keeper couldn’t leave. Why? No one seemed to know.

He waited. There’d been no instructions, and he couldn’t risk a power play going wrong.

“Greetings,” came a voice, and startled, Hastur automatically snatched Arthur off the floor.

A human woman appeared from around a shelf. She wore a comfortable green robe. A scroll case hung at her hip. Glasses perched on her nose, and she smiled up at them fearlessly. “It is an honor, Your Majesty. The Keeper will be very pleased you made it. She wanted to meet you straight away, but she’s caught up with her previous meeting. Come with me, please.”

A servant? A servant who’d known they were coming. Oh; oh, Hastur hoped this wasn’t a trap. He wasn’t even sure how they’d been brought inside, never mind getting out again.

The woman took the stairs, her scroll case clacking against her side as she ascended. 

Hastur followed. He did not put Arthur down.

She’s got humans? said John suspiciously as if they’d advertised for a man of Arthur’s description.

“She can also hear you,” Hastur reminded.

The librarian laughed. “Yes, she keeps—oops, pardon the pun! She harbors quite a few of us within these halls, and accepts all eager minds.”

We’re at the top of the stairs. There’s dozens of people here. About half of them are human. They’ve all got books or scrolls or old, brown manuscripts. Some sit at tables, while others drape over chairs, and they all seem to be wearing similar robes.

“It takes a lot of work to bring her what she needs,” said the woman, “and most of us tend to be in and out depending on what we’re researching. I’m a senior member of the Scriptorium, so I was allowed the honor of escorting you today.”

“We are the ones honored,” said Hastur, playing the game. “To meet one so highly regarded is unexpected and welcome.”

“Thank you, your Majesty! Most of us are eager to help in any way they can, especially while we’re here. I’m in the middle of a thesis on the architecture of Ib, so I’ve been here for the last… year and a half straight? Once I’m finished and I’ve conducted my defense, I’ll likely hit the road for some field work again,” the woman happily chattered. 

“You have your own projects?” said Hastur, increasingly worried by the implication that servants had more freedom to come and go than guests.

“The Keeper allows us to pursue our passions, as long as they bring us back to the Scriptorium with fresh information for her to pore over.”

“Oh,” said Arthur. “So you’re not trapped with this Keeper.”

“Oh! No, of course not, though I will say ‘trapped’ is a charged word around here,” said the librarian. “We’re free to come and go as we please. The only people who can’t are Tabby and the Keeper herself, and there’s nothing more to say in regards to that.”

Hm, said John.

“Tabby?” whispered Arthur.

Hastur knew nothing of this ‘Tabby.’ He didn’t reply.

They rounded a corner, and the labyrinthine bookcases opened up to another wide area. Arthur felt Hastur inhale.

There she is. John’s voice was hushed. She looks sort of humanoid, though she has an extra set of arms. The Keeper is tall, though not as tall as Hastur; I’d guess she’s about ten feet. Her neck is long. She’s wearing an elaborately layered gown of fine black silk, intricately beaded and embroidered, and she’s either wearing some sort of crown or has horns… I can’t see what she looks like behind her veil. It’s weird—it’s like it completely obscures her face, except it looks like normal lace around her shoulders. He paused. And she’s talking to… fuck, I think I recognize that guy.

“Oh, Hastur, welcome,” the Keeper said. Her voice was sweet, somehow flavoring the air like old books. “I do apologize! Cnaa’pu and I were just finishing up.”

“Hello!” Cnaa’pu burbled. “It’s good to see you, my boy! Missed you this past equinox!”

“Indeed,” said Hastur, unprepared to find someone he knew here and suddenly, deeply, concerned that the secrets which must be kept could be endangered.

“Now,” the Keeper said. “As I was saying, I do appreciate you bringing this information to me.”

“Anything for you, my dear,” Cnaa’pu purred. “I’m happy to help.”

“I don’t intend on taking advantage of your fondness,” she replied.

She’s plucked one of the beads from her dress. It’s glittering in the light.

Cnaa’pu went shock-silent. “I couldn’t possibly accept,” he finally said.

“Consider it a token of my goodwill,” the Keeper said lightly, and pressed it into his rubbery hand. “Now, I must speak with Hastur. I trust we will be in touch?”

Why the fuck was that—

“Shh,” said Arthur.

“Yes, my lady,” Cnaa’pu said, bowing and pressing her knuckles to his forehead. “It would be my pleasure.” And of course, instead of just leaving, Cnaa’pu made a beeline for the Lord of Carcosa. “Look at that! The little human seems to be doing quite well these days!”

Hanging in Hastur’s limb, Arthur blushed.

He just winked. Ugh.

Hastur clutched Arthur close. “I do my best,” he purred, “now that I know he is worth taking care of.”

Are you fucking serious?

“John,” Arthur hissed.

“Oh, the rumors are true! He’s charmingly irreverent!” Cnaa’pu laughed.

Hastur calculated. Was this going to require an extra visit? Bribery? Some other event? No. His relationship with Cnaa’pu and his people was acceptable as-is. “The next Rite will be late, as you may have heard, thanks to all the madness after the Games. You are, of course, still invited. I believe the Mother will still be pleased.”

“Of course, of course! I saw that attack, you know. Absolutely dreadful. Hope you caught whoever did it,” Cnaa’pu said. 

“Oh, we did,” Hastur lied.

“We sent some supplies afterward: nothing you didn’t already have, I’m sure, but I hoped it was the thought that counted.”

“Your kindness was noted and appreciated,” lied Hastur, who hadn’t been there to receive them, and added a little bow.

Cnaa’pu seemed delighted. “Deeply looking forward to the Rite; it’s the highlight of every spring now. Can’t wait to see what your little piano man comes up with next!”

He’s looking at you, Arthur.

Arthur gulped. 

“Do you play too, John? I’m keen to find out,” Cnaa’pu said.

Yes! John sounded quite aggressive about it. I’m his partner! We play together! We play… jazz!

Everybody was insane these days. Arthur’s face was red; he suspected this outfit, whatever it was, just made him look redder. 

“They make quite a pair, as you shall see,” said Hastur, letting Cnaa’pu think whatever the hell he wanted about that. “Well, we won’t keep you now. Thank you for your generosity—you can expect a more formal thanks soon. Perhaps even when you come for the Rite.”

“Oh, ho!” The creature sounded quite pleased. “I look forward to it. Thank you, Hastur. I shall take up no more of your time.” He leaned forward, a bit conspiratorially. “Don’t you worry about her. She’s a peach. Just watch the pit!” And he laughed, the sound once again like four geese being strangled with each others’ necks.

The pit was a visceral thing to hear. It made him think of the House of the Worm. It made him think of his son’s trap. It made him…

The amount of will it took to push that down and show nothing and laugh along with Cnaa’pu may have taken six years off his life. Hastur patted Cnaa’pu’s back and moved past him, and with all the grace he could muster, he bowed to the Keeper, tentacles out and curled, a true obeisance.

John let out a strangled sound. She’s curtsying.

“I bid you welcome, Hastur, Lord of Carcosa,” the Keeper said, and her tone was bright, eager. “I am so glad to finally meet you, at long last; and to see such a performance just now! Everything they say about you appears to be true. I trust my acolytes treated you well?”

Oh, oh, what did all of that mean? Oh! “With grace and honor, your Magnificence. Oh Lady of the Word, Heroine of Memories All, Keeper of the Scriptorium.” Hastur stayed bowed; this had to be protocol-perfect. At least for himself. There wasn’t a lot he could do for his idiots, but at least they would likely prove amusing.

He’s still bowed, Arthur! John breathed as if in horror.

To their surprise, she laughed. “Oh, there’s no need for that, but thank you. It’s very much appreciated. Come, shall I give you the tour?”

Hm. Not a lot to go on there. Hastur wasn’t sure if she wanted more deference or not. “We would be honored.”

Some small, nut-brown being leaned around a bookshelf and nodded vigorously, gesturing, as if delighted a tour was about to commence.

The Keeper felt like sunshine in the springtime, warm (and obviously manufactured). “I must confess, I have been eager to meet you Hastur, even more than the famed Arthur and John.” 

Oh gods, why? “You have?” said Hastur, losing the grip on his dignity for a moment.

“Oh, you’re afraid!” The Keeper paused, and power flowed from her with a thrum through the floor. “There. Now we may speak without fear of being overheard by my other visitors. I’ve heard quite a lot about all three of you, you know. I’ve been following the drama, though at a distance.”

Hers wasn’t the voice that had been in his head. Was it?

It was too late to run. They couldn’t even get out through the door. He had to play this out. “Indeed?” Hastur managed, almost sounding like a choked goose himself.

Following the drama? John snarled. You motherfu—

So much for being amusing. Hastur waved one arm, and John flung gold sparks, flared like smoke, but was silenced.

“I apologize,” said Hastur evenly. “We have, ah, just… ended a particularly fraught episode, and our own…” The fear tasted terrible. “I apologize.”

John’s left hand tried to lift.

Arthur grabbed it and pulled it down.

“Oh, dear, no—I should be the one apologizing,” the Keeper said. “I spoke quite callously. It was quite unkind of me, particularly before I can help with your respective situations. Hastur, Arthur, John: I apologize. Truly, I do.”

Unkind? Ha! That was a gambit. Letting slip just how dangerous she could be, how much she knew, before claiming innocence. Hastur knew this technique. Fuck; she might be young for a god, but she knew what she was doing. It was time to put on the performance of his life. “You are most gracious.” Hastur bowed with a flourish, his robe flaring. Golden light danced around him, like sun on water.

John gawked, flabbergasted golden mist.

“Um, thanks,” said Arthur. “If you mean it. That means a lot.”

“This is a place of truth, Arthur Lester, and I would not sully my home by lying to your faces,” she said. (Though she knew they’d lied, so was that a veiled threat, too?) “Now, before I’m forced to cram my metaphorical foot in my mouth once more: the tour!”

Hastur bowed again. “I would be honored, great Lady of the Tomes.”

“I do like that name,” she said. “I was told you have a way with words, you know. Delighted to find that it’s true.” She swept away, floating at speed. “Stop me at any time if you have questions, please.”

Hastur hurried to keep up.

“I have been here, in my Scriptorium, for the past three-hundred and eighty-five years. It has been my task to gather the most complete set of knowledge possible in the entirety of both the Dreamlands and the known worlds since the dawn of my consciousness,” she said.

Arthur clutched Hastur. He could tell they were climbing, exploring floors, or something, and going high without being able to see was always dizzying.

“As such, I have collected a great amount, though there is yet so much more; I have a wide range of materials both mundane and magical—” 

Where are we—hold him! We’re so high! said John, which didn’t help the dizziness.

“—from the priceless to the paperback, and a growing collection of music, recordings, and art as well. My rules are thus: one, treat my Scriptorium with respect. Two, treat my people with respect. And three, stay where you are allowed.”

Rules. Hastur knew better than to try wriggle-room with Outer God rules, and he all but engraved them on his soul. “Treat the Scriptorium with respect; treat your people with respect; and stay where you have placed us. Understood, oh wise one.”

“Oh, I promise it’s not all that terrible. You are free to roam the public section of my archive as you will.” 

Yeah, right, John mumbled. 

“On the contrary, John, I deeply encourage it! The main part of the Scriptorium is what you see before you: I have approximately five million, seven-hundred forty-eight thousand, three-hundred twenty seven—” 

Arthur whistled, low.

“—individual pieces of writing available for perusal in the public section, which includes both a fiction—” 

Fiction? John said, perking up.

“—and nonfiction section, as well as a reference section. I also have an extensive library of music—” 

“Music?” Arthur said, perking up.

“—and art available in the listening rooms and the gallery, as well as over a hundred thousand recordings. Which includes, Hastur, an excellent rendition of Cassilda’s Song from the 1929 performance of the King in Yellow at the Strand Theater of London, if you were interested.”

“Oh,” Hastur said, because… that would be nice to hear, maybe, though he wasn’t sure he could listen right now without crying, without considering that city and what its sacking meant. Instinctively, he held Arthur close, a teddy-bear in a form-fitting suit of midnight sky.

“Past this gate is the restricted section, which you may notice from the sign and the lock on the door. Kindly ask permission before going through—especially you, Arthur.”

“Why?” said Arthur.

“There are things within those gates that are quite powerful, and may be able to harm you. I ask this both for your safety, and for the safety of my collection.”

Hastur added another tentacle around Arthur.

“I can’t see, so… I doubt anything in here is much of a risk, but thank you,” said Arthur.

You’re not going anywhere near it. There are fucking chords that could hurt you!

“I can assure you, as long as Arthur does not pass the gates, there is nothing out here that can hurt him. The gates keep my restricted collection in just as much as they keep people out .” She turned, sweeping along the floor. “There are benches, tables, and chairs for study all along the second floor, but there are also private study rooms along each wall as well.” 

(They’re all sizes, Arthur, John muttered. We could sit here, if you wanted. Maybe rest.) 

(“I’m not going to sleep in some Outer God’s library, John,” Arthur muttered back.) 

“Along the back wall, you will notice several dark oak doors: those lead to the living chambers of my acolytes, and I kindly ask that you leave them be. I will not punish you if you choose to explore, of course, and you are welcome to a room if you need to stay for a time, but I like to offer my acolytes some privacy.”

“We will make no intrusion into the personal spaces of you or your people, oh Wise Woman of the Vale,” said Hastur, vowing it, still mentally spinning over those three rules, terrified of verbal traps. “I thank you, great Keeper, for seeing me, though I have taken so very long to respond to your gracious invitation.”

“Oh, come now Hastur, that’s hardly an issue,” she said with a laugh. “Some of my own siblings have yet to so much as say hello. I extend offers, and sometimes people take them, and sometimes they don’t. I’m honestly just so happy to finally see you face to face. I’ve wanted to for a long time.”

Dear fuck, that was frightening. His nerves couldn’t take much more of this. He didn’t think she was the voice in his head, but if not, what did she actually want? 

Perhaps the wisest thing was to get to business so they could leave. “You are most gracious to say so, and your generosity truly is legend. However, Great Keeper, I must, to my shame, remind that this is not an entirely social visit.”

“Yes, of course!” She stopped and clasped two of her hands over her waist. “What is it you needed to talk about?”

Hastur swallowed. “My marked. Arthur. He’s…” He hesitated.

“No one can hear us, Hastur,” she said gently.

“He’s aging.”

“Oh! Oh, well, that’s very odd, isn’t it?” She peered at Arthur. “A fascinating case you have, here. Shall we go to my office to discuss?”

“That would be appreciated, Great One,” said Hastur.

“Come, then. This way.” She opened a door in the wall and held for the three of them. “Thank you very much for indulging me with my tour; I am very proud of what I have accomplished here. Now, may I get you anything? I have tea, some cookies—I know you likely just came from breakfast, given the time, but I’d be a poor host if not. And I will have the one I trust the most bring it, as well.”

“We ate before we came, Great One.”

Arthur should eat. He only ate half his breakfast.

“Sure, the goddess needed to know that, thanks, John,” Arthur muttered.

“You’re British,” the Keeper said lightly. “I recognize the accent. I have a truly excellent black Ceylon tea, if you like.”

Arthur turned his face toward her. “I haven’t had that in years,” he said, soft. 

“It will be done,” she said, pleasantly. “And Tabby made the most delightful shortbreads the other day. I’ll ask her to bring some as well, if she’s willing to share.” Her voice dropped, conspiratorially. “She dipped them in chocolate. They look like little teabags.”

Arthur had no idea how to take this. He’d never met a god that behaved like this. “Tabby? I… Sure. That sounds good. I’d appreciate it, thank you.”

“Please, take a seat—whatever you find most comfortable.”

We’re in a moderately sized room, John rumbled. The walls are deep green wallpaper between rich, dark wood panels. Elegant brass sconces hold up… not candles, but some sort of crystal that glows and lights the room just as well as fire would.

“Lightbulbs?” Arthur quipped.

I know what lightbulbs are, Arthur, John groused. It’s not those. A great marble-topped desk is backlit by a crackling fireplace. Black walnut shelves are filled to the brim with books and scrolls, and the whole place has an almost meditative feel. In the center of the room are several different chairs; there’s a bench of the sort Hastur likes, a large armchair opposite it, and a few different chairs sized for us, as well. I don’t want one with arms, so turn towards your left—too far—good. Lean down—there. That one works.

The Keeper seated herself in the enormous armchair, folding both sets of her hands, and her lacy veil flowed about her like water. “I have agents in a great many places, and when Arthur first came onto the scene six years ago, I took note—though not as much as I did when he was marked, and it was revealed that somehow he had thwarted all known laws of magic to acquire two of them. One from each of you, I imagine?”

“Yes,” Hastur said, low. “I don’t know how that happened. I’ve never heard of a dual mark.”

Don’t undo it! 

There was the slightest pause in the wake of John’s panic.

“I can assure you, I have no such power to do so,” the Keeper said gently. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t want to. I’ve never heard of a dual mark. I pored over every scrap of knowledge I possessed, looking for any reference to it. You are the first.”

Hastur released his held breath. All right. They were getting somewhere. That meant their very existence provided unique information. If she killed them, or handed them to Kayne, she wouldn’t get that information—or at least, not as freely. They might be okay. “I wish to stop him aging and to ensure he has all the other protections he ought as my marked. I've brought you two gifts—one a late housewarming gift, as it were, and the other proper payment. I also contain memories which—” He couldn't say they’d be unavailable forever in six years—“cannot be matched.”

“I believe I may be able to help. You are exceptional, Arthur, in a great many ways.” 

Arthur squirmed. The force of her veiled gaze was on him, now, and it was intense. “I’m really not.”

“Oh, but you are! It won’t be easy, but—”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Oh! Tabby!” Just as quickly, that focus dipped away, turning towards the door. “Come in!”

The door opened and the strangest looking human woman John had ever seen stepped in. She was short, haircut blunt and dyed bright blue on one side of her head and black on the other, and she bore a tray with a teapot and a plate full of cookies, sandwiches, and some incredibly ugly scones. “Room service,” she said, but her voice picked up a bit as she stepped inside. “Are these those guys you’ve been talking about?”

“Yes,” the Keeper said, cheerfully. “Tabby, kindly allow me to introduce you to the King in Yellow, Hastur.”

The girl paused from where she sat down the tray. “Wait. Like. The—the actual one?”

“Yes.”

“From the play?”

Hastur’s voice rumbled, echoing before and after itself. “Greetings from the Golden City, chosen one of the Keeper.” And he bowed.

John eyed her. 

John eeeeyed her.

“Hello,” said Arthur, trying to look her way.

Tabby stared. “Hi,” she said. “Uh. I’m going to leave y’all to your god shit. Charmed.” And with that, she pointed at them with both index fingers, then scurried out the door.

Was that a spell? said John. Was she casting a spell?

“No,” said Hastur.

She pointed at him!

“I believe it was a casual greeting,” said Hastur.

“Tabby calls them ‘finger-guns’,” the Keeper said, her voice bright and helpful. “It is a greeting, yes.”

Why would she do that? Why did she look like that?

“John, for fuck’s sake,” Arthur said. “I’m sorry if we frightened her.”

“She is still adjusting to the idea that deities she has only ever read about before are real, not to mention physical beings one can interact with. She’s not used to dealing with deities of Hastur’s caliber either. Here.” She elegantly poured two cups of tea. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Yes to both, thank you. And… I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “I know it’s a lot.”

“She simply wasn’t expecting Hastur,” the Keeper said again. “She’s startled. I assure you, she’s fine.”

Arthur had a good feeling about this god. This wasn’t like any god they’d met before. Maybe it was because she was young. He offered a small smile as he took the tea.

John went in a different direction. You’ve been talking about us?

“I have, John! Only to Tabby, mind you, and she hardly knows any finer details. She just knows how badly I’ve wanted to meet all of you. You’re all so unique.” She poured a third cup and offered it, on the saucer, to Hastur. “She is the only being in this place that I would trust to enter upon a private meeting like ours. I trust her implicitly.”

Hastur felt sick. “Only her?”

“Only her,” said the Keeper gently. “You must understand: I really wanted to meet you, but unless you came to me, I couldn’t. I get my knowledge from outside sources. You three are quite popular. There are a great many of my kin who are watching and taking bets—but until now, I haven’t been able to see you myself. This is the best day!” 

All three were silent.

She paused for a brief moment. “If it helps, no one is watching now. They cannot look into my Scriptorium unless I allow it, and I am quite the private person. Likewise, our conversation here is also completely protected. You may speak freely to me about your trials, my siblings, anything you may need.”

Oh, sure, sure . A lure; a promise. A sanctuary. How convenient!

Hastur rarely felt outmatched like this. It wasn’t just her wit that was good; her performance was flawless, absolutely magnificent, believable and spot-on. It had probably convinced Arthur already.

“This is really good tea,” said Arthur, offering another smile, and unaware that she peered at him with the same fascination eldritch beings always did when they got too close to him.

If she decided to keep him, Hastur couldn’t stop her. He had to redirect. “Do you have questions, Great One?” he said brightly.

“I do. A great many of them. I suppose, before I indulge, you should know that at any point, you are free to walk away. I mean you no harm, and I have no intent to imprison or trap you. Even after a price is named, there is no contract, and we may still part on friendly terms.”

Fucking hell. 

At least this fit with her reputation. It did; but he couldn’t risk just believing her. “So I have been told. That is why we are here. I…” Quick calculation: which cards to leave on the table? Which strengthened his position? Which weakened it?

She already knew so much. 

“First, my very late housewarming gift,” he said, and presented the first book his Librarian had offered.

“Oh… oh! Is this one of the Leaves of Leng?” she said, all her hands clenched as if barely resisting the urge to grab like a child.

“Yes,” said Hastur. “I acquired all four before that monastery burned down.”

The Keeper leaned back, made a happy little squeal, and covered her veiled face with her hands. “Really? You’d offer this?”

“And more, if it will help,” said Hastur, staring, confused as to where this particular playacting fit into their game.

She gently took the tome and then hugged it. “I’ve been looking for this! For anyone who’d read a copy so I could see their thoughts, or some version of it, some translation anywhere! Hastur, you’ve made me a very happy person.”

Well, there were three more volumes of it. Maybe he wouldn’t have to play his final card. He gestured to Arthur, one tentacle stroking his hair. “I hold this human in high regard, and find this situation untenable. If we can solve it, I will owe you for the rest of my days.” 

“Hastur!” Arthur whispered. “That’s too much!”

The fuck, said John.

It wasn’t too much. It was a pinch over two thousand days, no more. Anybody could handle owing someone for that long.

“It’s a puzzle I’m eager to tackle,” the Keeper said. “The exact mechanism by how marking works is still not well understood, and your Arthur has broken not just one law of magic, but two. Of course, you understand this will be a large amount of work and effort on my part—but I believe I will unravel what it is, exactly, what has caused this situation.”

A large amount of work.

Hastur suddenly knew the second book he’d brought would not be enough. He had his trump card. He did; but dare he spend it now? His tentacles undulated faster, the tips twitching.

“Shall we negotiate?” The Keeper said. 

“I would prefer Arthur and John not be part of it,” said Hastur.

“Wait just a damn minute!” said Arthur. 

What? Why? What are you doing? demanded John.

“Well… if they’re…” said the Keeper, uncomfortable.

Hastur tilted Arthur’s face toward his, ignoring the way Arthur stiffened. “Forgive me, my own. I will say things that upset you. Truths. Things we have been through. Painful things we’ve experienced. I don’t want to make you relive them.”

And of course, Arthur, sap that he was, immediately melted in the wake of that. A good apology or a heartfelt plea, and he was putty. “I… all right. We’re trusting you.”

No, we aren’t! said John.

“We are.” Arthur took his hand. “At least right now.”

Fuck! John declared.

The Keeper seemed much happier with the arrangement now. “I would happily allow Arthur and John a private study room with access to whatever they may wish to occupy themselves. They will be kept safe, and I can entrust them into Tabby’s care if you wish for additional reassurance.”

“I thank you,” said Hastur. 

I don’t want to be trapped.

“I don’t think she’s offering that, John,” said Arthur.

We can walk out of the room?

“You may, and return to the main floor of the Scriptorium,” the Keeper said. “Though once outside of a room, I cannot control who has access to you. People may approach you.”

Not if they know what’s good for them, John muttered.

Arthur had a sudden stroke of brilliance. “Do you have any comic books?”

“Oh, a great many of them,” the Keeper said brightly. “I can have a few selections pulled for you, and placed in a study room for you.” Her voice turned a bit playful. “Would you like detective stories?”

“Do you have Dick Tracy?” said Arthur. 

Does she have what? said John.

“It’s about this detective. He joined the coppers after his girlfriend got murdered,” said Arthur. “It’s a detective comic. You’ll love it.”

“I certainly do,” she said warmly. “I have his full run through about 1949, as well as a handful of original sketches from the artist.”

Arthur gawked. “1949? From the future?”

The Keeper sort of… fluttered as if both flattered and embarrassed. “Not far in the future, Arthur Lester. I am still quite young, and my reach is finite.”

“Wow,” said Arthur appreciatively, stunned. Even Hastur had to obey the laws of time. “Yes, that’d be great. And thank you for the tea. This really brings back memories.”

“I’ll send another pot with you. Please, help yourself.” She let out a soft sound, like a far off thunderstorm. “Perhaps, in time, I’ll be able to pick that brain of yours on other things, Mister Lester.”

Arthur looked spooked. “Not sure why you’d want to.”

“You are a very interesting human, and I am sure the both of us could find much to talk about.”

Even more spooked. “Sure, I… guess?”

Hastur did not consider that legally binding. “We shall see, of course.”

John growled just a tiny bit. Arthur took his hand again, reassuring.

Another strange librarian appeared and led him away. Arthur went where directed, and sat where told. He could smell the paper and ink as comics were brought by the box, and couldn’t help a little smile. As John complained, Arthur considered: Parker wouldn’t have seen most of these. Parker would be jealous. Arthur hoped he’d get the chance to tell him.

#

The niceties were done. The mortal removed. It was time for payment. 

Hastur was on, performance peaked, his many limbs curling gently as if in deep water, his breath slow and deep.

“Please relax,” said the Keeper. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Sure. “Of course, Great One,” said Hastur, and was proud his voice did not tremble.

“Now, Hastur,” she said. “What is it you intend to offer today?”

Were this any kind of normal circumstance, he would take his time with this; string this out over decades, maybe, matching wits, testing lies, and it would have been so much fun. 

He didn’t have that time. “If you will permit what could seem disrespectful, but is only intended as practical…”

“You may speak to me freely, Hastur. I can assure you: I am very hard to offend.” She leaned back, hands folded over each other.

He decided to go for broke. “I am well aware who holds all the power here. I’m certain, if you’ve been watching—however obscurely—that you know I’m desperate. I think it will behoove us both not to pretend otherwise. I am here because you have a reputation for working with the needy.” Oh, humility tasted bad. “And I… am needy.” And he inclined his body, head down. “That which I have to give has an expiration date. My hope is that makes it more valuable.”

The fire crackled in the silence, which was briefly thick between them.

“I appreciate your candor, Hastur,” she said, solemn. “I understand the impossible situation you’re in, and I intend to help you in whatever way I can.” One of her hands drummed the arm of her chair. “I will admit to you freely: I’m not sure I will be able to fully unravel the mystery of your marked. His like has not been seen in the history of the known universe, after all. But I am confident, given some time, I can address the reason he is aging and correct it.”

“I do not have time,” Hastur said, very softly.

“You have more than you think,” she said gently. “Trust me.”

He swallowed. “I have the other Leaves of Leng, but I know that isn’t enough. For your expediency and your discretion, I can give you the one thing which I don’t believe anyone else has.” All the cards. Get it done. Move on. 

“I’m listening.” She leaned forward a touch—just a hint. 

“I have seen that which ate the Wrong universe.” 

She went deathly still. “You went there?” she said. “And you returned?”

“I was returned.” His voice was rough.

“No one returns. They’re all eaten.” She let out a soft, low sound, more of a rumble through the floor. “You are… you are offering the memory of the impossible, to ask me to reverse the impossible.”

“I am.” He was half-afraid she would simply rip it out of him.

“How completely fascinating. You have me completely over the barrel, here, and yet are acting as if you need to grovel,” she said.

His entire body flickered a deep, lustrous gold, just for a moment, a wildly emotional reaction. What did that mean? What was she saying?

“You understand that I cannot interfere in my brother’s plans,” she said gravely. “I will freely admit that I have neither the power to do so, nor the desire.”

He hadn’t been hoping for that, but even the mention was enough to make his heart ache. “I know that. Nothing can prevent that, and I’m not trying to do so.”

“But this… if you truly have what you say you do, I will owe you much more than solving the impossible conundrum of Arthur Lester.”

Those were some binding, powerful words. “He must outlast what is to come. He can’t do that, as things are. So Arthur takes priority.” 

“So there is no miscommunication between us: you offer your memory, and in return I shall find a way to stop Arthur Lester from aging, with the addition of an advantageous position if future help is needed.” She steepled her fingers. “Are these terms amenable to you?”

An advantageous position if future help is needed. That almost threw him off his game, but he pulled focus back. “I keep him.”

“Of course.”

“He isn’t altered in any way beyond what may be necessary for repairing his mark.”

“Of course.”

What mattered was Faroe would have a father. What mattered was John would have an anchor. It all hinged on that one stupid mortal man. What choice did Hastur have? All his dicks were in a vice. “I will sign it in blood, if you wish.” 

“I believe I’m the one getting the better deal, here. Allow me.” One of her hands disappeared under that dark, lacy veil and a sickening crunch sounded from within; when it re-emerged, black ichor dripped from a shape that was unmistakably a bite mark. She extended her hand, ichor dripping like ink onto the tabletop. “I have set the promise in my blood. Take it.”

She was giving him her blood? She was—

He conjured a vial made of dust from the dreams of diamonds and several decades of his own bones and hoped it would be strong enough. “Thank you.” Not one damn drop of that would be spilled.

He didn’t even hesitate to offer his own after collecting hers. He wondered, as she took it, if he should have tested it first; what if there were a curse in it he hadn’t realized, unique to Kayne? What if there were some other special thing involved? Well… too late now.

“It is done,” she said softly, her wounded hand disappearing back beneath her veil. When it emerged again, it was healed, licked clean. “Now. My powers function best when you are calm and comfortable. The two of us will step into your memory so I may see what you saw, hear what you heard, feel what you felt—all of it, emotion, physicality, everything. You will be there, again, in that dead universe: but it will be but a memory, and I will be with you.” She folded her hands once again, one long finger tracing the lines of her knuckles. “Hastur, if you cannot abide it, you may simply say so. We can step back out and try again at a future point in time. You have much on your mind, at present, and I understand if such a difficult memory is too much.”

Every throat he had constricted. “I’m ready. I don’t have time to be readier. Let’s do this.”

“Very well.” She gestured to the couch of dark wood and deep green fabric. “Please, get comfortable.”

He stared at it for a moment like he’d never seen furniture before. What was she going to do to him? 

This was what he’d wanted, what he’d hoped for, and he knew a good performance increased Arthur’s chances. So with an actual flourish, he swept over and curled down onto the thing, robe trailing, limbs draped all around like some kind of decoration.

She sat beside him, arranging her skirts carefully. “Now, remember: if you squeeze my hand three times, any one of them, I will pull us out. Alright?”

“I understand.” And he’d no intention of pulling out (and never had, if he were honest).

“And so, forth unto the breach,” she said pleasantly, hooking her fingers beneath her veil, lifting it, and—

His thoughts went quiet, blank, and he was swept away.

#

Images rushed past, flowing and merging like water, and Hastur knew these sights and knew these places, but they were not now, and the Keeper flipped through them as casually as browsing pages in a book.

And in the center, and over all, and through everything was her face, his daughter, his Faroe—his heart, the heart of everything, covering like a fine veil, and he heard the Keeper sigh. “She’s very cute,” she said wistfully, “But we can talk about her later,” and the images kept going, and finally slowed, and it seemed he placed wooden splinters in his Composer’s flesh, and saw the piano come back together like smashing in reverse, and—

(Faroe was still on everything, like a watermark, and the Keeper would just have to deal with that.)

The Wrong universe.

Inert, silent, celestial bodies of empty matter, where not even echoes of thoughts remained. Dreams gone, whispers stilled, air currents cold. All of it dead, dead, dead, its present as frozen as its past, no life left in all the breadth and depth of space.

And he’d thought he wouldn’t be noticed.

Gleaming like a flame at the bottom of a well, subtle as the sun, creeping with a stealth that worked in a universe where life and hope and hate and love slammed their war-beat drum, but here? He’d rippled reality, had no chance, and found himself distantly embarrassed that he’d thought he could get away with it, and that she witnessed this incredible hubris.

Even if he’d known, though, it wouldn’t have mattered. There could be something here to save Faroe. There could be something he could give her, or trade for her, or wave around her like incense to keep her safe. Determined, he’d dug deep, lifted high, searched between for anything other than a reasonable sense of self-preservation that kept Outer Gods away from this place. 

“Oh,” the Keeper breathed, veil fluttering around her with every movement. “You braved all of this for her. That is absolutely magnificent.”

Magnificent? Desperate. And disappointing. 

There was nothing here. It was the unknown threat, not some claimable item, that kept them away, and his grief as he prepared to leave was heavy, terrible… but nothing compared to what he felt next. 

He turned around, saw them, and was swallowed. 

A sucking, draining, awful, pressurized pull of all he was or ever could be, not erasing but worse, digesting, drinking, slurping—

The Keeper stared. It was just two humans. 

No, that… that was not a human. Maybe it was once. It certainly was not now. It also was not in the past.

Hastur’s memory, watery and clear, showed two of the same being: the one he’d encountered, and the current version, here, now, staring right at the Keeper’s veiled face.

Hastur’s memory was all it took. A conduit. Knowledge and sight like electrical current.

The Keeper gasped. “I don’t believe it,” she said, very softly. “You’re truly here, aren’t you?”

And oh, there was a struggle happening. She could feel that same pull that so dismantled Hastur, but at least for a while, she could withstand it—could see all things flowing toward this once-human man, like a sinkhole, pulling in water and trees and breath. 

She flexed her power, her presence an anchor, a breakwater. She couldn’t free Hastur without tearing him—this thing had bitten into him deeply—but she could hold him steady. “You may not have him,” she said, very softly. “Hello, there.”

The memory paused.

This thing had to have been human once. Its memory of itself was human, and its form persisted in that shape, except for all the eyes. “Hello.” It had stopped—somehow—from massacring Hastur, but merely held him. It hadn’t let him go yet, though. “This isn’t a safe place for visitors.” There was no threat in it; a bass voice, quiet.

“We won’t be long. I had no idea anyone or anything persisted.” She cocked her head. “You can see me, through this memory of his—and I can see you. How absolutely fascinating, to be seen.” 

The ex-human thing hunched as if in pain. One, small, pleading moment: “I’m so hungry.” But still, it did not pull Hastur further in.

“I know,” she said, so soft. “I can feel it. You poor thing. Do you need help?”

And then the memory—the actual memory—resumed. Let him go, Jon, said the still-human man beside him. Can’t you see why he’s here? Because this companion could tell—had been so attuned to connection and its lack—that Hastur was here for love.

The ghostly version in Hastur’s memory spoke: I see. I’m hungry.

You still won’t eat me, though, said the companion who could feel love and its horrible absence.

Never. I will never eat you.

I know. Let him go. He’s here for love. Even I can see that.

“He still is,” the Keeper said. “Do you need help?”

All right, all right. For you.

Thank you.

The things I do for you…

“There is no help,” the ex-human said. “Go. Both of you. Don’t return to this memory. It’s hard enough to resist that now I know you exist.” And the grip released.

Hastur in the memory had been trying so hard to get away that the moment he was freed, he’d flung himself back home—but even the touch of that thing had been enough to strip a few seconds of his awareness. 

He’d truly believed, when he’d landed in Carcosa, that he’d been unconscious. He hadn’t. Those two seconds had been eaten, and not even on purpose. It was like light, bending near a black hole. 

He lay limp now, like a machine switched off. 

“Thank you,” the Keeper said gently. “I’ll find a way to help. I swear it.”

The being didn’t believe her. It wore a mournful look as the Wrong universe spun away, darkening like a closed door.

Hastur was insensate. The Keeper gently lifted him so he could rest on her, and stretched out her arms to comfortingly gather him in.

#

Hastur returned to awareness with the knowledge that he was on his side, that someone was humming, that something was gently stroking the edge of his mask where his hood had fallen away. It seemed he had, somehow, gone unconscious again.

“Fuck,” he said without thinking.

“You’re back,” the Keeper said from somewhere above him. “I apologize for not waking you, but you seemed… peaceful.”

His head was in her lap. He was limp, limbs draped like forgotten socks. He also had no filter. “Unconscious again,” he muttered. “That’s just unfair.” 

“It’s all right, Hastur. Lesser beings go unconscious when I search their memories; I couldn’t be sure what a Great Old One would do. I ensured you were safe.” Her voice was soft, gentle, and very gingerly she began stroking his face again. “Are you alright?”

“I can’t be unconscious. We don’t do that. I’m not… Cthulhu,” he scoffed. “Nothing hurts,” he added, thoughtfully. 

She made a small sound. “You’re usually in pain. From the injury you sustained, when John was separated from you.”

“Yes. Always.” He was so quiet inside; very much a blank slate, an open book. Receptive. “Did you like the terrifying memory?”

“It was everything I hoped for and more,” she said. Her fingertips gently traced the edge of his mask, the movement repeated and soothing. “You have done me a great favor today, Hastur. You poor thing. The pressure you’re under is immense. I’m glad I can offer you a few moments of peace.” Softly she began to hum again, another hand gently adjusting the drape of his cloak. “You can stay as long as you need—and in the future, my door will always be open.”

That was nice. Very nice things to hear. He was calm. Unaware a few of his tentacles had gently wrapped around her arms, waist, the legs of the sofa, whatever was near, a purely instinctive response.

She didn’t seem to mind. “I wasn’t sure what to expect when you contacted me, but I really am so happy to meet you. As for Arthur… well, I have some ideas, but we can discuss those later. I’ve had the privilege of hearing some recordings of your jubilees, you know. He’s very impressive.”

“He’s frustrating beyond belief,” Hastur said fondly. “The worst of humans. Mine.” Tiny, tiny tentacles wrapped around each of her fingers. “Defiant for no reason. Did you know that if he wakes even a little, he shoves at you? He doesn’t even know why.”

She laughed, light and amused. “He sounds like a true contrarian. Tabby is a bit like that—it took her a long time to warm up to me.” She sighed. “But perhaps it’s something special about you, not just him.” 

He sighed, tentacles reflexively wrapping. “I must keep him alive. He doesn’t know he has to stay alive. She needs him. Will need him.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll need to experiment a bit. But that doesn’t have to be today. Another time, maybe.”

“But it must be today.” He didn’t even hesitate. “I only have two thousand and ninety-eighty days left.” And then he stiffened.

What in hell was he doing? 

He was in her lap? In her lap? What in the name of all that existed—

“Ah,” she said, very quietly. “I see you’ve recovered yourself a bit. Again, I must apologize: you seemed peaceful.”

He sat up and pulled away from her, disengaging. Dignity was gone. He stared, panicked, woozy.

She folded her hands. “You haven’t lost any time here, if it helps.”

“I, ah.” Words had apparently eloped with dignity, gone. There was no protocol for this. Purple flared beneath his skin. He was so embarrassed he didn’t know how to be.

“For Arthur, we will have only been gone for about ten minutes.” Her voice is gentle. “For the outside world, mere moments. This is my domain, Hastur. I control everything that happens within my Scriptorium, and if my guest needs more time… I shall grant it.”

Oh. Oh , that changed things. “I didn’t realize you could do that.”

“There are a great many things people don’t realize I can do,” she said with a soft laugh. “I prefer to keep it that way.”

Everything. It changed everything. He adjusted his plan, tilting it, putting abject humiliation into the unfixable branch and more time into the resources one. “So we can return without consequence,” he said, all his eyes widening.

“Yes. I have theories—tomes I must reference, spells I must conduct. I need to examine Arthur, examine the marks.” She rose, then, her human-like spine straight and tall, veil flowing about her like she was floating in water. “But I need to prepare for that before I can do it properly. Would it be possible to take a bit of his blood today? I can make do with some hair, but the living cells of blood are much preferable.”

“Both are acceptable, though I will ask you to avoid causing him pain.”

“I won’t. I don’t enjoy causing pain,” she said.

He smoothed down his robe, weaving dignity (or the ghost of it) from thin air. “Shall we see what my composer is doing?” he said as if he hadn’t just spent who knew how long draped across her lap like a weird duvet.

“I would hope nothing too extreme, in the entirety of twelve minutes, but the man seems to be quite surprising,” the Keeper said mildly. “Let’s.”

#

What they were doing was arguing over Dick Tracy.

The sign! The sign, Arthur!

“Look. It wouldn’t even be able to hold his weight. It absolutely would not just fall off the movie marquis magically to spell ‘dead.’”

He deserved it!

“You’re bloodthirsty these days.”

You’re the one who wanted to read it!

“Well, I didn’t know which one it was!”

You said, It’s a classic, John!

“That was before I realized you’d take this literally!”

You could do this. You could do exactly what Dick Tracy does. You’d look better, too. He’s even got a yellow coat!

“A yellow coat?” said Hastur.

Wh—go away! We’re busy!

“That was fast,” Arthur said, brow furrowing as he turned. “Did everything go well?”

“Yes,” said Hastur.

John let out a small rumble. What the hell happened to you?

And there was the slightest pause. “Nothing,” said Hastur.

He looks wrung out, said John.

Arthur frowned. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Hastur. 

“The comics seem to have gotten you worked up,” said the Keeper, sounding amused.

They killed the mayor of Chinatown! John proclaimed. And took his place with a rubber mask for over a year!

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” the Keeper said brightly. “I’d be happy to check the volumes out to you, if you like.” She turned to Hastur. “Assuming you’d allow it?”

Faroe would see this excruciatingly human literature. Oh, gods.

Hastur had to take a moment. Calculate. Better, he realized, to have her exposed while he could mitigate it, then to wait until he was gone and it was all the input she had. “Yes. I will allow it.”

Arthur perked right the fuck up. “I don’t suppose you have the entirety of the 1932 run.”

Ah ha! You do like it!

“I never said I didn’t, you whacko.”’

“I absolutely do,” she said. “I’ll fetch what I have for you.”

Arthur, Hastur’s really relaxed. Half his tentacles are limp.

“What?” said Arthur.

“I’m fine, John.”

“Could I have some of your blood?” said the Keeper brightly. “For testing purposes, of course.”

This might as well happen. “Sure,” said Arthur.

Slow the fuck down. She’s taking blood?  

“John, it’s fine.”

It’s not fine! We don’t know her! What she’ll do with it! Kayne—

“Kayne literally sealed my slit throat and put my fractured leg-bones back into my body,” said Arthur. “Whatever samples he wants, he’s already got.”

John huffed. Well, not recent ones!

Arthur snorted. “If we’re being particular, I’m fairly sure she’s already got access to my blood. They’ve all been watching. For all we know, she has that obsidian shard that I used to cut Nibbles free with.”

The Keeper folded all four of her hands demurely.

John sounded choked. Hastur! You can’t let this happen!

“I have decided to trust her,” Hastur said, sounding tired. “What I gave in exchange was enough to earn her help.”

“I’ll say,” said the Keeper.

What you gave! What you gave! What the fuck could you possibly have that she hasn’t seen before?

Arthur came to his own conclusion. His face went long.

“As mentioned,” the Keeper said, floating a large file box to him. “The 1932 run. Some are original printings, so I bid you to be careful.” Her voice was full of good humor, teasing. “My acolytes have enough to do without repairing comic strips.”

“I will bring this back with us,” said Hastur.

“Thank you so much,” said Arthur.

What did you fucking do, Hastur?

“We communed. Calm yourself,” said Hastur.

Communed!

Arthur decided it would be better to turn and face the box of comics as though he could see it, inspecting it with his fingertips.

Turn back! I wasn’t done!

“Now, as for the blood, just a little will do.” She produced a small vial. “It shouldn’t hurt.”

“Do what you must,” said Arthur.

Carefully!

“Am I really being the adult here?” Arthur muttered.

“Kindly roll up his sleeve for me, John?” The Keeper asked sweetly.

John swallowed, but then did, reaching over to pull up the dark blue, stretchy material.

Arthur had done this part before. He made a fist.

It was unnecessary. There was no needle-prick. The Keeper touched the vial to his arm, and it began to fill.

“And… finished,” she said after what felt like no time at all. “Thank you, Arthur. I will contact Hastur if I have any developments, but this will be instrumental in helping to rule out some potential causes of your predicament.” Her head swiveled on her long neck, turning around like a swan’s. “I should be contacting you soon with any news, Hastur. Feel free to send me letters before then. When I do, you can visit. I remove your restrictions; you can portal home straight from here. Still feel alright, Arthur?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Honestly, this was a lot more fun than court.”

The Keeper laughed lightly. “Off you go,” she said.

“Thank you,” Hastur said, unsure what else to add. He held Arthur close, opened a portal to his rooms, and stepped through.

#

Hastur hadn’t even had a chance to set Arthur down before John started yelling. What the fuck was all that? And you just let her!

“It’s fine, John,” Arthur said with a sigh, right hand rising to rub at the corner of his eye. “She asked permission. And sent us away with Dick Tracy.”

It’s not fine!

Arthur sighed. “How long were we gone?” he said, moving right along.

“Moments,” Hastur said. “The Keeper can control time in her domain.”

Arthur turned blindly towards him. “What? Really?”

“Yes.” The position of the sun did not lie. It felt surreal: how long had he lain, boneless, in the Keeper’s office? The tour, the negotiations, the intensity of the memory he had shared, all of it, done in moments. She had, once again, told him the truth—she saw he’d needed time, and she gave it.

And he had her blood. The blood of an Outer God. That was priceless. He’d be targeted, if anyone ever knew. He could ask for anything in exchange for it. This gift, freely given, was power.

All of this set his teeth on edge. Desperation crawled beneath his skin, making a shape that Hastur did not want to indulge. He could not afford hope. He didn’t have the time.

Arthur looked absolutely stunned. “I have time to work on the Rite,” he said, blinking. “Before lunch. And—”

You need to rest, John said hotly. We’re going to rest!

“We go to court first,” Hastur said, infuriatingly neutral. “Your comics will be in your room later.”

Still court? Why? John whined.

“We are all tired,” Hastur said, low. “Hear me now, because we cannot discuss this more publicly. We must maintain appearances. My behavior has been erratic. I was not here after Carcosa was attacked; right now, to our enemies, we seem weakened. We are vulnerable.”

Arthur sighed. “I hear you.”

“John. I know you’re tired. We all are. We must recover as we move forward.”

Fuck. Quietly. I hate this.

“I would think you strange if you did not.”

“We can do this, John.” Arthur held his hand. 

“We must,” Hastur said, and there was a gentleness in his voice. “For her.”

John went quiet for just a moment.

“For her,” said Arthur.

For you, said John. But… yeah. For her, too. You’re kind of a package deal.

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day,” said Arthur.

Fuck off.

“Ready to perform?” said Hastur.

Arthur sighed. “Sure.”

And with that, they exited Hastur’s rooms and headed for court. And if anyone noticed that all three were trying very hard to seem perfectly normal, well… it was nothing that hadn’t gone in the gossip-pot before.

[liminal-zone]

Fanfic roundup 2022

(2021 round up)

LIST OF FANWORKS

Posted:

dependence (The Matrix | Neo/Trinity | codependency | rated NR)

See your enemy (The Matrix | Neo/Trinity, Trinity+Smith | the one that got away | rated M)

But mine is as hungry as the sea (LOTR | Galadriel/Sauron | a millennia of dreams | rated E)

i’d like to hold her head underwater (LOTR | Galadriel/Sauron | kissin’ and makin’ oaths| rated M)

That’s the whole ice cream cone (LOTR RPF | Charlie/Morfydd | scholarship is sexy | rated M) (ao3 locked)

Crave (LOTR | Galadriel/Sauron | tentacles | rated E) (wip to update v soon)

WIPs:

LOTR: an earnest take on the celeborn custody battle crack (posting soon)

LOTR: Dark Galadriel and the dyad rings - teases here

LOTR: healing generational trauma with fourth age Arwen and her peepaw

The Matrix: Trinity and Smith as mirrors - tease here

MCU: the final conclusion of my winterbaron sugar daddy fic

MCU: a full horror Time Variance Authority Trash Party with stucky rising

Total number of completed works/fandoms written in: six completed works in 2022 for a total of just over 15k words; two for The Matrix, three for LOTR, and one RPF. 

OVERALL THOUGHTS: What a strange year! The Matrix fics were essentially remixes and the LOTR fics were essentially a fever dream zeitgeist high. I wish that I could have a more steady creative process???? But I’m very proud of the creative work this year and the madness I felt in writing these fics.

PERSONAL FAVORITE: The moment in “I’d like to hold her head underwater” where Galadriel has a fantasy of fucking Halbrand into a dying Sauron’s armored body. “And wonderfully, exquisitely, she feels that weak dark spirit shamed at the ignominy of this dark choice.” FUCKING A, LIZZEN.

MOST UNDERAPPRECIATED: I actually feel quite happy with the appreciation I received for all of my fics this year. The kudos may be low on The Matrix ones but my matrix fam had wonderful things to say about them. Britomart keeps tagging me in a discord server as she introduces folk to “See your enemy”, the best. Crave could use more love but LET’S BE REAL. CRAVE COULD DESERVE A FUCKING NEXT CHAPTER, YA COCK TEASE.

MOST POPULAR: “But mine is as hungry as the sea” by every metric. It’s incredible, do NOT get me wrong, I love the shit out of this fic, it truly was a demon I had to exorcize into gorgeous words and tragic romantic angst – BUT it’s popular bcs I gamed the zeitgeist timing LETTUCE BE QUITE REAL. In my old age, I’m very wise to the methodologies of fic popularity. XX

STORY WITH THE SEXIEST MOMENT: So, what I love the best about  “But mine is as hungry as the sea” is that I couldn’t have Gal and Hal talk to each other if at the VERY least he was finger banging her. AT THE VERY LEAST. Like. My parody version of that fic is them having benign boring conversations as he’s three fingers in and she’s lost count of how much she’s come. Second place is the same fic where I talk about her being sticky and him shaking BECAUSE I AM TRASH (affectionate). 

MOST FUN STORY TO WRITE: The posted chapter of Crave was such a fun time. The bulk of it just flowed out of me in like an HOUR. I just love monsterfucking and a woman who is AS HUNGRY AS THE SEA. It just had so much delicious promise. UGHHH, so much fun.

HARDEST: Hahahahahaha the unposted finish to Crave. What have I done. Writing a kink with specific tropes for a pairing where I am resistant to those tropes being used with them? HAHAHAHAH. WHAT AM I DOING. (I’ll make it work and people will like it or they won’t!). 

BIGGEST SURPRISE: Having the exact same fever dream zeitgeist high while writing like I did after TLJ in December 2017. I thought that was like a cocaine high and I’d never feel it again. I THOUGHT I WAS DEAD INSIDE. (I’m back to being a little dead inside so…. that’s…….. fun for me and my therapist.) (WORKING ON IT.)

DID YOU TAKE ANY RISKS IN WRITING THIS YEAR? Writing the first RPF fic for The Rings of Power. NEW LOTRPS JUST DROPPED, BAYBEEEE. It was initially locked, but then I opened it back up because I was like, “this fandom can behave with rpf, right?” Hahaha, nah bro, so it’s locked up again and I’m unlikely to write another (until there’s new irl canon i guess?). 

MOST UNINTENTIONALLY TELLING STORY: Y’all here know how I feel about Charlie’s Sauron scholarship, so you can’t be surprised that I have Morfydd jump him immediately after she learns about it. SHRUG!

FAVORITE LINES/SCENES: Honestly, the entire tease for the Trinity + Groff!Smith. Fucking brilliant work. “I accept your terms,” she says. “I didn’t make any,” he says, weak. “Exactly,” she replies.

2023 WRITING AMBITIONS: Write more steadily and consistently. Get back into the drabble mode. Make time, take time, just do it. It doesn’t have to be groundbreaking, it just has to be creating something. The joy of creation is like nothing else. Chase that high.

[ynscrazylife]

Can I please please request one where Natasha and Yelena have another younger sister (Y/N) and she gets badly injured and her older sisters are hysterical since they’re afraid to lose one they love the most

A Race Against Time | romanoff fam fic

Summary: Natasha and Yelena do their best to help their hurt younger sister.

Authors Note: Thanks for requesting!

Request to be on a taglist (or multiple) here! (Taglists are at the end of the fic)

MCU Masterlist #1 | MCU Masterlist #2 |  Main Masterlist

PSA: Do NOT copy, steal, translate, plagiarize, republish, etc any of my works on Tumblr or any other platform. Also, do NOT claim any of my works as your own. All of these works are either requests I’ve gotten that people have wanted me to write or original ideas I’ve had for works. If you happen to take inspiration from anything I’ve written and want to write something inspired by that, please a) ask me first and b) IF I say yes, credit me as inspo in your post by tagging me and link whatever work of mine that inspired you. Thanks.

header c @/twitalents

“Everybody alright?” Natasha asked as Alexei and Melina approached her and Yelena. The redhead herself definitely hadn’t gotten out of the whole ordeal without injuries. In fact, from Dreykov punching her to the fight against the Widows, and the fight against Antonia (not to mention the injuries from the past few days that she hadn’t taken care of), she was in some pain. However she didn’t worry about herself, she knew she’d be fine. She always was.

Natasha glanced over and spotted Y/N making her way over to them, too. From the distance, Natasha couldn’t tell that she was limping and was very hurt.

“I am clearly injured,” Melina deadpanned, causing Natasha to look back over and send her adoptive mother a smile as an apology. With a quick glance, Natasha could tell that she’d be okay, she’d just need a cast on that ankle and-

Thump.

The sound, accompanied by Yelena’s loud gasp and yelp, broke through Natasha’s thoughts and caused her to whip around suddenly. The sight her eyes landed on instantly sent what felt like an ice shard plunging into her chest. No. No.

By the time she snapped out of it, Yelena was already by Y/N’s unconscious figure, which the thump must have been - her plummeting to the ground - and Alexei was helping Melina over as fast as he could. Natasha sped past them and dropped to her knees, her brain wired to already be processing the situation and formulating a plan, while she lightly stopped Yelena’s wrist to prevent her from going to shake Y/N.

“You don’t move someone who is unconscious unless necessary - it could injure them,” she breathed out. Yelena, who could see that her older sister was in autopilot mode, sat back and let her do her thing, opting to look up at her parents, instead.

Both their eyes were glued to Y/N. Alexei’s eyebrows crinkled and, after taking a big breath, muttered (just loud enough for them to hear), “There’s blood on you.”

Natasha’s eyes snapped down and sure enough, her knees were bloodied. She quickly looked up only to see blood beginning to come from Y/N’s stomach where she had fallen on her side. Closing her eyes for a moment to allow herself to think, Natasha carefully and gently pulled up Y/N’s shirt, only to see an open gash in the shape of the Widow hourglass.

“Wha-?” She said, barely forming a word, and Yelena leaned over to see.

She immediately began shaking her head and pushed Y/N onto her back. “I-I know what this is, I think. I remember hearing about a weapon that’d leave that mark,” she rambled out.

Melina peered over Natasha’s shoulder and when she saw it, her face went pale. “That-that weapon, it ejects a blast that makes that mark when it meets the skin. It was made as a precaution in case any of the Widows went rogue - it was made years ago. But only a few were made because they were so confident in themselves. It-it goes along with a process they constructed to re-brainwash the Widows. The blast gets under her skin, in her body, with a chemical that’s in it, and that chemical starts the brainwashing process,” she explained.

A park of hope entered Yelena’s eyes. “So she won’t be fully brainwashed?” She asked.

“Not without the rest of the procedure,” Melina began, but then her eyes widened when she remembered something and horror quickly flashed across her face. “But if the process isn’t completed within a certain time period, the chemical will wear off its brainwashing effects and instead will start hurting her . . . A lot . . . But I have an antidote-” her tone sped up now, “-It’s back at the house. We need to get her there.”

Natasha and Yelena nodded, both having gone through a great wave of emotions throughout Melina’s words. Yelena, while racked with worry, still remained hopeful, and Natasha did her best to be, too, but her tears were drying and she was sniffling.

“The jet is-” Alexei began to say, when the sound of the engines of cars rapidly approaching cut him off.

Natasha looked over. “Shit, Ross,” she said, regretting even tipping him off to their location in the first place.

Melina bit her lip. “You girls go. Take Y/N home. The antidote is labelled ‘Ant-Widow,’,” she told them firmly.

Yelena’s lips parted to protest, not wanting to split up, but catching Natasha picking up Y/N out of the corner of her eye stopped her. She nodded, rising to her feet.

“We’ll distract them. They won’t want anything to do with us when they realize you’re not here,” Melina insisted.

Natasha sent her a look that she could only hope was conveying everything she wanted it to. A million thoughts whizzed about in her mind, none making room for each other. She wondered, would they leave them alone? Or would they be taken into questioning? Shouldn’t she be the one facing Ross - since she called him there? Is Y/N going to be okay? Will they get there in time?

By the way Melina looked back at her, Natasha thought that her message had been received. There was no time to go over the plan any longer, if they stayed even a couple more seconds they’d get caught by Ross, whose army of cars headed to a halt.

Natasha bolted off in the jet’s direction, Yelena quick on her heels. They rushed inside and Natasha took her time to gently put Y/N down before going to the pilot seat. Yelena sat down in the back, wanting to watch over their little sister.

Neither of them said anything until Natasha had gotten them off the ground and away from the field. Yelena could hear the engine whirring and she knew that Natasha was going as fast as this aircraft could probably go.

“Natasha,” she said, her voice small and hesitant, reminding Natasha of her own self when she was younger. The redhead braced herself for her sister’s words. “Do you think we’ll get there in time?”

Natasha let out a slow yet steady breath, fighting back the urge to tell her not to say that. She wondered the same thing, and she hated it. She didn’t answer, though, because she didn’t want to lie. She didn’t know herself, and she also hated that.

Yelena looked down in defeat when she didn’t get an answer and continued watching Y/N. She couldn’t stop herself from worrying and when she spotted the other injuries — bruises, cuts, scrapes — littering her body, she got up and went to the back.

The blonde grabbed the med kit they had stored and went back, quickly opening it up and getting everything she needed. First, bandages. Yelena put pressure on the wound even though she knew it wouldn’t bleed out, and a twinge of guilt hit her when Y/N moved and groaned unconsciously.

She then wrapped up Y/N’s stomach and tended to her other injures, every so often glancing at Natasha, who she could see by the way she was sitting up straight that she was tense. Upset. Worried. Yelena had to admit she was feeling those same things but busied herself by taking care of Y/N.

This carried on and they were about ¾ there when everything shifted. Y/N, who had been mostly quiet throughout the journey, suddenly rolled onto her side, eyes opening with a startled gasp.

Natasha frantically looked up at Yelena and the latter jumped to resolve the situation. Gently, she put her hands on her younger sister’s shoulders and tried to turn her onto her back, but Y/N fought her off and scurried back, against the wall.

“Y/N,” Yelena said, slowly putting her hands up in a “surrender” gesture.

The younger one shook her head as tears began to flow down her cheeks. “It-it hurts,” she got out, wrapping her arms around herself.

Yelena sent Natasha a frightened, desperate look and the glint in Natasha’s eyes held tears in them. “I can’t go any faster!” She cried out in frustration, her anger at her helplessness beginning to grow.

Yelena turned back to Y/N. “Take deep breaths with me, okay?” She said, and took a couple deep breaths to show her. It took Y/N a second, but she followed along. However, the pain didn’t take a break for long, and quickly came crashing back to her, like a magnet.

She let out another cry, but this one filled with that much more anguish, desperation, a pure rage from wanting it to be over, a rage that nearly caused her to vomit. Y/N leaned forward, hoping that there was something - anything - that could relieve this pain for even just a second. The warmth she was soon filled with from her older sister’s arms wrapping around her and pulling her close did nothing to soothe pain, but she found someone to have a steady grip on, someone to hold.

This continued on. In every cry let out, Yelena could’ve sworn each one was louder than the last. She didn’t know what to do so she did the only thing she could and stayed there. After  a particularly loud cry from Y/N, Yelena couldn’t stop a “Natasha!” from escaping.

“I’m trying!” She shouted over the engine and over Y/N, doing her best to blink away the tears and focus, but everytime she was on the brink of it, something tore her away.

After what felt like what could only be described as eons, Natasha managed to touch down in the same spot she had just a day ago. The moment they made contact, she leapt out of her seat, nearly tumbling to the floor, and practically fell against the door.

“Stay with her,” was all she said to Yelena before pushing all her weight against the door and breaking off into a run towards the house.

Natasha had run fast before. To escape Antonia, on countless SHIELD missions, and even to beat Sam in a race, but none amounted to this. The mountains and trees whipped by so fast that she felt like she was in a race car and it made her head spin. Nonetheless (and she thanked her extensive training for that), Natasha’s stamina held out and she ran through the house, tripping over things and knocking others over, until she reached Melina’s office.

At first, everything looked like a normal office space for a normal business woman, but the underlying science and spy secrecy that she knew had to be inside was revealed. Cabinets upon cabinets filled with vials upon vilas and files upon files. She scoured the entire room and nearly dropped the green-filled file when she saw its label. This was it.

A moment of victory passed until Natasha remembered the weight of the situation and she got back on her feet, running like the wind, and leaving behind the office looking like some raccoons had gotten inside.

By the time she reached the top of the hill, Natasha could make out the outline of Yelena carrying Y/N (who was draped over her like a curtain, by the way) toward her.

They met in the middle and Yelena put Y/N down, the older sisters kneeling beside her. Y/N was half-conscious at this point and Natasha moved at the speed of light to get the vial lid off. “She was getting worse, I couldn’t wait!” Yelena yelled.

When she got it open, Natasha pushed it towards Y/N’s lips. “Y/N, honey, c’mon, you gotta drink,” she encouraged, hand trembling as Y/N attempted to fight her off. It was only Yelena running her hands through her hair that calmed her down, and she took a small sip of the vial’s contents at first before gulping it down.

When she stopped squirming and seemed to no longer be in pain, instead falling into a peaceful sleep, that’s when both Natasha and Yelena had calmed down. It had been a rollercoaster, but they did it, and she was okay. The two held each other, relieved.  

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[totebagchiqbarista]

Heyy can i request a luka x fem!reader fic? Like you know how how luka is always calm and cool? What if he turns into a living mess after he meets reader? Like no stuttering or something but hes ranting about her to juleka all the time and cant concentrate when shes around??

what are you doing to me? // luka x fem!reader

request: anonymous

warnings: fluff, swearing?, Luka being a mess

pairing: Luka Couffaine x Fem!Reader

a/n: I really wanted to write some Luka stuff and this kind of stretched out to a good amount of words so I hope you like it! :)

"Dear God, Luka, stop talking!" Juleka shouted at her brother who entered her room uninvited for the 4th time today. She had understood he didn't have anybody really to talk to, but Lord was he getting annoying at this point.

"But I have to tell you something"

Pushing him out of her cabin one last time, Juleka stood at the door frame and stared at the blue boy. "Go out and find a life!" Of course, she didn't mean it like that, but before she could manage what she is doing, she slammed the door shut in front of him.

Luka was taken aback by the change in Juleka's attitude. He didn't flinch though. He was always that one collected and calm person in every group. Anger never fulfilled him in the ways it sometimes filled his mother, for example.

Anarka had never been the type to prohibit them of their freedom, but she tends to let her emotions take over her. When somebody mentions their dad, she turns red, wrathful at the memories that flow across her head. And it's never long until she completely lets rage form her.

But Luka was different. He was always the serene boy you would find in the back of the class writing songs, practicing riffs. When somebody took it out on him, Luka sucked it in, forgetting about the scene in a few days. He had never lost his temper, beat someone up, melted at someone's touch...

He didn't mind it, after all, there was nothing to whine about. He had all his emotions under control, and even though he would never admit it- it made him feel superior to others.

So Luka decided to go to the park. Whenever he had nothing to do, a simple solution always came to his mind- a warm walk through the park.

"Hi, Nino" he exclaimed seeing the familiar couple by the water fountain. "Hi, Alya."

Alya offered him a soft smile, taking a piece of Andre's ice cream. Nino lent him his famous handshake. "I'm excited for tonight!" said Alya, referring to the private hangout at Couffaine's that was yet to come.

Luka had completely forgotten about it. How could he do such a thing? Still, he kept his cool exterior, nodding his head in agreement. "Me too"

"Oh shoot! I forgot I was supposed to meet Y/n tonight" Alya looked back on her schedule.

"Who's that?" Luka questioned, having never heard of that name before

"An old friend of mine. She just recently moved here"

"She can come, too."

"Really?" Alya's face lit up in joy "You would do that?"

The blue-haired boy laughed "If there's one place in Paris everybody is welcomed, it for sure is the Couffaine's ship!"

"Great, we'll see you there soon!" Alya added before collecting her phone and her boyfriend, running to meet up with her long-term friend.

Luka was left alone by the fountain, staring faintly at the water drops in the pool. Hot summer day took a toll on him and his eyes closed slightly under the pressure of the beaming sunshine.

A wooden bench called out to him and so he sat underneath the cooling shade of the trees. Moments passed and Luka grew to be more impatient. Guests were to come tonight, maybe he should return and help Juleka set up for the evening hang out...

Just on a mark, a girl ran to the park, out of her breath. She seemed worn out as she breathed heavily from the excessive physical activity. She looked at the phone in her hands, it responding with a typical GPS lady voice.

"Shit" she mumbled as she frantically tried to get the directions from the small machine.

"Hey" Luka called out to her from his sitting position in the corner "Are you lost?"

The girl looked around, making sure the blue boy was talking to her. "Yeah, I guess I could say so." Just as she returned him the look, Luka was struck by her beauty. It seemed like such a cliché, really. And Luka hated clichés. Yet, he was mesmerized by the girl who stood before him.

"Right... Where do you need to go?" He asked, collecting himself by her feet.

"Uh," she let out an unknowing hum "Here"

The picture she showed was blurry but Luka figured the place. It was a place he liked to visit sometimes, too. He showed her the directions, making sure she knows all the tracks.

"Thank you so much" The girl beamed with happiness in her eyes "Thank you for helping me"

Luka nodded, and the girl turned around to leave in the direction he just showed her. Luka contemplated for a second before asking a question just as she was about to leave "Can I know your name, at least?"

Hope in his eyes, he stared at her for a full moment until she broke the silence. "We only just met. Besides, where's the fun in that?" Sending him one last wink goodbye, she disappeared into the streets of Paris.

Juleka wasn't a person one could easily talk to. Except for Luka. Luka knew his sister was quite an introvert and a rather shy soul. He respected it and grew to watch over her, protecting her privacy with others. But with him, she was sometimes an extremely cheerful and bubbly person. Hell, there were moments he wished she could stop talking!

So when the two of them collaborated in decorating the harbor for their friends, they finished rather quickly. In under 2 hours, the duo managed to make the best party ship anyone has ever seen.

"Alya is bringing a friend," Luka said as he and Juleka tried to put the last fairy lights around.

"Really? Who?"

"An old friend who just moved here. Y/n as I recall."

Juleka nodded, trying to remember the name "Oh yes, Y/n. Alya told us about her. I'm glad to finally meet her."

Soon enough, the guests started to gather and their home was erupting from chit chats and music. Luka talked to everybody, getting lost in the crowd. His mind always found its way back to the silhouette of the lost girl from the park. There was something he couldn't get enough of in her...

"Luka, could you play us something?" asked Marinette to what Luka only nodded, heading to his room for the guitar.

"Alya is here!" Rose exclaimed when she noticed her friend at the entrance. Next to her stood a girl, a girl Alya has told them almost everything about.

"Hi, guys! This is Y/n" everybody welcomed them, all eyes prying on the newbie.

Marinette came closer and hugged her "I'm Marinette" she addressed as she offered her a soft smile "I've heard so much about you!"

"I could say the same" Y/n returned the sweet gesture.

"What took you so long?" Nino asked looking at his watch and then back at them.

"My bad. I got kind of lost."

The moment Luka stepped on the ship, the last thing he expects to see was the girl he couldn't stop thinking about. The girl that has been playing in his head all day, since the moment they met. Well, not exactly met.

"You" he blurted without thinking as he set his guitar down.

The pair of orbs he remembered from this morning, looked up at him, as surprised as him. "You" she joked back, not breaking the eye contact.

"You two know each other?" Marinette asked looking back and forth between the two of them.

"Not really. He helped me find the way this morning" Y/n explained

"And she didn't even tell me her name"

"It's more fun this way, don't you think?"

Luka chuckled offering her a handshake. "I'm Luka"

"Y/n"

The night moved slowly and Luka found himself growing more and more nervous whenever Y/n was around. This can't be! He's always the calm one, the collected one, the untouchable one. No, no. It's just a mire admiration. Nothing much, really. He's as steady as ever...

"Spin the bottle!" Alya shouted out of nowhere

Numbers of confused faces turned to her in a moment. She proceeded, explaining her outburst. "Let's play spin the bottle"

The teens looked around, meeting with other's sights, nodding in agreement. Soon enough, the group was sat on the floor. Upon choosing a seat, Luka looked around. There were 2 left: beside Y/n and opposite of her. He wanted to sit beside her, really. Oh, just how he wanted to sit beside her, their knees touching... But he was so nervous. His palms sweat just for the thought and his heart raced with a speed unknown to man.

So he sat opposite of her.

"Right, so, we are playing spin the bottle combined with truth and dare. A person spins the bottle and they ask "truth or dare?" the one who the bottle has sat on." Alya explained.

Marinette went first, the bottle landing on Y/n. The bluenette smiled softly and asking the question. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth"

"Are you happy to be in Paris?"

"Very!" The two exchanged graceful smiles earning a groan from Nino.

"Where are the fun questions! C'mon dudettes!" he cried obviously disappointed in his friends.

Marinette looked at him in confusion "What do you want me to ask?"

"I don' know, something interesting. Like, describe your perfect type, or something"

Y/n laughed for a second. "Well I don't really have a type but guitarists hold a special place in my heart"

Luka looked at her in surprise but wasn't met with her gaze. That was it. He'll lose his mind because of this girl and there's no turning back. He'll be defeated, if only he wasn't already.

Y/n grew to be a great addition to the class and the friend group. And she grew closer to Luka's heart, more close than he liked to admit. When she was around, his mind was rollercoasters, when she was away her melody played in the back of his head. It was exhausting, really. Luka had never acted this way, especially not for a girl. It was all new to him.

It had been almost two months since Y/n's first day in the city of love. Never had she imagined that she would fall so in love with the people, the culture, the capital of France in general. She was standing on her balcony, looking at the most beautiful sightseeing- the Eiffel tower.

"Mom, Dad, I'm leaving, see you later!" she shouted as she closed the front door behind her. Juelka had invited her to help her out with band stuff. She was a bit surprised to say at least for Y/n wasn't much of an intellectual in that field.

The traffic was light and soon enough she stepped foot on the magnificent ship. The boy she already knew very well was strumming his guitar in the corner.

"Nice tune" she whispered, coming behind him

Luka jumped a little, taken aback by her unexpected figure. "Y/n? Why-"

"I invited her, I need some help," said Juleka from the door. "I'll be back in a second" and with that, she disappeared.

Y/n sat on a chair beside him, feeling the tension rise. Luka's melody became more insecure, more unsteady. It felt as if he was trying too hard.

"What happened?"

"I don't know" Luka answered, regretting holding the guitar now. It was true, when she was around, it was not much he could do. His mind always wandered elsewhere.

An uncomfortable silence took over them. Juleka was nowhere in sight. After some minutes of complete dull, Y/n stood up eager to leave. "Tell Juleka I'm sorry, but I just remembered I have to go."

Luka wanted to say something, but he couldn't. He was afraid of blurting out something way more stupid. So he nodded, regretting his decisions. What has she done to him? He can't even think straight, what to do, what not to do. He's a mess and it's all because of her.

"What are you doing you, idiot, go after her!" Juleka stormed out of the ship, scolding her older brother.

"What?"

"Go after her! Tell her how you feel! God!"

"What are you talking about?" Luka played it off dumb

Juleka's anger only grew "Oh please, mister untouchable, you're not so secretive about it. You can never concentrate when she's around, when I mention her, you grow all impatient. You talk about her ALL THE DAMN TIME. I can't listen to you anymore!"

Luka shifted in his spot "I don't talk about her that much"

"You literally stormed in my room last night talking about her humor and how cool she is. Go tell her how you feel, Luka"

He contemplated for a minute making Juleka impatient "Now! Go!"

The blue boy nodded, setting his guitar aside, and running as fast as he could. He ran the way he remembered Y/n to go. His legs could sprint only so fast but somehow he managed to run it all the way through.

Just by the bridge, she saw her walk by herself. It was already getting late, the sun was just around the corner, held by its fingertips to not yet say goodbye. She was looking to the river, calm and alone. "Y/n!" he shouted, putting all the energy he had to pull it through.

"Y/n!" he screamed once more to what the girl turned around. Just as she was about to ask what was happening, Luka panted taking her hand in his the moment he got the chance.

"No, no, I talk." He said taking a deep breath and looking right into her eyes. "Y/n from the moment we met in the park, I couldn't stop thinking about you. You took a tool on me, god, I'm wrapped around your finger! I can't focus when I see you, I lose all my senses when you smile"

Y/n smiled at the ongoing love declaration. "And no matter how hard I tried to cover up my feelings, to forget you, there just is no escape. I am lost, I'm losing my mind. God, what are you doing to me? I rant about you to Juleka, dear Lord. You made a mess out of me, Y/n, and I love, I love, I love you."

And before thinking, Y/n pressed her lips against his. She kissed him long and lovingly, making him melt under her touch.

"That makes the two of us"

[seoafin]

grocery shopping

gojo satoru x reader 1k words

in celebration of megumi’s episode, have a short fic with kid megumi!! and gojo

"No red peppers."

You pause, hand about to drop the red bell pepper in your hand into the produce bag. But Megumi's hand grips your skirt, as if to stop you.

Tilting your head to look at him, you ask, "No...red peppers?"

"I don't like red peppers," he replies flatly.

"I see." You place the red pepper back into the pile, lips quirking upwards. "Any other requests?"

He shakes his head, and you chuckle.

Contrary to Satoru's beliefs, you could cook simple things. And Yakisoba was simple enough. So you decided to cook it for Megumi and Tsumiki, picking up Megumi after school so he could accompany you to the local grocery store. Tsumiki would be meeting you later at the apartment.

The elderly woman behind the counter flashes you a toothy smile from her stool when you approach. She peers down at Megumi as you lay out your groceries.

"My, what a handsome child," she says warmly as Megumi aims a curt bow at her. A breath of laughter escapes you when you notice his ears turning red. "How old are you?"

"Ten," he replies almost tonelessly, regaining his composure quickly enough.

"Ten," she repeats, with an approving nod. "I have a grandchild myself your age," she says while scanning your items, "He's much louder though." She chuckles. "Every time he comes over, I think my eardrums might burst!"

"Megumi's just shy," you say, and he stiffens, glaring at you. You give the lady money with one hand, and with your other ruffle his unruly hair, then pull him into you, giving him a short squeeze on the shoulder. As if appeased by the touch, he simmers down into his usual impassive expression.

The woman watches all this with an amused glint in her eyes as she packs your groceries. You exchange your goodbyes, and soon you and Megumi are on your way out, bag in hand.

The door rings as you exit, and you find Satoru waiting outside on the curb. He perks up, black shades greeting you, and bounds over in a couple of long steps.

"That was ten minutes too long," he complains, hand reaching for your bag.

You let him take it, and sigh. "You were waiting for fifteen minutes. You could've gone on ahead."

In fact, you're sure Megumi would have preferred it, if the blank stare he gives Satoru is any indication.

His lips dip into a frown. "Do you hate me that much? We barely see each other anymore!" You hear the discontent in his voice as he goes on, announcing his woes to an unwilling audience. "Even last week you canceled after promising you'd be mine for the day," he says pointedly.

You wince. You have been busy as of late. You had been forced to cancel on Satoru because you had been studying for an upcoming test that he would have definitely preferred you fail than cancel on him. University classes and homework took precedence and a majority of your time. In addition to that, you fit in missions whenever you could for a steady flow of cash.

You tried your best to meet up with Shoko at least once a week, but studying for her medical exams also kept her busy.

Satoru's schedule was much more unpredictable than yours or Shoko's student oriented ones. Missions, meetings (the ones you forced him to attend in fear that Yaga would call you during lecture on Satoru's whereabouts), and various clan head duties kept him occupied and frequently away.

Life had been much easier in high school, before....

You briefly close your eyes, and glance down at Megumi who looks completely unsympathetic to Satoru's plight. The scarce free time you did have, you spent with Megumi and Tsumiki in an effort to make sure they were well taken care of, but with your classes you had been seeing them less and less, to your dismay.

"See?" Satoru exclaims, affront lining his words. "You can't even defend yourself." He turns to Megumi. "Megumi, you're on my side, aren't you?"

"No."

Satoru looks like he's wondering how far he can throw a child.

You clear your throat, about to speak when someone behind you chuckles.

"You two make lovely parents," a voice rings out.

The three of you turn to find the old woman who had rung you up, unloading a crate of oranges into the wooden boxes situated in front of the store. She winks at you.

A wide grin cuts across Satoru's face, sour mood melting away instantaneously in a way that gives you whiplash.

Blinking, you raise your free hand. "That's—"

"That man isn't my father."

Silence.

The old woman looks stunned. You think Satoru's mouth drops open. The old woman sputters to life, understandably flustered, but Megumi is tugging you away with surprising force, towards the direction of his apartment.

It doesn't take you long to get over your initial bewilderment, and soon the two of you are walking in silence, a wide smile on your face. There are buildings and houses you don't recognize as the two of you pass, and you realize it must be a shortcut of some kind.

Just as you thought, you reach the apartment in record time as Megumi slows to a stop. And then as if remembering your linked hands, drops your hand like a hot coal, shying away from you in the process so you can't see his red face.

You watch him, slightly entertained, and kneel down. He isn't as short as he had been when you first met him, and now instead of being at eye length with him when you kneel, he stands a head taller.

You search up at his red face, deciding not to comment on his embarrassment or his closed fists. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine," Megumi finally says, reluctantly meeting your eyes. And then: "He talks too much."

"Well, you're not wrong," you say, laughter in your voice. You wait, tilting your head to the side, in case he wants to say anything more. When he stays silent, you stand with a smile and gesture towards the building. "Tsumiki's probably already waiting. Shall we?"

You start towards the stairs after a final look around the lot. Satoru sure is taking his time. Maybe he got held up by a couple of girls, and you snort at the thought.

"I'm..."

You stop, looking back. Megumi's face has taken on a rather alarming shade of red.

"I'm looking forward to the food," he mumbles.

You brighten, elated, and beam at him. "I'll try my best!"

Then the smile falls from your face as the realization hits you.

"Ack. Satoru has the groceries!"