#but in my defense i only realised this after i rendered most of it

[niftysaurus]

freakuna

[veiledsilver]

Top five moments you've felt like the universe was messing with you.

Oh boy everyone get ready this is a long list. In descending order, from mildly funny looking back on it to "oh god oh shit oh fuck":

5. Catfishing: College Edition

In 6th grade, I decided to apply to colleges early to see how they were like. I was scared that if they knew I was too young, they'd arrest me. So I created a gmail account as my persona, a white 12th grader named Emilie Alexander. Emilie was planning to go into nursing, dating a high school linebacker named Kyle Kenderson, and deathly allergic to bee stings. If she even came near a bee, she would die.

This part was of the utmost importance.

See, I was constantly paranoid that one day, the jig would be up- I might forget that my fake last name was Alexander. Or the college dean might come knocking at my door and tear up my home in his mad search for Emilie. If that happened I would fake her tragic death, presumably caused by one big fucking bee.

I secretly collected my information. What nearby states were the prettiest to visit. Which colleges were the safest and most affordable. How often they held courses that I liked. In my emails with colleges I tried to sound as mature and professional as possible.

Then, one day, a college member asked me what high school I was in, so they could check my records.

My blood froze.

It was time to bring out the bee.

In response to their question, I sent an email that was like this:

"Dear Mr. McLaughlin, I was a proud graduate of- ugh! Ah! Kyaaaa! Uwaa! W-w-what's this... huge goddamn bee doing here?! Eek, pardon my foul language! It's just that, as I told you earlier, being stung by a bee would kill me.... and now it's stung me thrice (three times)!!

What do I do?! I can't die... I've always wanted to attend your beautiful college...

But this is... the end...

Mr. McLaughlin...

*looks at you sadly*

Tell... my mother... I loved her...

*dies*"

He never responded, probably because he was rendered speechless, but I never touched that account again.

My private gmail for fun stuff like tumblr still has "Alexander" as a surname, though.

4. Wild and Authentic

Alright. Alright. So. My art teacher in middle school.

Right off the bat, they endeared themselves to the tumblr art kids- they proudly used they/them pronouns, dyed their hair vibrant colors, deeply encouraged OC creation, and was chill with any art style even if it was anime. Mx. Mason was very cool, except for one thing.

We had complete artistic freedom when it came to their assignments, EXCEPT FOR ONE THING.

Drumroll, please.

Take a deep breath if you must.

Ready?

...

Cats had to have extremely distinct whisker pores.

YES, they believed that modern depictions of cats were too streamlined. Too... idealized. As a cat owner themselves, they were convinced that society's vision of cats did not do their feral feline ancestors justice. In making their faces flawlessly smooth-furred, we were stripping the cat of its true nature.

I found this out the hard way, when I was drawing warrior cats fanart for class (it was of Firestar cuddled in the arms of an orange haired anime catgirl who was his reincarnation in my first ever comic series, Warriors Neko Desu! ♡ Heart Academy Dokidoki).

Mx. Mason came over to look at my magnum opus, and I expected them to have their socks knocked off at my artistic talent. They lifted up my drawing for all to see, and I smugly leaned back in my seat.

Only for them to launch into a passionate lecture about how, in neglecting to draw whisker pores on cats, I was DENYING THIS FICTIONAL CAT OF ITS WILD AUTHENTIC SELF.

My friends absolutely lost it when I told them this story, and there was a period of time when all our discord nicknames were wild and authentic too.

As for Firestar and his counterpart Hoshineko Orenji-chan, I never did give them wild authentic whisker holes, but that's to be expected of a kittypet, I guess.

3. Stan Jungkook Or Whatever

A couple years ago, my family and I flew to Seoul, South Korea, to visit our relatives and teach me more about my heritage. It was very nice! I got to visit shrines and festivals and palaces, and I was in awe that this was what my ancestors had once seen in their daily lives.

Then, when we went to the modern side of Korea, I realized just how much I didn't fit in.

It was clear that I didn't know how to act, or how to speak Korean, and I spent my days fumbling around and getting scammed multiple times by salesmen. But I clowned myself the most... during an interactive event with kpop stars.

They had this experimental event where holograms of the boys would sing onstage and dance in place of the actual idols. Before the show began, girls could stand in booths that scanned their appearances, and holograms of THEM could dance onstage with the hologram boys.

I didn't know this.

When Cousin Ae-cha told me to step inside one of the machines, I thought I'd be hilarious and stand backwards, so it would scan the back of me instead of my front. As I walked out, I saw other girls putting on their best makeup, cutest clothes, and most expensive accessories, and I slowly realized that I was in danger.

But the danger didn't come until halfway through the concert, where the boys looked eagerly off-stage and a holy staircase appeared and all the hologram girls descended from heaven. There were cherry blossoms. There were roses. There was me, among the crowd of beautiful airbrushed girls, walking backwards.

I felt the judgemental gazes of twenty girls and their mothers.

Each boy danced with a girl, who got a cute animated moment with special effects, and sang about how they found a dream girl to have a true love romance with. Finally, all the girls vanished except one, and it was me.

One of the boys didn't dance with any girls, and now he was all alone in the rain, feeling dejected that HE did not find his true love girl to have a dream romance with. Then the rain stopped, the sun came out, and I emerged. Still backwards.

He was thrilled and sang about how my face (that he didn't see) stole his heart, and now everyone in the audience was giggling, and he slowly brought me very close to kiss me... but because I was backwards, his nose was cutely nuzzling my hair.

The audience members- at least the adults- were now laughing their asses off. His lips met the back of my head, and together we vanished into the wind.

I'd say I couldn't show my face there ever again, but I never did show my face, so... hm...

2. Horrid Little Temptress

If I wasn't a minor, I'd need a drink before starting this story. Sadly, I cannot drown my sorrows- and neither should you after you hear this, because it's only fair.

Mrs. Appleby was my Spanish teacher in like, 9th grade. Even the wild and authentic art teacher thought she was insane. Appleby forced kids to brew tea for her and yelled at them when they didn't get it right, and I thought she had a chronic squint until I realised she just did that to mock me and my Asian eye-folds. She forced us to watch Dora the Explorer to "absorb knowledge." Everyone fucking hated Mrs. Appleby.

But the worst thing she ever did... was during the school festival.

See, whenever she's angry, she zooms right into kids' faces to scream at them. Her wrinkled flesh would blot out the goddamn sun and all you see are her bloodshot yellow eyeballs so victims just stayed rooted to the spot like cornered animals or something similar. This is important.

Because when she was sampling her own brownies (read: hoarding them so no one else could eat them), one parent foolishly decided to grab one and she thought it was a student and she grabbed his wrist so hard she could've nearly snapped it and... and... zoomed into his face.

Except she underestimated his height and kissed him by accident, but it was more like her mouth was sucking in his face like a vacuum.

His wife was shrieking like an ape. His kid, my classmate, saw his social life flash before his eyes.

In her defense, she did not mouth to mouth with him on purpose and afterwards she cried in the bathroom and when I foolishly followed her in to comfort her, because I am a teacher's pet through and through, she snatched the paper towels I got for her and wailed that she was a-

A-

HORRID LITTLE TEMPTRESS.

If I had decided to not be kind, I never would've heard that string of fucking words. But I did. And I paid for it dearly. The end.

1. Violence IS The Answer, Sometimes

Thomas, my dearly detested.

Back in sixth grade, I used to have a crush on him because he had the surfer boy look with nicely tanned skin and pale blond hair and the clearest aquamarine eyes I've ever seen. He also liked surfing and swimming. He seemed like the perfect little trophy waifu except for one absolute dealbreaker.

He and his parents were extremely conservative and so, when I told him I liked him, his response was basically "haha no you're a [slur] and would probably eat my dog."

I was horrified and ran away to cry. But then, by the next day, I decided I needed to punish him. Thomas walked in before class started and I was waiting for him with these hands. I kicked him so he doubled over, slammed his face into his chair's seat, and quickly clambered on top of him to SIT ON THE BACK OF HIS HEAD. He started shaking and twitching and trying to pry me off, but eventually he went limp and stopped moving.

I thought he fell asleep, but Mohammed, another classmate who was bullied by Thomas, told me that Thomas might never wake up again (not that he was very sad about this. I didn't know until later, but Thomas said slurs at him too).

While I was sitting on the guy, he'd straight up passed out from the lack of oxygen.

Screaming and crying, I told our homeroom teacher that Thomas suddenly fainted, and she was the type of Caucasian that thought all little Asian kids were sweet and innocent, so it didn't even cross her mind that? It might've been me? Who sat on his head when she walked in?

He was sent home early that day. I had to go to a different school next year because Thomas's mom threatened legal action. The only reason I didn't get punished further was because my rich cousins out-Karen'd her and donated a huge amount of money to the school to keep them quiet.

Anyway, I never did anything that insane ever again, because something like that is enough for a lifetime. My cousins made it clear they would never back me up again. I was sure this whole event would be put behind me, too.

But last fall, during my first day of online learning... who did I see in my zoom meeting... BUT THOMAS! I had my mic and camera off, but the moment he saw my name, his face went pale. His soul would've left his body, but then it would've gone to hell, so it wisely decided to stay inside.

Still, out of shame and embarrassment, I never turned my camera on for the rest of the school year.

[roscoeobrien]

No Control With You | Stiles Stilinski

Author: @roscoeobrien

Pairing: stiles stilinski x fem!reader

Summary: in which stiles stilinski’s girlfriend receives the bite after a terrible turn of events and begins to ignore him. when confronting her about it, he soon learns the truth and the reason why.

Warning: light swearing, hinting of smut- but nothing actually happens and i guess the mention of mates/mating along with angst and fluff near the end? idk? i’m bad at this.

Prompt: “I read that when you cuddle a pillow you’re missing human affection, so maybe you can cuddle me?”

A/N: this is for @stiles-o-dylan24 and her writing challenge for hitting 1k! if you’re reading this, i hope you like it and know you’re very talented and your writings is one of the first things i ever read on tumblr. you really helped inspire me to be brave and write my own stuff in the first place and i’m so sorry you even have to read this bad imagine because you deserve better. i have also read over this a few times but there may still be mistakes so i am so sorry for that in return xx

Words: 6933 ( i don’t have anything to say other than i am so, terribly, sorry )

Stiles’ leg bounced anxiously as he waited for Scott to walk out of the dreaded hospital room he had been in for what seemed now like an eternity, his clammy hands clasped in front of his mouth. His cheeks glistened from the salty tears still falling from his bloodshot eyes, the only sound he made being the quivering of his sharp/shaky breaths and the sniffles his nose forced out.

It had only been an hour or so since he had been holding your body- your bloody body- close to his chest, hearing his frantic heartbeat even with your human hearing thudding rapidly with panic against your ear as the pack made a break for the hospital to hand you in Melissa’s care. Your wound was black when you had arrived with little time left so it seemed, your voice weakly fading out into nothingness as you cried out his name, the sound causing Stiles a deep, mental pain.

How could I have let this happen? Was the question the teenage boy kept asking himself over and over again like a broken record, his brown eyes casting to the hall he hoped Scott would come running down any second now. This whole situation felt like a dream- more like a nightmare- that he desperately wanted to wake up from.

Many of his friends tried to comfort him, offering him their gentle touch and consoling words. It all fell at death ears, however, for they weren’t what he needed most in that moment. In that moment, all he needed was her and to know she was okay.

“Stiles,” Scott jogging down the hospital hallway to the awaiting pack brought everyone out of their own wandering minds with all the tragic outcomes which were close to becoming a reality so it seemed, specifically eyeing his best friend as his steps faltered.

The boy called was up on his feet in an instant, his hands feeling sweaty as he begged with his crystalised, honey-brown eyes. Please be alright. He prayed, feeling the tears swell in his eyes once more.

“She’s awake. It worked . . . the bite worked.” Scott released in the tense air, staring at his friend with his dark eyes holding the expression of stunned amazement as the rest of the pack released noises of what could only be described as relief. “Her eyes . . . they’re red. She-She’s an alpha, Stiles”

That statement should’ve stunned the boy, cueing his mouth to spill with an endless interrogation of how and why . . . but it did not. In fact, Stiles Stilinski remained stone cold.

His heart was thudding loudly in his chest, pounding his ears as he felt small breathes escape his dry pink lips. His mind felt like it was going one hundred miles around him as it focused on the fact that she was awake. Her body had accepted the bite. She was breathing, she was healthy . . . he could hold her in his arms again.

She was going to be okay.

“(Y/N)!” Scott’s foot nudging yours under the lunch table you and your friends were currently sat at in the school cafeteria gained your attention, snapping you out of your daydream to the present. Your firey gaze met his, the boy shooting you a wide-eyed look. “Your eyes are shifting! Calm down.”

“Yeah, you’re hurting your sandwich.” Malia chipped in with her usual deadpan expression, pointing to the now crushed sandwich suffering the consequences of your mighty grip.

With a weak growl, you closed your eyes and shook your head in hopes it would make your red alpha eyes go away. Thankfully, it worked and no one saw anything except your group of supernatural associates . . . but that didn’t make your anger dissolve in the slightest.

“Who does she think she is?” You snarled bitterly, glaring at a blonde-haired girl you shared a few classes with across the cafeteria. You hoped your stare alone would make her combust! Sadly, it did not. “She isn’t fooling anyone with that short skirt and bold makeup.”

Lydia took one stab at her salad as she rolled her eyes and released a scoff. “You’re just saying that because she’s talking to Stiles.”

Your werewolf hearing allowed you to hear the mentioned boy’s melodic laugh, the sound washing over you like a sweet heat wave as you bit your lip. This was beginning to get unbearable.

“You know, he’s been really worried about you.” Scott informed, shooting you a sad look which you adverted your eyes too. You already knew what he was going to say. “All he wants is to talk to you, (Y/N).”

“You don’t understand, Scott.” You grumbled under your breath, watching the hazel-eyed boy adoringly across the room. You admired his side profile and the way his cupid-shaped lips curled up in a polite smile. He was so enchanting, even from the beginning of your relationship . . . but now he was becoming irresistible to you. “Things are different now.”

“Oh come on, Stiles.” Your ears ringed with the head aching voice of the blonde as she advanced towards the Stilinski boy, her hand reaching out to caress his forearm lightly. She let out a little giggle. “Just one date. You won’t regret it.”

“That’s very sweet, Heather, but I-”

“He’s busy.” Stiles’ eyes lit up at the sound of your sudden voice, a small smile coming into place when he turned round to see you standing now right beside him. He took notice of your serious state, your arms crossed over your chest defensively with a glare.

“Oh, well,” the girl, Heather, gave you a short glance of snide before her attention was set back on Stiles. She let out a short, flirtatious giggle once more in a second attempt as she played with her hair. “maybe some other time then. I’d love to see you around sometime, Stiles.”

The teen opened his mouth to politely answer back, only to be cut off by your scoff. “Yeah, I don’t think you will.” You rolled your (Y/E/C) eyes at the girl, a bored look taking place.

When Heather scoffed and strutted away from the pair of you, Stiles turned to give you a friendly smile . . . only to see you now walking away from him quickly. The Stilinski boy jogged up to you as fast as he could, his hand gently finding its way into yours. “Hey,” his soft voice and touch made you whirl round in alert, feeling your body react. “It feels like forever since we’ve last spoken. I’ve missed you.”

“Well . . . umm.” You were quick to draw your hand away, biting your lip as you felt it rise. In an attempt to hide it from the boy, you scratched the back of your neck as a distraction. “I’ve been busy.” Lie.

“Well, when do you think you’re gonna be free next?” Stiles sweetly asked, tilting his head as he reached forwards to tuck a strand of stray hair back behind your ear. “I was wondering when we can have another one of our movie binging date nights.”

A lump grew thick in your throat, all instincts inside you screaming to be let out . . . but you had to hold back. You couldn’t do that to Stiles. You had to get away.

“I don’t know, Stiles.” You instantly felt a guilt claw at your stomach with the way the mentioned boy’s face fell. Her mind mentally shamed her, but she stuck to her gut. She had to remind herself again why she was doing all of this, why she couldn’t give in . . . no matter how much she wanted to. “It’s kinda complicated at the moment.”

“Oh,” Stiles’ eyebrows raised in question, his face edging closer to yours. You leaned back slightly, hoping that it would help keep yourself at bay. It didn’t, leaving you to suffer as Stiles innocently tilted his head. This boy. “Anything I can help with?”

You began to immediately feel warmth, releasing a deep breath you didn’t even realise you were holding until you stepped away from him some more with a shake of the head. “N-No. Nothing.” You denied, your breathing now hollow, feeling the sweat beginning to build up on your face.

“(Y/N),” Stiles noticed the weird behaviour setting in, taking a few steps closer until his hand gently came to rest on your forearm. Little did he know, he was making the problem way worse. “are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You gritted your teeth as your eyes closed, fearing what may soon appear beneath your eyelids. The temperature only seemed to rise within you when a familiar hand was delicately set on your forehead, your eyes widening as a rugged sound weakly escaped you.

“Babe, you’re burning up!” The amber-toned eyes of your boyfriend’s went wide with a sudden surprise, unable to hear the curses you let out under your breath at the realisation as his concern wafted through your nostrils.

A low growl tore through your throat as a sudden need surged through you, causing your arm to throw itself forwards before you could even stop to think. With your fingers now gripping onto the fabric of his plaid shirt, Stiles was suddenly brought closer to you until your noses bumped.

The deep breaths emitting from your lips made Stiles rendered speechless, unable to take his gaze off of your eyes. There was something different about them- and he wasn’t even talking about your wolf eyes which were yet to make an appearance. Something was hidden behind your (Y/E/C) irises, something that made your eyeballs darken as the teen found himself getting almost entranced in them.

“(Y/N)!” Scott was suddenly by your side, practically ripping you away from his best friend. You fought the grasp at first, everything around you sounding muffled as the Filipino muttered a short excuse/apology to the boy before he dragged you further away from the only thing your brain could focus on: Stiles Stilinski.

The thoughts raging through your mind only faltered when your alpha friend had placed you into the closest room; which happened to be a classroom, thankfully, not in use.

Once released, you grasped desperately at the wooden desk to support yourself in the act of getting back into focus. How could you have made such a fool of yourself, (Y/N)? You scolded, gritting your teeth as a growl was set free.

Scott, who had been watching you with careful eyes, turned his gaze sorrowful as he sighed and approached when you slumped against the back of the desk to rest. “Fighting it and running away won’t change a thing. I don’t know why you’re pushing it to the limit.”

“Shut up!” You bit back, ducking your head lower as you began to feel only the slightest bit at ease. This didn’t disperse the anger you held for yourself however.

“You need to tell him, (Y/N).” Scott protests strongly, his stance becoming more stern as his gaze felt like fire seizing your skin. “Things will only get harder going forward. You understand that, don’t you?”

When his words fell upon death ears, Scott knew it was pointless even trying to get an answer out of you. He didn’t blame you, of course not, he just wished you wouldn’t make this situation more hard for yourself; for Stiles.

And when he walked out of the classroom, he could hear your cries of annoyance filled with raging emotions he pitied you for. Closing his eyes, he let out a breath. This doesn’t feel right. He thought, clutching his fists as he exhaled. He had to do something, and although he knew he’d get shit for it later . . . he knew he couldn’t leave it like this. He couldn’t leave them like this.

The sound of Scott’s voicemail coming through the speakers of your nearly dead phone for the seventh time that night made you let out a noise of defeat, sighing up to the pouring sky causing you to be drenched head to toe from above.

After the fellow werewolf had texted you asking for your assistance in werewolf business, who were you to say no? You wanted/needed the experience, no matter how much you tried to deny it at times. Plus, part of you was hoping the McCall boy had summoned you with a way to finally get rid of your problem for good- but you knew that was hopeless thinking.

Hours had passed, yet there was no sign of Scott. No message. No call. No voicemail. Nothing. It was a complete radio silence.

This struck you as odd. Scott McCall was a lot of things, but he was never one to just ditch a friend- or even a stranger, for that matter- without a good reason or a serious hold up.

Part of you worried for the boy. Was he okay? Did he need your help? What if he was already here, possibly injured and just waiting for you to swoop in and help him? You fussed over every detail, resting your head back with a soft thud on the bark of the forest tree behind you to stop your mind from going too far. You had to remind yourself to stay calm, or else things would spiral out of your control and you would be alone with no assistance.

Not keen on giving up just yet, you waited fifteen more minutes before you decided to call it quits. It was getting dark, and the rain was making your clothes and hair stick to you like a second skin at this point.

Walking away from the tree you were taking refuge under left you exposed to the harsh weather, feeling your body beginning to become a victim to the pericing rain once more. And, with no ride to get yourself back home and a phone that would most likely die the second you unlocked it, you knew the bullets of water wouldn’t stop until you reached shelter.

Part of you had wished you had pushed Scott to teach you most of the werewolf basics like using your super speed and super hearing; because most of that would’ve come in handy now. The super speed would’ve helped you make your way home faster than any human ever could . . . and the hearing would’ve helped you identify whatever sound was screeching in your ears before it was too late.

A baby-blue powdered jeep pulled up right in front of you, a familiar head poking out of the rolled down window. You gawked at him, watching as he beckoned a hand over as his words had to raise so you could hear him over the rain. “Get in!”

The twisting feeling that entered your mind told you ‘no’ the minute a subtle heat began to rise- becoming more noticeable in the ice cold rain. However, debating all options, you knew better. The rain was getting worse, the rumbling of a possible thunder storm beginning to head your way as your teeth began to chatter from standing still in the freezing inviroment for so long. And with the way Stiles was watching you carefully, his eyes basically told you that arguing with him was pointless. Classic Stilinski, you guess.

He opened the door for you when you sighed and made your way over to the passenger side of the vehicle that had seen better days, his face beaming when you hopped up on the seat. However, a possible change of ways between you two that he had been holding out for was put down when you folded your arms in a closed off manner; staring at the rainy front of the car. “Take me home, please.”

Stiles wanted to say something- he oh so desperately did- but he knew that would only destroy the little progress he had made with you by actually having you sit in his jeep for the first time alone together in many weeks. So, with his keys now plugged in to start the vehicle and activate the windscreen wipers, you were setting off.

Throughout the car ride, stolen glances were shared between the two of you- yours appearing more discreet than the boy across from you. An itch in your stomach made you feel bad once more as your (Y/E/C) bore into his side profile again like before, admiring the scatter of moles dancing across his skin that you used to trace over gently with the tips of your fingertips when you both would have the rareity of relaxing together. Oh how you’ve missed the many nights of doing that.

“Something wrong?” The sudden voice of Stiles made your spaced out expression twist into that of a confused one, humming in question. Stiles took his eyes off of the road for a split second to turn to you. “You’re staring.”

“Oh! Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” You nodded smoothly, looking down at your hands resting on your lap. With a question pawing to escape in your mind and an urge to at least say something to the boy, you asked him a simple question. “What were you doing out at this time anyway?”

“Scott called me. He said he was busy with Kira, or something, and asked me to pick you up.” The Stilinski teen explained, shrugging with his hands steady on the wheel.

Son of a bitch. You rolled your eyes as the final piece of the puzzle as to why the McCall boy had not turned up at all coming together. It was a set up. That asshole had set you up. “Oh.” Eager to keep your gaze on anything but the boy currently gazing into every inch of your face, your head rolled to rest on the window to stare at the scenery.

You must’ve fallen asleep at one point during the journey home, for all you could remember next was being woken up by the crack of thunder as you lurched up to meet the familiar front of a familiar house. You frowned when the car stopped, your eyebrows knitting together. “Why are we at your house?”

Stiles shrugged in an innocent manner, but the proud-like smile he was displaying told you everything. He knew exactly what he was doing. “The rain was making it hard to see the roads clearly. Plus, with the thunder rising, I figured- since my house is closer- it would be safer if we just stopped here.”

A panic set in amongst your brain, the instinct to get away just like before in the cafeteria setting in. “B-But it’s late.” You tried to reason, staggering through your words.

The boy shrugged. “You can just stay over. I have some spare clothes you can borrow.” He hoped out of the car, opening your side to offer you his hand.

You ignored it, jumping out yourself regardless as you both walked to the front of the door; feeling the boy’s hand brush against yours a few times as you did so. The action caused you to freeze up and panic once more. This was all red flags, warning you at the possible disaster that was to come. You were sure of it.

“Isn’t your dad home? I would hate to intrude. I’d be okay walking home from here, Stiles.” Clutching at straws now, your steps faltered when Stiles began to unlock the door to the house that was like a second home to you. Scratch that, it was a second home to you.

Stiles let out a scoff with a small snort. “My dad’s on night shift tonight, (Y/N), remember?” You cursed under your breath when it dawned on you. It was Friday, the house was a Sheriff Stilinski free household. “Besides, he wouldn’t care anyway; he loves you. And don’t even bring up walking the rest of the way to your house in this weather- it’s not happening.”

Stepping inside, you were overcome with a feeling of sweet nostalgia. The Stilinski house was basically the same as you had least remembered it- the only new thing being the family consisting of a father and son had thrown away the takeaway boxes which normally greeted you and your boyfriend when stepping in around dinner time.

Stiles set a gentle hand on the small of your back, the tingling touch leaving as soon as it came as the boy began to descend up the stairs in the direction of his room. You weren’t far behind either, watching rather nervously as he shot you a quick grin over the shoulder when the door to the bedroom was pushed open.

Stiles’ room had remained the exact same, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sight. All the strings connecting to the latest supernatural crime happening in Beacon Hills was still up, the crime board itself being decorated with pictures and post-it notes belonging to none other than you.

Small steps forward carried you over to the board, your lips curling up in a soft smile as your eyes scanned over all the cheesy pictures of you and Stiles that had been taken on a Polaroid camera he had gotten you for your birthday one year. They all held such a special memory in your opinion- ranging from your first date to one of your many movie nights.

A specific picture caught your attention in particular, your hand gently plucking the item from the board. You were met with a wide grin that had not been mirrored in weeks by you as the Stiles in the photo sloppily kissed your cheek, his arms wrapped round you as his blue bedsheets kept you both warm.

“I remember that.” Present Stiles was now right beside you, staring down at the picture rather fondly as you were. “It was the night I finally convinced you to watch Star Wars with me.” He grinned, recalling the memory of all the pleading and begging that had led up to that moment.

“Yeah,” A small, unexpected chuckle escaped your lips as you nodded, tilting your head to smile brighter at the photo. “I don’t think you would’ve even allowed me to date you if I hadn’t of watched those movies.”

“I missed those nights, ya know?” The short hum of Stiles made your gaze look away from the picture, your heart hammering in your chest at the look that was now plastered on the Stilinki’s face. “Those nights were all our worries would just vanish- as if nothing supernatural related could harm us.”

Now it was your turn for your face to fall, unable to help yourself as your eyes returned to the picture once more. He was right, of course he was. Yet . . . he didn’t see what you saw in that picture entirely.

In that picture, you saw two humans. You saw your human eyes that would now turn red if you wished and a smile that could now produce fangs when angered. The picture contained two human beings in a loving relationship . . . unaware that that title would soon change in a matter of weeks.

“I miss those nights too, Stiles,” The pad of your thumb smoothed over the photo, your shoulder now flaunt against the Stilinski’s clothed chest. “but I don’t know if we’ll ever have one of those nights again.” You had to be open about the future with yourself, and it tore you in half doing so in front of the boy.

“Sure we can.” Stiles was quick to shoot pack, turning around to signal for you to do the same. Your eyes connected as he stared at you softly, the temperature of the room beginning to rise at the sight. “We can have all those nights: all those moments again if we wanted.”

“Stiles-” your own jittering lips were the ones to cut your sentence short, the after effect of the rain only beginning to kick in now as you suddenly felt as if you were in a freezer of a room.

Stiles noticed the action immediately, his arms coming to rest on your forearms as they rubbed up and down gently in an attempt to warm you up. It worked probably better than it should’ve, admittedly; for the feeling of dreaded warmth in the cafeteria came again. Shit.

“I’ll get you a change of clothes.” You shivered when his arms left you- whether that be from the cold or something else was beyond you- leaving you to stand and watch his retreating back as he dug through one of his drawers before making his way back over to you. “Here.”

A smile became present on your lips when you immediately noticed the familiar design of the Mets hoodie that had become a quick favourite on your list of clothes that you liked to borrow- and sometimes steal, but we ain’t talking about that- and wear on the many nights that you stayed over. “My favourite.”

“Yeah,” Stiles let out the lightest of laughs as he scratched the back of his neck, making his way over to the drawers again to pick out clothes for himself. “I thought you’d like it. It’s been awhile since you’ve worn one of my shirts or hoodies.”

There it was, the guilt of your actions setting in. Your fingers subconsciously curled tighter round the fabric as you stripped off your clothing, leaving them in a damp bundle on the carpet floor before you slipped the bigger item of clothing on your body that reached just below your thighs.

It didn’t take long for the tiredness to catch up on you both, Stiles being the one to suggest that you two hit the hay after he witnessed you letting out a big yawn. He was quick to leap onto his bed, his eyes appearing to be excited until he saw you made no move to climb in next to you. “Everything okay, babe?”

“Yeah. It’s just, I think I’m just gonna,” you shifted on the balls of your feet, an awkward feeling igniting as you gestured over your shoulder to the boy’s desk chair. “I think I’m just gonna crash on the chair tonight.”

Stiles laughed at first, thinking it to be some weird joke. You always shared a bed, even before dating. It wasn’t weird or out of the ordinary for you two, so why you were so hesitant now only fueled his concern. “You’re serious? But we always sleep in my bed.”

“I actually think I’m coming down with something from that rain.” You lied, going as far as to fake a sniffle as you waved it off. “I don’t want to get you sick, it’s fine.”

“You think I care about getting sick?” Stiles smiled, his eyes watching as you stubbornly planted yourself on his desk chair and shifted to remain comfy. “Come on, (Y/N), lay with me.”

“I can’t, Stiles.” You shook your head, nuzzling your head in the leather material that differed far from the comfortable pillow you were used to. “Goodnight.” You hoped that would somehow cut things off, your mind left to wonder just how torturous tonight will be.

A small ‘oomph’ left you when a soft material collided with the back of your head. Whipping round, you now had one of Stiles’ pillows resting on your lap. You were about to shoot the boy a look, but Stiles had already beat you to it. “Stop. No takebacks. Take the damn pillow.”

With the boy across from you beginning to settle down for the night once more, you chose to try and get some rest yourself as you tightly stuffed the pillow into the comforts of your arms. It took awhile for you to find a comfortable position in the chair, but eventually, you managed a decent spot. The feeling of warmth surging and clawing like a monster in your chest was still there, but you tried to shake it off.

It would go away, right? The night would fall and you would get some rest, leaving all your problems even if it was for only a moment . . . oh how wrong you were.

The feeling grew like a fungus, spreading to every inch and crevice of your body until it felt like a fire was starting from within your body and would not die out until it got what it wanted. The smell of your boyfriend’s shirt and pillow just underneath your nostrils didn’t help either, your enhanced smell making the scent stronger and unable to ignore.

The clatter of palms slamming on his desk so suddenly gained the awake Stiles Stilinski’s attention, sitting up on his elbows as he watched your breathing pattern grow ragged. “(Y/N)?” He asked slowly, seeing your body tense.

“I-I’m fine.” You grunted out, your eyes hurting from how much you were scrunching them up to hold back. You knew this was a bad idea. You shouldn’t have entered the house. “J-Just stay back and give me a minute, Stiles.”

“Are you sure? Babe, you don’t seem to look so good. Why don’t you come into bed with-”

“Its fine just give me a minute, Stiles!” A sudden outburst of loud anger mixed with panic flooded through when you heard his soft movements of getting out of bed behind you. You held out a hand in warning, vaguely shaking your head. “Just don’t come any closer . . . please.”

Thankfully, the boy seemed to listen as you didn’t hear him move any closer. Unfortunately, he didn’t silence himself as you heard his voice softly flow over to you. “Why are you acting like this around me?” His voice was in the early stages of breaking, your head lifting up but not yet facing him at the tone. “Why? Why are we like this now? Is it something I did? Is it my fault?”

“No.” Things were taking a bad turn and you were scared. The feeling was clawing harder and harder, and you didn’t know if you could fight it anymore. Scott was right, it was only getting worse the more you trapped it deep inside. “No, it’s not you, Stiles. You did nothing.”

“Then why do you push me away?” There it was; the break in the voice. God, it felt like your heart had been given an abrupt tug when you heard the sound. “Why do you act so weird around me now, as if you’re scared to be around me? Is it the bite? Because, if this is about you being a werewolf then, (Y/N), I couldn’t care less what you are. I just want us back.”

“It’s more than that, Stiles.” You shook your head, letting out your first noise of pain of the night. You didn’t know how long you could fight this and if you even could anymore. Your body was being pushed to its ultimate limits, and the walls were crumbling fast.

“Then tell me! Tell me so I can help you, (Y/N). You’re breaking my heart by seeing you like this. All I want is to just take you in my arms and help you forget all your problems like you do with me, yet you refuse. Why?” He’s almost pleading with you now, pleading with you to let him in; to allow him to understand.

“Because I don’t have control with you, Stiles!” There it was. The icebreaker that felt like someone had popped a ballon swelling up in your chest with a needle. You fell back against the chair, tears beginning to build as you hugged the pillow closer to your chest and clung onto it as if you were hugging someone. “I-I can’t be around you because . . . because I can’t control myself from going into heat and wanting to . . . wanting to,” you trialed off, your words becoming softer as you felt the tears blur your vision.

“Wanting to what?” Stiles’ tone didn’t give you any hint as to how or what he was feeling after your words, so you didn’t know if that helped or made it harder as you answered.

“T-To mark you, Stiles. To mark you . . . as my official mate.” Silence settled across the room, the tension metaphorically suffocating you with the words now loose in the air. I shouldn’t have said anything. You thought, closing your eyes as the feeling died down until it became a tiny flicker of light compared to the fire it had been beforehand.

“W-What?” There was a slight tone of emotion to his voice how. Surprise? Fear? Anxiety? Excitement? It was hard to tell with the way your mind was unable to focus. “I’m . . . I’m your mate?”

There was no point taking back what had already been given. With the tears now fading into nothing but salty wet lines on your cheeks, you turned your back to the boy and hugged the pillow to your chest once more as if you were hugging him. You didn’t give into the need to look, because you knew looking would only make it all the more difficult to forgive yourself for ruining one of the few normal things you had going on in your life.

Deep down, you knew no one was to blame but yourself. You could pin the blame on any of your friends as much as you wanted, but they weren’t the ones who had made your mistakes. They weren’t the ones to have locked the truth up for so long that it caused them physical pain and in the end quite possibly made things worse.

“You know,” Stiles’ voice was like the sun coming through the clouds as it made something in your chest- butterflies?- feel lighter than it had been seconds before. “I read that when you cuddle a pillow you’re missing human affection, so maybe you can cuddle me?”

You feared you may have received whiplash with how swiftly you spun yourself around to witness the sight of Stiles smiling- adoringly, for that matter- as he lifted up the covers of his bed, patting the spot next to him welcomingly.

That was when- for the first time in this situation- your feet called the shots. It rose you from the chair slowly, allowing you to collect the plump pillow before it carried you forwards in tentative steps; stopping only when you were now right in front of the Stilinski boy.

Stiles looked up at you and- even with the moonlight being the only light source provided- gave you a look that made you melt. It was the look that you had received before the rise of your relationship. It was the look that calmed all the waves that damaged you through life.

It was a look that made you forget about all your problems . . . and that nothing supernatural related could hurt you.

Gingerly, The Stilinski boy’s hand tangled with yours as he pulled you down gently until you rolled to be placed on top of his chest. From, there, his hands hugged around your waist; trapping you there so your eyes were forced to meet.

“I thought it was impossible for a werewolf and human to be mates.” Was all that came out of his cupid-shaped lips, his nose coming up to nuzzle and brush cutely against yours.

You hummed in a form of happiness at the action, your fingers crawling up to tangle and play with the messy brown hair of the boy. “No, it’s not impossible- just rare. You have to be born human to have one.”

“How long have you known?” Stiles pulled away from you ever so slightly, his thumb drawing patterns as the hoodie you were wearing rode up ever so slightly, exposing your skin.

“Since my birthday.” You honestly answered, seeing your boyfriend tilt his head in the cutest manner. “It was when the pack surprised me, you were in the kitchen, so you missed the cue . . . but when you walked out to greet me . . . I knew.”

Stiles’ lips quirked up softly, edging closer so his lips brushed lightly over yours. “You knew?”

“Well, not until Scott properly explained it, but I remember the feeling of just wanting to be with you, celebrate with you, laugh with you, cry with you. I just- I wanted our relationship, Stiles.”

Two fingers came under your chin, Stiles’ eyes glinting with a prideful joy at your confession. The look made your stomach heat up, but, this time, it was different. It didn’t cause you pain. In fact, it just caused you to feel one thing . . . and that was a deep lust.

“You didn’t have to want our relationship, baby.” Stiles mumbled after clashing his lips onto yours, pulling away as the sound of lips disconnecting sounded through the bedroom. “Not when you already have it and every peice of me. Well, every piece . . . except one.”

Thud. Your heartbeat rises dramatically, causing you to sit back from the position you were currently in which was lying down on his chest. “Stiles . . . are you,” you trailed off, unsure of what your gut was telling you.

“I am.” Stiles Stilinski answered back as soon as the question was fired, his gaze too becoming almost needy as his amber eyes scanned you over before he met your eyes once more. “I want this, (Y/N).”

“But-But what if-” Regardless of the reduced pain, you still had your doubts. What if you went too far? What if things got bad and you could no longer stand on the fine line of human and werewolf? What if-

“Hey,” gentle hands held yours, squeezing one time with a thumb swipe over the knuckle as your breathing hitched at what it meant to you both. When things got more serious and, well, passionate between you both, the pair of you opted for hand signs. One squeeze with a swipe over the knuckle meant that they were okay, they weren’t harmed or scared to take things further with whatever they were trying. They were okay with what was happening, and they wanted it to happen. “You’re not gonna hurt me, okay? Remember that.”

Unable to grasp at formidable words, your lips did all the talking for you. Launching forwards, you captured his lips in yours. A short hum of pleasure escaped him, his hand beginning to travel to the bottom of the hoodie to slide it up. You smirked. “I love you, Stiles Stilinski. So much. I’m sorry.”

The Stilinski cupped your cheek and admired you as if you were the all the stars in a boring galaxy, his legs tangled with yours in an act to become closer. “Don’t be sorry, baby.” He whispered comfortingly, feeling you lean into his touch. “I love you so much, (Y/N), no matter what.”

You grinned at him. “Even if I haven’t seen the last Star Wars movie?”

“It’s a god damn miracle I haven’t left your ass for that and if you don’t mark me as yours forever right now, there’s gonna be trouble!” Stiles exasperated, only quieting down when you silenced him with a lustful kiss.

“You don’t need to ask me twice, Sti.” You laughed at the way his face beamed at the nickname you hadn’t used for him in weeks, the sight allowing you the comforting, cushioned thought that even after all these months; nothing had changed. You were still (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and Stiles Stilinski . . . the only change would be that Stiles would now have a permanent mark on his neck on display for everyone to see.

Stiles Stilinski was a sight for sore eyes, and there was no doubt you were absolutely mesmerized by everything about him. You had no control, yet- as you laid later on in the night not only in the comforts of the bed you had been missing for weeks on end, but also the pair of arms that felt like a sweet home to run to when things got tough that could now be given the label of your mate- you were learning to accept.

Little by little, you were learning to accept that you and Stiles could still be the couple you had thought to have vanished the minute the wolf fangs pierced your dying skin. You were learning that you had always been you- werewolf or not . . . and it took a loving Stiles and one hell of a mating problem to realise that.

━ 𝐑 𝐎 𝐒 𝐂 𝐎 𝐄 𝐎 𝐁 𝐑 𝐈 𝐄 𝐍

[nafeary]

Cheating!MC Headcanon with Leonardo Da Vinci

⚬ Pairing: Leonardo Da Vinci/Reader

⚬ Characters: Leonardo, Comte; mentions of Arthur and Theo

⚬ Warnings: Intoxication

✧✎ A/N: First and foremost, I DO NOT condone infidelity. It’s vile, revolting, and can absolutely destroy a person’s entire life.

I chose to focus on the prospect of cultural differences they could have, especially considering our very casual dating standards nowadays (a lot of people don’t see sex as a very serious thing, do they?). Thus, MC isn’t cheating per se, but someone from the 16th century (aka Leo) might just perceive it as that.

I got the idea from our lovely @teatimemols, and she allowed me to use it for a headcanon. Thank you sweets (and make sure to drink water, everyone)!

You had kissed him... which wasn’t unexpected, considering the hungry glances you’d often exchange with him

You had embraced him, just as he had enbosomed you. Whispering sweet nothings in your ear as he mumbled how absolutely adorable you were.

And you had smiled at him. That smile, acting as the final culprit in the heist to capture his heart

Unaware of the courting standards you were used to, he determined it would be for the best to simply go with the flow

From what he had picked up from both you and Sebastian, women in your time had finally been allowed the rights they were entitled to (feminism they had called it)

He could only assume that his confident cara mia would sort things out

Which might have been a mistake... as he watched you accompany Arthur and Theodorus on their late night bar trips, only to return late at night with obvious signs of intimate activity, the Renaissance man felt his entire demenour shift

Were kisses in your time meaningless, the amalgamation of breaths unimportant to the heart?

Distance grew between the two of you, and his heart yearned in painful pleas; on the other hand, his muscles contracted at the thought of strangers’ hands working themselves under your skirt, unwrapping your layers

The last straw for him was the golden hair he noticed adorning your garments, the familiar scent of musk he knew ‘Comte’ to favour assaulting his nose when he stood close to you

Unbeknownst to him, you had initially thought of your... engagement with the polymath as nothing more than a fling. And yet, you couldn’t help your heart from falling for his charms, but you were reluctant to open your heart to him. After all, you had your own time to return to. Nothing good could result were you to act on your fantasies.

You were aware of him having discovered you multiple times on your late night escapees with Arthur and Theo, deciding to assay the author’s method of forgetting troubles

Aka, indulging in brothels as a distraction from your heart’s desire to be close to the Italian

And one evening, you committed a rather grave mistake— no, you couldn’t call it that under the booze’s influence. You had, after all, enjoyed the illusion the alcohol has painted

After a particularly busy night, you had returned to the manor alone, drunken stupor rendering you almost incapable of proper action

Le Comte, ever the gentleman, discovered your situation and chose to carry you to your room, assisting you with changing your grimy clothes (and closing his eyes when it required, we stan a respectful man)

Just as he was about to leave, you had caught him by surprise as he conceived Leonardo’s name leaving your lips in a tired mumble, pulling his arm rather roughly to crash your mouth atop his own

He had left after wishing the girl bonne nuit (as she had passed out the moment she had kissed him), smiling at the prospect of... supporting a relationship including two of his favourite friends

Alas, le Comte has an idea that might just aid the coping methods his guest had chosen... and his old friend’s worsening mood

“Cara mia,” the deep voice of your dream’s protagonist resonated outside your door the next morning. “Are you awake? ‘Comte’ told me you you were feeling unwell and asked me to bring you breakfast.”

At the mention of le Comte, your brain had to do a double take; you suddenly remembered the events of the previous night. The host of the mansion had found you in a probably more than likely disgusting state— and you had the nerve to kiss him

In your defense, you thought it was Leonardo; but considering the fact that they’ve been hinting at having been lifelong friends, you weren’t confident that you could bare to face any of them ever again

Nonetheless, you invited him inside

After you were done with your breakfast, you gazed at Leonardo dozing away on your carpet, just about to voice your confusion as to why he was still in your room, when he stood up and said, “I should be honest with you. The main reason I came was because ‘Comte’ told me something rather interesting.”

You could only gulp as he came to stand in front of your bed, kicking of his shoes. “You kissed him, in quite the rowdy manner from what he told me.”

You were remembered of you slip up once again, and you could only mutter in defeat, “I was drunk and confused, Leonardo.”

By now, ants were crawling up your legs as he lay down beside you, tickling your ear as he nuzzled it. “Am I not good enough for you?”

“Pardon?”

“You kiss me, yet you indulge in other mans’ arms.” All tranquility strained from the scientist’s orbs, and you could only lift your eyebrows in annoyance. “You make it sound like I cheated on you. Whoever I spent the night with is none of your concern.”

“So you are allowed to be a constant resident of my mind.” He trapped you with his arms, appearing to me ignorant to your growing exasperation. “Don’t you consider that to be—“

Enough was enough

You strongly pushed at his shoulders, rushing to stand up as you glared at him lying on your bed like a goddamn male Venus

“Leonardo. Please listen to me for a moment.” Seeing him nod, you proceeded. “Yes, I did kiss le Comte. Yes, I was spending the night with strangers. And yes, I did kiss you. However, you have absolutely no right to lecture me on these actions. We aren’t together, you didn’t ask me out, and I can kiss whoever I want to.”

You exuded calm anger with your crossed arms and stern gaze, but his utterly confounded face wavered your resolve... he almost looked like he had no inkling as to why you were so upset with him

Well, at least until realisation fell across his expression the way it was wonted to whenever he figured something out.

“I’m sorry, cara mia,” he said, sitting up in a more dignified position, “I was unaware that these are the type of courting standards you have grown up with.”

Courting... standards...

God are you stupid. You hastily replied with an apology from your own side, embarrassment blazing across your cheeks at the prospect of almost forgetting the fact that you were indeed in the 19th century and talking to Leonardo fucking da Vinci, when courting standards were so much more self explanatory and determined by matchmakers

You sat beside him as you elaborated the procedures you were used to, fiddling your thumbs at the scene: a world renowned artist, your... crush, perched on your bed and listening to you discussing 21st Century Dating for Dummies

The hushed breathing of the man was the only thing occupying the room, and you couldn’t help but hyper focus on the disparity of your own erratic puffs

Perhaps, despite your flakiness, you still had this wish, hidden deep within your mind, that you could still have a chance with Leonardo. And— you couldn’t help but sigh as the reality of it crashed upon you

You two were way too different, after all. Different time, different manners, different everything

“I have another question,” the smoky voice of the polymath whispered, the pleasant scent of cigarillos dancing beneath your nostrils, “How you do you conduct this... asking out, cara mia?”

You whirled around to meet his chiseled face, speechless at his inquiry. Surely, he couldn’t still want to? “Well, you... you ask the person whether they’d like to go on a date with you... and then, if the date went well, you could ask if I’d— that person would like to start a relationship with you.”

“I?” He smirked at your blunder, mirth pulling at his cheeks. “If you wanted to ask me out, you could have just done so earlier.”

Heat waltzed across your cheeks as you tried to stay composed, but you only managed to hang your head in defeat.

“Are you free after your chores today? I’d love to show you an invention I’ve been working on.”

Lifting your head ever so slightly, you muttered, aware if he were to deny your question that you wouldn’t lose any more dignity, “It’s a date?”

“It’s a date.” And the most beguiling smile encountered your own

I hope this was kind of what you imagined? They were going to be shorter (and including more characters), but I’ve wanted to explain the situation properly, ya know?

Anyway, have a nice day everyone!

[wonderofasunrise]

About a Long Night

A/N: Naturally, I’ve been writing some ER fics on my own, and I managed to actually finish one yesterday. After a few tweaks here and there, I thought I’d post it here because...why not?

Inspired by @bwayfan25​, whose brilliant ER fics on AO3 made me real hot for Susan/Kerry and prompted me to start writing fanfiction again. Among other things, it’s a great exercise and wonderful way to relax.

Hope you enjoy, and fingers crossed I can share some more writing stuff here in the future. Reviews/ideas are welcome!

Disclaimer: These characters are, sadly, not mine. But a girl can dream, can’t she?

Featuring an excerpt from the song “Lost” by Dermot Kennedy, who I’ve been listening to a lot lately.

-----

For fear of moments stolen I don’t wanna say goodnight But I’ll still see you in the morning Still know your heart and still know both your eyes

***

“How long have you been awake?”

Kerry starts to rub her eyes, unable to contain her mild annoyance upon realising that the person whom she shares her bed with has been watching her sleep. Their room is dark with only a faint ray of light barely piercing through the window, but even without her glasses on she can easily recognise the pair of big green eyes staring at her, along with the smile that accompanies them.

“Long enough,” Susan smirks.

She is lying on her side, her head propped up on one of her hands—her favourite position every time she gets a chance to watch Kerry in slumber. Susan makes it no secret to Kerry that she finds the sight of her lover sleeping comforting, to which Kerry, in her typical defensive way, first responded by accusing Susan of wanting to see her at the most vulnerable.

Over time, however, Kerry has gotten used to it, to the point that there is nothing she looks forward to more than seeing Susan’s bright eyes and smile first thing in the morning—when their schedules allow them to spend the morning together, that is.

“You’re on at seven in the morning, Dr Lewis. Don’t push your luck,” Kerry tries (and fails) to emulate her Chief of Emergency Medicine voice, which comes as no surprise seeing that she has one of her eyes closed and her body relaxed against the comfort of her queen-size bed. Susan confirms it by sticking her tongue out in response.

“I’m not Dr Lewis,” she says in a mocking tone. “And neither are you Dr Weaver. We’re not in the ER, we’re home, and we’re just...us. Is my irresistible charm not enough to remind you?”

“Susan,” Kerry groans, her annoyance growing ever so slightly by the second. “You and I both know we need all the rest we can take. I had a long day, which I’m sure you’ve heard about, and chances are you’ll have one yourself in a few hours. Come on.”

But Susan is undeterred, and instead she gently pulls Kerry into an embrace and lets her head rest against her pillow, moving closer to ensure that their heads meet. Kerry can now feel Susan breathing against her skin, Susan’s hand wrapped around her body with only the fabric of her pajama top between their skins. Kerry half-expects Susan to kiss her neck and cause her to blush in the process, but instead Susan just rests her head against Kerry’s shoulder while inhaling the familiar scent of the latter before letting out a sigh.

“Do you know why I like watching you sleep very much?” Susan murmurs, her tone suddenly serious. “And it’s not because I like to prey on you when you’re vulnerable, although you gotta admit that would be pretty hot.”

“Because you get off on getting on my nerves,” Kerry states matter-of-factly. Both of her eyes are now closed, as if it somehow would convince Susan that they really should be sleeping instead of talking, but Kerry knows better and mentally prepares herself for a witty response.

“I’d rather get off on your other things, thank you very much. But seriously,” Susan retorts, “do you have any idea how different you look when you sleep? How...peaceful and relaxed you are? I swear sometimes I see you smirk in your sleep, and we both know that’s not something anyone would expect to see from you in public.”

“I’m not sure I have any idea as to how I look in my sleep, and I don’t think I’d want to know,” Kerry deadpans.

“You’re—you’re just you,” Susan happily ignores the remark. “You’re not an ER doctor, you’re not the Chief of Emergency Medicine, you’re just human—which I’m sure you’re aware that some people find debatable.”

Kerry is about to challenge that, but at this point she is just too tired and there is no way she can shut Susan up anyway, so she might as well let her be. All the while, Kerry lets her hand rest on top of Susan’s, her fingernails giving it a gentle scratch.

“I get worried sometimes, you know. That you don’t loosen up enough, that you’re content with people hating you and talking shit about you behind your back, because you deserve better than that. I think the world can do with knowing that you do have a heart, and not just in front of patients,” Susan muses, feeling Kerry squeezing her hand tighter now with each word.

“But then I feel lucky too, knowing your gentle side is reserved to those who deserve it. And you trust me enough to be one of those people. Heck, I’m the only person who gets to see you in pajamas and how cute you are when you’re cranky before having a cup of coffee in the morning.”

No longer feeling the urge to sleep, Kerry’s eyes are now wide open, staring at Susan’s as the latter shows no sign of ceasing her chatter. In turn, Susan, satisfied that she now has Kerry’s full attention, brings Kerry’s hand close to her face and places a soft kiss on it.

“When I—when we had our first date,” Susan continues, her smile growing even more at the word, “I remember you were getting tipsy after only one glass of wine, and you laughed so hard at something I said. I don’t even think it was that funny, but you laughed anyway and I just sat there, amazed. I never saw you laugh like that before. Granted, you had alcohol in your system, but the fact that you didn’t even try to conceal it said it all.”

Kerry chuckles as she recalls their first (proper) date, in which she inadvertently revealed to Susan that she was a lightweight, and she was surprised that she did not make any effort to conceal that. She was drinking and doing silly things as a result, but not once did she feel embarrassed. If anything, she was relieved that she could let herself loose up in front of someone she trusted completely, and she was beyond grateful that that someone was Susan.

There were no concerns about the possibility of being recognised by someone, nor were there misgivings about going public with their relationship—which Kerry normally has, ever since she started coming to terms with her sexuality. There were just the two of them, and the realisation that their feelings were manifesting into something more.

“It’s moments like that, and when you’re asleep that always remind me how lucky I am to see the real you. Sometimes I feel like keeping myself awake—even after pulling a double—simply because I don’t want to miss these moments when you’re just yourself. Because I want to always remember...how fortunate I am to be the one seeing you like this.” Susan can barely contain herself now, tears flowing down her face freely. She has to let it all out now, having expressed how privileged she feels to be with Kerry, to be the only one who witnesses her affectionate and loving side on a daily basis. To be the object of the said affection.

“Susan—baby, you’re crying,” Kerry raises her hand to wipe the tears away while sporting a concerned look. Susan, as if trying to tell Kerry to stop being concerned for nothing, laughs between her tears instead.

“I’m happy,” Susan takes a deep breath. “I—I never thought I’d say this, least of all when we first met, but I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time, and it’s all because of you.”

In many ways, as Kerry has learned, Susan is a fairly straightforward individual who only says what she means and means what she says, and coming from her those words feel like music to Kerry’s ears.

Unable to respond, having been rendered speechless at Susan’s sincerity and the way she expresses her feelings so candidly, Kerry simply kisses her on the lips, which Susan happily (and still tearfully) reciprocates.

“Me too,” Kerry says in a low tone that almost sounds like a whisper. “I’m the happiest I’ve been in years. With you.”

For a few minutes the two women stay silent—save for the soft sounds of Kerry’s breathing and Susan’s occasional sobs—as they lie still in bed, engulfed by the warmth of each other’s embrace. Time must have stopped for both of them, as for a time it feels like the stillness and warmth will never fade. As strange as this might sound, this is how Kerry always feels whenever she is with Susan: that the world around them stops as if conspiring to let the two be without anything in the way. There is no work, no hospital, nothing except Susan in front of her with her arms around her smaller body, and she knows Susan feels that way too.

“You know what will make me even happier?” Kerry smirks, and there is no mistaking the hint of mischief in her voice. “If you’ll get some rest, because God knows we really need it. And you know you don’t need to worry about missing any moment—I’m off tomorrow morning, and I’ll be right here when you wake up. First thing you see.”

Susan chuckles, pulling Kerry tighter into her embrace. She feels silly for admitting that she is worried about missing her favourite moments with Kerry, but she figures she can indulge herself in silliness once in a while. She is, after all, a woman in love.

“I love you,” Susan mumbles, her lips caressing Kerry’s shoulder blade. She has said this numerous times, and each time she knows that she always means it, and that it never gets lost on Kerry.

“I love you too,” Kerry kisses the top of Susan’s head and smiles at the sensation of Susan’s hair tickling her face. Similarly, each time she says the words she always ensures her sincerity comes across, which Susan never doubts.

Soon enough, the two fall asleep with their arms wrapped around each other, and again it feels almost as if everything around them stopped. There are just the two of them, sleeping peacefully without any care to anything or anyone else, and they know it is what they deserve.

All worries fading slowly, serenity begins to envelop Susan with the knowledge that she will see and hold Kerry first thing in the morning, all in a way that only Susan is privileged to witness, and that is enough for her to take on the world.

[mordoriscalling]

Life (of) Surprise (5/6)

Jaskier lies to his family about being engaged to Geralt for the second time… and there are way too many surprises involved.

Part 4 of the Singer and the Sailor AU that no one asked for but I wrote anyway (again).

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4)

V - A Surprise Is Executed

Jaskier is so very in love as his niece sits in his lap.

Zofia couldn’t be more perfect. She’s so curious about everything, so cheerful and full of awe, like a tiny, beautiful sunbeam. From her father Nasir, she got her eyes almost as dark as coal, her medium-brown skin and her raven-black hair, while she resembles her mother – Jaskier’s sister Amelia – in angelic facial features and a mop of curls atop her head. She turns one-year-old tomorrow, which funnily falls on his and Geralt’s wedding day, and Jaskier couldn’t love her more.

With immense fascination, Zofia plays with Jaskier’s necklaces, tugging at them and trying to put them into her mouth. When Jaskier tells her not to do that, she looks up at him, seemingly surprised to find him there, but then recognition dawns on her face and she smiles.

“Unca!” she exclaims excitedly.

Jaskier melts.

“That’s me, Zosia,” he replies, his voice wavering. “I’m your uncle Jaskier.”

Zofia flashes him one more smile before her attention is caught by the floral pattern of his shirt. She grabs at the material and he giggles, explaining the names of the flowers to her. The girl tries to repeat some of the words he says, failing hilariously. As Jaskier laughs at her attempts, he hears another person chuckling too.

It’s only then that he realises that Yennefer has been here with them the whole time.

They are sitting in the comfortable armchairs in the music room in his house. Amelia has gone out shopping together with Rozalia, Ciri and Dara, leaving her daughter in Jaskier and Yennefer’s care. Not that Jaskier cannot be trusted with small children by himself. Yennefer is just a... coincidental backup. She only came here to drop Ciri off so that she would hang out with Dara. Really.

As Jaskier tears his eyes away from Zofia, he’s surprised to find Yennefer gazing at him and his niece... wistfully. The emotion is gone the moment she notices him looking.

“We didn’t get to meet Ciri when she was this little,” she says defensively.

“Would you like to hold her, then?” he offers.

Yennefer’s gaze turns sharp, lightning-like, but before Jaskier can start rambling and take it back, she answers, “Yes.”

He takes Zofia into his arms and carries her to put her in Yennefer’s lap. The girl fusses and begins crying, scared by the closeness of a person she doesn’t recognise. Jaskier crouches at Yennefer’s side and tries to talk to Zofia soothingly. When that doesn't work, he shows her his necklaces and this, at least, distracts her enough to stop her weeping.

When Zofia calms somewhat, Yennefer puts her hand on the girl’s back. Zofia looks up at her and Yennefer smiles so warmly, so beautifully, that Jaskier’s heart flutters a little bit. She talks to Jaskier’s niece in such a soft, gentle voice that Jaskier just sits down right there at her feet and watches her, stunned.

“You’re a sweet child, aren’t you, little Zosia?” Yennefer croons, still smiling, when Zofia touches her locks with a delighted giggle.  

“My, my,” Jaskier murmurs, with a certain degree of awe he finds himself unable to conceal, “When one bears witness to you like this, it is not a hardship to believe that you have a heart.”

Yennefer snorts. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she replies, not looking away from Zofia.

“Of course!” he laments. “Her affections are held by but the chosen few and alas, I’m not among them. With me, she knows no mercy! Woe me, for she swore to strike me with a near-fatal blow. After all, she’s stolen the heart of my very own guardian angel!”

What he means is Yennefer’s recent relationship with his long-time agent, Triss. Yennefer doesn’t show an ounce of shame about that.

“If you think that everyone’s thoughts revolve around you,” she answers, allowing Zofia to play with the rings on her fingers, “Then I’m slightly concerned for your mental well-being, starlet.”

“Concerned, she says!” Jaskier exclaims. “You wouldn’t be concerned about me even if I were on the brink of death. Such is my miserable fate, despised by the world’s most powerful woman!”

Yennefer sighs in a way painfully long-suffering. “Your dramatics are exhausting, starlet, and I refuse to suffer them. Leave it for tomorrow.”

It is then that it hits him.

“Oh my god,” Jaskier breathes out. “I’m marrying Geralt tomorrow.”

Yennefer gives a very Geralt-like hmm. “Who would’ve thought.”

“Oh c’mon,” he protests, “I’m quite a catch!”

She raises one perfect eyebrow. “It baffles me that some people seem to think so, and Geralt most of all.”

“You’re just bitter, witch,” Jaskier grumbles.

Yennefer actually chuckles at that, her violet eyes glimmering with amusement. Zofia gets bored of sitting in her lap and tries to get off, so Yennefer puts her on the floor. The girl reaches out for Jaskier. He takes her little hands in his, helping her stand up. They make a slow round around the room until Zofia decides to head back to the armchairs, sit on the carpet and play with one of Jaskier’s Gucci slippers.

All throughout, Yennefer watches her with that gorgeous, affectionate smile. Jaskier can see why Geralt was mad about her.

“You two are a very unlikely pair,” Yennefer remarks when Zofia crawls to her and inspects her shoes.

“Yes, well.” He shrugs. “Opposites attract, and all that. I like to think that we’re two puzzle pieces. A perfect fit.”

“Puzzle pieces!” she repeats, barking a harsh laugh. “Oh, starlet, if only it was this easy.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he bristles.

“Don’t be foolish,” she chides. “A real relationship starts after three years. Before that, it’s just a romantic comedy.”

Jaskier purses his lips but doesn’t argue; she did spend almost a decade married to Geralt.

“Any advice, then?” he asks jokingly.

Yennefer actually considers it.

“Always be kind to each other,” she tells him, her face twisting with echoes of old, deep pain.

Jaskier only nods. They don’t speak for some time, focusing on Zofia. The girl starts getting moody after not seeing her mum around for such a long while. It’s a miracle she hasn’t got upset much earlier anyway. Thankfully, Amelia and the rest return a few minutes later.

“I think you haven’t shown us the wedding rings,” Yennefer says apropos of nothing after she returns Zofia to the safety of Amelia’s arms.

Jaskier blinks in surprise, realising that she’s right. He and Geralt had them made only two weeks ago. They decided on two silver bands, as gold felt too impersonal, both with a satin finish, Jaskier’s ring additionally encrusted with diamonds. Since Geralt entrusted them to him for safekeeping (and possibly also because Dara is their ring bearer anyway), Jaskier’s been, delicately put, protective of them. He only allowed anyone to see them in pictures.

“I haven’t, actually,” he admits. “Do you want to see them?”

Everyone nods. Reluctantly, Jaskier heads to his bedroom, where the box with the rings is hidden deep in a drawer of his bedside table. He’s more than certain to find them there. His heart stops when he discovers that they’ve somehow disappeared.

Gut-twisting panic rises within him. With shaking hands, Jaskier rakes all the drawers, then looks everywhere in the bedroom, but the box is gone.

“Fuck,” he curses with feeling. “Fuck, fuck fuckitty fuck!”

He more or less runs to the kitchen, where the rest waits.

“I’ve lost them!” he cries. “Help me look!”

Without another look at them, Jaskier goes about rummaging through the whole place frantically. Living room, the two guest rooms, the bathrooms – and still, nothing. He whimpers, wondering how’s Geralt going to react. He’s going to be disappointed, of course, but not surprised maybe, Jaskier did fuck up greatly once already. God, what if –

“Jaskier!” Ciri calls from the living room.

“They’re here!” Dara.

Jaskier rushes to them and sees the rings, resting in their box, on the coffee table, which baffles him so much that he stops dead in his tracks. He’s sure they weren’t there when he searched the room a few minutes ago.

“What,” he says, “the f – hell.”

Dara giggles. Ciri does too. Suddenly, everyone else is in the room, laughing hysterically.

“What’s so funny?” Jaskier demands. “This isn’t funny!”

Between one wheeze and another, Rozalia chokes out, “Of course you haven’t lost them!”

“You guard them like a dragon guards its hoard!” Amelia adds. “It wasn’t easy to take them away from you.”

Letting out a scandalised gasp, Jaskier points an accusing finger in the general direction of his sisters and Yennefer. “You – !”

“Your panic was extremely gratifying,” Yennefer says with a shit-eating grin.

“I hate you,” he grouses, shooting the three devious women a sulky look. “Why would you do that to me?! It wasn’t funny!”

“It was,” Dara objects. Ciri nods in agreement.

“Not you too!” Jaskier complains, throwing his hands up in the air. “You’re supposed to be on my side, young man! I’m surrounded by trai –”

“Just look on the inside of the rings, Julek,” Roza sighs tiredly.

He frowns, taking the bands to inspect them. “There’s nothing on the inside –”

There is, in fact, something on the inside of the rings. An engraving in small, elegant cursive, which wasn't there even a few hours ago.

Lead me, dearest, to the coast of tomorrow

Jaskier swallows hard, his throat suddenly tight. It’s such a sweet sentiment – his own lyric, the words he wrote for Geralt, in Geralt’s favourite song of his, with a lovely twist.

For a good minute, Jaskier is rendered speechless. When he finally manages to speak, he looks at his sisters and whispers hoarsely, “Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank us,” Amelia replies. “This was Yen’s idea.”

Jaskier stares at Yennefer, his mouth hanging open.

“The rings were lacking,” she explains with disdain that he sees right through.

Before Jaskier knows what he’s doing, he’s moving. He sweeps her into a tight hug, ignoring her protests about it.

“Oh, witch,” he murmurs to her, “You’re so wonderful.”

“That I am,” she replies. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

He chuckles, giddy all of the sudden. Yennefer shoves him away.

Jaskier laughs harder and blows her a kiss, enjoying her disgust.

[haikyuu-scenarios-box]

Haikyuu Horrors — Week 2🔪

Demon — DemonKing!Oikawa Tooru x FallenAngel!Reader

Previous Week: Wendigo — Kuroo Tetsurou x GenderNeutral!Reader 

TW: fire, mentions of torture, religious references, blasphemy i mean seriously demon!oikawa is in love with u ofc it’s gonna be blasphemous

Word count: 2,370

UNDER THE CUT

__________

One of the many debates in Heaven was why the number of demon contracts skyrocketed as centuries passed. As [y/n] poured the hot tea from the pot into their cup, they recalled their answer - mortals were simply hollow without greed. Koushi’s healing wasn’t enough, Azumane’s protection wasn’t enough, Kiyoko’s beauty wasn’t enough and Daichi’s wisdom wasn’t enough.

But the demons... their services fully relieved whatever emotional or superficial famine mortals were undergoing. They went beyond what a mortal desired and for that, they gained their soul in exchange for temporary pleasures. [Y/n] figured that Tooru - the king that oversaw the sixth circle of Hell - was relishing in the torture he subjected those that were damned to reside in his realm for entirety. 

The tea coated [y/n]’s mildly inflamed throat with a comforting warmth. When they caught a glimpse of the woods from the front window, a bitterness akin to a melting pill on their tongue bloomed within their chest. Keiji just dropped them in the middle of nowhere and by sheer chance, [y/n] eventually found a one-room cabin that’d been abandoned for years. It had barely been a month and [y/n] was already inflated with frustration. How the fuck did mortals live like this? They felt like a goddamn farmer every time they watered the empty vegetable patch and collected leaves from a nearby tea shrub.

Their jumbled thoughts ceased once their ears began picked up on distant sprinting. [Y/n] would be lying if they said that their paranoia didn’t exponentially increase the moment they fell. After all, most of their powers had been taken, besides a small bit of their healing ability and heightened senses. No strength. No agility. No exorcism. Nothing.

At first, [y/n] dismissed the sounds as paranoia - a camper or hiker, perhaps? Despite their attempt at composing a logical justification, a bout of nausea grew within their gut and the muscles along their jaw ached with tension. The sweat that slowly sweeped from [y/n]’s pores pricked their skin as they hurriedly reached for the door, locking the four locks along it.

It couldn’t have been a human. Those sprinting footsteps were far too fast. 

It couldn’t have been an angel. They were forbidden from contacting all of them, including fallen ones.

It could only belong to a demon that donned a human body.

[Y/n]’s hands shivered with a numbing, glacial dampness. They no longer possessed defensive abilities, nor were there any weapons in the cabin that would be effective against a demon. As the sprinting got louder within their ears, a dry knot formed itself within their throat and the intensity of [y/n]’s heartbeat weighed their head down, almost sending them to the floor. They were simply frozen. There was nothing that could be done.

A great force shattered the wooden door into splinters and boards. The locks might as well had been a layer of chiffon. 

‘W-what...’ they backed away slowly, the sharpness of a spike buried within their sternum. He appeared human, but [y/n] could very clearly see his real form. ‘How... Azumane s-sealed you away, I-I don’t...’

‘I didn’t think that this form would leave you speechless,’ Tooru said with pride, flashing a charming smile, ‘I wanted to wear something nice for you.’

‘Wear something?’ [y/n] repeated with disgust, ‘You’ve possessed an innocent man!’ they yelled, riddled with spite, ‘Who is he? A father? A son? A—’

‘I’m offended that you’d accuse me of such a thing,’ Tooru feigned hurt as he approached them, ‘I made all of this’⁠—he gestured in a downwards motion to his body as he grinned—‘on my own. It took a decent amount of energy to make a form this appealing. You could at least appreciate it.’ 

‘Well that energy has gone to waste because I can already see how hideous you look underneath it,’ [y/n] scowled, ‘get out or I’ll send you back to where you belong,’ they bluffed, stretching out their right hand towards him. They wished that the archangels could hear them curse for taking away the only ability that would’ve kept them safe. 

The smirk that Tooru’s lips curled into denoted scepticism and cockiness. The last time a substantial number angels fell was eras ago when they fought alongside the Devil (which, as most knew, ended with a victory for Archangel Azumane when he managed to seal him away within the deepest layer of Hell). Despite that, Tooru didn’t forget that those angels that fell to Earth had almost entirely lost their powers.

‘Come closer and do so then,’ he beckoned, ‘or are you scared that I’ll be the one who sends you to where you should’ve fell?’

[Y/n] opened their mouth to respond, but Tooru’s strides towards them caused that sentence ceased before it even began. In the three centuries they’d been imprisoned in Tartarus, they’d almost forgotten how ugly and twisted a demon’s real form was, even more so when it was the king of a circle. It was such a sharp contrast to the human face that Tooru currently hid behind; a smokey, pitch-black void that dripped with a various shades of a deep crimson. The blurry features of a substantial number of agonised human faces littered his form, their hands either pounding or scratching. He had the skull of a horse for what would be a face and his limbs were thrice as long as that of a normal human; the decaying shreds of muscle sizzling around the cobalt traces of fire lining them. 

At the same time, though, [y/n] couldn’t deny that Tooru’s mortal form was captivating. It was mesmerising enough to render them blind to what lied beneath it. 

‘As if dumping you in the middle of rural Japan like a bag of trash wasn’t bad enough, your powers were taken away as well,’ Tooru stared right into them, ‘a bit excessive for throwing a tantrum about serving ungrateful humans, don’t you think?’ 

Long ago, prior to when [y/n] began to develop an intense loathing towards the archangels, they would’ve sent the bastard right back to Hell so that he’d go back to trapping every damned human within a flaming tomb, or whatever other punishment that the sadist came up with throughout his reign. 

Certain affirmations simply could not be forced, and this was one of them. In a way, [y/n] was starved - they always sought more control, more freedom and much more power. Tooru stole the words right out of their larynx. If Father had truly loved them equally, he would have granted every angel unimaginable power. Equality and bias were opposites and restricting such power to the Archangels was on the far end of that spectrum. The fact that all [y/n] could do was do mortals’ bidding filled them with resentment, so much to the point where they were surprised that none of the other angels sensed it. 

‘I can still feel it so clearly,’ Tooru inhaled deeply with a pleased smile, ‘that pure hatred in you,’ he said, ‘I remember it all the way back from when you fought alongside Azumane when he was trying to seal me away. You were the only being that abandoned the battle,’ his features softened, ‘and for that, you were damned.’ 

[Y/n]’s eyes and nostrils grew warm, lower lip quivering. ‘How did you break the seal?’ they muttered after a short silence, changing the topic and neglecting his earlier statement. 

‘I’m glad you asked!’ Tooru clasped his hands together, ‘All it takes is fire created by an archangel.’ 

‘W-when I fell...’ [y/n]’s heart pounded within their cranium upon realisation, ‘... the embers from Keiji’s fire...’ 

‘Correct,’ he beamed, ‘That reminds me, I should probably thank Makki and Mattsun for taking their hellhounds on regular walks. Those hounds smelled messenger boy’s fire from towns away.’ 

They merely stood there, watching Tooru walk around the cabin curiously. The entire encounter caused an harsh headache to throb along their temples. [Y/n] could sense their eyeballs slowly rolling to the back of their skull and they wanted nothing more than to lay down. 

‘This place is depressing. And I’m saying that as someone who lives in Hell,’ he remarked, his back facing them as he glanced at the patches of dust on the kitchen counter. 

‘Did you come here take me to your realm or to judge my decor?’ [y/n] sarcastically asked, overwhelmed with emotions they couldn’t even describe (divine beings were crafted to be pragmatic, not emotional). ‘If you’re planning on torturing me for intel on the archangels, let me just tell you in advance that they’re still sitting up there doing nothing.’ 

‘Torture?’ Tooru chuckled. When he turned around, [y/n] watched ebony slowly pool into his eyes, starting from his waterline and eventually blending into his pupils. The smirk he wore only amplified his unsettling aura. ‘If that was my plan, I would’ve just asked the kings of the eight circle to take care of you. Tetsurou, Bokuto and Kei would have got you talking in no time.’

The mention of those names drove a shudder to travel through every bone in [y/n]’s body. A sudden heat enveloped them, leading sweat to become a disgusting adhesive between their clothes and skin. The wooden walls snapped and crackled, whereas their lungs felt as though they were on the verge of collapsing into themselves. When their vision grew distorted with heat stronger than that of Tartarus’, [y/n] realised that it was far too late to keep stalling.

‘What I want is to propose an offer.’

With a single blink, cobalt flames erupted from the floor in the form of a dome around them. The intense heat against their skin was excruciating enough to make [y/n] howl and whimper, a first degree burn already flourishing onto their skin. The smoke compressed and stung every one of their internal organs; despite that, they refused to sink to their knees. 

‘God’s love isn’t unconditional, [y/n],’ Tooru began, walking through the wall of fire without a flinch, ‘he made me too, yet he doesn’t love me. And he certainly doesn’t love you either. Not anymore.’ 

Several wooden planks clattered to the dusty floorboard from the ceiling, a thick blackened sheen enveloping them almost immediately. [Y/n] could barely breathe, their gasps and wheezes sharp enough to bear a similarity to skewers impaling them. Yet, terror was no longer within them; merely because they were in the presence of someone who understood. As Tooru cupped [y/n]’s face and stroked their cheekbones with his thumb, the flames began to slowly dwindle into ash.

‘But me? I love you.’

‘What?’ [y/n] questioned, confused beyond measure. Demons were incapable of love - this was either lust or pure manipulation. 

‘I love you,’ Tooru repeated, an unnerving Cheshire grin drawn along his lips. ‘Without you, your rebelliousness, your disobedience, your hatred, I never would have been able to return here,’ he slightly tightened his grip on their face, ensuring that their gaze remained fixated on him, ‘Fallen angels gain great power when they’ve suffered in Hell long enough. Much greater than your father could ever give you. Return with me and suffer, and then... it’ll be yours.’ 

His fingers ran through [y/n]’s hair, brushing away stray strands off their forehead. The gesture was so tender, so human; a complete contradiction to his nature and position. They weren’t sure that angels themselves were capable of carrying out an act that delicate. 

‘I want more than that,’ [y/n] scowled, placing their hands flat against his chest. ‘I want the archangels to suffer. I want every human in Hell. I want the entire fucking earth,’ they curled their fingers into Tooru’s shirt, aggressively pulling him towards them to press their lips against his. They were infuriated by their own thoughts and transfixed by the demon in front of them; it was as though [y/n] believed acting on their blind instincts would somehow enrage the archangels. Their lids slowly sunk closed as he placed one hand at the back of their neck and the other on their lower back, tugging them even closer to his body.

‘There’s only one way to gain that kind of power,’ Tooru smirked as he pulled away, raising their head by the chin with his knuckle to stare right into their irises.

‘I know,’ [y/n] solemnly said, gently stroking his cheeks, ‘Take us home.’

__________

It would have been logical for one to assume that Hell would be even more unbearable for a being that resided in Heaven for centuries, but [y/n] was an anomaly. They stood in front of the full-length mirror, admiring their formal attire and mortal form. A while ago, Tooru had refurbished the castle entirely while [y/n] underwent the transformation. Although it’d been eras since an angel was turned into a demon, he recalled how lengthy and agonising the process was and of course, he wanted his darling to return to a home they’d adore prior to even entering.

‘Your highness,’ a voice rang from behind them, ‘we await your arrival.’ 

It wasn’t just Tooru and [y/n] that donned their mortal form today. They’d made everyone in the realm do so as well. Demons accepted their appearance, yes, but no one could deny that they were repulsive (after all, [y/n] themselves couldn’t persuade their mind to view their new self as acceptable). Neither of them wanted to stare down at their subjects in their monstrous forms from the castle’s balcony. 

When [y/n] headed towards the balcony, their groom finally came within their sight. ‘My love,’ they cooed, prompting Tooru to turn around. Hajime, his personal advisor, was already delivering a speech about the significance of the day; though [y/n] wasn’t listening, really. 

Tooru took their hands within his, kissing their knuckles with a genuine grin. 

‘The overseer of the City of Dis’—Hajime began his introduction—‘the punisher of heresy, the ruler of the sixth circle of Hell, King Tooru!’ 

Excited yells, hollers and claps erupted as Tooru left their side to appear on the balcony. He stood proudly with a captivating smile, giving a wave to the demons he ruled over. Almost everyone in the realm attended - a “short vacation”, they all called it.

‘And the angel that abandoned the battle against the sixth circle now roams it, not as a fallen angel, but as one of us!’ Hajime announced with a loud, confident voice That was [y/n]’s cue to appear.

‘King Tooru’s [bride/groom], [y/n]!’ 

The buoyant cheers grew once more as [y/n] stopped beside Tooru; yet the attendees might as well have remained completely silent, for all their focus was on him. He wrapped his arms around [y/n]’s waist as they cupped the sides of his face, tenderly placing his lips against theirs and relishing in their warmth and softness. They both currently appeared so humane; however, they knew that they shared an intense ugliness within them. 

‘We will soon dominate the Earth and the Heavens, darling,’ Tooru whispered. 

They wouldn’t have had it any other way.

[dreamcatcherjiah]

Part 6

💞Tight Hearts (Idol!Hoseok x Reader)

Plot: The red string of fate was visible when our grandparents were children. They would play around, following the strings from one person to their soulmate and laugh happily when these two people inevitably found each other. It was a reason for happiness. But little by little, people stopped seeing the threads. In bad times, it was dangerous, it was a liability, so people stopped seeing them to protect each other from harm. When I was born, nobody saw them anymore, they just felt their soulmate. Anxiety, happiness, sorrow, love, the hearts of the soulmates are one, feel the same things, but it is almost impossible to find your soulmate, now that the threads cannot be seen.

Tight Hearts Masterlist

Looking up at j-hope you wanted nothing more than to cover your mouth and for the earth to swallow you whole. Who the hell uses the first words to their soulmate to essentially tell them that, if you were screwed before meeting them because of the pain, now you were doubly so? Only you, it seemed. Thank the heavens, no one seemed to react to your unfortunate choice of words, and all of them, including Hyejin stayed silent, looking at you as if a second head had protruded from your neck. Which would be less embarrassing than your current situation. 

“What I meant to say by that… doesn’t have anything to do with you… I MEAN, yes of course it has to do with you, but more with the situation, I’m so glad I found you, the pain finally stopped, NOT that I was looking for you only to stop the pain, but it’s a good thing that it did, and you’re you, and I’m just me and oh my God the amount of people that…”

“Yeah, I think it’s better if you just zip it now,” said Seokjin, lifting an eyebrow and looking at you, puzzled. The rest of Bangtan were looking at you in more or less the same fashion, except for j-hope, who was looking at his hands as if they were some strange entity not belonging entirely to his body.

He was frowning, turning his hands over and over, and then touching his chest in that familiar location you knew so well, for it had been in that same spot where you thought your heart would leave your chest to join his. He looked, indeed, very confused, so much so that you doubted he had heard your ridiculous little speech. 

Listening to Seokjin you closed your mouth with a popping sound and, wide-eyed, allowed Namjoon to help you get up from your kneeling position on the floor. This situation was entirely crazy, and you didn’t completely ignore the possibility that you had already died back there and this was your particular kind of hell. Or heaven, considering who was surrounding you. Or a mixture of both, you really couldn’t get exquisite now. 

Once you were standing again, Hyejin by your side, everyone started talking again.

“As I was saying,” intervened Taehyung, “I don’t think it is a good idea that these two touch again… I don’t know what that was, back there, but I don’t want Jimin’s innocent eyes witnessing it.”

“While I appreciate the thought,” said a smiling Jimin, jokingly, “I really think we should move this conversation elsewhere. We are a bit secluded and hidden here, but anyone could see us.”

Jin was the next one to talk, using a tone of finality that left nothing to be said: “I say we take this to the dorms, someone call Bang PD-nim and tell him we’re heading there,” he looked at you now, “and you two are coming with us.”

“Okay then,” talked Yoongi, “seating arrangements. We have four cars and two more people to accommodate, how are we gonna do it?”

“I’m travelling alone,” Namjoon spoke, from his position next to you, still holding your elbow, “they could come with me, that way it’s less crowded and we don’t have to change anything.”

Everyone seemed to agree, and a speechless Hyejin and you were going to be taken back inside the stadium, when you felt something weird. It started as a tingling sensation travelling up your hands and arms, as if your limbs were getting numb and when it reached your ribcage, you involuntarily screamed. To your horror, you realised j-hope was leading the group of people back inside and he had gotten dismally away from you, too far for you to bear. He didn’t seem to be feeling it, as much as you were, at least, but you weren’t taking any chances. Alerted by your little yelp, it wasn’t difficult to pry your arm from Namjoon’s grasp and hurry up to get closer to your soulmate. You didn’t know what you were doing, but following your instincts proved to be the right thing to do.

As if his body was telling him, j-hope took the precaution not to touch even an inch of your skin, but he moved so that as soon as you were at arm’s length, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders. The rush of adrenaline and euphoria was still there, but not touching each other’s skin seemed to do the trick for now. Your mind was still a mess, the fog enveloping the both of you, but the good thing was that you could still think. The rest of the members were looking at you worriedly, you knew that much, concerned that the two of you would jump each other’s bones, but you still kept a tight grasp around your mind. You wouldn’t let go this time, if only for the fact that you were in close proximity to a person you didn’t know at all but whose touch had the power to render you will-less. 

Once next to the cars, Hyejin tried to pry you away from j-hope’s arms, to no avail. He tightened his hold on you, and you quickly circled your arm around his waist. You were behaving so strangely to your own eyes that you were screaming inside at the injustice of the situation. Your body moved on its own accord and you seemed perfectly content on the outside. So did the man beside you. But nothing further from the truth. On the inside, the both of you were feeling violent and uncomfortable; after all, you were strangers and this bond you happened to share was testing both your boundaries when it came to personal space and mental stability. To the people around you, it seemed as if you had fallen instantly in love, while the both of you were fighting the connection tooth and nail to remain sane.

“I’m riding with her,” spoke j-hope, his voice trembling with an effort you recognised as him trying to fight what was surely happening inside his head, “Yoongi hyung, do you mind going with Namjoon and her friend? There were going to be three people in a car anyway.”

Giving him a doubtful look, Yoongi asked him if he was sure it was a good idea. You can never be too careful, he murmured. Your soulmate, however, only muttered a “positive” and had you inside the car in seconds, closing the door behind him and leaving the rest of them to manage the seating arrangement for themselves. 

The silence in the car started turning suffocating. You didn’t know what to do with yourself and j-hope was actually so serious you nearly forgot who he was. Where was his joyful, shining smile? That smile that was as much as a trademark for him, the reason that you got up so many mornings. But, of course, you weren’t about to tell him that. The uncomfortable silence dragged on, neither of you daring to break it, for fear of making the other one uncomfortable or yourselves, neither of you knew, but it lasted and lasted and finally, the car started moving.

While he was looking out of the window at the dark sky and the bright lights emanating from the buildings, you observed, as much as your eyes allowed you in the dark of the vehicle, how shadows and lights played with his features, sometimes showing you an angry man, while others you saw a hopeful little kid or a scared young guy. All those emotions were all too familiar to you, and yet you were all too mad at yourself to empathise with him. Yeah, the pain was gone, hurray! But so was your free will as soon as he touched you and that was something you wouldn’t allow to happen again. You were your own person, with your own ideas, and it was utterly ridiculous, just the notion of turning into a trembling, drooling mess every time his skin made contact with yours, just ludicrous, laughable. 

“I don’t know your name,” j-hope voice broke you out of your thoughts, and with a start, you turned your whole body towards him, your back against the car door, trying to put as much distance between your bodies as possible without hurting. “And I don’t bite, either,” he added, seeing your defensive position and your furrowed brows.

You relaxed a little bit, noticing that your attitude had actually touched a sensitive spot for him. You could see it in his eyes, and to your surprise, your chest filled with an incredibly distracting feeling of disappointment. You soon realised those emotions didn’t belong to you, as they felt somewhat foreign, and it didn’t take a detective to match them to j-hope’s pout and sad eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you answered, moving closer to him and relaxing your shoulders, “it’s just, today has been a bit of an eventful day… My name is Y/N, by the way. And you’re j-hope.”

“Hoseok, just call me Hoseok,” he told you, a bit more relaxed himself, but still alert to your every movement, “j-hope is my stage name and it somehow doesn’t feel right. I mean, you calling me it, being my soulmate and all…”

You nodded and just with those few words many more questions swarmed your mind. Why didn’t it feel right, it was one of his names after all, half the planet called him that, and why was he still looking at you as if you were a mystery? You were the most normal and unordinary person in the world. You did consider yourself special, in some way. Back in the day, when the pain wasn’t too much, you would have been considered an outstanding dancer, and at least on that aspect, you did shine in the past. But he was looking at you as some weird mummy he found in a museum and that did not go well with you.

“Why are you so weirded out?”

His eyes widened, as if he had been caught red-handed, and in some way, he had been.

“You’re an ARMY,” he told you finally, and you started to fear the worse — we can’t be together, implying you had to go back to the pain; I don’t feel comfortable with you being a fan, which would make things certainly difficult when he discovered that on top of everything, you had always had a soft spot for him; thousands of possibilities danced around in your head, but he silenced them with his next words, “I nearly saw you die before my eyes, I don’t know you but I already know I won’t be able to live without you, maybe not in an entirely romantic way, whatever this is, is messing with my head so I don’t know one from the other. I’m also worried about how this will affect my members, how the media will take it… but what worries me the most is how utterly imbecile I become as soon as I touch you. I loose my mind, and that is driving me mad!”

He had his hands on his head, pushing his fringe back, and for the first time in the night, you could see how tired he looked. It couldn’t have been easy for him either, this night. He obviously had been feeling the same pain and discomfort for as long as you had, and his lifestyle was crazier than yours by far, the amounts of energy he must have had to muster just to look healthy-ish must have been monumental, and here you were watching the dam break. His breathing became laboured and you didn’t know what to do.

“My whole body is screaming right now to throw myself around you and comfort you, but if you’re feeling what you told me right now, which is practically what I’m feeling too, you wouldn’t want me to touch you,” you told him desperately, the effort of not acting on your instincts making you break a sweat, “so please, just tell me what you want me to do, it’s quite hard to resist.”

He turned his body towards yours and assumed your same position, leaning on the door and facing you completely. He took a couple of deep breaths and, little by little, he started to calm down. His eyes were still filled with tears, but you had an inkling that this had more to do with the effort of keeping himself away from you than with him feeling tired and frustrated.

“I’m literally vibrating with the need to touch you again,” he confessed. “My body wants me to burry my face in that spot between your shoulder and your neck and never let go,” he continued, sending a series of shivers down your spine, and you weren’t quite sure if they were provoked by the bond, or were yours and yours alone. “On the other hand, that makes me feel like a disgusting person because I know you don’t want me to touch you either, but you wouldn’t be able to push me away the second I did it.”

Looking into his eyes, you realised how grim this situation was looking for the both of you. Now that you had found each other, you couldn’t be more than a couple of feet away from the other without feeling pain. As much as this bond was making you feel repulse and regret, neither of you was willing to feel that kind of pain again. 

“We really are screwed, aren’t we?” You asked him, looking at him through your lashes, making the most pitiful expression your face was able to muster, making him laugh for the first time since you met him.

“We are, that’s sure,” he answered, drying his cheeks after his tears had escaped his eyes, this time thanks to him laughing, at least that was something, “but I think that we can both be the bigger person and accept that we both are going to have to make sacrifices.”

“For one, if I’m gonna have to spend the rest of my life with you,” you said, tentatively, not wanting to break the small truce you had managed to create, “I would like to get to know Hoseok. I know I already love Hobi, but as you said before, that’s not the true you. So, do you trust me enough, being an ARMY and all, to see the real Jung Hoseok? I don’t want my soulmate to be a stranger…”

“Do YOU trust me to get to know the real Y/N?” He deadpanned, leaving you effectively speechless. Seeing how dumbfounded that question rendered you, he continued speaking, “I trust you, not because your an ARMY, or because you weren’t. I trust you because you’re my soulmate, and I can feel what you feel. I am feeling uncertainty, and fear, but I am also feeling sincerity emanating from you in waves. If we trust the bond for something, I say it should be on this: we are equals here, Y/N. Not and idol and a fan. We are on the same level, and as your equal, I trust you and I ask the same of you. Do you feel it in you to trust me?”

Still unable to speak, you nodded your head, and felt how your throat was clogging with your own emotions. He was a person, THE person, who really understood what you were going through, and was willing to go with you all the way through. Maybe you didn’t know each other yet, but that would come eventually. Maybe you didn’t love each other, but you knew that would come too. And you also knew that he wouldn’t make you loose yourself in him. 

“Can I hold your hand?” You asked, your voice trembling, charged with emotion and your eyes brimming with tears.

“Are you sure?” He asked, looking at you for confirmation. Something as simple as the touch of your hands could send you barreling into an stupor of oblivion, but he was trusting you, trusting that you would hold onto him, as well as onto your wits, and wouldn’t give up control to the bond. Such a simple gesture filled your heart with a feeling you weren’t ready to analyse yet, and you gave it up as soon as it appeared, sure that it would come back at a time when it was welcomed, and you both were ready. So you nodded and he extended his hand forward. 

As soon as your fingertips touched, you braced yourself and prepared not to loose control when the bond threatened to take over. Euphoria filled you, but you steeled yourself and taking a deep breath, opened your eyes — that you hadn’t realised you had closed — and looked deep into Hoseok’s. You could see his struggle too and it helped keeping you from falling over the edge. After a few minutes, of both of you not letting go and looking eye to eye, something seemed to break and suddenly you didn’t need to try so hard not to succumb. Breathing unsteadily, you intertwined your fingers through Hoseok’s and smiled.

“Did you feel that too?” You both asked at the same time, and exploded into a fit of giggles. 

“This means we can work with this, we can build our resistance to each other!” You said, excited, “Maybe we can even try and spend time apart to see how long we can be without each other! Oh my God, this will make working so much easier!”

Chuckling, he used the hand he was holding to pull you closer to him and change the both of you into a more comfortable position.

“First of, it is a Saturday. No work today, Y/N. And second of all, let’s go one little thing at a time, okay? One thing at a time.”

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[mynameseri]

after party

party died downstairs, if the small gathering of your sister in law and a couple of her coworkers could be tagged as one. cake leftovers carefully stored in the fridge as you took the remaining wine to the bedroom, akutagawa happily rested on your shared bed trying to recover from the mild exhaustion social interaction brought to him; he was so lucky.

  an unknown feeling of wholeness made home in his chest since the day he met you and only grew bigger with time, as he watched you interact with gin and slowly befriend her, as he took in the effort you put in everyday to make sure he felt loved. 

the curtains danced in the careless nocturnal breeze, akutagawa breathed in the fresh air and closed his eyes feeling too much like a content feline; he unbuttoned his shirt patiently waiting for you to finish your nightly routine. more often than not he allowed you to apply some products on his face, loving the softness of your fingerprints against his face and the small pecks you’d steal every time he’d close his eyes, as if he couldn’t see you coming from a mile away.

  although he was surprised you didn’t asked tonight for this indulgence, akutagawa understood that maybe this was you giving him some space.

  “baby?” you call from the end of your bed, the mattress slightly sinking under your bent knee. you are not moving to his side so akutagawa opens his eyes to see what is holding you back; an unsure expression taints your beautiful face. lover lip between your teeth and hesitating eyes. “do you like it?”

  how dare you ask after all this time stealing his breath and speeding his heart if he liked it, you could present yourself wearing a sack of potatoes and he’d still feel weak in the knees; not that he didn’t appreciate the sight of you wearing nothing but a sensual mix of silk and lace. in fact he could already feel a very specific part of his anatomy already struggling.

  he wanted nothing but to grab you and ravish you in the most animalistic way conceived by men, yet he decided to take his time. with a swift movement he sat on the edge of the bed, your body between his legs as his hands wandered over the exposed skin of your stomach; goosebumps erupted on his cold hands wake.

  “do i like it?” akutagawa echoes the question, you nod to his mesmerized eyes as they devour the intricacies of the lace covering your bosom and leaves a featherlight kiss just in the border where the fabric frees the skin. he stands to his full height, gentle hands cup your cheeks. “i love it, princess”

  you smile, satisfied and relieved, he knows he hasn’t loved you good enough if the ghost of doubt still lingers on your mind. the executive needs you to understand that you are his be all end all, his one and only, his biggest strength and secret weakness; never a man of many words he decides to take matters in his own hands.

  akutagawa will let his body tell you what his mouth can’t elaborate.

  he kisses you, gently, slowly letting all of his love to seep into the kiss. lips moving in the promise of future birthdays and loving nights just like this, his thumbs caress your cheeks with the tenderness he’ll put into your care; he intends to make love tonight.

  but as your anxious hands unbutton his shirt and wander over his chiseled torso he realises you have another idea; akutagawa smiles into the kiss. “what is it babygirl?”

  you breathe in his words, open mouths gasping for air and eager for more. “i need you”

  with no room for replies you latch onto his mouth, your body pushing him to sit on the bed and before he realises you are sitting on his lap. your mouth is relentless, raw lust on every kiss as tongues meet in a sinful ritual; tonight you are different.

  you hands wrapped around his neck as your whole body clings onto him, hips moving ever so slightly against the place that needs you the most. he groans into the kiss and he wants to be angry at you for making him this worked up so quickly with only a bit of making out.

  you were one hell of a woman.

  deft fingers make quick work of his shirt as it slides down his shoulders and is thrown to god knows where, akutagawa couldn care less, not when you are pressing hot open mouthed kisses along his neck, not when you purposefully mark his collarbones with love bites,

  “mine” you speak to his skin and he is damn sure that every cell in his body responds to the silent command, darkened eyes meet their reflection in his. “you are mine”

  he raises a brow, a smile playing on his lips. “is that so?”

  “yes” with a swift movement you left him prisoner of your delicious body and the silk sheets, long locks cascading down your face, feminine hands placing masculine ones over his head rendering him defenseless. “you are mine, babyboy. tonight and always.”

  he can’t think for a quick comeback, not when he has you like this, displaying all of your charms and biting his lip just enough for the pain to arouse him. you wanted to take control? he was fine with it, he’ll be your pretty little submissive baby. he’ll let you fuck yourself stupid with his cock and he’ll beg over and over again for the privilege of touching your skin.

  “tonight and always, my queen”

  there’s a shift on your demeanor, the seductress wavers for a split second until a bright smile breaks the expression. “don’t look at me like that, i’m trying to seduce you”

  half a complaint half a laugh your words are sweet and airy, your forehead rests on his shoulder as the grip on his hands vanishes. he feels you giggling on his chest and he lets out a laugh of his.

  “on my defense i was trying to make love until you went on full dominatrix mode”

  you gasp and hit his chest, still giggling like an embarrassed schoolgirl. akutagawa laughs in an airy sound that comes from the genuine bliss in his soul from having you by his side, he kisses your temple; sex could be funny sometimes.

  akutagawa moves you to the middle of the bed, laugh dies down little by little and you lay on top of him, the two of you quiet in a moment of contemplation. chest to chest, breathing the same air; another year within the other’s lives.

  slowly move your leg against his, grey eyes looking at you as an answer from your unvoiced calling. “want to make love?”

  he smiles and you know you are in serious trouble from all those times you’d seen that smile before. in a heartbeat he is on top of you, arms supporting his weight, his hair grazes your face when he leans in for a kiss. 

  “maybe later, right now i want to fuck my pretty little whore into the next week”

--

OH MY GODDDDD I cannot get enough of this!!!!!!!!!!!!! You have blessed me yet again with a masterpiece and I love you dearly for this 😫😫😫😫😫💞💞💞💞💞💞 HDUFHFS I swear I will be reading this just nonstop cuz it makes my heart do fucking backflips!!!!!!!

[land-of-brains-and-chocolate]

more drafty part of 97!fic i think i am enjoying precisely because no one else on earth will ever want to look at it and even i am not that invested

It happens, inevitably, during their first coffee date. They’re at Rachel’s place, pleasantly chatting about the ways childhood trauma manifests in internal family systems. The radio sitting on the counter plays one witness statement about Carnage after another, ranging from grief-stricken to awed, the media spraying the crowd with the sickening, intoxicating cocktail of revulsion and fascination like a race car driver celebrating a win under a rain of champagne. 

Apart from the time he was rendered into his molecular components in a blaze of white phosphorous, it’s everything Kasady would’ve wanted. It’s a background rumble of unpleasantness, up until one voice rings familiar in Eddy’s ears, though with a different tone than the one that voice used towards him - not outwardly derisive, not depressingly honest, but running along and flapping its arms, trying to rile up a flock of idiots.

“Yes, I did! I faced the monster! I got close enough to stare down those blank, soulless eyes! Smell the sheer, unrelenting hatred of humanity rolling out of its terrible mouth! I’ll go so far as to claim nobody got closer than me and escaped with their life! And it was damn close for a second there!”

“Eddy? Are you okay?”

Eddy sets his cup of coffee down, both hands wrapped around it.

“That… That’s my old boss. Bitterman. On the radio.”

“Oh?” she says.

“Not Carnage! The other one! Yes, there was a second! Let me tell you, one of these things is meaner than the next. But they- They don’t want you to know that! They don’t want you to know that nobody’s got any idea how many more monsters might be running around!”

“Oh,” she says.

Eddy taps his fingers against his cup, eyes fixed on the table.

“I may have dropped him from a third story window.”

“Eddy, for the love of-”

“He had it coming!” he says. He looks into Rachel’s eyes for a moment, sees some mix of fear and disappointment, and averts them again.

“I’m sorry. It’s not like I’ll be doing anything like that again.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Eddy,” she says, taking a nervous sip from her cup.

“I know who it was attached to, too. Yes! He was in on it! He needs to be brought in! I don’t care if that thing’s dead or alive, he's still a traitor to humanity! We can’t let someone like that walk around outside, where there’s girl scouts and puppy dogs and tabloid editors!”

“Oh, god,” Eddy says, feeling sick.

Rachel struggles for words, hands hovering away from her cup as if avoiding the whole affair. “That’s- Okay, that’s a problem, but, I mean- Who’d convict you, honestly? With, with an alien in your brain? And now, now that you’re free of it? Even if it’s not the whole truth, there’s no way we can’t just ascribe it to- to something like an extraterrestrially induced psychotic break, if not outright mind control-”

Eddy grinds his teeth. There’s… an unusual edge to them. Something seems to pulsate around the edge of his gums. Rachel’s eyes widen.

“Yes, it’s someone you know! Yes, it’s all connected to Carnage! And since I, luckily for all of you, just so happen to run my own humble little publication, you won’t be spared a single detail of the whole sordid affair! I’m here to deliver exactly what you want to hear! This Wednesday-”

In one movement, Eddy raises a hand, reaches to one side, and sends his arm stretching six feet across the room, effortlessly. His fist shakes with restraint, right above the radio. After a few seconds, he exhales, opens his hand, and daintily hits the off switch. His hand drops to the floor and slowly drags itself back to him, as if on a slack line.

Once it’s there, he buries his face in his hands.

“Eddy,” she says.

He’s busy growling to himself. “The one time that lousy low-life leech gets a story with any amount of truth to it, and we handed it to him.”

“Eddy!” she says.

Eddy realises something.

He looks at his pitch black, clawed hand.

He looks up at Rachel, her face frozen in horror.

He looks back down.

“It’s alive,” he says, more to himself than her.

The darkness rolls up his arm and around his torso, too familiar, now, to still cause him any fear. Eddy stands and stumbles backwards against his chair, falls to the ground, watches it enclose him, chest heaving. As it runs up his neck, he breaks out into a wild, manic grin.

“We’re alive!” Venom bellows. They scramble to their feet, claws across the linoleum making the sound you’d associate with an overexcited dog, and perform something that looks like an attempt to jump into their own arms, landing with a thump that shakes the building. In the distance, dishes break as they roll across the floor, laughing madly.

“Oh no,” Rachel says, one hand in front of her face. “Oh, no. No no no no no.”

Venom looks back at her, mouth twitching.

“No?” 

They crawl up to her until they’re right up in her face, narrowing their eyes dangerously.

“What do you mean, no? We’re a hero!”

“Eddy…”

“You would rather have us dead than in the way?”

“Eddy! Listen to me!”

Rachel grabs their head, reminiscent of a snake of mythological proportions, lined with venomous fangs, and pushes even closer, forehead up against theirs, teeth equally bared.

“The Other’s still with you! You’re going to be asked to court! They’re going to look for it, they’re going to find it, they’re going to take it, and then we’ll be dealing with the whole super-soldier debacle all over again!”

They stare, for a second. Then they relent. The Other recedes from Eddy’s features.

“Sorry,” he says. “It gets- We get offended.”

Rachel recalls the things she’s said about it, not knowing it was listening. She lets go of them, watches them turn away, something alien and vulnerable in their body language.

“I’m… sorry, too. I’m very…” She puts one hand on top of one of their talons, squeezing. “Very grateful for what you did. It’s a good thing you’re alive. Of course it is.” And if she can still see Eddy’s eyes in the Other’s, maybe she can make an effort to see the Other’s eyes in Eddy’s, too.

He huffs. They huff? It huffs?

“Then what’ll this mean for… you know.”

Rachel blinks.

At her silence, they perform a little “you know” shoulder shimmy, point between themselves and her and make a vague noise.

She gives him an unimpressed look. “Now, Eddy?”

“I meant…” Eddy deflates. “...what’ll it mean for the alien accomplice to my crimes and heroics that I am harbouring unbeknownst to the government, of course.” 

“I should hope so.”

Rachel sighs, massaging her temples. Eddy retreats into Venom once again.

“You can’t let them arrest you like this.”

They scratch their chin, grumbling thoughtfully. “No. We’ve been rendered a fugitive. We’ll have to forsake our life in the light and keep to the shadows, with no home to speak of beyond a sense of camaraderie among the most neglected outcasts of society-”

“Why would that be your first idea?”

“It almost sounds romantic, in its own way.”

“You’ve been trying to make it out of the gutter all your life, Eddy. I’m not letting you go like that.”

That seems to catch them off-guard. They twiddle their massive thumbs.

“We were… joking, mostly. Lightening the mood.”

They sit down on the floor, cross-legged. Huge, but tiny. 

“...Thank you.”

Rachel looks down at her coffee, long-since cold. She tries not to think about it.

“Maybe… If you’d separate…”

Venom honest-to-god whines. “Not again...”

“Listen. You’d only separate for however long it takes this to blow over. You go to court, you hope our aliens-made-me-do-it defense holds for all the things you might’ve done, you come home, you take it back, you try to stay low-key. You don’t both have to hide. You can convince them it’s over.”

After a while, they look up at her with their big, milky eyes.

“Where would we go?”

Rachel inhales, long and deep.

She picks up her coffee cup, walks over to the sink and empties it.

“I’m gonna need something stronger than this,” she says.

[theshatteredrose]

Relic Keepers: Awakening of the Red Lily (Chapter 8) - Original Fiction

AN: Thanks for being so patient! My health still isn’t the best, but I hope to maintain the weekly updates. And I hope you’ll enjoy reading~

Ao3 | Wattpad | Inkitt | FictionPress

~

Chapter 8:

Eishirou wasn’t entirely believing what was occurring right in front of him. He didn’t have that much experience with ShadowDwellers. No firsthand experience. Only knowledge from documents and data. He had no idea that they could be so…big.

The black centipede shaped ShadowDweller curled its entire body along the outer edges of the expedition site. Even with the sun nothing more than a splash of colour in the sky and the forest now a maze of twisting trees and shadows, the ShadowDweller itself was so much darker.

It was so black. It seemed to absorb light, distorting energies around it.

The noise that it made was just unearthly. Air vibrated around it. Skittering. Shrieking.

However, it was its size that was the most dauting. What he found difficult to fathom.

It was just so…huge.

Jacob suddenly placed his hand atop of Eishirou’s head and forced his head downwards so that he was staring at the ground where they crouched.

“Don’t look at it,” he commanded firmly. “Just ignore it.”

Ignore it? How was be going to simply ignore something like that?!

“Just keep your head down and trust the Elites to do what they do best.”

At the mentioning of the Elites, Eishirou gaze immediately darted toward them. Zayne was the centre of his gaze, but he could see Ernesta and Tatsu as the three of them stood there. Unflinching, even as the ShadowDweller clacked and snapped its pincers at them.

With mana wings of blue, yellow, and red; the three Elites lunged toward the centipede. Zayne’s twin gun-blades of blue mana, Ernesta’s lancer of yellow mana, and Tatsu’s duel pistols of vivid red mana.

They all attacked in unison. Directing their attention toward the head of the creature. The most dangerous part, yes. But aiming for its body was to do no good. By destroying the head, the body would be rendered useless.

Zayne and Ernesta took turns sending attacks toward the ShadowDweller’s head while Tatsu bombarded it with rapid fire from his pistol at a distance. Distracting it. And agitating it.

The ShadowDweller thrashed its enormous head back and forth as it released a deafening screech. It then started to move. It was running around in a giant circle, staying to the outskirts of the clearing. Sending dirt and debris into the air. Preventing them from attempting a retreat.

Jacob suddenly forced his head to face away from the sight and instead directed him to look at his chest as he kept an arm around his shoulders. “Leave them to their work. Are you all right?”

“I-I’m fine.” That was kinda a lie. Though, physically he was all right. “Zayne protected me.”

“Good. He immediately jumped in to follow you when that ShadowDweller appeared,” Jacob explained.

So, he did jump down after him.

Despite Jacob ordering him not to look at the ShadowDweller or the battling Elites, he just had to. The urge to look for Zayne was just too strong for him to ignore.

It didn’t take him long to find said Elite.

However, it also didn’t take him very long to realise that he, along with the other two Elites, were becoming increasing frustrated. Their attacks were having little effect on it. Little outside effect. Maybe inwardly? Though, the ShadowDweller showed no sign of slowing down. Literally.

A dreadful thought soon occurred to him.

It was too strong.

It was winning.

Zayne darted forward to deliver another attack to the ShadowDweller’s large cranium. But the ShadowDweller reacted unexpectedly by thrashing his head to the side and its pincers slammed into Zayne. He barely had enough time to raise his gun-blades in front of him in a defensive manner when the tusk smashed into him.

He immediately flew backwards and hit the ground, skidding across the grass a couple of feet. He laid there, on his back, as he breathed heavily. Winded by the attack.

He soon sat straight up, however. And in his hands were his gun-blades once more. Though his breathing was still laboured as he pulled himself to his feet.

“Zayne!” Ernesta called out to him, concern in her voice.

“I’m fine!”

That was a lie.

Eishirou tore himself from Jacob’s protective hold and rushed toward Zayne. He placed his hands on his back and offered him some healing. The stress of holding back such a ShadowDweller had to be a great strain on him. Elites were strong, but not invincible.

Zayne stiffened at the touch, but didn’t immediately pull away. He must have needed that healing more than he let on.

As Eishirou pulled back his healing, Zayne abruptly spun around and snared his hand with his. He abruptly pulled him toward him, causing Eishirou to fall silently against his chest.

“Stay back,” Zayne ordered him, his tone highly stressed. And with a sense of desperation. “I’ll make an opening and you run like fuck when I tell you too.”

He then released him, took a step back, and turned around. He then launched himself into the air once more. Throwing himself back into battle.

It was…really going to come to that, wasn’t it?

As Jacob grabbed him once more, a thought occurred to him. He quickly crouched down onto the ground and pulled out his communicator. If he could get a message out to the rest of the expedition that were at the landing site, maybe he could get a hold of the rest of Team 3. Two more Elites were sure to be of help.

Eishirou fumbled with his communicator, trying to get it to work. But tensed almost violently as a dark shadow fell over him.

He immediately looked up. And his eyes widened.

The ShadowDweller had stopped its violent trampling.

It now towered over the both of them.

Its gaze was on them. And only them.

It almost felt…as if it was staring at Eishirou directly. As if he was the one that it wanted all along.

The ShadowDweller’s pincers seemed to clatter with excitement as Eishirou stared up at it. He couldn’t look away. Even as Jacob tightened his arms around him in a futile attempt to shield him. Even as the ShadowDweller began to lower its head in a painfully slow manner.

Even as its pincers snapped open to reveal an ungodly number of razor-sharp teeth inside its blackhole of a mouth.

…Was he going to die?

“No!”

There was a flash of blue and suddenly, the ShadowDweller was no longer towering high above Eishirou’s head.

And it took a moment or two for him to figure out what had happened.

Zayne had recklessly thrown himself at the ShadowDweller, forcing its head to lurch to the side from the impact. It was a desperate attempt to get the ShadowDweller away from them.

But he wasn’t done there. He managed to climb onto the ShadowDweller’s back. The mana sustaining his blades unexpectedly flickered to that of a dark blue as he raised them over his head.

With an expression of rage, Zayne brought both blades down onto the back of the ShadowDweller’s head. The mana-tipped blades somehow extended in length inside of the ShadowDweller’s head, the tips poking through to the other side.

With a loud grunt of exertion, Zayne twisted the blades before slicing them in a wide arch away from the body.

The ShadowDweller gave one last flailing death cry, coming out as a sickly gurgle, as its enormous head fell to the ground. In reaction of its head being severed, the body flailed back in an eerily possessed manner. In doing so, it threw Zayne back.

Time seemed to almost stand still as Eishirou watched as Zayne’s limp body arched through the air.

A second later, Zayne crash-landed on his back, hitting the ground hard. His arms spread eagle to his sides. His wings and mana weapons flickered and disappeared suddenly.

And he didn’t move.

No…

Eishirou pushed himself away from Jacob once more and ran over to him. He instantly dropped down to his knees next to him and placed his hands flat against Zayne’s chest in order to do a medical inspection.

Fast heart rate. High blood pressure. Unconsciousness. Laboured breathing. Stained muscles in his arms and chest.

He wasted absolutely no time in gathering his mana and urged it into Zayne’s chest to heal him. He had to heal him slowly as he knew that giving too much healing too quickly would cause more harm than good.

Nothing else seemed to exist. His surroundings faded from his mind as he put all his concentration and effort in healing Zayne. Easing each ailment. Ensured that his pulse remained steady. Ensured that he kept breathing.

Please…please be ok…

Finally, Zayne opened his eyes.

Eishirou nearly cried with relief when Zayne rolled his head toward him and peered up at him through hazy eyes.

Thank the heavens…

He slowly pulled back his healing and fell back to sit on his heels. His sudden healing left him feeling a little drained, but he was relieved. “How are you feeling?”

Zayne swallowed thickly. “I could totally go for a five-course meal right about now.”

That got a small laugh from Eishirou. “I don’t know any restaurants like that. But I do know a place offers an all you can eat. I’ll…take you there some time.”

He raised his arm and unexpectedly poked Eishirou’s forehead with his index finger. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Tears of relief welled in Eishirou’s eyes, but he blinked them away. He managed to give Zayne a shaky smile and simply nodded his head. He didn’t trust his voice to verbally respond.

He had no idea how long the two of them just stared at each other in a semi-comfortable silence. It wasn’t until the soft sound of approaching footsteps prompted to lift his head.

Ernesta crouched down near Zayne’s side. Her usual peaceful expression was replaced with that of true concern. “How are you feeling?”

Zayne rolled his head to his other side to look up at his team leader. “Fine,” he said simply. And then made the effort to sit up.

Eishirou instinctively reached out to help him. Ernesta made to do the same, but Zayne waved her off. He allowed for Eishirou to aid him, though. He finally sat up and bent his knees toward him so that he could lazily rest his arms against his legs. He then rolled his neck and shoulders, allowing for a couple of pops and cracks to be heard.

“Probably feel that tomorrow,” he said simply, casually.

Seeing that Zayne was going to be ok, Eishirou finally allowed himself to look around the impromptu battlefield. There was no sign of that ShadowDweller. Only the torn-up trees and deep gouges within the forest floor was left as evidence of its presence. The ShadowDweller itself had dissipated into ether. Like all ShadowDwellers did when defeated. Especially defeated so soundly.

They were mysterious creatures.

Ernesta sighed and pushed herself to her feet. Though satisfied that Zayne’s condition was nothing to be concerned about, a frown marred her face. She folded her arms idly under her bust and took a moment to survey the surroundings, too.

“That was quite the formable foe,” she murmured to no one in particular.

“Bit of an understatement,” Jacob added in a disgruntled manner. “This whole expedition was a near disaster.”

Yeah, it nearly was.

“But it wasn’t. We actually discovered something potentially important,” Eishirou pointed out in an attempt to find a positive out of the situation.

“You disappearing down that god damn hole took ten years off my life,” Jacob counted as he roughly scratched the back of his head. “I’ll be having a very long chat with the one who opened that chest without permission…”

That person was going to be suspended from joining expeditions for quite some time.

Though, it was understandable. That wooden chest truly was the cause of all their troubles on this assignment. Whoever put it there certainly had malicious intent. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was somehow connected to the broken stone tablet.

Eishirou was pulled from his musings when Tatsu paced over to them. His expression was unreadable as he stared intensely at Zayne. It was as if he had trouble understanding something. Or perhaps he was just agitated.

“Area is clear now,” he said as he tore his gaze from Zayne to regard Ernesta.

“Yes,” Ernesta nodded. “I think it’s time that we escort Professor Chryses and his assistant from this forest, don’t you?”

Yes, that sounded like a good idea. The sun had well and truly set now. And only the source light was that of Ernesta and Tatsu’s mana wings.

Zayne grunted lowly as he moved to push himself to his feet. Once again, Eishirou immediately went to help. He took a hold of Zayne’s arm and placed it behind his neck as the two of them stood on their feet.

He was unsteady for a moment, but managed to right himself. He made no attempt to pull his arm back from Eishirou, and Eishirou made no attempt to loosen his hold on his arm either. After everything Zayne had gone through, what he had to do to protect him; it was nice being able to offer the Elite a bit of support.

Honestly, though, that was all he could do.

“I will lead with Professor Chryses. Tatsu will follow at the back. Zayne, you continue your protection of Eishirou,” Ernesta ordered, leaving no room for argument.

“That was a hell of a first day,” Zayne commented both casually and dryly as they fell in formation and began their trek out of the forest in the dark. “I wonder what tomorrow will bring.”

“Well, hopefully a sleep in and a hearty breakfast,” Eishirou replied.

That got a short laugh from Zayne. “Sounds good.”

[rovvboat]

Young Love from the Old Times - Colossus/Piotr Rasputin x Reader

A/N: A Series of Smut Fics to Enjoy :) I do have a ~plot~ for this so if you enjoyed this part, lemme know! <3 

Warnings: N S F W

Part 1

Being a fresh-faced, up-and-coming X-Man was exhausting work. But doing it alongside Piotr had made things smoother, and much more bearable. The both of you were of the same age – 19 – though you were conferred into the X-Men a few months later than Piotr.

You had heard from rumours and hallway talk that him and Kitty – another young X-Man – had a thing for one another. But, apparently, Piotr had reservations about it all – seeing as she was 6 years his junior – and hadn’t pursued much.

And that’s when you came in.

You had an appointment with the Professor – it was your first time at the mansion, and the first person you laid eye upon was Piotr – still in his pyjamas (You’d never forget: a large black T-shirt paired with loose fitting blue and grey stripped pyjama pants) –  from having your presence at the doorway many hours before sunrise – 3am to be exact.

Your eyes were caught onto his large stature, his dashing blue eyes being a point of intrigue – as he stood there next to the door, rubbing away the fatigue from his eyes. You stand there, taking in the sight of this absolutely stunning person, when his groggy voice picks up.

‘’May I help you? It is 3am. Not the best time for visit… or any activity for that matter.’’ He sighs, pushing some of his hair back from his face. A mischievous smile crosses your face.

 It didn’t take long for the both of you to become friends – more specifically, of the benefits type.

 It began with your first day on the training grounds, when you proved to be a force to reckoned with on the battle field. Your teleportation prowess – unrivaled.

Until Colossus grabbed hold of you in the middle of a sparring session.  

Your only weakness was weight. You could only port inversely proportional to your weight (that’s to say, the heavier you are, the harder it becomes) – and that included anything that touched you.

He was gargantuan – and you’ve ported with a 100kg barbell before; which really said something of his density; though not completely unexpected.

 By the end of it, the both of you were left breathless and soaked – the baby hairs on your head sticking close to your forehead; his hair similarly slick with sweat – as the sparring session had persisted far too long – neither of you giving up the fight; And it was only until the professor signaled for you to end the session that the both of you ceased one-upping each other.

He met you half way on the field that day, hand extended out in a gesture of sportsmanship.

‘’You were a formidable opponent. Truly someone with great control and spirit.’’

‘’That’s one way to get on my good side, handsome.’’ You give him a suggestive smirk, held tilted to the side, before meeting him in a solid handshake.

His eyes lifted in timid fashion. ‘’I– ‘’

But you were already making your way towards the showers.

You hear him enter the shared locker room; a towel draped over his left shoulder. He acknowledges you with a smile, which you return more than willingly.

Something about him made you feel… excitement, in the pit of your stomach. You supposed that being that much of an attractive and well-mannered person would do that to anyone, but the fact that the both of you had almost synergistic characters made it that much more thrilling and stimulating to be around him.

Of course, you had to keep your cool – one of the more defining aspects of your personality.

 You grab your toiletries and head to the showers – and halfway through your mildly therapeutic washdown, you hear Piotr entering the showers 2 cubicles away from yours.

What a gentleman.

But it was also minutes after that that you realized you missed one important thing –

you forgot to bring your towel in with you.

You smack your forehead in annoyance – ‘’for fucks sake’’ – instinctively clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth; tsk.

Two showers away, the sound of spraying water stops with a squeak, as Piotrs’ voice perks up – ‘’Is something the matter?’’

‘’Yeah well, this is kind of embarrassing but… do you have a spare towel I could borrow?’’

You could hear him chuckle – as his laugh reverberates against the walls of the small space. ‘’Of course. Give me a moment.’’

You hear the rails shilling as he opens the shower curtains, as he walks over to get fetch his extra towel. You hear his footsteps get louder until they stop near your shower. He clears his throat, ‘’I will cover my eyes, you can come out to take the towel.’’

You peer over the curtain to make sure – not that you doubted him for a moment – but the scene of Piotr covering his eyes with his hands felt much too precious to miss.

You take your time to admire his colossal form – clothed only in a white towel fastened on his waist. His porcelain skin still glistening from the droplets of water that he clearly missed as he rushed to your aid – one of the drops break the surface tension, before gliding over his chest and disappears on the tight ridges of his abs. You dare not look any lower, though the outline of him was screaming ‘’well-endowed’’ at you.

His left hand was held tight against his eyes, fingers squared diligently, as his other hand held out a thick pink towel.

You couldn’t help but grin at him, and just as you take a step forward,

you lose your footing against the wet floor, and with the tell-tale sound of feet slipping on tile, you’re

falling onto the ground. You try to reach for the ledge, but miss – causing the shampoo and soap bottles to topple onto the floor with you.

Alarmed, Piotr rushes into the shower, eyes wide in concern as he lowers himself to pick you up. You instinctively cover your chest, before letting Piotr pull you up from the floor.

‘’Are you alright? You should be more careful. The shower is wet and you could have –‘’

It takes him a minute to realise that now wasn’t really the time for a lecture on bathroom safety, and when he does, you could see the heat rising into his cheeks. (In his defense, he was only ever looking into your eyes until you shifted an arm to cover yourself)

‘’I..’’ – he clears his throat, ‘’ – uh, I should– I should leave,’’ he turns in his heels, moving to part the shower curtains.

But before he could, you yank him back by the arm, and in the passing moment that his face was close to yours, you take him in your hands – eyes closed and pulling him into a kiss.

When you pull away, you’re slightly embarrassed by your forthcoming – and Piotr was rendered stunned; like he didn’t believe what just happened.

‘’I’m sorry, I– I wasn’t thinking and–‘’

Piotr steps forward, cupping both hands onto your cheeks as he pulls your face gently towards him, pressing his lips to yours.

It doesn’t take long for the both of you to be completely taken into it – him craning down to deepen the kiss. Your hands rest over his neck, feeling the smoothness of his baby soft skin with sweet caresses; over his ear, down his neck, tracing up to his jawline. His massive frame pushes against yours, guiding you to the adjacent wall, and as you try to readjust, you accidentally flip on the shower – sending a spray of water onto you.

It gets a little harder to breathe – between the kiss and the downpour of water over the both of you – but Piotr senses your loss of air, and pushes you further against the wall, away from the steaming spray of the shower head – his crotch subtly grinding against you, wedging you between him and the wall.

You feel the shooting pangs of desire – jolting you into a more hyperaware state.

Between his painfully mild-mannered grinding, and deep, distracted kissing, you feel a need to switch into a more compromising position; if only to appease your own desires.

You trace your foot up his leg – the action alone causing a hitch in Piotr once heavy breathes – only stopping when you reach his waist – a gentle push into the inevitable.

You leg hooks onto his waist, with only his towel separating him from you.

You cling onto him, drawing him closer to you, intensifying the feel of his growing member on your cunt. The towel does nothing to subdue the sensations – and does quite much the opposite.

He mouths a low rumbling whisper of Russian, ‘’ty svodish' menya s uma…’’

‘’hmm?’’

‘’You are… driving me crazy…’’ He breathes deeply against your neck.

‘’I can do a lot more than that,’’ you retort back in a sultry whisper, your words hot against his ears.

You feel his big, purposeful hand inching down your back – passing over your ass with a gentle squeeze, before lightly running over the back of your thigh – pulling ever so slightly under your knee, propping up your other leg; and you – ever so willing – now have both your legs wrapped around his waist, at the mercy of his exasperatingly leisured pace.

You up the ante a little – taking matters into your own hands – as you buckle up and down his length. The friction of the fabric mounting onto your pleasure.

He takes the hint – pushing you further into the wall – the full length of his cock now in absolute contact with your cunt; rubbing with an intense slowness that keeps your orgasm right on edge – but never pushing you over it.

He grabs a fistful of your ass, pulsing his stiff, tight member against you – exhaling your name in a labored breathes, hot against your ears, as his teeth gently graze down over your collar; nipping at your most sensitive areas.

The sensations threaten your sanity – as you thumb aggressively at his towel; hungry for more than just a feel of him through the friction on his fabric.

He lifts his body a little off of you, and that concession is all you needed to yank it off of him, throwing the towel over the curtain rod – his cock now exposed in all its girth.

He pushes hard against you again – running over and over between your folds.

The sheer unadulterated feel of him drives you wild – bucking and moaning as you go; the tension building inside your core begging for a release other than your mouth. You let out whine as Piotr quickens his pace, your breathing matching his, as you feel the first stirring of your orgasm inching closer into your thighs. You snake your arms tighter around his neck, eyes taking in the sight of Piotr, breathless and sweating; his spiky hair slicked wet and stuck to his forehead, his cheeks a shade not far from red.

Piotr pinches your chin, lifting it up towards him as his lips hasten to meet yours, his tongue finding yours with an urgency – his thrusts intensifying into speedy bursts of pleasure as he moans into your kiss, his grip on your waist tightening to hold you down against his cock, as your legs writhe from the shaking orgasm that left you gasping for air – holding him tight against your body as you both come together; a sticky wetness running down your thighs not even moments later.

He slows down his movements, heaving close to your neck with his mouth slightly agape, as you pant over his drooping head.

Suddenly, the clicking of a door reverberates through the shower room.

Footsteps echo onto the pin-drop silence – (a stark opposition to the noises of you and Piotr against the humid shower)

You catch the air in your lungs in a sharp breath, struggling not to make any noise against the silent suspense that surrounded the both of you.

Piotrs’ hand masks over your mouth instantly, eyes staring fiercely into your own wide-eyed shock.

‘’Is anyone here?’’

‘’Da. I am just about finishing up my shower.’’ He answers matter-of-factly; his head turned towards the voice of the intruder.

‘’Oh Colossus, it’s you. Have you seen Y/N around? I’ve got something I’d like to discuss–‘’

‘’Nyet. I have not,’’ he lies, watching your face turn into a smirk under his palm. He playfully brings up his other hand, a finger to his smiling lips to signal you to keep you quiet.

‘’Well, okay, let me know if you do.’’

When the coast was clear, and the door clicked behind the intruder, Piotr slowly brought down his hand, freeing your lips from the sweltering nightmare of heat.

‘’That was… something.’’ You remark, bringing your leg down from his waist, arms still looped over his neck. ‘’We should do this again some time.’’

Piotr huffs a laugh, his face giving you a sheepish smile.

(And with 3 words, he would kickstart a mutual beneficial relationship.)

‘’Maybe we should.’’

***

Taglist! 

@emma-frxst @marvel-forever-17 @fluffymadamina

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[emospritelet]

Bjob time - sutherelle or sutheracey : 23 - “Well, looks like the power’s out!” - which considering the plot of cobra is an appropriate prompt

Also prompted by @virgidearie

[Part 1] [AO3]

x

Sutherland was beginning to wish he had never decided to host this party. It had been Carrie’s idea; get the diplomats away from the city, only permit those members of the press who could be relied upon to behave themselves, and provide plenty of good food and wine to keep the conversation flowing. It was certainly more successful than the last such event he had been to, but from the rumours he heard, the weather was getting worse, and he was concerned that some or all of his guests would be stranded in snowdrifts.

He was also highly discomfited by the presence of Lacey French.

The High Commissioner’s daughter had rendered him speechless with one salacious comment and a knowing smirk, and he had found himself staring after her, watching the long, glittering skirt of her dress swish from side to side as she walked, a mermaid’s tail in sparkling blue. He had tried to collect himself, finding another drink and hurrying to speak to someone, anyone, to distract from the memory of the gleam in her eyes and the way she sucked on the straw in her drink. Running the country had kept him far too busy to think about the pleasures of female company for some years, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for the return of his libido. At least not in the middle of a party.

Fortunately the other guests were tipsy enough that conversation was easy to be had and far from taxing, but he found his eyes straying to Lacey a number of times. She was prowling the room, sampling the canapés and sipping a variety of drinks. Her father appeared to have ignored her since they arrived, deep in conversation with one diplomat or another, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Sutherland felt his eyes follow her as he tried to pay attention to the Norwegian Ambassador’s tale of her own plans for Christmas. Lacey was eating a bite-size chocolate dessert, eyes closed in pleasure. He swallowed hard, and she glanced around, licked chocolate from her fingers, and winked.

“And you, Prime Minister?” asked the Ambassador, tilting her head. There was a curious look in her blue eyes, and he realised he had no clue what she had just been saying.

“I’m sorry, I was miles away,” he said desperately. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

He strode away, weaving through the throng of guests and out into the blessed cool of the corridor. The door swung shut behind him, muffling the music and laughter, and he let out a deep sigh, beginning to pace up and down. Pull yourself together, you pervert! You’re the bloody Prime Minister, and you lose your shit because a pretty girl smiled at you? A bloody ambassador’s daughter, for fuck’s sake! What, you thought a diplomatic incident would be a great way to round out the year, did you? Bloody idiot!

The door swung open, and Lance Knight, one of his regular Special Branch officers, stepped into the corridor.

“Everything alright, sir?” he asked.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he somehow managed to simultaneously be alert to danger and exude an air of calm competence, and Sutherland nodded to him.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just give me five minutes.”

Lance nodded, folding his arms and waiting, and Sutherland paced the corridor slowly. The cooler air outside the Great Hall was refreshing, and he wandered along towards the entrance, Lance following a pace or two back. Sutherland ran a hand through his hair, grumbling to himself. He needed something to do other than think about how good Miss French had looked when she locked eyes with him.

He wasn’t really paying attention to where he was heading, and the sound of clicking heels took him by surprise as he rounded a corner and almost collided with Miss French herself. Lance was there to stop them actually bumping heads, but it had been a close thing. She settled back on her heels, drink sloshing in her glass.

“Well, if it isn’t the P.M.,” she drawled. “You hiding out here at your own party?”

“I needed some air,” he said automatically, and wondered with some exasperation if every interaction he had with her would put him on the defensive. He decided to try to wrest back a little control.

“It seems I’m not the only one skulking in the corridors,” he said. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” 

Lacey pulled a face, lips pouting. He wondered if she knew how pretty she looked doing it. He suspected she did.

“Nice place, great booze, delicious food,” she said, her voice going low and throaty. “It’s not my usual scene, though. Gotta say I’d rather be playing pool somewhere.”

“Oh.”

He was tongue-tied again, and stood there, brain screaming at him to say something. Where were his famed oratory abilities, which had seen him through many a Parliamentary debate?

“We have a billiard room,” he managed, and Lacey gave him a wide smile, eyes gleaming excitedly.

“Really?” she said, and gave him that appraising look again. “Want to play me? Ten quid says I can beat you.”

No. Don’t be ridiculous. You cannot leave your own party of politicians and foreign diplomats to go and shoot pool with this woman.

“Alright,” he heard himself say.

x

Lacey French turned out to be very good at pool. He watched her rack the balls and take the first shot, bent low over the table, teeth tugging at her lower lip as she concentrated. She potted two on the opening strike, and he stood back from the table and watched as she potted two more. Her next shot made the ball rattle the bottom pocket before bouncing out again, and Lacey swore softly under her breath.

“Your turn,” she said, straightening up.

Concentrating on his shot gave him something to do rather than think about how good she looked, and so he took his time, potting two balls before his own shot bounced out.

“Do you live with your father in his residence?” he asked, pleased that the power of speech seemed to have returned to him. Lacey shook her head.

“Just staying for the holidays. Back at university in January.”

“Oh, where are you studying?”

“Edinburgh.”

Sutherland straightened up.

“So you live there?”

“Usually, yeah,” she said dismissively. “Wasn’t expecting Dad to get the High Commissioner job quite so soon. Guess there’s no reason to go back to Australia for a while.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Home? Sometimes. I miss the beach.”

She bent over, frowned, and then grasped the skirt of her dress, hitching it up a little and lifting one knee onto the edge of the table so she could take her shot. Sutherland tried to tell himself that he wasn’t entranced by the pale length of her leg. He definitely wasn’t thinking about how it might feel wrapped around his back, either.

“This winter weather must be tough to deal with.”

Lacey smirked at him.

“It’s okay as long as you keep your clothes on,” she said. “But there again, where’s the fun in that?”

She winked at him, and took her shot. The ball grazed the edge of the pocket and clipped another ball, making her swear. The sound of high heels trotting closer made him look around, and Carrie strode into the room, looking harassed.

“There you are!” she announced. “I was wondering where you had disappeared to! You do remember that you’re supposed to be the host of this thing?”

“I needed some air,” he said. “Miss French threatened to beat me at pool.”

“Yeah, and I am beating you.”

“Well, if you could wrap it up,” said Carrie. “I just heard that the weather is taking a turn for the worse. The storm has swung to the north, so we’re directly in its path. I thought it would be best if we get everyone out now, while we can.”

“Agreed,” he said briskly, and laid his pool cue on the table. “Apologies, Miss French, but duty calls.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re losing,” she said. “We’ll call the game mine then, shall we?”

He turned to face her. She was chalking the end of her pool cue, one hip jutting out and that knowing little smirk twisting her beautiful mouth. God, he really was a bloody idiot.

“I’m sure your father is looking for you,” he said, in the most formal and distant tone he could manage. “Carrie, could you escort Miss French back to the High Commissioner?”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll find him,” said Lacey. “I’ll see you again, Prime Minister. You don’t get off that easily.”

He had already turned away, but her words made him shiver pleasantly. Heart thumping, he walked briskly from the room, Carrie trotting to keep up.

“What was all that about?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said shortly, and she snorted.

“Bollocks!” she said. “If I hadn’t come in just then, one of you would have been spread out on the pool table. And I don’t mean Miss French.”

“We were playing a game of pool, it’s hardly a scandal.”

“Yet.”

“Well, it’s not likely to be, since everyone’s leaving!” he snapped. “Have the cars been arranged?”

“Yes, Sergeants Nolan and Humbert are coordinating. I suggest we say our goodbyes with as little ceremony as possible. There’s already a ten mile tailback on the M40.”

“Right.” They reached the Great Hall, Lance ducking in front of them to open the doors. “Let’s get everyone out of here.”

x

Without all the guests, Chequers was once more quiet and peaceful. Sutherland sat in his office, a glass of whisky on the desk in front of him, making brief notes as he got an update on the storm from the Transport Secretary.

“Trains won’t be running for at least the rest of today, probably tomorrow as well,” she said. “Flights have been grounded in London and the South East, but those in the South West and Midlands are alright for the moment. Gritters have been out on the roads, obviously, but the amount of snow that’s falling is too much for them to cope with. I’m afraid if people haven’t made it home for Christmas already, they might have to stay put.”

“Understood,” he said grimly. “Keep me informed.”

“Of course. Merry Christmas.”

“And to you.”

He put down the phone, sitting back in his chair with a sigh and reaching for the whisky. Cold weather planning was all very well until the first snowflake fell, but the winds were unpredictable, winters were getting worse, and the transport system was finding it increasingly difficult to cope. They needed a new approach, and he felt too tired and tipsy to think of one right at that second. A COBRA meeting, perhaps. He resolved to ask Carrie to set one up for the next morning. It would mean some attendees having to dial in rather than attend in person, but it couldn’t be helped. He scribbled a list of those he wanted present.

“Get your hands off me!”

Sutherland looked up, frowning, as a commotion started up outside his door. Pushing to his feet, he strode over and wrenched it open. He had thought that all the guests had left some time ago, so was very surprised to find Lance restraining Lacey French, who was clutching an open bottle of champagne and looking the picture of indignation.

“If you just calm down, ma’am,” Lance was saying in his usual placid tones. “No need for any unpleasantness.”

“I’ll calm down when you let me go!”

“Afraid I can’t do that, ma’am.”

“I doubt she’s here to kill me, Lance,” said Sutherland.

“Better safe than sorry, sir.”

“Let me go!”

Sutherland growled under his breath, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

“Lance, let her go,” he said impatiently. “Miss French, what the bloody hell are you doing here? I thought you left with your father.”

Lance had released Lacey, and she squared her shoulders, glaring at him before turning to Sutherland.

“I told him I was going back into town to go out with friends,” she said carelessly. “He’s not expecting me back. I thought we could pick up that pool game where we left off.”

“I’m busy,” he said coolly, and she shook her head.

“It’s like midnight.”

“Oh, you think the business of running the country is nine-to-five, do you?” he snapped.

“I think you’ll drive yourself mad if you work twenty-four-seven.”

Sutherland sighed again.

“Want me to arrange a car for Miss French, sir?” said Lance mildly.

Sutherland opened his mouth to say yes, and the lights flickered once and cut off, plunging the hallway into darkness.

“Well,” said Lacey cheerfully. “Looks like the power’s out.”

[thesilverheroineproject]

Kate Zambreno’s Heroines is a hard book to read. Every page is a reckoning with the unbearable phallocentrism of Writing as An Institution, and for the reader who’s also a marginalised, struggling writer and/or female, it’s a memory trigger. There’s a thread running through Heroines that memory-work is political. That the literary canon is “a memory campaign that verges on propaganda, that the books remembered are the only ones worth reading.” It’s impossible to review the book dispassionately. Zambreno’s style invites personal recollection; it’s affecting, and in order to get what she’s doing with this book one has to be able to feel it.

Heroines is part literary criticism, part literary history, part memoir, part feminist polemic. In its form and in its writing, Heroines is what the author is trying to rescue and reclaim: to use Zambreno’s favourite words, it's messy, girly, and excessive. It’s also sharp, finely-structured, and meticulously (voraciously) researched. Heroines grew out of Zambreno’s blog, Frances Farmer is My Sister, or more precisely, the blog grew out of ideas for a book. In an interview with The Rumpus, Zambreno talks about her earlier plans to write a fictionalised notebook titled “Mad Wife”—and is comprised of many things, but is most clearly made up of equal parts rage and reflection.

Zambreno began blogging after her partner took up a university job in Akron, Ohio, and the early sections of Heroines record much of what Zambreno finds stultifying and destabilising about being The Wife in a new place: “I have become used to wearing, it seems, the constant pose of the foreigner.” Like Helene Cixous in “Coming to Writing”, Zambreno begins to form an invisible community—communing with the women writers and the “mad wives of modernism”—a community borne out of invention, yes, but also need. The brutal honesty with which Zambreno recognises her particular condition—“I am realising you become a wife, despite the mutual attempt at an egalitarian partnership, once you agree to move for him”—is both disruptive and comforting to the reader. Here is a truth alongside other truths and someone is finally speaking it, but here is the truth and we must now face it.

At the end of reading Heroines, I had accumulated about 17 pages of handwritten notes. Heroines brought into clear view for me names that had only circulated vaguely around my head from an undergraduate survey course in Modernism in Literature. Perhaps my professors had mentioned Zelda Fitzgerald and Vivien(ne) Eliot’s writing, but then why didn’t I remember any of it? The result is that I read the early sections of Heroines with a kind of numb shock. As Maggie Nelson writes in her blurb for the book, “if you didn’t know much [about the “wives” of modernism], your mouth will fall open in enraged amazement.” Vivien(ne) and Tom’s troubled and troubling marriage; Vivien(ne)’s writing cast aside, T.S. Eliot the writer winning the Nobel Prize a year after her death—after he left her, after he hid in bathrooms allowing his secretaries to calm his “mad” wife, after using her lines, her typing services, and disregarding her worth as her writer. Vivien(ne) with her female maladies, staining the bedsheet red. Zambreno tells us of what Vivien(ne)’s brother said to Michael Hastings, the British playwright who wrote Tom & Viv: “Viv’s sanitary towels always put a man off.”

Dear reader, I read that and saw red.

These “wives” of modernism didn’t just suffer at the hands of various men, including their husbands, but were also negated or ignored, made invisible or an object of derision by other women, particularly women writers like Virginia Woolf who had to slay their own demons both in life and on the page. Woolf, who so memorably and wittily describes Vivien(ne) as “this bag of ferrets … Tom wears around his neck”. Zambreno writes: “I think of Viv as the mad double Virginia both identifies with and wants to disassociate herself from.” And this is perhaps also something that infuses Elizabeth Hardwick’s critical writings of other women writers.

Hardwick’s essay on Zelda Fitzgerald in Seduction and Betrayal is curiously committed to omitting the recognition of gender and patriarchal norms; she talks of Zelda and Scott as being twins, and how “only one of the twins is the real artist”, seemingly complacent in her acceptance of the accepted notion that F. Scott Fitzgerald was the real artist while his wife was merely mildly talented, but more of a dilettante. It seems like a neverending senseless loop, this question of artistry, genius, and legitimacy: only a real artist like F. Scott Fitzgerald would be acclaimed; thus, because F. Scott is acclaimed, he is the real artist. Nowhere in this interrogation does Hardwick devote much attention to how phallocentrism structures the creative output of men and women, and how it structures how those works are received. As Zambreno points out, even while Hardwick seems sympathetic to Zelda’s situation, she seems keen to distance herself from that kind of “mess”, to render a particular form of female experience as sick, perhaps, and dysfunctional, and therefore something to be pitied but not common or predictable or in any way relatable.

But then I think of Linda Wagner-Martin’s biography of Zelda, and how she writes that “Zelda’s crack-up gave [Scott] both alibi and cover.” If men’s wives are officially mad—diagnosis confirms it!—then men are never to blame. Badly-behaving, outright misogynist husbands can be forgiven, excused, comforted, and indulged. But as Zambreno points out through all her meticulous research of these ignored and sidelined women, all Zelda wanted to do was whatever she needed to do at the time: write, using her own life—herself—as the material. This made the Real Writer of the marriage, the husband, really, really angry. Scott tells Zelda, “You were going crazy and calling it genius.” Hardwick seems to buy this assessment in her essay. Zambreno explains: “In a way, Hardwick’s essay reads as an elaborate defense of the supreme rights of (male) artist.” Wagner-Martin, in her biography: “The irony of the Scott-Zelda relationship from the start, however, was that Scott regularly usurped Zelda’s story.”

Heroines is thus also a meditation on writing and the act of creation: whose lives count as “material”, and who gets to use and shape the material into the story? Whose hand guides the words? When it’s women who are mining their own lives for both material and meaning, it’s all-too easily seen as easy, lazy, unreflective, unworthy work. “The self-portrait, as written by a woman, is read as somehow dangerous and indulgent,” Zambreno writes, and asks, “Why is self-expression, the relentless self-portrait, not a potentially legitimate form of art?” For me, these questions bring up attendant questions about writing and accountability, about how the need to create can be an almost-parasitical hunger that feeds on people’s lives, even (or perhaps especially) their own.

Zambreno takes exception to Toril Moi’s aversion to a certain type of women’s confessional writing in Sexual/Textual Politics, where Moi dismisses it as a kind of “narcisstic delving into one’s own self”. Yet these are questions that trouble me, and I can’t oppose them as clearly as Zambreno does, to see all objection to narcissism (or even the use of the term narcissism) as a form of censorship that attempts to silence women’s writing. Clearly the fact of sexism structures how writing and publishing operate as an institution, and Zambreno certainly makes a fine case about just how openly and covertly patriarchy attempts to silence women’s voices that do not fit its image of “good woman”.

But I also wonder about the dangers of looking inward, the idea of the self that might harden and become its own kind of hegemony. The danger when one starts to believe that one’s condition doesn’t reveal a particular human condition, but is the human condition. Can looking inward feed upon itself so thoroughly that it, does, in fact, become a form of narcissism? Where you’re so attuned to your own pain that you’re unable to recognise the pain of others, or worse, imagine that your pain is the pain of others?

I recognise that a big part of Zambreno’s project in Heroines is its effort of reclamation: as such, she tells the stories of the neglected, abandoned, derided writers and writer-wives of literary history in order to project a different, erased history. As such, her perspective is clear and focus is sharp: these women are rescued from formerly patriarchal narratives and given new forms of being in the pages of Heroines. Still, all of these women are white, and most of them come from a background with roots in bourgeois respectability, and so I recognise that while another story is being told, the whole story is, perhaps, still unclear.

Heroines is a record of how these women were wronged, and it’s a necessary intervention into both literary history and criticism, but we don’t hear anything about how these women may have used their class and social position and their whiteness in order to get ahead, how they may have exploited other people, people who were economically, politically, and socially positioned as middle and upper class white women’s lesser others. (I think of Toni Morrison’s 1989 interview in Time magazine, quoted in Nina Power’s One Dimensional Woman, where Morrison talks about the old-boys network and the “shared bounty of class.” Although many of the women writers Zambreno writes about were often deprived of independent income, and some even fell into poverty, I still wonder about the class networks and social connections that may have worked in their favour, even when patriarchy stood in the way.)

As such, these women tend to come off uniformly victimised, wholly victims of patriarchy and nothing else. And while I recognise Zambreno’s need to record instances of “girl-on-girl” crime, it also makes me somewhat uncomfortable—as though all writing by women, then, is somehow necessarily above criticism. This is a grey and complex area, obviously, but I can’t help but wonder if this lets women writers off the hook a little too easily. Criticism from other women critics can often stem from internalised sexism, no doubt, but other forms of criticism take to task certain forms of confessional writing by women writers because it stays silent on issues of race, class, and sexuality, or worse, considers those issues unimportant in relation to one’s own work. Zambreno writes:

"This idea that one must control oneself and stop being so FULL of self remains a dominating theory around mental illness, and, perhaps tellingly, around other patriarchal laws and narratives, including the ones governing and disciplining literature."

This is certainly true, but I would rather not see it as an either/or option: either write, FULL of self, or suppress the self and suffer. The problem of writing the self is that the self can become all-encompassing, preventing the writer from hearing the stories of others. Being full of self can work as a form of self-care and self-preservation, and this is necessary, but sometimes the self needs to be shattered open into recognising and accepting other possibilities. So there is a danger, perhaps, in not interrogating statements like “The subaltern condition of being a literary wife,” when literary wives may at least get a stab at writing and giving voice to their thoughts on the page, while the true subaltern (may speak, write, shout, scream) and remain unheard by ears that are trained only to listen to the voice of the self or voices that sound similar to the self. There is a form of power in writing, despite how it’s received—and perhaps this is a power that is all too conveniently ignored by those of us who do write.

And Zambreno does exhort her girl readers/writers to write—“to write and refuse erasure while we’re living at least”—and is ecstatic about the proliferation of Tumblrs, blogs, and Livejournals by girls and young women that are at turns “emo, promiscuous, gorgeous, dizzying, jarring, irreverent, cinephilic, consumed, consuming, wanting, wiity, violent, self-loathing or self-doubting”, to quote just some of her adjectives, I’m also wondering about the attendant tyranny of these forms of social media and blog platforms that demand and require the personal. If we’re writing on the internet we’re using some if not most of this technology, and all of us are daily exhorted to share, divulge, like, favourite, promote, or take a gpoy or a selfie.

While it’s true that many subvert the rules of engagement on social media and blog platforms—by posting deliberately unappealing selfies, for example, or selfies of the ungroomed self—the internet is also run by corporations who try to exploit, in increasingly covert and “creative” ways, users’ personal information. And the young, pretty, wayward girl is now profitable data in a still (still!) sexist society. So much of girls’ writing online, like in the case of Marie Calloway, is (still!) used against them. One thinks about the problem of encouraging girls to write and also to be responsible and accountable to themselves and to each other; the problem of how to use oneself and one’s loved ones as material or content with care in a culture of increased surveillance, especially when the technology we use for writing and performing is also the technology that enables the surveillance and scrutiny.

In her earlier works of fiction O Fallen Angel and Green Girl, Zambreno gave us devastating yet finely-wrought portraits of girls in distress—portraits of acute suffering, where the girl in question (Maggie in O Fallen Angel, Ruth in Green Girl) is unable to consider the world outside of her because she is, in some ways, trapped inside. This, I think, is a testament to Zambreno’s intelligence and artistry—and a cultivated sense of empathy—and also a searing portrait of the fractious and unstable female self and its relation to mental illness. An important theme in Heroines is the institutionalisation and medicalisation of women—how the same misogyny that brings about or catalyses the splits in self in the female subject is the same misogyny that is applied to treat and “cure” it, and it is in these passages that Zambreno is particularly acute, sensitive, and moving. As she points out, language is itself complicit: “I’ve always found the language of borderline personality diagnosis, a label assigned to women almost entirely, compelling in that it’s an identity disorder which is defined almost exclusively by not actually having an identity.” Zambreno writes about always having had a “tremendous fear of being institutionalised”—and relates this to how works and canonised:

"(She was institutionalized, as Mad Woman, as Bad Wife, and he was institutionalized, as the Great American Author.)"

Institutionalisation is also a memory campaign, where the man-artist is generalised and the woman-artist individualised. I’d like to think of Heroines as a cure for this wilful, institutionalised amnesia. It’s a book that has lodged itself in my mind and likely to stay there for a long time, despite, or maybe even because of some of my problems with certain sections of the book. It seems fitting to let Zambreno have the last word:

"Fuck the canon. Fuck the boys with their big books."

[isidar-mithrim]

Forgotten fighters

Few words are enough to bare the soul of a centaur – few words, to make him master of his own fate, to make him part of a strenuous fight for salvation. Few words are also enough to describe the helplessness of a gargoyle, the braveness of a knight, the fury of a little giant and the thoughts of many other characters whose effort we often forget about – wrongly so. After all, even a single grain of rice can tip the scale.

[Read on Ao3]

__________________________________

Thoughts of a centaur

He saw the lifeless body of the boy held in Hagrid’s arms.

He heard the half-giant harsh reproach, but he did’t dare to move nor speak.

A memory played before his eyes – the same boy on Firenze’s back seven years ago, and his own blatant disapproval.

He gazed at the star, looking for their comfort – finding just their judgment.

He took an arrow from his quiver, and suddenly he knew what fate he wanted for it.

Bane gathered the other centaurs around him, he nocked the arrow to the bowstring and for the first time, without regrets, he chose his own destiny.

___________________________________

Thoughts of a gargoyle

Motionless.

Except for the only move I was capable of.

Anchored.

Unless I heard that word.

I stood by, awaiting for my one shot at something.

Then, I saw a breathless boy – I recognised him by his unruly black hair.

I wished I could simply let him pass, but without the word, my feet were tied.

“Dumbledore!”

The boy’d spoken without thinking, but he’d said the right word and I welcomed him with joy, moving aside with practiced ease.

Waiting for his return was grueling.

I wanted to wish him luck, but he passed by with dreadful determination, not sparing me a glance.

**

The boy came back, two weary kids at his side.

I was knocked aside, dizzy – motionless as always.

“Can we go up?” he asked.

It was the first time someone asked my permission.

___________________________________

Thoughts of a knight

The clanging of his armor was almost deafening, and he was heavily burdened by the weight of the iron suit he’d been so jealous of.

It was part of every knight’s duty: polishing and oiling his best defensive weapon, caring for it like for their own horse.

That day, he got out of his armor for the first time. He looked his pony in the eyes, and he knew he wasn’t going to need his spurs anymore.

He conveyed his drive in the grip of his hands, that clenched tight sword and bridle.

Sir Cadogan wasn’t really able to protect who fought at his side, but his cries of encouragement were balm for his allays tired limbs, and for the first time he felt like a true Knight.

___________________________________

Thoughts of a little giant

Isn’t it brave, willingly fight your own blood, if their choices turned out to be unacceptable?

Isn’t it true, that history can repeat itself?

How often the outcast redeems his own kind…

They giants were there, scary, huge, colossal, but he kept pursuing his only quest: protecting Hagger.

His fury flared up – relentless.

His strength was unlashed – unpredictable.

His war cries, barer of death, raised – unbearable.

It was a loss cause, but he fought nonetheless, and that was Grawp’s true victory.

___________________________________

Thoughts of sinister creatures

Invisible.

Inexistent to human eyes, that had been the standard.

That night, though, a war was being fought – that night, there was no place for normal daily life.

They appeared without warning, oddly sinister – oddly unsettling.

The Thestrals teared through enemy flesh without mercy, knocking down those gigantic beasts.

The other fighters laid stunned eyes on their wiry bodies – they let their gaze take in the their majestic wings.

None of them was ever going to just imagine the invisible horses carrying Hogwarts stagecoaches to the gates.

None of them was ever going to forget the unforgettable memory of the war deaths, nor the burning imagine of the lifeless corpses scattered on the ground.

___________________________________

Thoughts of a poltergeist

He felt at ease, in the rising bustle.

Stirring up the students’ hysteria had always been is favorite pastime – along with making Filch miserable, of course.

When he saw the caretaker he flew toward him scornful and sneering, ready to grab Mrs Purr from the tail to swing her in the air.

“Peeves!” he shrieked.

Peeves answered blowing a raspberry.

“Stupid Poltergeist,” said Filch, panting, “McGonagall is looking for you! You-know-who is coming at Hogwarts! Get a move on!”

Peeves actually listened, and for the first time he flew over the corridors packed with students without annoying them.

**

Resourcefulness.

He’d always used it for the art of teasing, until now.

Now, for the first time, he directed it toward higher aims.

He saw the castle walls crumbling around him, while he fought to obstruct those hooded figures.

New feelings.

For the first time he’d tasted fear, that night.

For the first time, he knew what it felt bing proud of himself.

And yet, only when he saw the motionless body of one of his favorite mischief-maker he knew what pain was.

___________________________________

The castle

Hogwarts walls were impenetrable.

Or better, they’d been – until now.

Now, the chance a wizard saw the school as a Muggle would have was high, because the walls were collapsing, killing indiscriminately friends and foes – a tragic reminder of the devastating power unleashed by the armies.

And yet, in its own way, the castle was fighting back.

The empty armors McGonagall had enlivened became lethal, their violent blows too unpredictable even for the best wizards.

The stampede of angry desks run through the halls full of rubble, trampling the masked figures and rendering them helpless.



**


Hogwarts had opened all its doors, had unveiled its most intimate secrets to the young boy who – turned monster – didn’t care about its doom anymore.

When the first brick fall, the castle had already picked its side.

When that brick made the cups of the trophy room rattle, only Tom Riddle’s Special Award for Services to the School dropped to the floor. 


___________________________________

Thoughts of a hippogriff

He descended upon the humungous giant, wounding his grotesque face with his sharp claws.

He had just the time of a flutter to escape the hungry and angry hand that tried to knock him down.

He pretended to fly away, then he steered abruptly and pounced the beast again.

His proud and hooked beak snapped rapacious, and blood gushed from the injuries orbits of the colossal creature, blinded by fury and pain.

The giant swung his arms wreaking havoc among the fighting Thestrals, he drifted on his unsteady feet, making the earth quake and almost trampling on the fighters below.

Then, ropes from nowhere tied the giant’s legs together and he crashed on the ground.

Buckbeak glared at him with triumph and descend upon him again, ready to make sure the giant wasn’t going to see the end of the battle – because Hagrid’s friend were his own, and that creature had hurt Grawp.

___________________________________

Thoughts of a house elf – Part one

The pot crashed on her bottle and it shattered to the ground, spilling Firewhiskey on her anorexic legs.

She stood up trying to avoid the fragments of glass surrounding her, but she staggered despite the effort, clouded by the alcohol and the shock.

She fall on her hand and knees, the sharp glass piercing through her flesh, and no one stopped over to help her.

A shiver run through her spine when that cold voice echoed for the umpteenth time, and somewhere in the kitchen an elf was brandishing a cleaver, speaking of Masters and fights and regular lockets, saying they should hurry with the pottery.

The other house elves shouted and cheered, fired up, and they disappeared as the food usually did when sent to the Great Hall.

Left alone, Winky crawled on the floor to reach the dark corner where she kept her Firewhiskey. Horror rushed upon her when she realised most of the bottles were shattered, and she searched with trembling hand for a full one.

She eventually found one intact bottle, and after struggling to uncork it she resumed drinking, unaware of how many her wounds were, how deep they’d became while she'd dragged herself over that secluded corner in desperate need for another dose.

Above her, young elves were conquering their freedom on the battlefield or dying in the attempt – below her, the pool of blood was spreading as fast as the alcohol descending down her throat.

___________________________________

Thoughts of a house elf – Part two

When the castle trembled above their heads, several pots crashed on the hard floor.

The elf stumbled on a metal pan and fall down swearing, instinctively dropping the tray he was holding to put his hands ahead.

The fall cut out his breath for a moment, and he felt his left knee aching against the cold stone. He pushed himself up with tentative movements and glanced at the spot were his right knee had impacted with the floor, wondering what the soft thing that had protected it might be.

He saw a messy bunch of colorful clothes – a tea cozy, a wool sweater and several mismatched socks decorated with moving images and flashing, colorful lights.

He knew immediately to whom they belonged, and he had to drove out the anguish for his prolonged absence.

Then, he saw the only plain garment of the bunch – a single black sock.

The sock of freedom.

The castle trembled again and again, and when the Dark Lord voice announced his triumph over Master Harry and Kreacher get ready to fight in the name of his deceased Masters, it was a free choice of freedom.

[aro-aizawa]

anyways, since the idea won’t leave me alone here’s my pitch for a prince of the galra keith au where lotor doesn’t exist and canon is just a suggestion i guess. (under a cut part ways in bc uhhh it’s like 3.7k words. rip.)

for starters: krolia is human and zarkon’s his dad. a nightmare idea, i know bc uhhhh the same thing that occurs w thinking about how lotor exists is uhh “zarkon fucks?” yeah. yeah he does. which uhhhhh yeah. but bare w me here, bc he’s still an utter dick in this au and krolia is still a badass. 

in this au, krolia was married to mr shirogane and had shiro before leaving earth on a garrison solo mission to pluto. she collided with a stolen galra ship manned by a prisoner who was trying to flee the empire, though the galra ship wasn’t damaged her ship was completely destroyed but she managed to survive for the prisoner to bring her aboard. together they tried to escape the empire, but they got caught. the prisoner was executed and krolia was taken to the arena. 

(earth believes she crashed her ship in the rings of saturn, and honor her death. no solo manned missions to space anymore, and certainly not to places humans haven’t been before. it also delays plans to send more people up there, so the next manned mission isn’t until shiro’s mission to kerberos. mr shirogane dies a five years before that mission.)

there she fought viciously and won literally every single one of her fights with only a dagger she’d earned early on in her battles. even when they provided bigger weapons, she always came on top with just a knife which earned her high praise and approval. enough to gain zarkon’s attention. 

idk why but he forces her to marry him, and when shiro’s 9 years old and krolia’s been in space for 5 years, keith’s born. he doesn’t actually go by keith at this point though because i doubt zarkon would let krolia name him that. not quite sure on what he’d go by though i quite like kyix of discordiansamba’s burgundy. krolia wanted to name him keith, and so calls him that when they’re alone as a secret nickname. 

keith doesn’t look fully human. a la lotor style i guess, he looks human but has purple skin and yellow sclera. pointy zarkon-ish ears and fangs. he’s still tiny as fuck though and doesn’t grow, to which he’s furious about bc galra are big and he’s a shorty but no one mentions it to his face otherwise he’d stab them right where they stand. 

krolia tries her best to raise him w good morals and lessen zarkon’s influence on him but she doesn’t fully manage it. he’s willing to please zarkon even if he’s not cruel about it, and he does wish for the best for the empire but knowing that his father’s reigned for over ten thousand years, he knows he’s probably never going to sit on the throne himself. doesn’t prevent him from getting all the training a prince would need (including a lot of combat training). 

he’s never told much about earth because krolia finds it hard to talk about. she does tell him about humans as a species and teaches him the three earth languages she knows, korean (her native language), japanese (mr shirogane’s native language) and english. she especially doesn’t tell him about shiro, but she does say that she left a husband and her family behind on earth, that she misses them a lot. 

back on earth, shiro goes to kerberos when he’s 26 (two years older than canon) and they still get caught. most canonical events in the year time zone go almost exactly the same. shiro gets sent to the arena, matt and sam still get sent off to the camps before matt’s broken out by the resistance, katie goes undercover as pidge, and lance and hunk are just regular dudes, but lance is in fighter class straight off the bat. 

(to earth, shiro crashes the ship and dies just like his mother did. which is......all kinds of sad to think about.)

except when shiro lands on earth, the garrison trio decide to break shiro out on their own. they then steal a jeep and head out into the desert, finding a nice guy who owns a shack (canon keith’s father but not in this au, who im gonna call mr fireman bc he doesn’t have a canon name). he’s been doing some investigating some funky stuff (the lion), and lets the kids crash at his place bc kids shouldn’t be wandering the desert w/o any supplies at night it’s dangerous. 

anyways, the shack conversation all goes almost exactly the same w mr fireman taking keith’s place. he goes with the kids, but he doesn’t get in the blue lion, she doesn’t let him in. mr fireman parts ways with the kids friendly-like, and the four of them head off to arus. 

things.....largely? stay the same? when it comes to stealing the red lion off the ship, they actually have to get the lions to drag it out of the cargo bay because they don’t have a pilot for it but as long as the lion is out of the empire’s hands, that’s all that matters although allura does try to pilot it when sendak’s ship is destroyed. due to having no pilot, they can’t retrieve black for shiro. so they only have three active lions, but three lions are still pretty powerful. 

from there i haven’t exactly worked out all the kinks but somehow they get in contact with rebels from their steady liberation of galra-controlled planets. they do small targets, taking out the weakest on the fringe of the empire and build up footholds while building the coalition. shiro fights with them on the ground, and using the castle with coran and allura when it’s not possible. sometimes he rides along with the other paladins. 

sometime before they go the galactic hub, and skipping over crystal venom entirely, they join forces with the rebels and the coalition to pull off a mission to kill zarkon. they’d received intelligence to suggest that he’s visiting a less secure ship, to oversee a project for a few days. instead of taking the lions and just blasting the ship to pieces, they decide to infiltrate and take him out stealth like to guarantee his death. 

only the information is faulty because it’s keith there instead of zarkon. 

when they learn that keith is zarkon’s son.......they kidnap him. 

their goal was to hold him hostage and/or interrogate him for weak spots in the empire, but somehow they end up thinking “hm maybe he can be redeemed bc his dad is literally an asshole and ehhh he can’t help who his parents are?” so they give him a chance....tentatively. 

keith, seeing this huge opportunity to sabotage his father’s greatest opponents and eventually steal the lions back for his father, takes this absolutely for granted and fakes his redemption. he basically pulls a lotor, and ends up helping them in certain areas but sabotaging them in others. he’s unable to report back to his father for spying purposes, but he does leave clues and/or hints to weaknesses somehow. all the while, the real reason for these things going wrong isn’t thought of. 

all the while, the paladins are trying to bond with keith. trying to get him to redeem himself, and they end up really liking him even though he’s still rather a loner, doesn’t pretend to be nice and trains like every day. he particularly gets along with shiro, the two of them forming a close bond that keith had not planned or counted on. 

allura is the only one who’s still suspicious of keith. she’s not....hostile. not really, she pretty much acts like she does in canon when keith’s heritage gets out. though they do have a few moments where they could maybe see eye to eye. she’s still apprehensive and unwilling to think that zarkon’s son could be anything but evil. 

this pays off when she investigates a major hit to the castle that renders it unfit for battle for a time and finds that keith was responsible for it. 

at this point, keith has been seriously reconsidering his allegiances. thinking that maybe the right thing to do really was to redeem himself and help out voltron and coalition. he’s not completely blind to the shitty things zarkon did, he’s well aware but he figures that maybe getting his father’s approval isn’t worth all the suffering of others nor something to desire. 

allura attacks keith and calls him out in front of everyone. providing evidence of literally all the times that keith’s fucked them all over. the team feel betrayed, keith is super guilty, and allura’s just pissed. keith doesn’t get a chance to explain before he’s thrown into a prison cell on the castle to wait until voltron can contact the coalition and decide what to do with him because it’s clear that zarkon hasn’t exactly been hurrying to find him. 

but then zarkon attacks the castle of lions with a massive fleet headed by haggar, a force that’s way too much for just three lions to take on while the castle’s defenses are still down. the whole team is in trouble and it pretty much starts to seem like zarkon’s gonna win and the paladins are gonna get killed. 

until the red lion reaches out for keith. 

so he breaks out of prison (that he could have done within minutes of being confined there), and heads to the hangar. he jumps in and uses the element of surprise to disable the fleet enough to make them need to retreat. 

the paladins are freaking out because uhhhh who the hell is the pilot of the lion? they do a little sound off like “allura that’s not you? coran? shiro?” but then keith uses the lion to communicate and basically says “sorry i broke out jail”. 

when they get back to the castle keith awkwardly does a heartfelt explanation of his plans and how the paladins actually did sort of make him want to redeem himself and realise just how much zarkon needs to get murked and stuff. he apologises for fucking them over and he even offers to go with whatever punishment they decide to dish out with no retaliation. 

the team go off and talk for a while. debating if they could really trust him anymore. allura is adamantly against it, pissed off that he’d already betrayed her trust after all zarkon did and the fact he piloted her father’s lion. lance joins her, upset he trusted him at all. pidge and hunk are apprehensive, pointing out that the lion must have seen the good in him to choose him. shiro believes in what keith’s saying and has faith in the kid to actually redeem himself. 

they tell him he can stay but the only reason he’s not dead and/or serving time in prison is bc he’s the red paladin. they make a lot of rules about what he’s allowed to do and not to do though, which keith doesn’t enjoy but he doesn’t complain about them. one of them is that he’s only allowed to fight the empire in the red lion and no on the ground stuff. 

now that the team have the red lion’s paladin they awaken the black lion and they form voltron for the first time. it’s badass, and the liberating of planets goes even faster than before. 

the paladins start to bond again even slower than before bc they need to rebuild that trust. it goes....pretty rockily considering the fact that keith is still pretty prickly in personality, and the others aren’t entirely convinced he’s actually changed sides. but shiro is essentially the only one that actually makes any headway in rebuilding the trust/relationship. 

one night he asks about keith’s mom. bc human far out in space? as far as the team knew there should have only been them and the holts, so he’s definitely curious. keith tells him about a pilot who’d been picked up in their solar system after their ship got destroyed and took them as prisoner. he tells shiro all about his mom and what she taught him of earth. 

but shiro. he starts to wonder who on earth this pilot was. because, uh, only very few pilots have gone missing in space and one of them is important to him. so he asks her name. keith replies krolia. shiro asks “as in...krolia kogane?��� and keith’s like yeah. 

shiro mentally freaks out, doing mental acrobats all over the place but his thoughts mostly boiling down to a mixture of “HOLY SHIT MY MOM’S ALIVE” and “HOLY SHIT I HAVE A HALF-BROTHER WHO’S AN ALIEN PRINCE”. he manages not to let keith know he’s freaking out, and excuses himself. 

they end up doing a covert blood test and yup keith is shiro’s half brother. this earns him points in “okay yeah he’s capable of change if we warm up to him”, so the team start to treat him more favorably, not that keith is aware of this new revelation. so it’s common knowledge to the ship minus keith. shiro tries even harder to bond w his little brother, bc uhhh yeah he’s never had a little brother and he definitely likes keith so far even though he was a little evil for a while. 

keith at some point expresses to shiro why he’s fine with not telling zarkon that keith’s on the paladins’ side. that his mother would most likely be killed for turning him against zarkon due to the fact that paladins are humans, and that she’s still at central command completely unable to get away. like a glorified prisoner because, well, she is. 

shiro suggests to the team that they pull off a rescue mission to free krolia, not only for keith’s sake but for shiro’s sake too. plus the fact that she’d been a prisoner for twenty three years. which then kicks of the finale of season 1. (yes we’re still in season 1. it should have been way longer than it actually was.)

things go largely the same, except that in allura’s place it’s krolia. when keith charges at zarkon his identity is revealed to him. they manage to rescue krolia, keith fights zarkon and thace destroys the shield holding them in place. they don’t go through a corrupted wormhole though. 

then there’s a cute heartfelt reunion between keith and krolia. during which keith emotes more than he ever has in front of the paladins, who have pretty much all accepted that yep keith’s a good guy now considering he almost fought to the death with zarkon. 

but then shiro steps up and calls krolia mom which confuses the fuck out of keith, the only one who doesn’t know. krolia shakily says “Kashi?” and they tearfully hug, krolia completely caught off guard that her other son wasn’t on earth where she left him. keith is confusion until krolia explains, and keith asks if that means shiro is his brother. they say yes and they have a big old threeway hug, to which lasts for like an hour because its big family bonding time. everyone is happy for them.

you’d think, huh is this the end of the au? this is pretty long already.....nope!! we’re just getting started!!! (this thing is a monster......hence why im never going to even attempt to write it out lmao)

we go into season 2 where krolia starts to talk to the others about the rebel galra group that she helped and kind of joined called the blade of marmora. she tells them that there was a galra named thace who kept her in the loop about keith, and the goings on of voltron. she tells them that they would be a very good ally in the fight against zarkon. 

shiro then backs this story up with his memory of how ulaz helped him escape jail, and says that they should trust them. the team tentatively agree, but decide not to immediately go to them and focus more on building the coalition. krolia pulls keith aside and gives them a knife that they had given her to protect herself as zarkon prohibited her to carry weapons. its keith’s marmora blade that she was unable to activate because of her lack of galra blood, but they gave it to her to protect herself anyways. 

canon largely stays the same for a while. zarkon still does the tracking thing, except when allura and keith go out in a pod, krolia comes with them. they have a little thing where they make clear with each other where they stand and end up having a little fun despite the tense atmosphere until the castle is attacked by zarkon.

when the team meet up with the blades, keith demands why they didn’t help krolia themselves. they’d already proved with shiro that they could free prisoners if they wanted to, and demands to know why they didn’t risk it for krolia. he wants to know why they never took a bigger part in taking down the empire and why they never stepped forwards to work with voltron themselves instead of letting the team come to them. 

kolivan says that he only gets the answers, an alliance between them and gets to keep the blade if he joins as a member of their order and take the trials. keith accepts. the rest of the blades however, don’t like the idea that the son of zarkon was joining up and taking the trials. but when keith passes and pretty much immediately tries to kill memory zarkon on sight, he proves himself to them. the blades ally with the coalition and voltron. 

again, season 2 goes quite a lot like canon. except!!! in the finale they actually do end up killing zarkon along with haggar and shiro doesn’t go missing! hurray!!! 

but. that means with no prince lotor, and a dead zarkon instead of comatose zarkon, there’s no one to lead the empire. hence a kral zera is called. 

(here is where i mention i have vague memories of s3 onwards and haven’t seen past s4. so i don’t...actually know how most canon events from here on out go in explicit detail. its all pretty vague.)

the plan from there is for keith to attend and win. if he gets crowned the new emperor, he could officially announce the end of the war, and significantly reduce the amount of fighting the resistance would have to do to bring peace to the known universe. the coalition & blades don’t fully trust keith however, thinking that once keith is on the throne he’ll just betray them. 

keith understands and explains he doesn’t actually want the throne. he suggests that they just kill everyone on the planet when the kral zera is called, with no more candidates, the empire will be severely fractured and would still be easier to defeat than having a leader. in the end, they go with the idea of having keith become emperor, but the coalition there in case people fight back against his orders. 

keith wins, some back down and obey and some don’t. the coalition and voltron take down those that fight back, and from there it’s a lot of “keith orders galra to release planets and those that don’t, get liberated by the resistance”. its a lot of politics where keith frees all the prisoners of the empire, lets them get back to their home planets and finds sam returning him to pidge and matt. 

he sets up a colony in an empty solar system for the civilian galra to live governed by the blades, while he sees to it that those that were soldiers are put on trial and punished for their various crimes. 

again, still not entirely sure what happens in late canon, but i guess from there it does the whole...sendak takes earth thing? but it’s actually a pretty easy mission considering they have the might of the entire coalition (which is almost the entire universe at that point) and the blades and voltron. but after the defeat of sendak there pretty much isn’t any opposing galra resistance to keith’s reign? so from then on it’s just the paladins, allura, coran and krolia back on earth experiencing things. 

krolia busts into the garrison like “hey guess who’s not dead! also meet my alien son who’s king of an entire race of people, and my other son who’s leader of the universe’s most powerful weapon also with a sick glowing arm”. the garrison sweats under the pure power and skill the three of them exude. especially when krolia utterly annihilates all records on their simulators/actual ships. and then keith and shiro join in on it too and they end up giving them all the awards and accolades bc no one is going to top that ever. 

the paladins go to disneyland. keith is still technically emperor but considering the blades have been overseeing all galra activity anyways, he’s not really needed. so he just bums around earth for a while, getting to know the other half of his heritage that he never really got to. 

krolia meets mr fireman and they end up getting together bc krolia deserves good things and a desert hermit who helped get shiro back into space and eventually to her with is a good thing. they still live out in the shack tho bc mr fireman is committed to it at that point, bc he ended up living there through sendak’s invasion pretty well. 

and then uh i think that’s pretty much it. keith is a normal teenager, allura and coran get puzzled by human shit, lance reconnects w his family, hunk does too and cooks a bunch of food and pidge works w the garrison in making it less shitty while also just tagging along with whatever dumb things they decide to experience. 

end of au!!!!