#but i was stuck on what to write under the cut

[cybrasigilism]

I would die if you wrote an nsfw fic about Namgyu x reader 😭😭😭 like what if he’s your toxic ex or you guys just hate each other and it grows into an attraction… I love your writing so much btw!!

IFHY (Player 124/Nam-gyu x Reader)

warnings: smut of course, i mean have you seen my page? | not proofread | lowercase intended | unknown identities | nam-gyu’s a dick | unprotected sex (the pullout method is not reliable ladies and gentlemen) | fingering | degradation | rough sex | this is my interpretation of this character, please be respectful even if my opinions for the character are different from yours

character: nam-gyu (player 124)

A/N: there needs to be a larger selection of GIFs for 124 man, i can’t find any ones of him NOT being in the background its unfortunate. hope y’all enjoy as always, i found this one sort of challenging to write, it’s definitely out of my comfort zone but i still had fun!

MDNI! 18+ content under the cut, readers discretion is advised

• ─────────────── •

toleration.

that was the one thing keeping you going in these new, uncertain circumstances of yours. as long as you laid low, didn’t complain, and simply tolerated your new life then maybe, things wouldn’t be so bad.

that seems easy, except for the fact that there was one thing, rather one person, you just could not tolerate. and that was player 124.

sure, the crowd he stuck to was overall quite obnoxious, but for some reason 124 in particular really got under your skin. first off, you didn’t like how he and his purple-haired crackhead friend would always pick on that player 333. sure, he may have scammed lots of people out of their money, but surely those idiots had bigger things to focus on over being petty nuisances.

secondly? the way he would stare at you with such hate for no good reason. you assumed it was probably due to the fact that you constantly voted X, even though you both knew it didn’t make much of a difference. it didn’t bother you that he hated you, seeing as the feeling was more than mutual, but you just wish he would focus his stare somewhere else.

and lastly, every single thing about him and his mannerisms just pissed. you. off. his whole smug demeanour really made you want to land a punch square between his eyes, but you figured he might actually be into that since he clearly had a death wish, seeing as how he always picked the O side of the vote. you were convinced that had it not been for his tweaker of a leader, he would have died a long time ago. to be honest, you wished he had.

that’s why, when he grabbed you by the sleeve and yanked you into a room for the mingle game, you were completely stunned. you would have figured 124 would have left you for dead, hell, you would have expected him to purposely knock you to the ground. maybe it was the adrenaline that made him grab you, maybe it was that he actually… wanted to save you? no, couldn’t have been.

unless..?

“what the hell did you do that for?�� you asked, out of breath. he furrowed his brows, looking down on you with that usual stare. “well?” you continued, louder this time. he let out a chuckle before taking a glance out at all the unlucky players who couldn’t find groups.

“what’s so funny?” you questioned, steadying yourself against the wall. he looked back at you, with that shit eating smirk that you hated so much. “i just didn’t realize that you wanted to die that badly.” his response took you aback, a sour expression appearing on your face.

“oh, i suppose i should thank you for yanking me by the arm like that then?” you huffed, rolling your shoulder as you adjusted your sleeve. he approached you, and you suddenly felt the urge to swallow the saliva you just became alarmingly aware of. “you don’t have to thank me now..” he started, looking you up and down in such a way that made your cheeks grow warmer. “you can just pay me back later.”

just then, the doors unlocked, and player 124 was more than happy to swing it open and head back to his little group, not without looking back at you with a sly wink. you stayed stood in the room for a brief moment, still leaned against the wall, trying to process why your cheeks felt so hot all of a sudden.

oh god, you weren’t… catching feelings for 124, were you?

———

it was lights out when you started thinking about your guys’s brief mingle room interaction. you still couldn’t wrap your mind around what you were feeling, but now you found yourself squeezing your legs together as you thought more and more about player 124. you couldn’t believe this, you didn’t even know this assholes name, and now he’s got you all hot and bothered like this?

you knew what you had to do, and you were not proud of it.

after about 5 solid minutes of convincing the circle-masked guard to allow you access to the bathroom, you quickly secured yourself in a stall. “i can’t believe i’m actually doing this right now.” was all you could think as you pulled your pants around your knees, along with your underwear, and slid your hand between your thighs. you had hoped no one could hear as you began to moan softly, just as your thoughts spiralled about player 124, and the tension between you two in the little mingle room; how much you wished he would have taken you right there, inside that cramped space. you felt yourself approaching the edge when you heard something that made your heart stop.

his voice. his voice?

something inside you prayed to god that somehow your imagination had just been that good, but you heard him again, calling out your number from just beyond the stall door. you were too petrified to say, think, even do anything. but of course, he pulled the door open and there you were, hand between your thighs with the single most horrified expression painted on your face.

“wow, couldn’t even wait for me, huh?” he mocked, his gaze fixated between your legs. “what the fuck are you looking at, pervert?!” you whisper-shouted, so as to not alert the guards. he laughed, and you don’t know how or why but that did something to you, as if your fingers currently on your clit were helping matters at all.

“pervert? i’d say you’re the perverse one, seeing how you were just jacking off in the public bathrooms. are you that much of a slut that you can’t keep your hands outta your pants for more than a night?” his degrading was not easing things, matter of fact it was only turning you on, and you were sure he knew that. you started to pull your hand away, and he shut the two of you inside the confined stall.

“what do you think you’re doing?” 124 asked, now on his knees so you had to meet his gaze. “i was just-“ you started, before being quickly interrupted by him grabbing your now exposed hand. “stopping?” he finished your sentence for you, cocking his head to the side with the same wide eyed faux-curious expression you’re sure you’ve seen him give others in the games. “don’t you dare stop on my account.” you tried to avoid eye contact, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “i can’t do it.. not in front of you.” your response felt totally out of character for yourself, and 124 totally called bullshit then and there. “fine, then i guess i’ll just have to help you then won’t i?” his boldness shouldn’t have shocked you, and you don’t think it did. you barely had tome to wrap your head around the fact that he now had slithered his own hand between your legs before-

“oh my god.” was drawn from your lips as he slid his fingers up your slick folds, brushing against your clit as he rubbed up at down your pussy. “holy shit, i’ve hardly done anything and you’re already soaked.” he exclaimed smuggly, earning an attempted glare from you. “oh please, don’t take all the credit.” you scoffed, using every bit of willpower you could muster to ensure you didn’t moan, god forbid. “i think i can,” he chuckled, continuing what would be the beginning of his assault on your nerves, “seeing as you know you got this fucking wet thinking of me.” when you least expected it, he pushed not one, but two fingers into your cunt. at this point you saw stars, feeling yourself clench around him so soon you felt as though you should be ashamed of yourself, but you didn’t care.

“shit, already so tight for me, huh?” you could tell through 124’s tone than he was totally turned on by this, by how horny he made you. “if i had known you’d be this easy, i would have done this a while ago.” normally you would be completely offended by his words, but when he started circling your clit with his thumb you really couldn’t bring yourself to mind at all. “p-please…i need to..” you could barely get your words out through your moans, you wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t understand you. “need ta’ cum, so bad-“

“oh yeah? you need it?” he taunted, only increasing his pace as he pumped his fingers knuckle-deep inside your throbbing pussy. “i don’t think you’ve earned it yet.” he stopped suddenly. you cried out at the abrupt loss of friction as he released his fingers from your firm grip. he took in the sight of how desperate you were as he lowered his pants, ordering you to free up your seat, to which you were shocked you could even stand at this point. “if you need to cum so bad, why don’t you show me that you deserve it.” he grabbed your arm and pulled you over to him. you couldn’t process what situation you were in just now. one minute you were convinced you hated the guy, and now your pussy was inches away from his dick? you can’t say you minded your predicament, you were just terribly shocked.

“why the hesitation? didn’t you say you needed to cum?” the return of the mocking tone was not lost on you, and you could feel yourself begin to shake. not out of fear, but out of pure anticipation. “i’m sorry, i just…” you began, before he grabbed you hips and pulled you down onto his lap, the both of you gasping at the abrupt feeling of pure ecstasy. “holy shit!” you cried out, gripping onto the walls of the stall as 124 began to bounce you on his cock. it’s almost as though he was setting the pace for what he wanted you to do, and you quickly caught on, sliding up and down his dick as his grip on your hips hardened.

“god you’re such a pathetic little whore,” he said through gritted teeth, slapping your ass while you rode him, earning a hearty moan from your lips. “oh, yeah? you like getting slapped like the little cockslut you are?” “y-es! oh fuck, oh fuck.” it was as if you were in a trance, telling him anything he wanted to hear. “yeah? imma need to hear you say it.” he teased, you could still feel him controlling your every move through the grasp he had on your hips. you tell him exactly what he wants. “i..i’m your..” you moan senselessly “your little cockslut-“

“fuck yeah, at least you know what you’re good for..” his words started to get a bit unsteady, maybe it was because of how tight you were clenching on him. “oh shit, are you close already?” he gasped, to which you responded something unintelligible. “fuck, i can barely understand you, babbling like a needy little whore.” you couldn’t take it, the way he made you feel was immeasurable to anything you’ve ever experienced. all you wanted in that moment was player 124, you never wanted him to stop pounding up into you with such tenacity.

with one final squeeze of your cunt, he held your hips down and a hot feeling quickly filled your insides. a slew of profanities were expelled from his lips and you felt your whole body shake. as soon as your breathing both steadied, he motioned you to get off his lap and he pulled his pants back up. you, however, could not possibly muster yourself to stand up at the moment, your legs still vibrating from the wild ride you just experienced.

“like i said,” he started, “if i had known you’d have been this easy.. woulda fucked you a lot sooner.” he turned and left the restroom, and you stayed slumped against the wall. now you could say one thing was for sure..

you definitely tolerated player 124.

• ─────────────── •

thanks so much for reading! i know it’s sort of different than what i usually write but i hope it’s satisfactory! as usual please, if you have any advice or constructive criticism on how i can improve my writing it’s greatly appreciated!

have a great day/night 💋

tags: @gabbystinks

[the-booty-crusader]

Had an idea for a video game reverse transmigration AU so here goes:

There’s a popular online cultivation game called Proud Immortal Demon Way that’s been making the rounds recently due to a new encounter players might run into that was unlike anything they’d ever experienced in other games.

In this encounter, the atmosphere would dim out of nowhere and from a distance, a boss character would start approaching them. Suddenly, their character would be grabbed out of nowhere by the incredibly handsome and imposing figure with red and black robes, a black sword and a full mane of hair. The man would look at their character before dropping it while clicking his tongue, usually saying something like, “Another empty husk…” before turning to the player’s screen and staring at them for a few moments. Even if the player tried to attack the boss character, it would ignore the attacks, hardly gaining any damage at all.

Then the character would furrow their brows and turn away. “You’re not the one.” he would say, and he would leave through a portal made with his sword.

The encounter happened only once per account, and the only hint that it was about to happen was a small voice calling out “Shizun?” from off-screen.

One day while Shen Yuan, under his somewhat popular streaming name PeerlessCucumber, was grinding enemies before a big raid, he heard the iconic and long-awaited “Shizun?”.

Rather than run away or attack like most players did, Shen Yuan was excited to finally, FINALLY get to see this legendarily unbeatable and good-looking NPC for himself and happily ran up, chattering happily to his viewers as he wanted to show them what usually happened when one encountered this particular boss.

The boss started his usual routine, picking the player character up and tossing it aside with an annoyed mumble before turning to the screen— no, to Shen Yuan.

His head tilted then and that— that wasn’t part of the routine.

A somewhat unsettling smile made its way onto the character’s face as he approached the screen, seemingly getting closer to Shen Yuan.

“Found you, Shizun.” he said.

That was the last time anyone saw the boss in-game. There was a video clip roaming around of PeerlessCucumber’s facecam, where an arm reached from off-screen into his room, strangely from about where the man���s screen should have been.

Then the stream cut and PeerlessCucumber hadn’t streamed for over a year.

When he came back, however, he introduced his new husband, Luo Binghe to his viewers. His new husband looked strangely familiar to anyone who'd played Proud Immortal Demon Way.

If anyone feels like expanding on the fic feel free, this brainworm was stuck in my head and I have too much homework to write anything longer than this 😅

[creatur3featur3]

ੈ✩Street Rat p3✩ੈ

word count: 5.4k

A/N: OKAY HEADS UP- THIS PART FOCUSES PURELY ON STREET RAT, THERE IS ONLY MENTION OF SEVIKA AT THE END MY APOLOGIES!! ANYWAYS- This series is actually becoming one of my biggest pieces of work, I never expected the amount of love this series had started to accumulate, with that being said- I am so grateful for all of the support and encouragement I have been receiving to continue writing and working on this series. thank you everyone for continuing to support me and my writing, I plan to continue to work on this series for as long as the creative juices keep flowing!

warnings: character death, mentions of alcoholism, child abuse, implications of PTSD

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

The scent of fresh bread and the faint hum of laughter filled the small but cozy home in Piltover. Your mother was at the kitchen table, rolling out dough with practiced hands while your two sisters—Nia, the youngest, and Sera, the middle child—sat nearby, squabbling over some silly game they’d made up. You sat at the edge of the table, carving tiny figures out of leftover wood scraps, the little knife in your hand wobbling slightly as you focused.

"Careful with that, sweetheart," your mother warned, her voice soft but firm. She glanced up from her dough, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Last thing we need is you losing a finger before supper.”

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “I’ve got it, Mama. Besides, look!” You held up the crudely shaped figurine of a bird, the wings lopsided but unmistakable.

Sera gasped, her eyes lighting up as she leaned over the table. “It’s a crow! Can I have it?”

“No way,” Nia cut in with a smirk, grabbing it first. “She made it for me. Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t make it for either of you!” you huffed, trying to snatch it back, but Nia was quicker.

“Girls,” your mother said, her voice calm but with a warning note that made all of you freeze. She shook her head with a small laugh, brushing flour from her hands. “Honestly, it’s like having three tornadoes in the house.”

You settled back into your chair, muttering something under your breath about Nia being a thief. She shot you a wink, and Sera stuck her tongue out at both of you, her childish laughter filling the room.

For a moment, everything felt perfect.

But perfection never lasted long.

The door creaked open, and the warm, lively air in the room seemed to cool instantly. Your father's heavy boots echoed against the floorboards, a sharp contrast to the light laughter that had just filled the space. His face was flushed, the smell of liquor faint but unmistakable as he stood in the doorway. His eyes, clouded by whatever weighed on him, flicked to each of you before landing on your mother.

She stiffened, the rolling pin in her hands faltering for just a moment before she straightened her posture and forced a smile. “You’re home early,” she said, her voice even but lacking its usual warmth.

Your father grunted, stepping further into the room. “Work ended early,” he said curtly, though his tone carried no satisfaction. His gaze landed on the table, and his brow furrowed at the scattered wood shavings and half-carved scraps. “What’s this mess?”

You flinched slightly but didn’t reply. Nia, ever the bold one, sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “She’s making things, that’s all. It’s not hurting anyone.”

His eyes snapped to her, sharp as a blade. “Did I ask you to speak, Nia?” The tension in the room thickened, and even Sera, usually oblivious to such moods, shrank back in her seat.

“Leave her alone,” your mother interjected softly, stepping between him and the table. Her hands rested on her hips, flour smudged across her apron. “The girls aren’t doing anything wrong.”

Your father’s jaw clenched, his hand twitching at his side as though grappling with some invisible force. He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. “And you,” he muttered, “sitting there wasting time on nonsense. You think those little carvings are going to put food on this table?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came out. Your throat felt tight, your hands gripping the small knife and wooden bird as though they were your only anchor.

“Mama likes them,” Sera’s small voice piped up, breaking the silence. She sounded hesitant but defiant, her wide eyes darting between the two of you.

“Enough!” he barked, and she flinched, her little hands clutching the edge of the table. 

Your mother stepped closer to him, her voice lowering but steady. “That’s enough, Richard. You don’t talk to them like that.”

For a moment, the two of them locked eyes, a silent battle playing out in the space between them. Then, with a growl of frustration, he turned away, stomping toward the small sitting room without another word.

The silence he left behind was deafening. 

Your mother let out a slow breath, smoothing her apron as she turned back to the table. “Girls,” she said softly, her voice strained but kind. “Why don’t you take your things and go play in the other room?”

Sera slid out of her chair immediately, clutching her little game pieces. Nia hesitated, her defiant gaze lingering on the doorway where your father had disappeared. Then she grabbed your arm, pulling you up. “Come on,” she whispered, her voice a mix of annoyance and protectiveness.

You followed, clutching the bird tightly in your hand. As the three of you retreated to the small bedroom you shared, the faint sound of your mother’s voice could be heard again, calm and soothing as though trying to mend what had just unraveled.

Nia shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a scowl. “He’s such a—” She cut herself off, glancing at Sera, who was quietly settling on her cot. “...a grump,” she finished lamely.

You sat on your own cot, turning the wooden bird over in your hands. Its lopsided wings suddenly seemed so silly, so pointless. But then Sera crawled up beside you, her big eyes hopeful.

“Can I have it now?” she whispered. 

You hesitated, glancing at Nia, who shrugged with a small smile. “Go on,” she said. “Let her have it.”

With a sigh, you handed the bird to Sera. Her face lit up, and for a moment, the weight in your chest lifted. 

Outside, the muffled sound of raised voices carried through the thin walls, but here, in this tiny shared space, the three of you held onto each other and the fragile threads of something better.

“Why doesn't Mama do anything about Dad?” Nia asks, your stomach churning at the thought.

“Because dad is a big pile a shi-”

“Sera!-” you hiss softly, Sera throwing her hands up in defiance, “What?! it's true!”

She- wasn't wrong…

suddenly a loud crash out what sounded like a glass bottle being broken, and your father’s unmistakable booming slurred voice…

The sound of shattering glass tore through the thin walls like a gunshot, making all three of you jump. Sera scrambled closer to you, clutching the wooden bird like it was a talisman. Nia's face darkened, her jaw clenching as she moved instinctively toward the door, though you reached out to grab her arm.

"Don't," you whispered, your voice shaking. "Just stay here."

But it was too late. Your father's voice followed the crash, loud and venomous, each word landing like a blow.

"This house is a goddamn disaster!" he roared. "I work all day—all day—and this is what I come home to? Mess everywhere, screaming kids—" His words slurred slightly, the alcohol in his system making him stagger as he continued his tirade.

"Richard, lower your voice," your mother said sharply, her calm tone replaced by steel. It wasn’t a request; it was a warning.

"Oh, don’t start with me, Marie," he snapped back. "Don’t you dare. I told you, I never wanted this! Never wanted—" His words faltered as his frustration boiled over into a bitter laugh. "Three kids crawling underfoot, a house that looks like a pigsty, and you just standing there!"

There was a pause, and then your mother’s voice, quieter now but firm. "I’m doing the best I can, Richard. We all are."

"The best you can?" he mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The best you can is a filthy house and three brats who don’t know how to stay out of the way?"

Nia moved to the door again, her fists balled at her sides. "I’m not just gonna sit here and—"

You pulled her back, your stomach twisting painfully. "Please, Nia," you begged. "He’s drunk. You can’t reason with him when he’s like this."

Nia’s lip curled, but she stayed put, though you could feel the tension radiating off her.

"Why didn’t I listen to my gut?" your father continued, his voice rising. "I told you I wasn’t cut out for this. But no, you just had to have a family, didn’t you? And now look where we are. I’m breaking my back out there, and for what? To come home to this circus?"

You heard your mother take a step forward, her voice unwavering even as the air seemed to crackle with tension. "You don’t get to speak to me like that. Or them."

"Oh, don’t play the saint, Marie," he sneered. "You wanted this life. You wanted these kids. Don’t act surprised when I remind you that I didn’t."

Your stomach turned violently, his words cutting deeper than they should have. You weren’t even in the same room, but it felt like a punch to the chest. You glanced at Sera, who was curled into a ball on your cot, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

Nia looked like she was ready to explode. "He’s such a coward," she hissed under her breath. "Blaming everyone else for his own damn choices."

The argument outside raged on, your mother standing firm against his drunken anger. But you couldn’t hear the words anymore. It was all just noise, a storm you’d heard too many times before.

You swallowed hard and turned to your sisters, your voice shaky but as steady as you could manage. "We just…we wait it out. Mama’s got this. She always does."

Though, even the hope that your thoughts were true always seemed to be smushed out by the your father as another glass bottle shattered downstairs followed by incoherent yelling.

You couldn't take it anymore, “Sera, Nia, I swear to the gods, stay here…” you commanded before slipping out of the room. What could a 7 year old do? Kick at your father's legs until he finally stopped?

As you carefully made your way down the stairs there you saw it- your mother's nose bleeding, fear , unmistakable in her eyes. Your father, his movements sluggish and messy as he leaned down close to her face, whispering something into her ear that you worried about as your mother's eyes widened.

“Dad, stop it!” You finally squeak out, stepping out near him as your body shakes slightly from the anxiety facing him caused.

Your father's head snapped toward you, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in disbelief at your audacity. His towering frame cast an imposing shadow across the dimly lit room as he stumbled toward you, the jagged neck of a broken bottle clutched in his hand.

"And what the hell do you think you're doing, huh?" he slurred, his voice booming as he waved the bottle in your direction. His steps were unsteady, but his anger burned clear as day. "Think you can just come down here and tell me what to do, little girl?"

You flinched as the sharp edges of the bottle caught the light, but you held your ground, even as your knees trembled and your breath came in shallow gasps. “Leave her alone!” you cried, your voice cracking but defiant. “Y-you’re scaring her! You’re scaring all of us!”

Your words seemed to strike a nerve. He sneered, his lips curling into something cruel and mocking. “Oh, so now I’m the bad guy, huh? That’s rich. Big man comes home to this wreck of a house, and I’m the one who’s scaring people?” He stepped closer, pointing the jagged bottle at you with every word, his anger unfocused but dangerous.

You instinctively backed up, your heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of your mother’s shallow breathing behind him. But you forced yourself to keep his attention on you. "It’s not her fault!" you blurted out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “She’s doing everything, and you’re— you’re just making it worse!”

His expression darkened, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. His grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles white, and his face contorted into something almost inhuman.

"Don’t you dare talk to me like that," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous now. "You don’t know a damn thing about what I do for this family. You think it’s easy, huh? Keeping a roof over your ungrateful little heads? You don’t get to judge me, you—"

He took a wild step toward you, and you stumbled back, your hands outstretched as if that alone could keep him at bay. “I’m not judging you!” you yelled, your voice breaking. “I just— I just want you to stop! Please, Dad, just stop!”

For a split second, his expression faltered, a crack in the armor of his rage. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that all-consuming fury. He raised the bottle slightly, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Richard!” your mother’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding despite the tremble in her tone. She had risen to her knees, blood still dripping from her nose, her eyes blazing with defiance. “If you take one more step toward her, so help me, I’ll—”

Her threat was cut out by the sound of your cry- your father hitting your face with the already broken glass, ripping open your lip…

Your breath was shallow, hands dabbing at your lip, feeling if the blood was real- it was, warm, fresh blood…

The room seemed to hold its breath, and then, with a guttural growl, he turned and hurled the broken bottle against the far wall. The shattering sound was deafening, and you flinched again, your hands flying up to shield your already bleeding face.

“Worthless,” he spat, stumbling toward the door. “All of you. Worthless.”

And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The silence he left in his wake was suffocating.

Your mother was on her feet in an instant, rushing to your side and pulling you into a trembling embrace. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” she whispered, her hands frantically checking you for injuries.

You shook your head covering your lip with your hand, shielding what he did to you from your poor mother, though your tears betrayed you. “Mama, your nose…”

She wiped at the blood with the back of her hand, shaking her head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Her voice wavered, but her arms around you tightened, as though she could shield you from the world with her embrace alone.

Nia appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pale and full of worry, with Sera peeking out from behind her. None of you said a word, but the unspoken understanding between you all was clear: this wasn’t the last storm you’d weather, but at least, for tonight, you had survived.

–

Your father had never come back after that, good riddance you had told yourself time after time you and your family were better off with him gone forever, but- it always made a strange sting shoot up your chest anytime you thought of your father.

You hated it.

Today was like any other day, Nia and Sera sleeping in per usual, they had always poked fun at you for waking up so early even on weekends but you enjoyed the quietness of Piltover when most of the city was still asleep, dreaming of great inventions, it was a sweet thought.

“Mouse, darling,” your mother called from the kitchen, making you perk up from your post on the couch, where you had been tinkering with a broken watch your father had. He never wore it, a present from you when you still saw him as a good man, when he was sane.

“Yes, Mama?” you called back, setting down the watch and walking into the kitchen where she was making breakfast for you and your sisters, “Could you run to Mrs.Namitte’s shop and grab me a fresh cut of sweetbread? You know how much your sisters love it.”

You nodded softly, grabbing her pouch of money and running out the house and down the street.

 The air of early morning in Piltover was crisp and cool, carrying the faint metallic tang that always seemed to linger in the city. The streets were still quiet, most of the noise coming from the distant hum of steam-powered machinery and the occasional clatter of hooves against cobblestone as a carriage rolled by. The sky above was a pale gray, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting soft golden light across the sprawling cityscape.

Your neighborhood was tucked in one of Piltover’s less glamorous corners, a place where the buildings leaned together like old friends whispering secrets. The houses were a mix of brick and wood, patched up with whatever materials people could find, giving them a mismatched charm. Laundry lines crisscrossed above the narrow streets, sagging slightly under the weight of damp clothes left to dry.

Despite the modest surroundings, there was a warmth to the area. You passed the Grelle family’s house, their windowsills overflowing with flowerpots that brought splashes of color to the otherwise muted street. Mrs. Grelle herself waved at you from her stoop, her ever-present knitting needles clicking away even this early in the day.

“Morning, Mouse!” she called, using the nickname everyone seemed to have adopted from your mother.

“Morning, Mrs. Grelle!” you replied, offering a quick wave as you hurried past.

As you moved closer to the heart of the district, the streets widened slightly, the humble homes giving way to small shops and stands. This part of Piltover always smelled like fresh bread and coal smoke, the two scents mingling oddly but not unpleasantly. The cobblestones here were worn smooth by countless footsteps, their surfaces gleaming faintly with morning dew.

You passed a blacksmith’s forge where the faint glow of embers illuminated a young apprentice already hard at work, his hammer ringing against hot metal. Across from him, a tinker’s shop displayed delicate clockwork creations in the window, the tiny gears inside the contraptions turning with almost hypnotic precision.

It wasn’t long before you reached Mrs. Namitte’s shop, a cozy bakery nestled between a fabric store and an apothecary. The front of the bakery was adorned with peeling paint and a crooked sign that read Namitte’s Sweetbreads and Pastries, but the smell wafting from the open door was enough to make anyone’s mouth water. The aroma of sugar and warm bread enveloped you as you stepped inside.

Mrs. Namitte herself was bustling around behind the counter, her gray hair tied back in a neat bun. Her round face lit up when she saw you. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite early bird!” she greeted, her voice warm and cheerful. “What can I get for you this morning, Mouse?”

You couldn’t help but smile as you handed her the pouch of coins. “Mama sent me for some sweetbread. She said to get it fresh.”

Mrs. Namitte laughed, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Fresh is all we’ve got here, darling. One loaf coming right up.”

While she wrapped up the loaf in parchment, you glanced around the shop. The shelves were lined with all kinds of baked goods—flaky pastries, golden-brown loaves, and rows of sweet buns dusted with powdered sugar. There was something comforting about the place, from the warmth of the ovens to the faint crackle of the firewood.

“Here you go,” Mrs. Namitte said, handing you the loaf with a wink. “Tell your mother I said hello.”

“Thank you!” you said, clutching the warm package to your chest as you stepped back out onto the street.

The city was beginning to wake now, the quiet hum growing louder as more people emerged from their homes. Shopkeepers were setting up their stands, calling out to passersby to come see their wares. Somewhere in the distance, the sharp whistle of a steam engine pierced the air, a reminder of the bustling innovation that Piltover was known for.

You hurried back toward home, weaving through the growing crowd, the warmth of the bread against your hands and the thought of your family waiting for breakfast spurring your steps. Despite everything, mornings like this made Piltover feel a little less overwhelming, a little more like home.

Though on your way home, something felt- off. The air wasn't as clear as you remembered, the smell of- sulfur filling the air.

Your pace quickened naturally, worry bubbling in your stomach as you broke into a sprint when you saw smoke rolling into the air- from your neighborhood.

The smell of sulfur grew thicker with every breath you took, the weight of it pressing down on your chest. Your feet pounded against the cobblestone streets, urgency pulsing through your veins. Something was wrong—deeply wrong. The usual hum of the city was overshadowed by something darker, the sounds of distant shouting blending into the eerie quiet of the morning.

As you turned the corner and saw the familiar stretch of houses, your heart dropped into your stomach. Smoke billowed into the sky, dark and choking, swirling in a heavy cloud that turned the morning light to an unnatural, sickly shade. The distant crackle of fire mixed with the angry yells, the harsh metallic clinking of enforcer armor, and the shouts of voices you couldn’t quite make out.

The panic in your chest rose with every step, the pressure of something terrible bearing down on you. Your eyes darted from side to side as you searched for any sign of your family, of your mother and sisters.

"Mom!" you screamed, voice hoarse as you ran faster, your heart thrumming painfully against your ribcage.

You reached the end of the street, but the sight before you made your blood run cold. Flames had already devoured much of the neighborhood, crackling hungrily, the heat enough to make the air shimmer. Buildings you’d passed countless times were now nothing more than burning husks. The fire had spread so quickly—too quickly.

And then, you saw them.

Your mother, her figure smaller than you remembered, clutching Sera to her chest, while Nia was pulling at your sister’s hand, urging her to run. They were running, your family running toward you—but the fire… the fire was so close. The flames were creeping toward them, licking at the edges of the houses, curling up the sides of the wooden beams like snakes eager to strike.

"Run!" you screamed again, desperation clawing at your throat. Your voice was barely audible over the roaring fire and chaos, but they heard you. They saw you.

Your mother’s eyes locked with yours. Her face was streaked with ash and dirt, her lips parted as though she were about to call your name, but no sound came out. It was as if time itself had slowed, the world around you muffled, like you were watching from underwater. She stumbled, clutching Sera tighter, her face stricken with fear, and then—then, the ground shook beneath you.

The house—your home—collapsed in a deafening crash. The roof caved in first, the thick beams splintering like matchsticks. The explosion of debris sent dust and ash into the air, blurring your vision. The shriek of wood splintering was followed by an unbearable silence that stretched on for what felt like hours.

For a moment, you thought you might’ve imagined it. Maybe you were still dreaming, or maybe, somehow, you could still reach them. But when the dust settled, there was nothing but the rising smoke, the blackened silhouette of the house that had been your home.

Your body went numb, your feet frozen to the ground as you stared at the place where your family had stood moments ago. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding so loud it was a drumbeat in your ears. You wanted to scream, to run to them, but you couldn’t. Your legs wouldn’t move, and the world seemed to stop spinning around you.

"Nia... Mama..." The words slipped out of your mouth, barely a whisper. You felt the sting of tears at the corner of your eyes, but they refused to fall.

The crackle of fire was the only sound now, louder and more ominous than ever. The flames had consumed everything in their path.

And then, the faintest flicker of movement caught your eye—an enforcer, their armor gleaming like a dark shadow, standing at the edge of the destruction. They had their back turned, focused on the chaos unfolding around them, the violence, the fire. They hadn’t seen the wreckage they’d left behind. They didn’t even notice you standing there.

But you saw them.

The anger and helplessness surged inside you, cold as ice. The world had taken everything from you—the life you knew, the people you loved. And in that moment, as the tears you had been holding back finally streamed down your face, the burning rage started to take root deep within you.

You woke with a sharp inhale, eyes wide and fearful, looking around your makeshift home as you panted, chest heaving, anxiety rising in your chest as you tried to calm down.

Just a dream, just a dream

It had felt more real than last time, the nightmares getting stronger each time. You groaned softly as you sat up in your cocoon of blankets and rugs, rubbing your temples as you tried to ease your mind.

You grab your bag, throwing it over your shoulder haphazardly as you make your way down the fire escape and down onto the dirty streets you had come to know. 

The streets of the Undercity had a familiar hum to them, the constant murmur of distant voices, clanging metal, and the occasional shout or crash. The air was thick with the smell of burning coal, stale sweat, and something far less pleasant that you couldn’t quite name. It felt like the UnderCity’s grime had seeped into your skin and never really left. Even now, as you walked among the wreckage of your life, it was all too familiar.

You rubbed at your eyes, trying to shake the vivid nightmare from your mind, but it clung to you like the oppressive fog that hung over the slums. The tightness in your chest wouldn’t loosen, no matter how many times you breathed in deeply. They weren’t real. Your family wasn’t gone. The fire hadn’t happened. It was just a haunting memory, a shadow of something that almost was.

But it felt real. And that was the worst part of it. It had always been the worst part of the nightmares—how everything felt so tangible, so vivid. You could hear Nia’s laugh. You could smell your mother’s perfume. The way your father’s hands had felt around your throat when he was angry. The weight of the grief that pressed into your chest when you realized they were all gone. All gone—and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

It was enough to make you want to curl up in a corner and block it all out. But you couldn’t. Not today. You didn’t have the luxury of slowing down and feeling sorry for yourself.

The undercity didn’t wait for anyone.

You adjusted your bag, the weight of the various trinkets and scraps that filled it dragging at your shoulders as you walked. Your hands fidgeted, feeling the bruises that had yet to fade, the remnants of a life spent scraping by, of fights you’d won and lost. At least I’m still here. That was the only consolation you had left. Even if everything else felt wrong. Even if you felt broken inside, even if you were more scared than you let anyone see, you were still breathing.

You wandered through the streets, passing by familiar faces, the other street rats that wandered the same alleys you did. Some ignored you. Others gave you a glance that was too sharp to be friendly. Keep your head down. Don’t make waves. Stay small.

You didn’t really know where you were going; your feet carried you through the maze of metal and trash, through forgotten corners of the UnderCity that no one cared about. Places like these held their own kind of loneliness—like a pocket of emptiness that even the brightest fire couldn’t warm.

Your stomach growled—loudly, obnoxiously. That was the problem with skipping meals, trying to scrape by on what you could find, or what you could steal. Your pride didn’t let you ask for help. 

You groaned under your breath, reaching for your pouch to see how much you had left. A couple of cogs, a piece of broken glass you’d picked up somewhere, and some scraps of fabric that you had meant to sell, but hadn’t found a buyer for yet. Not exactly what you would call a hearty meal.

And that’s when you saw him.

A figure, hunched over in the alley ahead, fiddling with something. At first, you didn’t think much of it—another one of the city’s forgotten wandering souls. But something about the way he was moving caught your eye. It was the faint glint of metal against his hands, the way he seemed to be... repairing something?

You slowed, instinctively drawn to him, curiosity beating out caution for once. Your gaze locked onto the object in his hands, a small but delicate mechanical piece, a gear. You had seen something like it before—a few times, in fact. Was this... another tinker?

You took another step closer, and that’s when he noticed you. The stranger’s eyes flashed up, meeting yours for the briefest of moments before he quickly looked back at the gears in his hands.

Something about his demeanor made you pause, an unease settling in your gut. He's watching me too closely. But you couldn't place why, or even if you should care.

The silence between you two lingered for a beat, before he spoke in a voice rough with disuse. "You need something, kid?"

You hesitated for a moment, still unsure of what to make of him, before you nodded slowly. “I could use a meal.”

The man scoffed, flicking the gear in his hands one last time before tossing it to the ground, where it clattered against the pavement. He dusted off his hands before standing up fully, revealing his thin frame beneath a worn-out coat. His hair was messy, unkempt, his face haggard with the years of life lived under these same grimy skies. "Ain't no charity here, kid. You gotta earn your keep."

You winced at his words, but something in his tone stirred a defensive response in you, but- you bit your tongue.

Keep your head down, stay out of trouble

Those were the rules.

You fucking hated those rules.

You just turn away and walk off, you don't need to get into another fight, didn't need Sevika telling you off for not being careful enough.

Speaking off Sevika, you hadn't seen her in awhile, a week or two now. Where was she?

You found yourself searching for her, not really sure why you were, why bubbles of worry formed in your stomach. You checked her usual spots, the alleys where she played cards, the food booths where you two got food from time to time, you asked a few regulars if they had seen her, to no avail.

You shouldn't care, she was only a asset to you, a small help when you were at your lowest and yet-

You felt like you had found something.

Something that felt real, or at least as real as it gets in the Undercity.

You needed to find Sevika.

[coyotecrumb]

i just remembered that i had a tokyo ghoul au fic i was writing and it was kakuja!gojo x human!reader but there was a big focus on gojo's backstory and how he started cannibalizing other ghouls

basically reader winds up finding out about the ghouls at anteiku but you don't report them bc you have a vivid memory of being saved from a binge-eating ghoul by a second ghoul wearing a mask that looked like a white wolf. you never thanked them for getting you home safe that night so it's something that's always in the back of your mind.

the one thing that you find a little odd is that one of the residents of anteiku is a human child. megumi's sweet, if a little skittish, and you're curious about how he ended up being raised by a group of ghouls. that's where gojo comes in.

(way more material under the cut)

he tells you "oh yea i killed his dad and then i found megumi in his apartment so i just brought him here lol" and you're like ??!?!?!? but he explains more later once you've grown closer.

in the past, there was a ghoul named getou who was gojo's closest friend. getou was really passionate about humans and ghouls coexisting, but gojo never particularly cared about the topic. after an encounter with megumi's father, both of them were left traumatized and getou crashed out, started insisting that humans all needed to die, etc. the two of them fought.

“I had a best friend. But we fought.”  You count the stars in the sky, the few you can see; the rest blotted out by light pollution from the city’s lights. Gojo wants you to ask, so you ask. “What happened?”  He is silent for several moments. When you look over at him, he’s staring back, wearing that flat, impassive expression that he wears when the jokester’s mask falls. Except—you’re not so sure if it is impassiveness, anymore. There’s something else there, something you can only see now that you’ve known him for all these months. It might be something close to sadness.  Electric blue, his eyes burn brighter than anything in the night sky above you. His words come out calm, even, as if practiced and committed to memory.  “I killed him,” Gojo says. “And then I ate him.” 

so basically the two of them had a tacit understanding that the only way either of them would concede to die was through being devoured by the other. which is cute and fun. ummmmm and gojo's mask was modeled after a raven. and getou's was modeled after a white wolf !

here are some more snippets from the archives:

what would have been the opening scene.

There’s a strange sort of shroud that hangs around you, these days: a blurring of the senses, putting distance between you and yourself and the world, erasing the boundaries between flesh and earth until you don’t know where you end and dirt begins.  You are half-real. Mostly wanting. You spend your hours saying things to people that you can’t recall ten minutes later. It is not the worst way to live. And then—in some moments—you reenter your body all at once, the world crystallizing into furious, brilliant color. You become something real: another speck in the teeming anthill that is Tokyo, visible yet invisible to passersby. You can feel your own breath.  Your therapist gives you words for these things. Dissociation. Anxiety. When you experience a traumatic event, your mind and body can get stuck there even if you’re not in danger anymore.  Inertia. You walked out of that night—made it home—and with you came the memory of a silvery voice, clinging to your clothes, tinging your dreams.  You don’t fear it. The voice is something that pulls you towards it like it has you on the end of a string: coaxing, kind. But there’s no way to explain that to your doctors, who believe, like everyone else, that pure luck was what saved you from death’s jaws those few years ago.  Luck, you think now, taking the stench of blood into your lungs. It’s always luck. Gray skies stretch out overhead. The wind, on the cusp of autumn, carries the slightest chill. The alleyway behind your workplace might have been clean, once, but now it’s riddled with piles of trash that sully the air with their odor. You smell nothing but filth. Filth—and blood. The ghoul, hunched over and gasping, keels into a row of trash cans. An explosion of crashes hits your eardrums, loud enough to remind you that— Ah, right. You blink, your vision sharpening. This is real. More clatters. What little you can see of the ghoul's face is taut with stress, but undeniably young: the look of someone forced to grow up too fast. He can’t be any older than you. Blonde hair caked with gore falls across his forehead, nearly obscuring the black sclera of his eyes.  A young ghoul, kakugan activated in broad daylight, without any hint of a mask to hide his face. This, you realize, something twisting in your gut, is the look of prey, hunted. In his agony, he has not noticed you. Heart heavy like a sinking stone in your chest, you press against the brick wall behind you, nails digging into your palms. Blood continues to fall. Most of it comes from his shoulder, which— You bite back a gag. His arm is nearly entirely severed, dangling at an odd angle, bone and torn sinew visible where his wound meets rank air.  His kagune wraps around his other arm, spiraling into a shape reminiscent of a conch shell, colored an iridescent ocean blue. It glints in what little sunlight reaches it, keen like the blade of a dagger. Deadly; designed to kill. But it’s beautiful in a way that makes your heart ache, pain shooting through it like you’ve jarred an old wound.  You haven’t seen a kagune up close since— Yellow light, blotting out the stars. Asphalt against your palms.  A white mask. “You’re going to be alright. I promise.” 

shoko's the one to bring you to anteiku after you save nanami.

“Yaga,” Shoko says breezily, “I found them!”  The man glances up, then back down. Does a double take. “What—“  “I caught them up on Nanami and everything.” Shoko slips behind the counter, humming cheerily. “They're cool.”  He splutters. “What—you—Nanami? Shoko, when I tell you to look into someone, that doesn’t mean to tell them things and bring them here!”  “Ehh? But they helped Nanami, so I figured it was fine…” Shoko goes for a sip of his coffee—“Ach, Yaga-san, this has sooo much blood in it!”  If the man’s hair was long enough to grab, he’d be tearing it out in clumps. “You—I can’t even—You know what? No more investigating for you. And no smoking indoors!” 

megumi's introduction.

A faint rustle sounds from the hallway. You barely register it, eyes snagged on the way the snowy-white of Gojo’s hair glows under the overhead lights—but Gojo locks in on the noise like a hawk, head snapping in the direction of the door. His shoulders draw up, his eyes widening in something like anticipation—then he’s darting out into the hallway before you can even think to ask what’s wrong, disappearing silently into the dark.  At first, there’s nothing. Just some rustling; quiet footsteps. But then there’s a thud, Gojo’s triumphant cry, and a child—a child?—is squalling in a high, plaintive voice, “No!”  Gojo tromps back in with the glowing smile of a cat presenting its owner with a dead mouse as a gift. Attached to his outstretched arm is his hand, which wraps around a diminutive ankle; attached to which is a little boy, arms dangling to the floor in defeat, scowl dark enough to rival a thundercloud. [hypothetical material] As soon as his feet touch the floor, the little boy is off. His socked feet patter across the room with determined speed; within seconds, he’s out the door and gone.  Gojo brandishes a hand in the direction of the empty doorway, and says in a proud, indulgent voice, “Megumi!” 

more megumi and gojo's initial explanation.

Megumi, the third child residing at Anteiku (Gojo promises you with what you hope is a genuine expression that he is not hoarding any more children to shock you with) is different from what you’re used to from Nanako and Mimiko.  Like them, he is shy—but even around those he knows, there is no furtive giggling, no brightly-colored toys, no games of tag or pretend. Megumi is a reclusive shadow, spends most of his time observing the patrons of Anteiku in such isolated corners that you have no idea where he is half the time. When he emerges into the light, it’s with great reluctance, face preemptively sullen like he just knows he’s not going to like what’s about to happen.  He does not speak except to answer questions wherein Yaga gives him no choice but to do so: to select one of two choices for dinner without pointing, to reveal to you the name of the little stuffed wolf he keeps with him at all hours of the day. And, of course, to protest Gojo’s affections, which he showers upon Megumi with the grandeur of a philanthropist giving meals to the starving and which Megumi rejects with the fervor of a cat trying to avoid a bath.  He’s tense, skittish, wary of adults with the sort of reactive viciousness that reminds you of a spitting feral kitten.  And he is human.  “I killed his dad,” Gojo tells you gaily, slurping up blood through a straw. He ignores your wheeze as you choke on your cake and the look of abject disdain that Shoko turns on him from where she works behind the counter. “He deserved to die, total asshole, but his kid lived with him, and I couldn’t really leave him there, so, like—“ He shrugs. “I brought him here.”  You recover enough to squint at him. “You kidnapped a toddler?”  “You’re catastrophizing,” Gojo says.

some nanako and mimiko.

In the spring, Megumi is enrolled in a nearby primary school. Mimiko and Nanako are not. What follows is mutiny.  “How come Megumi gets to go and we don’t?” Nanako howls, stomping her foot. “I want to go to school, too!”  Mimiko, standing behind her sister with her doll hugged to her chest, does not yell but does something much worse: lower lip jutting out, she stares up with her enormous brown eyes, glinting with tears that threaten to spill over.  Yaga has taken his sunglasses off and is massaging his temples, wilting with exhaustion. Shoko and Gojo watch from behind the counter, visibly brimming with delight and offering absolutely no help.  “It’s not safe for you,” Yaga says for the nth time, pleading. “Megumi is human. He won’t be hurt there. But you two are ghouls, and you’re too young to have total control over your kagune or kakugan yet. I don’t have to tell you what happens if people discover you’re a ghoul, right? It’s too great of a risk.”   Nanako’s face is red with rage. “But that’s not fair!”  “I know, and I wish you two could go with him, I do. But this is about your safety.” 

maybe i'll write out a full version of this idea someday, but it's been set aside for now. i'm still very fond of the idea of ghoul babies nanako/mimiko and human baby megumi all running around together though

[heylittleriotact]

Snippet Sunday

My ass has so much catching up to do with asks, comments, and actually writing. I love it. We stan a good hyperfixation in this house. Anyway, hopefully this will be ready sometime this week: I wanted to do my (smutty) take on Emmrich and Amina's dinner date in the Memorial Gardens, so of course that meant I had to bury the horny in a metric tonne of angst first.

A small portion of what I have written is under the cut:

And now she was sitting across from him, as predicted, wearing the stiff deepstalker leather shoes she’d purchased in a state of utter panic at the shop, along with a plunging, emerald green satin blouse that Neve insisted she leave with, and a new fishtail skirt that she admittedly quite liked: it was a woven fabric, mid-length, pinstriped in black and a rich chocolate brown. The ruffled hem was arranged with thin laces that lended the article a rather pretty, bustled look that she thought nicely accentuated the curve of her rear - disaster of an evening or not, that skirt was going to become a frequently worn item.

And as for going to bed…

She tipped back her glass again. Found it empty. 

Dammit.

“Allow me.” 

She looked up from the empty crystal goblet to see Emmrich’s hand reaching over the table, waiting patiently for her to pass him the glass. The warm light of the candles on the table between them contrasted with the cool light of the veilfire lanterns and the subtle, ever shifting glow of the wisps that floated lazily around them, drawn to curiously observe the spectacle of the two courting Watchers taking their dinner in the Memorial Gardens. 

He had indeed dressed as she predicted - put together, poised… perfect. A man who looked like he was always prepared to hold court at a lectern, soothe a wayward spirit, or arrange a romantic meal complete with an embossed menu with gilded corners. 

He was everything she wasn’t: deliberate, focused, and balanced. Yet there was something about him that she still couldn’t quite place - perhaps she hadn’t known him long enough yet. Perhaps their relationship was still too new and he’d not seen fit to reveal these parts of himself to her for fear that she would flee. Whatever it was dwelled deep beneath that veneer of perfection, shrouded so well from view that she couldn’t even begin to speculate on the true nature of it. 

Was he some sort of deviant? Was this all a facade to disguise a self-serving, narcissistic monster who would eventually wear her down and rob her of her personhood as he claimed her and reduced her to little more than a pretty possession to wear on his arm to fancy parties? 

Maybe this was just how he operated: luring in vulnerable and attractive partners until he bored of them and left them for someone more interesting?

Was he an asshole and this was a finely honed act that had worked well for his purposes until he no longer had need to maintain it?

There had to be a reason why a man as genuine and kind as this hadn’t been snatched up decades earlier. 

There had to be some literal or figurative skeleton lurking in his closet, and once she tore open the doors and shed light on it, she would step back and place her hands on her hips as she surveyed the stinking desiccated corpse of Truth with a grim and knowing smile, simultaneously satisfied and despondent that she had finally confirmed that Emmrich Volkarin was in fact too good to be true, just as she’d suspected. 

“Ah, there it is,” she’d say with the nonchalance of someone who’d just found a missing earring stuck behind a cushion, unsurprised and proud of herself for seeing through him and catching onto his game before he could do any real damage. Then she’d gently close the doors of the closet and leave, and he would never hear from her again.

But until then…

Her scarlet lips parted in a smile and she extended her hand, slipping the delicate crystal stem into his fingers, not drawing back when they made contact, her fingertips brushing over over his own and lingering for perhaps a moment longer than they needed to before they parted and he refilled her glass. 

He passed it back to her and she said thank you, and this time it was his fingers that lingered - like he had been waiting for some sort of unspoken permission to touch her. She subconsciously pressed her thighs together and let her other heel slip from its shoe, praying he couldn’t see the flush that was heating her cheeks under the rouge that she wore on them. She drank from the glass and set it down gently, returning to the stunningly arranged blood orange salad on the plate before her, collecting a few pine nuts on her fork before skewering a mouthful of greens as silence fell between them again.

Fuck - this was just as awkward as she thought it would be - he was probably regretting suggesting this in the first place…

“What do you make of the wine?” 

Oh good, they were going to make small talk about what they were drinking: the most obvious giveaway of a terrible date. 

“It’s nice,” she said conversationally. “Refresh me on its origin?” 

He set down his fork and held up his own glass to the candlelight, swirling the semi-translucent garnet vintage and watching it recede down the sides, observing its legs discerningly. “Quite enigmous, actually - an entire crate of bottles was left sitting outside the main gate of the Necropolis over a decade ago with no note, no shipping manifest, each bottle containing this same wine - Adirondack Red, according to the label, bottled on well… a date that falls outside the format of the Chantry, Tevinter, or Elven calendars.” He angled the glass towards him and dipped his nose into the bowl, nostrils flaring slightly as he took in the fragrance of the wine. He took a sip, letting it roll over his tongue before smiling pleasantly at Amina. “It’s very good though, despite its mysterious history, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Yeah…” Amina breathed, realizing she hadn’t blinked in over a minute - she’d been following Emmrich’s every move. “Exquisite."

Now the glass had been set down too and he folded his long fingered hands together in front of him and leaned forward slightly, his expression soft and inquisitive.

“Forgive me if I come across as presumptuous, dear, but I feel I must ask: are you… nervous?”

Her eyes darted from his, looked at his hands, his wine glass, his own half-finished salad - anywhere but at him. “I... uh..."

His hand found hers on her side of the table, covering it and imparting a gentle squeeze.

“I’m… yes,” she finally admitted, staring at his hand on hers, still unable to meet his eyes.

“So am I.” 

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Sentences For WIPs Game

I was tagged by @ulchabhangorm (thanks lovely! 🩷) to participate in this little game where the idea is to make a 24-hour poll including every WIP you want to work on, and have people vote for one of those WIPs. Then once voting has concluded, you write one sentence for every vote of the WIP that received the most votes.

Thing is: I have so many WIPs that I hope to write within the year (if I can!!) that I'm going to offer as many as the poll will allow, AND, I'll "cheat" a tiny bit and write a sentence for ALL of the WIPs that get a vote. ;)

No Pressure Tags: @eclec-tech @dystopicjumpsuit @clonethirstingisreal @returnofthepineapple @dragonrider9905 + @lonewolflupe @the-bad-batch-baroness @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @eternal-transcience

I'll put what's cooking under the cut so anyone who's interested can get a taste of what's to come, only if you're so inclined~ Those marked as request fics will have the details purposely sparse or vague to keep a bit of the surprise alive.

Lost on Life Day: *Request fic. Combination of bad weather and a "small" natural disaster leads to a bit of Huddling Together For Survival between a certain cobalt blue captain and the trusted friend he's harboring feelings for. Because he's put her in danger, Rex thinks it might be best to let a certain loth-cat out of the bag... (Oh, and he should probably mention that it happens to be Life Day, too.)

Cyber Crush: *Request fic. While doing a bit of the ol' “slightly questionable research”, Wrecker and the reader “meet” each other over the galaxy-wide-web, where Wrecker answers a few… concerning questions. Worried he’s accidentally helped a Seppie, he asks Tech to run a thorough background check and finds out that the reader isn’t a Seppie at all. She’s just a writer!

Stuck in the Stacks: *Request fic. Modern AU, where the reader and Wolffe live in the same, small mountain town that is no stranger to the odd bout of bad weather. They've been passively flirting for so long, but never seem to make much progress... When a truly bad storm rolls in the first time Wolffe comes to pay her a visit at her job—hoping to check out a few books for a "little project" he's working on [C'mon, it's Carol's request fic, of course I'll give this reader a fitting job!]—it forces them to stay after-hours. Alone. ;)

No Foxes In This Hole: Longform story I started 10/10 of last year, series link here. Reader's new to Coruscant after seeking a big life change, and boy is she gonna find one. The crimson commander will too, for that matter!

Seaglass in the Surf: Hiding out on a remote, backwater planet, Din Djarin makes the acquaintance of a woman who frequently makes trips to the shoreline just to scour through the sand for something. He offers to help, thinking she's looking for something she lost. Turns out she's looking for things that others have lost, for a rather different reason than the one Din initially suspects.

Your Body Remembers: Experimental fic without a single line of dialogue where you as a local living in hardship on an Imperial-controlled planet find a little more than just hope in the man who, at first, will tell you nothing more than he's a Mandalorian is the only person who has answered your desperate plea for help.

Yellow Blankets, Yellow Blades: Reader makes their favorite Jedi fugitive something rather special to keep in the room he's always been offered whenever he needs a place to lay low from the Empire. While the item brings up many memories that are perhaps a little too bittersweet, Cal, who hasn't seen a lot of genuine kindness like yours since the start of the Purge, can't believe how lucky he is that you went through all that trouble, just for him.

Like Family: Star Wars AU. Feral asked you a very important question recently, and he's been riding on Cloud 9 ever since! Trouble is... he's having difficulties finding the right time to tell his brothers the happy news. The way you and him go about letting the loth-cat out of the bag together isn't exactly what you had planned, but hey; you're still warmly welcomed once they know you're officially going to be part of the family!

Hunting the Nexu: An absolute mess in the outline stages right now, HtN is a TBB AU that covers events from both season 2 and 3 between Crosshair and a mysterious hired gun that agreed to help his brothers and sister with rescuing him from Mount Tantiss and the Empire.

Glory In Gold: Hired to teach Cody Mando'a under false pretenses for an Imperial mission, it isn't long before it's revealed to you the real reason you're here once, sometimes twice a week, on the Empire's dime, is personal. But it's not long after that that the reason changes again. To something more... intimate.

Loving A Lazarus Species: You've been mourning Tech's death for close to a year. Maybe more. The denial that this death is real runs deep; chasing down the ghosts of ghosts when it comes to rumors your love still lives. Lucky for you, the brown-eyed, bespectacled man proves you have no need for the morally murky research you've turned to in your desperation: proving he's harder to kill than initially believed... [We're doing a Tech Lives AU!!]

Dressed to the Ninety-Nines: You and the bandana-wearing sergeant have to feign being on a date for a "special assignment". Hunter effectively proves that he sure cleans up well and behaves like a perfect gentlemen, the whole nine. But is there really a "special assignment", or is this all part of some elaborate bet?