#but the fic in question was under a read more

[emeritusemeritus]

Ok so I was wondering if you could write a Fred Weasley X sarcastic hufflepuff reader and everyone kinda wonders how shes a hufflepuff because she comes off as bitchy but like she super caring with Fred and he’s like the only one that really sees that side of her

Hi Anon! I have to admit I got a little carried away with this one (what’s new). I started writing just a normal fic but it grew beyond measure because I fell in love with the snarky little Hufflepuff I was writing. I hope you enjoy! 🖤

**Part 2 is is HERE**

**important: I wrote this in mind following a masquerade ball that had already happened within the story to mark the anniversary of Hogwarts. **

Warnings: Unrequited love, idiots in love, friends to lovers all the usual divine tropes. Happy ending I promise. Minor sexual references, 1 mention of masturbation, George fancies Angelina. Slight angst? We have a massive crush on Freddie. Bonus points for anyone who knows where the title is from.

Word count: 3.8k (Oops I did it again)

But who can name the face?

"Nerds," you nod in greeting, a wide grin plastered on your face as you barge through their dorm room door, smirking to the two twins who sit hunched over their creations, trying to perfect a new product. George's nose was almost pressed into the book he was reading and Fred was tinkering with something you couldn't make out, probably an explosive of some sort. You jump onto George's bed, the closest one to you and kick off your shoes.

"Make yourself at home," George snarks, shooting a playful glance to you.

"Thanks Georgie I will," you beam, purposefully ignoring the sarcasm dripping from his words. He rolls his eyes with a smile before focusing back on the page.

"Earth to Fred?" You say, noticing a few moments later that he hadn't greeted you. You frown, hearing nothing back and George shoots a glance to you again before turning to his twin, kicking him swiftly in the shin.

"Git," Fred mutters, rubbing his shin and finally noticing that you were here.

"Hello to you too," you snark, watching as his eyes squint mockingly at you.

"Sorry your ladyship, didn't realise you required my full attention," he snarks, expecting a reaction that he doesn't get.

"Well I do," you nod, your voice and face completely blank until you erupt in a smirk that he mirrors.

"What are you working on?"

"Wait how did you get in here? You're a Hufflepuff!" George gestures to the Gryffindor boys dormitory you're sat in, but your face reveals nothing. Fred knows because of course he does, you've been here more times than you can count but George is usually not here when you sneak in.

"I believe I asked a question first, but if you must know," you lean in towards George, acting as if you were going to reveal an entire catalogue of secrets to him. "I'm a witch."

The deep sigh that George lets out only increases your devilish smile that you share with Fred, widening still when you hear him burst with laughter, the sound of his boisterous laugh filling your body with warmth. He had the most gorgeous laugh and you couldn't help but admire how handsome he looked when he laughed, eyes shining.

"Sodding woman," George mutters under his breath as he picks up the book again, pretending to read. You don't miss the smirk that's threatening to slip from his lips that he's trying so hard to conceal, making you feel a little victorious.

"So back to me, what are you working on?"

"Love potions," Fred says absently, as if it wasn't a big deal.

Your stomach roils dangerously, a sinking feeling settling in your lower tummy as Fred's words.

"Love potions?" You repeat, hardly hiding the frown on your face. You look between the twins but they offer nothing in the way of clues. Fred finally looks up to you again, shrugging slightly as he explains.

"Figured we could start selling them at the shop, break into the girly market. These are just drafts, we realised early on we don't have a bloody clue what we're doing with them."

"Draft draughts?" You joke, squashing down any uneasy feelings you felt. George snorts and Fred chuckles at your words as he nods, enjoying the stupid pun.

"Fancy helping a mate out?" He asks, trying to reel you into helping with whatever he was tinkering with, holding his hand out for you to take. "Could do with your expertise little badger."

You roll your eyes at the nickname but hop off George's bed to grab his hand, letting him lead you over to look at his little experiment, seeing a kind of heart shaped bottle that he was trying to transfigure. You offer to help him transfigure it into more of a heart and somehow manage to tint the glass pink which they both like.

"So why the sudden need to break into the girly market?" You ask, head cocked slightly as you look upon the bottle that you're quite proud of.

"Got love on the brain doesn't he," George says with a laugh, only to duck a moment later when Fred lobs a book at his head.

"What?" You ask, trying to sound neutral but fearing you were failing miserably.

"Met a girl the other night didn't he, hasn't shut up about her since," George adds, clearly unbothered by Fred's reaction as he ducks another flying object thrown by his bemused twin.

"You wouldn't shut up about her if you met her," he grumbles, cheeks filling with a vibrant blush. "Didn't even know girls could be that attractive, she was perfect mate."

"What from the half of her face that you saw?" George snarks, a loud 'ow' echoing through the room as he fails to duck this time.

You don't hear anymore, your heart pounding in your chest and you feel sick almost instantly, the room seeming to spin around you. Fred had met someone at the masquerade ball.

The Masquerade Ball was an extravagant affair marking the one thousandth year of Hogwarts since the founding of the school in 996AD. In honour of the ancient traditions, a masquerade ball had been held which would bring all the students together regardless of their assorted houses. You could be as anonymous as you wished, no need to disclose your house or your name and dates were not permitted in an effort to unite the school free from the usual restrictions that naturally came from house only events. Due to the enchantments upon the school, the masks were implemented to hide your identity for the night with made everything even more magical. You'd had a wonderful night, second only to the Yule ball though you really couldn't compare them.

You remembered now that you hadn't seen Fred all night, not for your lack of trying and now it all makes sense why. You need to get out before the tears really start, your world feeling like it was crumbling around you.

"Sorry, forgot about my potions work," you say quickly, reaching for your shoes and rushing out of the door before either of them could notice your tears.

You barely make it out of Gryffindor tower when your tears begin to stream down your face, lip wobbling as their words echo through your mind. You run to the nearest bathroom, praying that it's empty and rush into a cubicle to allow yourself some privacy in your heartbroken state.

You'd had a crush of Fred Weasley forever. The unlikely pair that you were, the hufflepuff and the Gryffindor brought together by mischief. You'd started falling for him in your second year but managed to keep it quiet, to push it away and keep it hidden in the hopes that it would fade over time... but it didn't. By your fourth year you had a full blown crush and by your fifth you were convinced you loved him. Every summer you wished that upon your return to school that your feelings would have disappeared or at least faded but the second that he'd smile at you, throwing his arm around you in a warm greeting you knew that your hoping was pointless. You'd spent years perfecting your ability to hide your feelings from him, torturing yourself in private to allow you to keep feelings-free around him. You reasoned that it was better to have him in your life as a best friend than to be without him completely and you were fine with that, at least until now. There's never been another girl as far as you remembered. Sure his friendship with Angelina sometimes made you jealous but you were sure that George fancied her and Fred was just trying to rile him up most of the time to get a reaction. But this mystery girl, he'd fallen for him without even knowing her, without even seeing her full face. She's stolen him away from you without a single thought and you didn't even know who she was to hate her.

Once you'd gotten most of your feelings out, you thought of the one thing that had kept you going all week. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on you, but it was different for you.

You'd also met someone at the ball, the masked man with the black hair and robes so entrancing that he'd actually made you forget about Fred entirely for the short time you spent together. He had a magic laugh, magnetic really that made you feel drawn to him even without knowing anything about him. You'd felt connected to him instantly, even as your eyes searched for Fred in the crowd of people but finding nothing. At least now you knew where he was.

You let out a sigh, wiping your last couple of tears with the sleeve of your robe as you took deep breaths to steady yourself. How could you go on from this? The masked man had been your dirty little secret that you'd never intended to go anywhere, as much as he kept sneaking into your mind.

Fred Weasley would never be yours. It was a fact, as excruciating as it was to admit. Someone else had turned his head, not that he was ever really looking at you and all you could do is sit back and watch with thoughts of your mystery man to keep you company.

You managed to avoid Fred and George for the next two days pretty successfully. You weren't as popular as them but you had some good friends in Hufflepuff that you chose to sit with at meal times and stayed within the common room for most of your free time, knowing that Fred and George couldn't find you there.

"Are you coming to dinner?" One of your friends asks, waiting for you in the common room as you finish up the chapter of the book you were reading.

"Yeah sure," you say, placing in your bookmark and casting your book onto the side.

You follow her out of the common room past the barrels into the dark corridor and scream as you're dragged away by two strong figures. You look back to your friend in alarm seeing her mouth a half-hearted 'sorry' and try to fight off your attackers, quickly getting the sense of who was manhandling you.

"Put me down, idiots!" You say struggling against their weirdly strong grasps, not stopping until you were placed onto a bench in the next corridor. You look up and see Fred and George towering over you, their eyes fixed into hard stares as they look at you, Fred with his arms crossed and George with his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff.

"You've been avoiding us," George accuses, openly saying the words that you knew were true. You can't bring yourself to deny it, or avoid the question, all you can think is how to make an excuse that would explain it all.

"No excuses," Fred says, clearly reading your face. Damn him for knowing you so bloody well.

"I've been busy," you say, lifting an eyebrow at them.

"Yeah, busy avoiding us," Fred says, his lips pursing a little as he looks down at you.

"Busy doing school work," you counter.

"Oh yeah what class?" George asks, though you can tell in his void that he's not falling for it one bit.

"All of them," you say, quickly adding, "you know I get surprisingly little work done when I'm with you two, funny that."

"Yeah nice one, tell it to my mother," Fred says completely deadpan. You sigh, knowing you're not going to get out of this one alive.

"I've just been busy," you say, lowering your barriers a little but keeping that little confession of love stored neatly tucked away where it would never come out no matter how open you were being. "Needed a couple of days to myself... people were starting to think I was a Gryffindor."

Fred's face remains unchanged but you can see the ghost of a smile pulling at George's face.

"It wasn't you, I just had a lot going on," you say with complete honesty, well maybe not complete.

"Needed a couple of days to get my head together, I've been drowning in homework and I'm think I'm failing charms. I honestly just needed a couple of days to sort myself out before they send an owl home and my parents would know how much in disappointing them."

Okay so not a complete lie, but not the complete truth either.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Fred says, his harsh glaze slipping from his face as he crouched down beside the bench you're sat on, his head still inline with yours at his astronomical height. George relaxes in front of you, scooting you across so he can sit on the other side of the bench. You feel awful essentially lying to them, though it was more altered truth but you could face them knowing, especially Fred.

"Embarrassed, mortified, horrified, you choose."

"It's us, you don't need to be embarrassed with us," George says softly. Usually your relationship was filled with vicious banter so seeing him so soft and kind with you was nice if not a little off putting.

"Anyway, now I have you back," Fred says with a smirk blooming on his face.

"We," George adds, shooting a look to his twin.

"Eh? Oh yeah... how come you never told us your common room was down here?! You could have been sneaking us treats this whole time!"

"Would have saved our legs many a trip to the kitchens!"

"Length of your legs it only takes three steps," you quip back to George who smiles widely.

"There she is," Fred says smiling at you. It's a beaming smile, eyes glimmering and it makes your heart burst to know that it's all for you. Fred suddenly stands, holding out his hand for you to take as you hop off the bench but to your surprise he doesn't let go and instead pulls you away, still holding your hand as you walk around the corner to the kitchen corridor, passing the painting of the silver fruit bowl that conceals the entrance to the kitchens.

"See all those times you've apparently come up to our room, could have brought the snacks," george says, bumping your shoulder as he nods to the door as you make your way past it. "All you have to do is," George says, walking in sync and surprisingly saying nothing at his brother's hand in yours.

"If you think I'm going to stop and tickle the pear every time I come to see you," you begin to say, only to be cut off by Fred.

"You can tickle my pair anytime, babe."

"Shove off Weasley," you say with a bite, trying to recover from his words quickly and fight off the blush that threatens your heating cheeks as they laugh amongst themselves.

"Well if you're offering," George says from the other side, to which you side step and hold out your foot, causing him to trip. He catches himself quickly before he falls but it's still pretty funny, as made apparent by yours and Fred's laughter.

"Thought you Hufflepuffs were supposed to be nice!"

"Coming from you?" You counter, sending a frown towards him, able to list off the top of your head a multitude of times he'd pranked someone, caused damage or injury and that was mainly just to yourself.

"She is nice," Fred quickly defends, shooting his brother a dung-eating grin, "to me at least."

You chuckle and carry on walking, watching out for George's revenge.

"Hold up, wait here," Fred suddenly says, coming to an abrupt halt near the main atrium. He grabs your arm to stop you, his hand breaking free from yours as he holds up a finger and runs back down the corridor.

You watch his figure disappear and squeeze your now unoccupied hand, your body already missing his touch. Truthfully the past few days had been torture being away from them, namely Fred, but it was necessary to contain the feelings that has threatened to burst out of you like a broken remembrall.

Suddenly there's a gasp to your side and you spin around quickly on your heel to face George, who is looking at you with wide eyes and a Zouwu like grin etched upon his face. You frown in confusion, not knowing what he's looking at until your entire body fills with dread with his next words.

"You're in love with him!"

You panic, not knowing what to do with the information. You can hardly deny it, it would be impossible to hide from George now he knew and you're certain that your reaction has given you away, so you go to the next default setting: threats.

"One word comes out of your mouth to anyone and I'll tell Angelina that I walked in on you wanking over her!"

George faces pales for a second before his cheeks heat up with a vivid red blush that spreads the full length of his face.

"But that didn't."

"Your old friend... Angelina Johnson... the Qudditch team captain," you say, ignoring his looks as you tilt your voice to sound more and more disgusted at his behaviour with every passing word.

"What? You can't."

"Naked on a broom, George Weasley! Could you be any more depraved?"

"Alright fine!" He says, holding his hands up in surrender, not wanting to push you further and find out that you weren't bluffing.

"I won't say anything to Fred," he promises, looking genuine in his agreement.

It's awkward now, the silence that follows as you come to terms that George is in on your secret now.

You don't look at him any longer, instead fixing your gaze to the stone floor as you consider the implications. Had you looked at George, you'd have noticed him battling with himself, fighting over what to say next. It wasn't his secret to tell, he shouldn't even be considering breaking him twin's confidence but the look on your face right now was enough to break whatever morality he had.

"You know... he's," George begins to say, your gaze drifting up towards him as you look into his eyes, expecting laughter or mocking but finding none.

"He's what?" You ask, confused about his sudden stop, eyes widening.

"He's coming."

"I was only gone for a minute, you two haven't fallen out already have you?" Fred jokes, his pockets clearly stuffed with treats that he'd acquired from the kitchens.

"No," you and George say at precisely the same time. So much for not looking suspicious. Fred trots off ahead urging you both to follow and you do so willingly and silently, hardly trusting yourself to speak in that moment as you feel George's eyes on you.

"Everything alright with y/n earlier? She seemed upset when I got back. Are you sure you didn't say anything to her?" Fred asks, taking off his tie and his school shirt as he undresses for bed, calling to George who's doing the same on the other side of the room.

"I didn't say anything mate," George says, "reckon you're thinking about her too much."

"Just being a friend," Fred says, perhaps a little too quickly.

"Well between 'being a friend' to y/n and your mystery woman, you certainly are doing a lot of thinking... reckon if you ignore one of them you might finally figure out that love potion," George says grinning as he climbs into bed.

"Shove off," Fred says, climbing into his own bed and pulling the curtain across with a harsh shove. He lays in bed unsettled for what seems like hours, his mind spinning between his friend and his mystery woman, realising with a sad conclusion that he'd gotten absolutely nowhere with either one of them.

♡

Fred Weasley was certain that his eyes had never been blessed enough to look upon something so captivating, so enchanting that it made his mouth dry. There was a sea of people around dressed in their fanciest clothes, an opulent symphony of colour and glitter, yet she stood out amongst the crowd like a singular lighthouse in a vast, dark ocean.

He was enthralled by the way her dress moved, clinging perfectly to her figure, highlighting the delicate curves and lines of her body whilst staying modest. It was arousing, the way her dress offered so much but showed so little, Fred's imagination running wild of what lay underneath.

She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman Fred had even laid eyes upon, he was certain. Her dress shining under the twinkling lights, her seductive smile and those eyes that seemed to twinkle all on their own even without the glistening reflection of the lights above her.

He was certain that he was the luckiest bloke in the room; that every other male was envious of the way his hand was wrapped tightly around her waist. But he didn't care what anyone thought or of their jealousy in the moment, he just couldn't believe his luck. They were pulled together as if my an invisible string, finding each other quickly as the music played around them, the soft lights acting like a runway between them both, eyes connecting almost immediately.

"Are you going to tell me your name?" He asks with a smirk, losing himself in her eyes as they seem to glimmer even more at his words.

"I don't think that's how masquerade balls work," she says with a laugh, earning a chuckle from him.

"What about your house?" He follows up, needing to know something about her even if it's tangible evidence.

The smile she flashes him makes him almost dizzy, sparkling eyes peering up at him from beneath her mask.

"Only if you can guess it," she counters, leading him down a dark path of guessing who she might be.

"Sorry I think you've hit your limit on questions," she says as the song changes. "Perhaps I could ask you some?"

"You can ask me anything... except my name," he smirks from under his mask, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips briefly under your gaze.

"Are you single?"

His laughter is contagious and she finds herself chuckling along with him as his hand at her waist squeezes her tighter momentarily for her cheekiness.

"Definitely," he replies softly, though he can't help but feel a little stab at the thought of his best friend, wishing for years that he could say that he wasn't single in the slightest.

♡

Fred wakes with a start, confused for a moment as to his whereabouts having jumped so quickly from his dream to reality. He was back there again, his mind so fixed on his mystery woman that every dream was a recollection of that night, though this time he was certain that there was something different. Had his mystery date always sounded so much like y/n?

Part 2 anyone?

[emmylksblog]

COLD NIGHT // Héctor Fort

summary: A tough week left you battling insecurities, and it all came crashing down during your boyfriend's celebratory dinner with the team. based on this request

genre: angst, comfort

warnings: anxiety

a/n: i feel like I’m getting worse at writing lately, and it never seems like I can fully capture what I imagine, especially since english isn’t my first language. I’m really sorry for that, and I truly appreciate everyone who’s been reading my fics—your support means so much to me! i also hope everyone is doing well with everything that’s going on in Spain and, especially, with the heartbreaking situation in Palestine. stay strong and take care of yourselves. Stay healthy! ❤️

It had been a tough week. Ever since your relationship with Héctor was made public, you’d been walking on eggshells. The pressure to keep up appearances weighed heavily on you, everyone seemed to want to know who the footballer’s girlfriend really was.

Of course, you’d gained haters instantly, and at first, you thought you could handle it. But all it did was add even more stress to your life.

Héctor noticed how distant you’d been with him lately, and he hoped that bringing you as his plus one to the team dinner would help things go back to normal.

As you walked into the restaurant with Héctor, you felt eyes on you from every direction. You tried to ignore it, putting on a small smile as you greeted his teammates and their partners. The noise and energy around the table were comforting, but a knot still tightened in your chest.

Sitting down beside Héctor, you tried to blend in, watching everyone else talk and laugh. Héctor’s hand found yours under the table, squeezing gently. He leaned closer, his voice soft, “You doing okay?”

Forcing another smile, you nodded, hoping it would be convincing enough. But Héctor didn’t buy it.

It felt strange trying to interact with Héctor the way you used to. None of this was his fault, but now, with everyone watching, you just couldn’t act like before. You didn’t want him to worry though, so you brushed your thumb gently over his hand.

“I’m really okay, don’t worry,” you said softly, your eyes fixed on your hands resting together in your lap.

He watched you closely, not entirely convinced, his thumb grazing your knuckles as if reassuring you he was there.

Héctor wasn’t ready to let it go. He shifted in his seat, positioning himself so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes searching yours with a playful seriousness. 

When you looked up, he raised his eyebrows up and down quickly, making a silly expression that instantly drew a laugh from you. You nodded, feeling some of the tension ease as you held his gaze, grateful for his little attempt to cheer you up.

You felt a wave of warmth spread through you at his words, the tension in your chest finally starting to ease. His touch, so simple yet comforting, made everything feel a little less overwhelming. 

"Thank you," you whispered back, your voice barely audible over the noise of the room. You could see the concern still in his eyes, but his smile never wavered, and that was enough to make you feel safe for the moment.

He kept his hand on your cheek for a few seconds longer before letting it fall, but his presence beside you felt like a quiet promise. No matter how much the world outside tried to pressure you, he was here, grounding you.

Now feeling more at ease, you joined in the dinner, even getting involved in conversations with some of the players' girlfriends nearby, who turned out to be really kind.

Their easy smiles and friendly questions helped you relax, and soon enough, you found yourself laughing along with them, the tension from earlier slowly fading away. 

Every so often, Héctor would glance over at you, his eyes soft with relief at seeing you more comfortable. 

Dabbing your mouth with a napkin, you reached for your bag and gently tapped Héctor on the shoulder, letting him know you wanted to head to the bathroom. He immediately offered to come with you, but you shook your head with a small smile. 

“Alright, just be careful,” he said, his eyes full of quiet concern. “I’ll be right here when you get back.”

You slipped into one of the stalls, grateful for a moment alone, when the sound of two girls talking loudly caught your attention. Their voices grew clearer, and you quickly realized they were talking about you and your relationship with Héctor.

"I just don’t get it," one of them scoffed. "I mean, have you seen her? She doesn’t belong with someone like Héctor."

The other girl laughed, clearly amused. "Right? He could do so much better. She’s just... so basic, like some lowly girl who got lucky. I bet she just clings to him because she knows she’d be nothing without him."

They kept talking, each comment feeling like a jab to your chest. "I give it a few months, tops. Héctor’s too good for her, and he’ll figure that out sooner or later." 

You stayed silent, holding your breath as the hurtful words sank in.

The happiness you’d felt just moments ago plummeted, sinking deep into something cold and sharp in your chest. A tight ache formed there, squeezing painfully as their words echoed in your mind. You could feel the sting of tears building, threatening to spill at any moment, and suddenly, every harsh comment they made seemed all too true.

You felt like absolute trash. Each word they’d said chipped away at the fragile confidence you’d built up tonight, and the doubts you’d tried so hard to push down now roared to life, making you question everything.

You’d been telling yourself the same things all week, those same cruel doubts replaying over and over in your mind. But somehow, hearing it come from strangers—spoken out loud without a hint of hesitation—made it feel painfully real. It cut deeper, each word like a confirmation of every insecurity you’d been trying to ignore.

Wiping away the few tears you couldn’t hold back, you exited the stall with quick, abrupt movements. There was no way you could stand another second listening to that crap. You pushed the door open, not caring if they noticed the expression on your face, and stepped back into the hallway, determined to leave that negativity behind you.

You did everything you could to hold back the tears as you walked back to the table, trying to act like nothing was wrong. The last thing you wanted was to worry Héctor any more than he already was.

You’d noticed how closely he’d been watching you all evening, alert to every little shift in your mood. This past week, you’d been distant, and he obviously knew something was up, but he hadn’t pressured you to tell him anything. 

As you approached the table, you forced a small smile, hoping it would be enough to keep him from noticing the cracks starting to show.

The moment you sat down, Héctor’s hand instinctively found its way to your leg, a small gesture meant to ground you. He wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, but he could see the faint tension in your eyes, the way you seemed to be holding something back.

Without a word, his thumb gently traced soothing circles on your knee, hoping it would bring you even a small bit of comfort.

You pulled Héctor's hand off your leg, your body tensing with an unfamiliar mix of emotions. After what you had overheard in the bathroom, you didn’t know how to feel anymore. You couldn’t look at him, afraid he’d see right through you, so you kept your eyes down, your chest tight. 

Héctor's face fell as he noticed the sudden distance between you two. His hand hovered for a second before resting on the table, unsure. He could feel the shift, the unease in your every movement. His voice cracked slightly as he asked, “What’s wrong? Please, talk to me…”

Those words were your last straw. You could feel the tears starting to burn your eyes. You stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The sudden motion caught the attention of the other Barça players, their eyes flicking between you and Héctor, but you didn’t care. You just needed to get out.

Héctor didn’t hesitate for a second. He grabbed your purse and rushed after you, calling your name, his voice urgent. “Hey, wait up!”

Once outside, the cold night air hit you, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to fight the chill in more ways than one. Héctor caught up with you in seconds, his hand gently but firmly taking yours, stopping you in your tracks. You looked up at him then, eyes red and face twisted in confusion, frustration, and hurt.

"Why won’t you talk to me?" Héctor's voice was soft but desperate, like he was afraid he was losing you. "What’s going on, please..."

You didn’t answer right away, just staring down at the ground, the weight of it all pressing down on you. Slowly, you brought your hand up to his arm, fingers tracing the tattoo you’d memorized so many times in the past when anxiety gripped you.

It had become a soothing ritual, something that calmed you when everything felt out of control. You hadn’t done it in a while, but now, it felt like the only thing that could help you breathe.

Héctor’s face softened as he watched you, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m here. Whatever it is... we’ll figure it out, together.”

You took a deep breath, finally meeting his eyes, and everything spilled out—the hurt from the whispers, the insecurities you’d been battling, how you felt like you didn’t deserve him, like you were never enough.

Héctor listened without interrupting, his hand never leaving yours, and when you finished, he pulled you into a tight hug, holding you as if he never wanted to let go.

“I love you,” he murmured into your hair, his arms strong around you, grounding you. “You’re everything to me. Don’t listen to what anyone says. You’re more than enough. You’re my enough.”

You held onto him, your body trembling but somehow calming in his embrace. The cold didn’t matter now; just the warmth of his touch, the softness of his words.

Héctor leaned back, looking down at you with a small, gentle smile. “Come here,” he said, before pressing his lips softly against yours, sealing the promise in a kiss that spoke volumes.

You kissed him back, letting everything fall away in that moment—your doubts, the voices, the pain. All that was left was him, and you. Just the two of you.

[unhingedangstaddict]

Currently working on my own fix-it fic but man this shit is harder than I thought it'd be- I keep crying and then getting distracted reading other fix-it fics. Thought I'd share this snippet to hopefully motivate myself to keep going???

Hen was starting to wonder if maybe Tommy was out for a run when she heard a faint ‘oh shit’ from inside the house. She banged on the door again. “Come on Kinard! I know you’re in there!” She called out. If Tommy’s neighbors thought she was crazy, oh well, too bad. Hen really didn’t care.

Finally the door was opened by Tommy. His hair was a mess- sticking up as though he’d been running his hands through it far too much-, he had deep dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, his eyes were puffy from crying, and frankly, he looked like shit. “What do you want, Hen?” Tommy rasped. Whether his voice was hoarse due to dehydration or yelling and/or crying was unclear.

“To talk about what happened last night.” Hen crossed her arms.

“You mean you’re here to yell at me for what I did?" Tommy guessed. He hadn't forgotten the thinly veiled shovel talk from Hen and Karen months back at the medal ceremony- he wasn't surprised Hen was here now. “Trust me I hate myself for it enough. There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already thought about myself.”

“No. I’m here to try and understand what even happened. According to Eddie, Buck wasn’t making very much sense last night. Eddie would’ve come himself to check on you but he’s got Buck right now. Eddie’s worried about you and frankly, I am too.”

Tommy sighed deeply and stepped aside to let Hen into the house.

Soon they were sitting at Tommy’s kitchen table with mugs of coffee in hand.

“So are you gonna tell me what happened or are you just gonna keep having that staring contest with your coffee?” Hen questioned.

“He asked me to move in with him.” Tommy admitted quietly.

“Okay,” Hen said slowly, waiting for Tommy to explain further why he was upset by it. Beyond the obvious matter of Buck leasing his loft apartment and Tommy owning his house, Hen wasn’t sure what the issue was.

“For a split second, I thought about saying yes.” Tommy confessed. “Then I returned to reality and realized I had to end it.”

“But why?” Hen questioned.

“Even if it was only for a second, Hen, I was ready to, what? Sell my house and more than half my stuff to move in with him? I’m not even mad about that part- I’m upset with myself for considering it. I’ve been in Evan’s position before, first gay relationship, lovesick, you think it’s gonna last forever. And I’ve been the first for guys before too. Like I told Evan last night, I know how it ends. And I guess I’d rather break my own heart than wait around for Evan to do it.”

“If you’ve been so sure all this time that it could never work, why did it take until now for you to call things off?” Hen questioned.

“I think from the start I knew I was playing with fire. After the last guy I was a first for, I told myself I wasn’t going to do it anymore. Then I met Evan, and he was just so magnetic, I couldn’t stay away even if I wanted to. I couldn't say no to him. I think I always knew my heart would get broken, and I guess I was okay with that all this time, until last night when I realized I love him, and I knew I had to cut myself off before I reached a point of no return.” Tommy explained. “I mean, I’m a fucking a mess right now and I was the one who called it off. I don’t know if I would’ve been able to survive him ending it.”

“Did you really just figure out last night that you love him?” Hen asked.

“I guess I sorta loved him from the start but last night was different, Hen. I’m in love with him, like well and truly love him, in a way I’ve never felt before, about anyone.” Tears filled Tommy’s eyes. “And I’m just his first. And as badly as I want it, I know I don’t get to be his last.”

“What makes you so sure you can’t be his last?” Hen wondered.

“Because I’m not the forever guy." Tommy shrugged slightly as a tear finally escaped and slid down his cheek. "At best I’m the close-to-but-never-quite-enough guy."

[toosweetwildflowers]

TURNED

Part One

Astarion x Reader

..............

I haven't written fic in a while but this damn vampire has me in a choke hold. This story asks the question: what if asention wasn't the only way to be together forever. I may add more to this if people like it. Hope you enjoy!

.............

Sweat and blood mingled in the atmosphere of the underground dungen. Your eyes were heavy and stinging as you strained to look forward. Your arms lay heavily by your side, your back flush againt a large cold pillar. It was as though you were going through shock, vision blurred, sound around you muffled, vertigo sweeping in; and perhaps you were. In your immediate vision you could see  Shadowheart. Her visage so close you sware you could read the concern and fear like a tapestry were your vision up to the task. She seemed to be speaking, shouting even, although to your reduced senses it appeared inconsequential.

"She's bleeding out. None of the spells I've tried are doing anything. She's going to die."

Another muffled voice, maybe Karlach you couldn't be sure, attempted to calm the worried cleric. You saw Shadowheart close her eyes and steady her breathing. She touched your arm and began chanting a spell under her breath.

You tried to piece together what had occurred. You recall fighting your way through Cazadors palace. Facing off against the bastard as he prepared to sacrifice thousands for his profane assention. You remember Astarion, his resolve unmoved, his desire in that moment to ascended and become untouchable. The way he looked into your eyes when he said he would be better than Cazador. The swell of pride within you when he made that choice. Bringing your attention back to the present you swept your gaze across the battlefield searching for the pale elf. You could faintly make out Astarion's white curls somewhere behind Shadowheart. Blinking several times you saw him knelt down next to what appeared to be Cazador's dead body. While you couldn't see his face, the way his body contorted and heaved it was evident he was crying. In that moment you forgot about your drowsy state and wanted nothing more than to comfort him. You made an attempt to stand up and that's when you noticed. Blood. Lot and lots of blood. All over your hands.

You must have given Cazador's swarm quite the fight. You chuckled to yourself only to find agonizing pain in both your chest and abdomen. Your eyes  drifted to your abdomen and that's when you finally put things together.

The blood was yours. It saturated your robes and pooled on the ground beneath you. Despite shodowheart's continued effects to heal you, you knew you were fading. You expected to feel lost, scared, even abandoned in this moment but truly you felt peace. You looked around to your companions and felt loved. No matter what happened to you, you convinced yourself they would go on to continue healing and live the lives they never had the chance to. You smiled to yourself, evidently loosing your touch to reality as you continued to bleed out. You felt Karlach grab your shoulder.

"Don't give into it soldier. We'll get you patched up. You just stay with me OK." Her words feigned optimism and bravery but the look on her face gave way to fear.

You suddenly felt shadowheart's warm hands cupping your face taking the weight off of your now heavy head. She moved your head from side to side as if the movement alone would give her any new information about your condition. Then she spoke, weather it was intended for you to hear or a communication to Karlach you weren't sure, but what she said caused you to react.

"We've waited long enough. Where the hell is Astarion we need to get her back to camp."

The words cut through your faded state momentarily. No you couldn't, you wouldn't interrupt Astarion's moment. He had waited literal centuries for the opportunity to be truly and honestly free. He had finally let himself cry and release some of that pent up trauma.

You were fine surely.

Karlach released your shoulder and stood from her crouched position at your side. She had her sights on Astarion but before she could take more then a step you mustered enough strength to grab onto her leg.

"No. Don't. Please." Your words came out ragged and you could taste the blood seeping it's way down your throat.

Karlach met your gaze with empathy. She knew, in her way, exactly what you were trying to avoid. She held your gaze and took your hand in hers.

"I'm sorry". She spoke softly before turning her head and shouting Astarions name.

Before you could so much as blink he was by your side. His face creased in worry, sparce tears still trailing down his cheeks. You raised a hand to wipe them away. You'd never get over the soft yet cold feel of his skin. Like poreceline or marble it was perfect. He was perfect. When he spoke it came out rushed and strained as if he couldn't get the words out fast enough. He looked to Shadowheart almost pleading but he kept his tone sharp.

"What happened to her. Can you heal her? Please."

Shadowheart shook her head slightly, evidently drained from the magic she had been conjuring to keep you breathing.

"I'm sorry Astarion I've done everything I can. God's I'm so so sorry". She stood and welcomed Karlach's embrace as tears formed in the edges of her eyes.

Astarion shook his head several times unwilling to believe it. You took his hand in yours and with the other you lifted his chin to meet your eyes.

"I'm so proud of you my love". You soke softly unable to give your voice much more of your energy. He tried to look away as more tears brimmed his eyes but you brought his chin back to face you and continued. "You faced him and you won. You're free after all this time. Hold on to that. No matter what happens to me I.."

Astarion interrupted you, tears falling down his face no longer able to keep them at bay. "I can't lose you. I won't lose the first person I've ever really cared about."

His voice became harsher almost angry. He couldn't accept this not after everything you two had gone through. "I can't. I won't."

You grabbed his face in your hands giving everything you had left. " I love you Astarion. You are so so loved."

And that was it. The world around you began to fade to black as you fell to your side no longer able to hold him. You watched, as if in slow motion, Astarion grip your shoulders to avoid you hitting your head. He looked around frantically. In that moment he had to make a choice. He closed his eyes and laid you gently on the floor on your back. Then he stood and let out a sigh before turning around and making his way towards Cazador's limp body.

You watched through almost blackened vision as a Astarion knelt beside the body and without hesitation chomped down on it'd neck. He was drinking from Cazador. But why?

You tried to remember what Astarion once said about the differences between spawn and mature vampires. One simply had to drink the blood of the one who turned them to become a full vampire. Not an easy task if that someone was your abusive master. You considered Astarion's motivations. Sure he would have more power being a true vampire but he still wouldn't be able to walk in the sun nor enjoy the food of the living. Gods the only thing it would bring besides power would of course be the ability to turn others...

Then it hit you, he was doing it for you. To turn you. To save you. You wanted to tell him he didn't need to. That you weren't worth saving, not if it ment he would live with the guilt of turning you.

You tried to speak as he approached you but the words would not form. He knelt beside you and you could see blood dripping from his chin. No not just blood, but tears too. He lifted your upper body into his arms and cradled you as he sat with his back to the piller. You felt his cold touch as he wiped strands of hair off your sweat and blood ridden face. He did so with the gentlest touch as if time had frozen and he could hold you like this forever. When he spoke he didn't take his eyes off yours.

"Go. Get everyone out of here". He motioned towards Cazador's staff with the hand he had been carresing your face with. He meant to release the spawn in those cages. Set them free into the underdark. Gods you were so proud of him. Karlach and Shadowheart both hesitated for a moment.

"Go! I'll get her out of here. I.....promise". That must have been enough to convince them as they swiftly made their way out of the large chamber.

Now it was just you and Astarion. He cradled your head and brought his lips towards your neck. He kissed your pulse point gently and whispered in your ear.

"I'm sorry my love but i am a selfish bastard. I won't lose you."

He turned your head to face him leaving the ghost of a kiss on your lips before returning his attention back to your neck seeking your weakened pulse. "This is going to hurt. Like no pain you've ever known." For a moment he closed his eyes and you could tell he was reliving his own tortous turning at the hands of Cazador.

He opened his eyes again before he spoke. A fire in them. A defiance. "But you won't be alone. I'll be here. I'll get you through it. I won't leave you darling".

You felt his icy breath on your neck right before the sting of his fangs as they broke skin.

For a moment it felt like any other feeding, an initial pain leading to pleasure even arousal, but that swiftly changed. You felt excruciating pain beginning in your heart, as if your very stomach acid was being injected directly into your aorta. You bagen to wither in Astarion's arms, unconsciously and reflexively trying to escape the burning sensation. He held you close keeping his mouth on you still. The burning only intensified as your body began spazzing without your consent. It was exactly as Astarion had described. You tried to convince your body you were safe, that he was right there. The man you loved was right there and once the venum had spred you truly would be able to love him for eternity.

You felt Astarion release your neck and as he turned your face to his you tried to convey gratitude. Then you wanted to plead with him not to watch. Then all you could feel, all you could think was pain.

[chaos-in-deepspace]

LADS Zayne: Kitty Licks | NSFW

Wrote this super quickly to do a test run in notepad fics on twitter and this is what happened. 15 minute drabble of cat Zayne let's goooo.

Pairings Zayne x Reader Warnings Blow Jobs, Cum Swallowing, Cat Zayne, Bottom Zayne Disclaimer: This is an original fan work for “Love and Deepspace”. Do not repost on other platforms or plagiarize. All characters shown in this fic is 18+.

Blog Information | Masterlist

Zayne

In a cat’s social hierarchy, the alpha is the one grooming the others.

It was something you had read earlier that day. After Zayne had come into the situation of becoming a cat hybrid due to an accident with an evol wand, he had been acting more and more… cat-like.

It had been amusing at first, seeing how he would chase after a feather and nuzzle against you; hell, he even purred for you. Something you thought had originally been adorable was how he would give small love bites on your hand or lick you.

After reading that, however, you felt a small change to your tune. Licking you was a form of grooming, in a sense. Showing his dominance, something you didn’t always attribute to Zayne in your relationship. The frequency at which he licked you had increased as well, and you felt the urge to do something about it.

This led to now, as Zayne licks at your palm while scrolling on his phone, his ears twitching a bit whenever he sees something of interest. “Zayne?” your voice called out, knocking him out of his trance.

He looked at you with a cute ‘mrew’ noise, another cute quirk of his new cat-like tendencies. He cleared his throat as he put his phone to the side, “Did you need something?”

“Actually, I do.” You murmured as you went to grab his hand, “Lay on your back; I wanna do something.” You said, already eying him up and down. Zayne furrowed his eyebrows in confusion but followed your command without asking any questions.

He lay down, his back slightly prompted up on the arm of the chair as he waited. “Is this fine?” he asked, watching as you crawled closer on the couch. Your hands slid to the front of his pants, playing with the zipper there as you licked your lips.

“This will work out perfectly.” You murmured more to yourself than to him. You slowly undid his zipper, and Zayne’s breath hitched, his tail swaying a bit as he looked down. It was easy to move the layers of fabric to the side and take out his already half-erect cock.

He groaned as you held him, the member hot in your hands as you stroked him casually, “So this is what you were after…” Zayne huffed, watching how your hand pressed against the tip, collecting the small bit of pre cum that was already there.

Then your tongue lolled out as you licked up the length. He hissed at the sensation; it felt too much yet not enough at the same time. A groan followed it as he felt how your tongue pressed against the slit of the head, licking up the saltiness of him.

It didn’t take much for him to be fully erect in your hands, and he went to run his fingers through your hair, but you quickly snatched his wrist and placed it on his stomach, “No touching, kitten.” You said with a smirk. He let out another groan as you continued to just lick at his length, your wet tongue trailing up from the base to right under the head where his frenulum was.

He was used to you popping him into your mouth, but right now, you were content with running your tongue all over him. It had him twitching against your wet muscles as he let out another groan.

“P-please, I need…” he groaned when he felt you sucking at the head now, his words getting lost in his throat.

“What was that, kitty? I didn’t hear you over your purring.” You teased as you then went back to licking him. He was already so close just from that, and your tongue slowly went down lower to his balls, licking the soft skin there while your hand worked on his length.

He was gasping now, his ears flat against his head as he squeezed his eyes shut. He bit down on his lower lip, the small fang almost piercing through the delicate flesh there. His grip on his shirt got tighter as he rolled his hips into your hand a little more feverishly.

Then you put your mouth right on the head, your tongue pressing against the slit, and it was all over for him. The salty bitterness of his release coated your mouth as you gently sucked on him. His eyes were closed while his mouth hung open, his breathing ragged as he tried rolling further into your mouth, but at your angle, he couldn’t reach it.

After a few moments, he stopped, slumping into the mattress. His tail hanging limp underneath him as he stared at the ceiling. You left his length and swallowed what was left in your mouth, “There, now I’m the dominant one. I licked you.” You said triumphantly.

Zayne was confused, both because of his post-orgasmic bliss and your wording. His eyes slowly trailed over to you, “What?”

“Cats assert dominance by licking. You kept licking me, so in turn, I licked you. Now I’m the dominant one.” You explained simply.

Zayne huffed in reply, rolling his eyes, “So that’s why you…I wasn’t trying to assert dominance over you.” He tried to explain, but honestly he didn’t have a reason as to why he kept licking at you. Perhaps it was his instinct to do that to his mate…partner. His partner.

“Suuuuure you weren’t…well now that we finished that, let’s watch a movie or something.” You said, getting up. Zayne was quick to grab you and drag you onto his lap.

“Not so fast.” He murmured, his eyes trailing up and down your body, “Not until I please my…alpha.” He said with a smirk. A shiver ran down your spine as you returned it. If he was willing to help you get off, then no way in hell were you about to turn down this opportunity. That was…as long as you got to remain in charge.

[arn359]

Wine is waaaay to worse than i imagined😭😭😭. I will blame all the fic that i read about him and make like he was a nice guy. The fact that i will immediatly shoot the other au without question if he meet them is insane. And the way he always want more power and he will always try to manipulate the king . Also poor coffee😓.

Anon, I’m using your ask to ramble about Wine. And it’s too long…. So i think i will put the rest under the cut. After the pic.

I haven’t read much of fics that have Wine in it. But with so little information about him, the way it scattered around and languages barrier. I understand that ppl may have different view of him, also is the setting of the fic. If it’s on the surface, i guess he could be better???

But there’s a thing about FSG(Fellswap-Gold) being set in communist theme , Wine being the head of the royal guard, AKA he the head government. Idk about you guys, but for me. Any head government of a dictatorship system could never be a nice guy. NEVER. IT’S UNACCEPTABLE.

Though, you guys can have fun, just don’t forget it exists in real world. And even thought it’s not real. Propaganda exists, so is the media effects.

I summarized some of the timeline in the second pic (The art is based from the creator)

I hate Wine so much, but here i am defending him(?) nope just explaining my insight. (i still haven’t read the setting with proper translation , so this is my headcanon from what i understand)

Wine will immediately shoot other AU.

It’s both Gaster and the system that made him that way. He’s born to be the best solider. He trained hard, deem to be love by Gaster but Gaster only see him and Coffee as tools. After Wine feelings toward Coffee became ‘his only family’ Wine wants to protect Coffee. Wine changed to rely on Coffee being relied to him. Wine betrayed Gaster cuz Gaster want to get rid of Coffee.

Wine is a conservative, because that what the system always is.

So Wine will shoot other AU immediately because for the system. AU is see as threat. The AU would bring new possibilities and that’s against the conservative view that is to continue the old/current system.

(The dictatorship and conservative control the knowledge of their citizens. Keep their knowledge low so it makes them easier to control. Risks of having the AU be seen by citizens is not good. Citizens can’t see new things, can’t have more knowledge of other AU, can’t know that world with freedom exist. So the AU is see as threat)

But of course, Wine is not really a full conservative as we seen in some settings about him, like Wine doesn’t discriminate toward Undyne&Alphys, Wine support Grillby and Muffet interracial wedding. But the system, the time(their au set in old period), and social. Also is the way he grow up, the way he need to be ‘the best’. It rooted too deep into his mind. And it show with what he said toward Coffee.

Yes Wine always seek power.

Because he’s a coward. Wine felt loved when Coffee relied on him as a child. But when they grow up, Wine still think that way to the point of unhealthy. Because he feared of being alone and lost his only family. And because of the system in underground is like that, he needs power to stay safe. To stay alive and hope that the thing he fears the most never come true. So it lead to seeking powers.

Wine for me, he’s a coward, he fears and the only way he knows how to ease those fears is to have more power.

Kinda words these badly, cycling nonstop. But it’s really just the way it is. Cycle. The system can't be changed. It needs to be perished.

Yes…. Poor Coffee…he also has a problem… but that’s for another time. Another post… the bairnrot hitting me bad…

These information are from @/fsg-settings go check it or you can see my post and a link to my doc i collected all the information in one doc and used google translated on them. So you can just read there. Or maybe opening the web would be easier?

[f1-stuff]

You mentioned omegaverse in the surreal DC reblog where he’s commenting far too much on Charles’s smell lol and it made me wonder if you’ve ever considered writing omegaverse Charlos? Do you have any interest or not so much your thing?

Love your work <33333

Hello! ❤️ I didn't used to be into omegaverse very much tbh, but something clicked in the last couple years and I started to vibe with it a lot more. I actually did start to write an abo charlos fic, that's also a Victorian-era royalty arranged marriage situation (woo that's a mouthful 😂), but I haven't added much to it in a while...

The funny thing is that I find myself forgetting it's abo while writing bc there's so much else going on, and then I have to throw in a line about someone's scent asghfjlslsdk. But anyway, I'm gonna share a little more of it now just because I feel like it's been a while since I posted a fic or a snippet...

“Charles.”

Impatience has crept into his mother’s voice by the second utterance of his name, and yet Charles still takes the time to finish the page he’s reading before clapping the (dreadfully boring) book shut and looking up at her expectantly. As usual, she doesn’t look particularly amused by his stubbornness.

“Charles, I was thinking that perhaps you and I should stay away from the palace for an additional month or so.”

“What?” he frowns. “Why?”

“To rest,” she suggests. “It’s been a very tough week, and you still don’t look well-”

“Maman,” he sighs, rubbing his temple where a headache is starting to form. Of course, he won’t tell her that. “I feel fine. And I’m ready to go home. We already missed Uncle’s birthday. We are not missing Papa’s.”

His mother doesn’t reply. It’s not the first time she’s brought it up, and it won’t be the last, but Charles isn’t losing this particular argument. Not even if he has to escape back to the palace himself. A week away from his father in his poor condition is already too much to bear, let alone the prospect of more time apart.

Charles and his mother’s retreat to their country residence had been unavoidable. The ‘very tough week’ in question is Charles’ heat, which had been brought on early due to the stress he's been under, caused by his numerous advisors' renewed efforts as of late to convince him to sign the regency order. No doubt they’ll be hoping that now, weakened by five days of fever and delirium, he’ll feel further compelled to relinquish his power to a regent in the event of his father’s death before he’s come of age.

It’s never going to happen, and his mother doesn’t need to try to protect him by hiding him away for a month either. She, along with everyone in that damned palace, treats him delicately enough as it is. Ever since he’d presented around eleven years old, he’s been wrapped in cotton wool. But just because he’s an omega doesn’t mean he isn’t perfectly capable of standing up for himself. In fact, he can’t wait to be free of the silly protective measures that were put in place almost seven years ago. The moment he’s crowned, he’s doing away with all of it.

“Really, Charles. I hope you’re not upset we had to come here. You know that it’s for your own safety-”

“Yes, maman, I know,” he interrupts, then sighs and aims a small smile her way to soften his exasperated tone. “I’m not arguing that. But I don’t need any more time to recover. It isn’t as though I do much more than this in the palace, anyway.”

Reading books, painting, playing piano and chess - there isn’t much more that he’s allowed to do. The other activities that his brothers partake in, like horse riding and archery, aren’t permitted for him, nevermind that he performed them just fine before he’d presented. That argument has never worked to convince anyone to grant him allowances because it’s not really about whether he’s capable.

“Well...if you’re certain.”

“I am,” he says, firmly. His mother nods.

Good. That’s settled, then. She speaks again before he has a chance to reopen his book.

“The other thing I’ve been meaning to discuss with you - your uncle has invited the Sainz siblings to come and stay at the palace. You met their two eldest when you were very young, but I’m sure you don’t remember.”

“No,” Charles confirms, intrigued. “Who are they?”

“Their father is a Spanish duke, and his son, Prince Carlos, is just a few years older than you. Unlikely that he will ever inherit the throne, but it is a distant possibility.”

Ah. So a marriage prospect, then. Charles bites back a sigh. From one prison to another.

“You should get to know him better,” his mother says, reading his expression.

“Why?” he asks, just to be difficult. He knows very well why.

“Because. Your Uncle Thierry thinks it’s a good idea.”

Well, if his uncle thinks it, then so it shall be.

Charles sinks further into his chair, grabbing the book he’d set aside and reopening it pointedly. His mother takes the hint. (The book may be a dull one, but at least it serves its purpose as a conversation ender superbly.)

****

“Monaco could be a very important chess piece in future conflicts,” Caco explains, leaning against the table to address his young cousin. “It is under the military protection of France, and having the force of France at our disposal could be instrumental in quelling potential unrest.”

Carlos Junior looks up at him from his seat at the desk, notes of skepticism in his expression. He doesn’t make an objection just yet - his cousin would not be telling him this unless it had come from his father directly.

Caco sets down a piece of paper in front of him. It’s a drawing of a young man who can’t be more than eighteen, his boyish features evident even in sketch form. The other thing that is undeniable is his beauty, a sense of mischief and innocence dancing in his eyes that has Carlos wondering if it’s a faithful representation.

“Is he this pretty in person?”

Caco simply gives him a look, not dignifying that with a response. “That is Prince Charles, heir apparent to the Monegasco throne, seventeen years old. In the next few weeks, you will study everything there is to know about him - his favorite novels, plays, composers. You will brush up on your French-”

“Wait, wait, cousin,” Carlos interjects, blinking in confusion. “What does a prince have to do with me?”

“That omega...” Carlos’ gaze shoots up to his cousin, brows raising. “...has everything to do with you.”

Ah. That changes things, indeed.

“As I was saying,” Caco continues, sighing. “In order to keep the prince safe, he’s been kept sheltered from his father’s court for years, ever since he was a boy. Thus, when he does make a rare public appearance, such as at the opera or ballet, his mere presence causes quite a stir.”

Carlos’ eyes return to the paper in front of him, his gaze tracing a path over the prince’s nose and settling at the elegant curve of his lips.

“You must win his favor before anyone else has the chance,” his cousin says. “The first visit in a few weeks’ time will be vital. We can afford no mistakes. But always remember, you are first and foremost a Sainz. Do not forget the reason behind all of this, no matter how ‘pretty’ his face.”

Carlos tries to bite back his smirk, but likely fails from the look his cousin sends him.

“Charm him, Carlos. Make him smile. God knows you are good at that. The rest will be up to fate.”

[l1tw1ck]

got a reply on ao3 where someone was being ableist to me by using dyslexic is an insult, so I told them that was ableist and then they said "not liking your writing isn't ableist" (i never said it was) and then proceeded to use the r slur and then said "i could tell you're autistic."

so in order to fight the ableist allegation...you use more ableist rhetoric...i see 🤔

laughably ironic

rambling under the cut bc it's just ... hilarious

i wasn't gonna say anything about it on here bc it's not worth thinking about it any further than necessary but i just have to say something bc it's so funny to me.

i wish people knew how to insult me and talk about my work negatively without being ableist, racist, transphobic, etc. like, i'd rather not get any rude comments at all but if you're gonna be a dick at least be ethical about it 😭 how are you gonna READ a fic including things you DON'T like and then insult me over it?! why do people do this?!

i honestly can't be upset by this kind of thing because it's just so hard to take them seriously. people just sling slurs at me thinking it'll hurt me but it doesn't, because I know they're only doing it because they feel comfortable doing it online anonymously. if they were really about it they'd say it on their main account, but they don't.

it's hard to fully articulate my feelings and thoughts on this but man...reading their replies made me cringe

nobody has to like my writing or the type of content I create, i really don't care about that. especially because i don't even like my older work anyway (the fic in question is 2 yrs old). my writing style and skills are the way they are because I'm disabled and struggled throughout school because of it, not liking the way I write or thinking i'm not highly skilled isn't ableist. using ableist rhetoric and slurs is. i write purely for fun and i don't care if someone hates it because it's not like i'm trying to submit these to like...the new york times 😭

everyone has a right to feel disgusted or uncomfortable with my work, i'm not gonna cry about it or call them a "puriteen" (god i hate that term). but if you're gonna waste your time and energy reading my fics and then insult me about it, at least hold back on the slurs and bigoted language. insult me all you want but don't use my identity as a marginalized person to do it

oh my god i just remembered they also said i should give up on being an author bc my writing is terrible. Who the hell is reading smut fanfic and expecting shakespeare????? it's porn! porn is known for being shitty. it's the equivalent of opening up a video on pornhub and expecting an A24 level of production 😭 i'm an adult with a personal life, what do i look like emulating the skills and stylings of mark twain or jane austen for PORN? for free no less! 😭😭 ppl tend to forget that part

full respect to people who actually do write really fancy stuff for smut fics cause I don't have the energy for all that 😭 or even the skills honestly. i'm currently trying to make up for the train wreck that was high school (major depressive episode for FOUR years)

i'm ranting (i have a tendency to ramble...writer's curse) but man, i really hate how acceptable it is for people to say these kinds of things online. In the past, people would lose their jobs and scholarships for being bigoted but now you can just open up twitter on a new account/logged out and you'll see plenty of people saying horrible things (and getting PAID for it!) It's like a reverse of 2020, people were overly scared of being "canceled" and now everyone is comfortable using slurs against people. sigh.

like i said, insult me ethically!

anyways i'm gonna keep writing crappy fics ☺️ progress is slow but i'm still writing!

[library-ghoulette]

day 21 // somno & feral/primal

Prompt list thanks to @kroas-adtam 💜

Pairing: Phantom x reader

Rating: Explicit, minors DNI

Words: 2323

Tags: noncon/extremely dubious consent, female reader, masturbation, somnophilia, heat/breeding cycles, feral ghouls, rough sex, demon sex, coming inside

Summary: A new Sister of Sin, you learn the hard way why you're supposed to keep your window locked tight during ghoul mating season.

A/N: Please note the updated tags and warnings for this one! I feel like Phantom frequently gets the cinnamon roll treatment, so I wanted to write him being not so sweet.

You can also read this--and all my other fics--on ao3!

You expected that there might be a learning curve, when you ran away from your old life to begin a new one in the service of Satan. But you hadn't expected there to be so goddamn many rules.

You were expected to follow orders immediately and without question. Make your bed and say your morning prayers. Report for your duties precisely on time. Maintain perfect attendance at your religious education classes. The Abbey ran like clockwork under the meticulous care of its prioress, the intimidating Sister Imperator, and her word was law, not to be questioned.

Even when the rules seemed overbearing or nonsensical, you were expected to bite back anything other than, "Yes, Sister."

Luckily you had your fallen angel—the older, more experienced Sister assigned to guide your transition from your old life to your new one—and you could grill her all you wanted. Much to her occasional chagrin.

Like now, as you troop up the stairs to your cells after dinner, and in the midst of her almost daily reiterations of the rules, she adds a new one: "Make sure that you keep your door and window locked after curfew, starting tonight."

It's annoying enough that you're subjected to a curfew—you're not a child, and when are all of these supposed Sisters of Sin supposed to be sinning?—but the window thing really annoys you. The rooms are musty and old, and you've gotten into the habit, now that the Spring weather has turned warmer, of sleeping with your window open to let in some fresh air.

"Why do we have to keep our windows locked?" you ask. "We live on the third floor. No one's going to get in without a ladder… or wings."

Your fallen angel regards you seriously. "It's mating season."

"Well, I don't think any wild animals are making it up to our rooms, either—"

"For ghouls," she cuts you off. "They go into rut every Spring. And when they do, they're dangerous. Territorial, unpredictable… and horny. Well, hornier."

"…oh."

You haven't had many interactions with the ghouls. You haven't been at the Abbey that long, and the ghouls are… Well, they're a bit insular, a bit set apart from most of the humans who live and work here. They tend to run as a pack, their bond to one another so strong that they seemingly communicate without words.

They're a strange mix of unnerving and captivating, but you suppose that's true of any group of preternaturally attractive people with a better than you vibe. Even if they are demons, they don't seem particularly dangerous.

Especially not the one you've seen in the halls a few times now, with his slight stature and tumble of dark hair that always seems to be hanging in front of one violet eye. The one who caught you looking and gave you a small, shy wave in return. Phantom, you think his name is? In any case, you can't imagine him being dangerous.

Your fallen angel seems to read your thoughts, or perhaps just the disbelief written across your face. With the weary air of someone who's had to explain this exact thing to many dumb postulants before you, she says, "You haven't seen them in their true form. They're different when they're in rut. Even the older ones have trouble maintaining control over themselves, and the younger ones are downright volatile."

You've reached your twin doors—your cells connect with a shared bathroom in the middle—and she pauses with a sigh, searching for the right words.

"People have been injured before," she says, holding your gaze and wringing her hands. "Just… don't risk it, okay?"

"Okay," you agree.

"Good. Now, lock your window, and sleep tight. I'll be right here if you need me."

The soreness and exhaustion hit you as soon as you're alone in your cell. Your body is as unaccustomed to the grueling pace of the called life as is your mind, and by the end of each day, all you want to do is to fall face-first into bed and sleep for a week.

You shower, letting the hot water soothe both your mental and physical pains. When you emerge from the bathroom, waving steam out of the air as you go, your eyes fall on your window. Surely it can't hurt to open it for just a little while…

There, that feels immediately better. The breeze is warm and fills your plain little room with the freshness of Spring, the verdant scent of growing things and the world waking up. You stand in front of the window, breathing in the delicate perfume of the cherry trees that have only this week burst into full bloom, toweling you hair dry.

It's not exactly curfew yet—at least, you don't think it is—so you leave the window open as you cross to your dresser and pull out your favorite silky little nightgown. The fabric skims deliciously over your bare skin as you slip it over your head.

You lie back on your bed without bothering to pull back the comforter. You haven't forgotten about your fallen angel's warning—if anything, it keeps playing over and over in your mind. You keep thinking about her description of the ghouls, of how they become territorial, unpredictable, horny.

You try to imagine what Phantom, who seems so sweet, would be like, transformed into an insatiable… fuckbeast, you guess. The word makes you giggle at yourself, but the image it conjures unspools warmth low in your belly.

You trail your hands down your body, skimming over your hardened nipples under the silky fabric, and part your own thighs to slide your fingers between your folds. You find yourself slick with arousal, and it doesn't take much work, rubbing your clit in just the way you like, to get yourself off. As you come you imagine Phantom, skilled hands gripping your hips as he drives into you, peering down at you with pleasure and amusement as you fall apart around his cock.

You're sleepy when you come down from your orgasm, and in the haze of tiredness and dreamy afterglow, you pull the covers up over yourself and drift away, forgetting your open window completely…

You wake to the unmistakable pressure of an unfamiliar weight at the foot of your bed. Even without opening your eyes, you know you are being watched—you can feel the rake of some inhuman gaze on your skin. You feel it as surely as you hear the panting, each rough exhalation of breath as whatever this is… What is it doing?

You risk cracking your eyes open just a bit, just enough to peer from between your lashes at the intruder. At first you think you're hallucinating, imagining that a dark shadow is something solid. But as you wake up more fully and your eyes adjust, you discern form. You notice the swirling purple energy, the pinpricks of light that twinkle like distant stars all along the humanoid form.

You discern the cords of lean, strong muscle that run down its arms—and you follow that working line of muscle down, to where the creature is stroking itself with one hand, frantically pumping its fist up and down over its— oh God, over its cock. You can't make out the details in the gloom, but you can tell that it's huge.

You let out an involuntary whimper, and at the sound, the creature's eyes latch onto yours in a flash of violet eyeshine. You squeeze your lids shut again and bite your lip to silence yourself, even as you feel the creature grab your comforter in a clawed fist and the bedsheets begin to slowly but inexorably creep down your body, exposing your bare shoulders, your breasts…

Your fear screams at you to run, but another voice inside of you tells you to lie still, whispers that running is pointless. How far do you even think you would get, because the monster catches you and does whatever it wants to you?

You struggle to keep your breathing even, to remain calm, even as the protection of the covers is stripped away, even as the creature bends down low over your leg and you feel the crackle of energy along your bare calf as it… as it sniffs you, inhaling your scent.

Apparently it likes what it smells, because sharp claws grip your thighs, digging into the soft skin, and the creature presses its face against your center, breathing you in through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

Its touch is electric, its breath hot against your flesh, and in spite of your terror—or because of it?—you feel your cunt clench with arousal. You're even wetter than you were earlier, imagining Phantom creeping into your room, desperate with need…

Wait. You crack open your eyelids again, enough to take in the snuffling form crouched over your body. Despite the horns and the claws—and the skin made out of space, you guess?—there is something familiar in the creature. Something about that flash of purple in its eyes… Yes. Even though it seems unbelievable, you know with absolute certainty that this monster, this demon, is the same boy from the hall, the one who waved at you, with that sweet, self-conscious half-smile before turning away.

He's not shy now, not turning away, as he wrenches your thighs apart and licks a broad stripe up your cunt with his long, forked tongue. It's animalistic, less concerned with your pleasure than with wallowing in your pheromones, but nonetheless a whiplash of pleasure cracks through you. It's hard to hold still, to keep from moaning aloud as he licks you again and again, rutting against the mattress with each stroke of his tongue.

Finally he wrenches away from your pussy and crawls up your body, pawing at you with careless claws that sting deliciously as they draw blood. He brings his face to the side of your neck, almost like a human lover would to kiss you in the midst of passion, but he only grazes his fangs against your skin and breathes in your scent.

For a panic-stricken moment you fear he might tear out your throat, but he only emits a low, rumbling growl before wrenching away from you. And then, with shocking strength, he flips you over onto your stomach and tears away your nightgown, leaving you exposed.

If you had any questions about what would happen next, they're answered swiftly when he presses the head of his cock against your entrance. Even as wet as you are, dripping both with your own arousal and his thick saliva, the size is intimidating. Helpless to escape—and, you admit shamefully, no longer that interested in trying—you angle your hips up to accommodate him as best you can.

Somehow, the bulbous crown of his cock breaches your body's resistance and he fills you. You let out a gasp at the stretch, more than you've ever taken before, and try to adjust to the overwhelming pressure of him inside you.

But he isn't finished. You realize with horror that you've only taken his tip, as he works more of his length into you. There is nothing human about his cock, and your body thrills at the alien sensation of each ridge and bulb that drags along your inner walls, hitting spots you barely knew you had.

Finally, he bottoms out with a grunt, and you have a moment of relief that there is no more to take.

That moment ends when he begins to move.

He sets a relentless pace, pounding into you with a ferocity you've never felt before. He holds you down and presses you into the mattress as he uses your body. You can no longer remain quiet, helpless to keep in your cries, but the creature, the nightmare, atop you is oblivious, lost in his own pleasure and in his desperate need to mate.

You teeter at the razor-thin edge between pleasure and pain, barely knowing which one you're feeling until he hits something inside of you just right and everything comes together as you begin to fall apart, your pussy spasming around him and driving him over the edge of his own orgasm. He growls and digs his claws into your hips even harder, and his cock kicks inside of you, his spend filling and overfilling you. You can feel it, thick and warm, spilling out of you and coating your thighs, just before the full crest of your orgasm overtakes you, and everything fades to gray…

When you wake up again, it's to the morning sunlight filling your room and the sound of birdsong streaming in through the window. The open window.

You curse, and for a split second you remember the intense dream you had the night before. But as soon as you move and feel the spasm of soreness throughout your lower body, you know it wasn't a dream. You roll over carefully and reach down, investigating your swollen pussy with tentative fingers. You're still slicked with cum—you say a little prayer of thanks that you take your birth control religiously—and it's dried all along your inner thighs, which are also covered in scratches. As is—fuck—the rest of your body.

You flop back onto your pillow with a disbelieving little laugh. Well. You guess your fallen angel wasn't exaggerating the threat after all. You're a complete mess.

And it was the best sex you've ever had in your life.

You stumble toward the bathroom, stopping on the way to slide your window shut and lock it carefully. Even now you know that last night won't be the last time you conveniently forget to close it before bed.

But… maybe not every night, not until summer has come and mating season is over. You have to get some rest, after all.

[inkedinfusions]

the imagery for that whole paragraph is STUNNING! I can imagine it so perfectly in my mind with the way you describe it. Istg the way you describe things is pure art in and of itself

!!!Thank you!! I find that I really like writing descriptive scenes. That is also why I struggled a little with the dialogue in the beginning, because up until the key, all the short stories I've written have no dialogue at all. I love love love describing spaces, feelings, and the character's metal state. I think they can be used by the reader to better insert themselves in the scene.

I love that you added this in cause I’m betting a lot of people might’ve been questioning if it was Zeke too

Yes! Its a logical conclusion on a surface level, but we must not forget that the Scouts had absolutely no idea that the Volunteers were a thing, and much less that they worked under Zeke. Also, it would be impossible to send anything to the island prior to Yelena's ship, as there were no other shipments to the island from anyone else, and Paradis does not have any radio technology yet.

same Reader saaaame! I can imagine it so perfectly in my head too the little smile he gave us 🤭 got me giggling and shit

Meeeee!! My sister is used to my bs so she didn't question me when I started giggling in front of my computer lmaoo

so I’m guessing then based off that line that I was right to have guessed last chapter that it is due to his future memories that he knows Readers name. That’s so interesting and I’m curious to see Eren potentially tell Reader all about that and just see what he knows

Ding ding ding! You were right on the money. I like the idea that, just as aot is a timeloop of sorts, fics are timeloops too. So I incorporated than into the key. My reasoning is: if Y/n is going to be an important part of the story, and future!Eren sends key memories to his younger self, then why would she not appear in the memories? Kinda spoilery but not really because its an Eren fic, he knows (being the Attack Titan) how the government or military would react to a random girl, much younger than any of the Volunteers, arriving to the island, and then becoming close to The scout squad. So in order to ensure her safety he ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■ (<- you can probably guess but I'm keeping it hidden for my own enjoyment lol)

AHHHHHHHH THE TAPESTRY LINE AGAIN!? it’s so gooooddd!!! I’m so happy you used that metaphor again! I love especially that you used it for this line here “…a loose thread will ultimately be pulled by an unknown force, sending you tumbling down once again.” It’s just such a good metaphor and I love the way you’ve been using it

Tapestry metaphor! Tapestry metaphor! Tapestry metaphor! Metaphors and anaphoras my true loves.

girl I don’t know why you were scared about writing the scouts wrong! I love the way you wrote Hange. I thought you captured her more… eccentric and dramatic (idk what other words to use) personality really well and I also loved how you wrote Levi’s distrust of the volunteers

Aughhhh thank you! I always get nervous when writing new characters but they always end up writing themselves. Levi is def not trusting the Volunteers, but does he trust Y/n? probably not guess you'll have to wait and see.

oooo that’s interesting. I’m excited to see what they wanna do with Reader

:DDDDDDD

Anyway, thanks for writing out your thoughts! I always look forward to reading what you thought about the chapter, as well as any theories you have for me. Thank you for reading!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲 | eren jaeger chapter 8

⊱𖣂⊰ | In which you fall into a fictional world with the key to Pandora's box.

⊱𖣂⊰ | masterlist

⊰– prev   next–⊱

𝟎𝟖 | 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

chapter word count: 3.3 k

content warnings: blanket warnings

a/n: So we are doing this again, where I say that I'm too busy and the next chapter will take a while and then I turn my back and upload on schedule. Anyway. I hope ya'll enjoyed last chapter's cliffhanger!

Thanks for reading!

𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 are taken aback is a gross understatement; you’re utterly stunned. Your eyes widen a fraction, and for a millisecond the air, the ocean, and your heart all still. 

Never in your dreams –well, maybe some of them– would you have thought that your name would come out of his mouth seconds after meeting you. There are no introductions to serve as prelude to his words, no past interactions to serve as crutch for rationalization. 

The gleaming moonlight is suddenly much more brilliant, bathing you both in silver rays. Your hair sways in the salty ocean breeze, and so does his, matching yours in a gentle rhythm. The wind is much calmer than the storm that heralded your arrival, air strangely warmer despite the environment that would suggest otherwise. 

Your name in his lips is not a question, but rather an answer. 

He, somehow, knows who you are, as his tone does not ask if that is your name, but instead states it with the certainty only someone familiar with another can. It is strange, how his eyes speak of understanding, how his stance speaks of kinship.

You are frozen in place for what seems like eternity, but is likely just a couple of seconds. Hange’s enthusiastic voice is lost in the pulse of the sea’s waves, in the drum of your heart, in the whisper of breath of your unasked questions. 

How? Is the first one your mind asks.

Zeke, you reply, before discarding the idea. It is neither logically sound nor something coherent with the instructions and warnings you were given. The Scouts never knew about the Volunteers before they set foot on the island, never considered such an organization's existence in the first place, and much less one that Zeke led. 

Invariably, you know him. 

Unexpectedly, he knows you. 

“What?” you instead ask out loud, when you notice that he is searching your response for confirmation.  

You hesitate with your question, not unlike when you first asked Yelena who she was. It is terrifying how, just when you feel you have a grasp on what is happening, the rug is pulled from your feet and you are left dazed and confused on the floor. 

It makes you think that when you reweave a new carpet from your loom, when you believe you can see the whole picture it depicts, a loose thread will ultimately be pulled by an unknown force, sending you tumbling down once again. 

You are a bit embarrassed of yourself when he gives you a small smile and your stomach flutters just as your cheeks heat up. Maybe this is a dream you think, and it's not the first time that you are hesitant to accept reality, but it is the first occasion that you don't compare it to a nightmare. 

“Don’t pretend like you dont know me,” he says, further baffling you. “We both know way too much for that.”

“We do?” you ask, before correcting your tone. “We do.”

Eren tilts his head slightly, transferring his weight from one foot to another. “Yeah.”

You’ve noticed that there is a lot of space for silence in your life. Whether it contains unsaid secrets, unasked questions, or unresolved doubts, it always lingers behind you, never broken, never explained. 

And yet now, even with the uncertainty with which you approach the newborn conversation, there is implied solidarity in his words, in his actions. Eren didn’t try to pretend he was ignorant of you for the sake of having aces under his sleeve, nor did he attempt to trade that tidbit of information for another. 

Instead he came down the hill –because you are certain he was given explicit orders to not approach the ship’s crew– and talked to you, making it known that you had a connection. One that may only be just brought forth, but that came to life months before your first meeting, when he received his medal and his memories and his burden, and when you watched his story and his rage and his salvation.

You hear a whistle in the distance, and you whip your head towards its source, the sand and rock shore where the two Volunteers and two Scouts remain. You glance at them, too far away to distinguish their faces, their number, but knowing anyways who it is that stands there. Or maybe not, but you couldn't bear to think that your information was now obsolete. 

“I have to go,” you confess as if it is a great sin. 

Eren, who also turned his eyes to the shrill whistle, looks at you again. You swear his eyes soften, and gleam with something akin to… beholding? As quickly as these thoughts enter your mind you dismiss them, because, even if he could claim to know you through his future memories, it doesn’t excuse what you think you see. And so, you conclude it must be a trick of the light and of your perceived closeness to him through his story. 

He nods, not moving from his place between the dunes. You swallow, also not wanting to withdraw, but then you blink and the spell is broken on your end. The sand once again crunches underfoot, but then you stop when he calls your name again in a soft voice that is carried your way by the salty breeze. And so you cast your eyes upon him again, humming questioningly.

“Tell them your name,” is what Eren says after a moment. “They don't know,” he continues, infusing the word with weight, “but they learned.”

And it should be painfully awkward, how blunt questions and half finished answers are being thrown about, but there is no discomfort in the exchange. You know, and he knows, and you hadn’t realized how refreshing it was to just be, not relieved from the burdens but breathing in spite of them. You wonder if he has come to the same realization. 

“I will,” you say. “Thank you.”

“I’ll find you later,” he says. 

“Yeah,” you answer, almost tripping over your words. “Okay.”

You dont think to ask why until much later, when your feet have already taken you to the other side of the pier, sand crunching rhythmically under your robotic footsteps. Why he would tell you, and why now, and why in that way. But the more you delve into it, the more obvious it becomes. 

Eren knows what is supposed to happen (giant footsteps and crunching bones and the spray of blood and–) and is, in his eyes, powerless to do anything but follow the path already established by his future self, who is likewise chained by the same revelations. Perhaps you are as well, if the haunted look in his eyes is any indication of the unstoppable future that will be realized in a little more than three years. 

Still, everyone seeks salvation, even those who sacrifice themselves in order to save others. You and him are no exception. 

You will save him from his preordained fate, determined by his past, by his future. He will save you from your uncertain destiny, shrouded in mystery and paradoxes. 

Maybe you don't need to reweave a new tapestry just yet; maybe it's enough to only untangle the yarn. 

Hange Zoë is no less enthusiastic than the character you used to watch on Tv. Levi Ackerman is no less distrustful than the man you read manga about. They haven’t greeted you yet, as you’ve only just arrived to stand behind Yelena, next to Onyankopon. 

He glances at you when you arrive, silently asking with his eyes what held you back. You shake your head almost imperceptibly, imploring that neither he nor Yelena press the issue. 

“Is that her?” Hange chirps, curiously referring to you. 

You almost want to look behind you, to see if there's anyone else they might have been talking about, but you know there is no one else in your vicinity, and you're the only one who has approached recently enough to warrant the question. 

“She is the last one.” Yelena says. “Please excuse her tardiness.”

“Oh! Well, in that case it's so nice to meet–” 

“Four eyes,” Levi interrupts. “Now's not the time for chit-chat.” He turns to glance at you, before returning to look at Yelena, the de facto leader. “Expect the ship to be searched while we escort you three to our base.”

“I would expect nothing less,” is what Yelena responds. “Your caution is commentable.”

“Sure,” Levi says dryly, not an ounce of belief in his voice, signaling unnamed Scouts to march onto the ship and its crew. “Get walking.”

You all file in, walking amongst the dunes and rocks, with Yelena at the helm of your little group. You feel eyes on you, but when you turn to look no one in your direct vicinity is watching. Instead, you trip when going up some slippery rocks, too preoccupied with searching for nonexistent eyes, but fortunately Onyankopon catches you, grabbing your arm to prevent your fall. 

The rifle slung over his shoulder rattles with the commotion, and you feel how the others turn to look at you, before registering both your actions as non threatening. 

“Careful there, kid,” Onyankopon says. 

“Thanks,” you say breathlessly, heart still reeling from your near slip. “Sorry for the, uh, tardiness.”

“It's all good,” he reassures you, although you know your notoriety for being late is only growing. 

You also know –well, maybe not know, but you are smart enough to deduce– that Onyankopon does want to ask you about your reasons for not heading directly to the pier after the Volunteer in charge of letting you out of your small cabin reported to his post. 

But he won’t pose the question right now, where there is a great chance of being overheard, and where exchanging secrets would only cause more suspicion from the Scouts. 

There is no idle chatter as you make your way to the multiple tents that make up the Scout’s base, scattered around an open field in an orderly fashion. Small yellow dots light up the entrance flaps of each green structure, and there are multiple barrels strewn around. 

You once again feel eyes on you, only this time you are aware of who those eyes belong to. It is a given that the other soldiers would be apprehensive about the Volunteers sudden appearance, but you notice how their attention lingers a tad too long on you. 

You force yourself not to squirm under the weight of their curiosity, of their judgment. Yelena and Onyankopon get noticed as well, but it is you that garners the most attention. Because, well, adults are what they expected Marley to send, but a teenager? Even if you are older than some of the recruits and Marley didn’t actually send you, it was still something they didn’t account for. 

So it is strange, even to you, who was made aware of this prematurely, how you are included in the small group with the proclaimed leaders of the Volunteer faction. Yeah, you can see why all eyes are primarily on you. 

Hange reaches a tent that seems larger than all of the others, and enters through the flap, and the rest of you follow, flanked by Levi. They grab at the knob of the hanging lantern and the space is coated with light. On the inside there is a table and red chairs, two on one side, two on the other. Hange brings a third one from a corner, raising the total to five.

“Sit, sit!” they usher you, taking their place on the other side of the table. 

“Weapons on the table,” Levi says, less enthusiastically. 

You don't have any weapons to turn in, so you walk towards the chair on the far right and sit, fiddling with your thumbs before you remember to quash the anxieties bubbling inside of you. There is a strong sense of deja vu when you reach for one of the teacups gingerly placed on the table, noting with some sourness how bitter tea always seems to follow you in interrogations and introductions. 

You disassociate for a moment, choosing to retreat into your thoughts, rewinding your earlier interaction with Eren over and over again, not unlike what you used to do with his older brother. 

What sets it apart is the intention with which you are dissecting it, turning his words upside down to squeeze more of that refreshing understanding (You know, and he knows, and you hadn’t realized how refreshing it was to just be—) out. 

There is silence again, but this time it is filled with tension. You blink, unsettled by the lack of discussion between the two Volunteers and the two Scouts, only to find the later ones looking at you expectantly, Levi’s expression disguised with more finesse than Hange’s.

“…Sorry, what?” you ask. 

“Your name,” Hange clarifies. “I asked for your name.”

“Oh,” you say. “It’s Y/n.”

There is something almost imperceptible in the way Hange fiddles with Yelena’s gun, a recognition in both their and Levi’s eyes that you might’ve missed were it not for Eren’s insistence in presenting yourself with your name. 

You risk a glance at Yelena but her eyes are on you, not them, as are Onyankopon’s, so you let yourself breathe, halfway convinced they didn’t notice.

Hange does not miss a beat. “It’s nice to meet you Miss Y/n!” they say, drowning out your protests of Just Y/n please— and placing the gun back on the table, next to the rifle.

You nod, hesitant. “It’s nice to meet you too, uh, …?” You trail off, not remembering if they already introduced themselves or not.

“Hange Zoë, at your service!” They say, nudging Levi when he doesn’t say anything.

“Levi Ackerman.” And if you notice the distinct lack of add on like Hange’s introduction, well, that is to be expected.

Yelena takes the opportunity to steer the conversation away from pointless (to you) introductions and unimportant (to her) dialogue.

“So, about our proposal…”

She launches onto the plan you rehearsed and memorized with Zeke, drilled into your mind enough times as to prevent any slip ups of the scheme only him, Yelena, and you know.

It’s not different at all from the one presented in the series, and although you now have it branded deep in your mind, back home you had to watch several videos and read several posts in order to understand. 

The beauty of Attack On Titan was in the convoluted yet intriguing plot and themes, yet sometimes you needed outside help to comprehend half of the stuff that was going on. The fact that each character has their own motivations and their own secrets on top of the changing allegiances do nothing to help.

Still, hours and hours spent scraping the wiki and watching compilations finally pay off, and you’re confident in your ability to not only remember each plan, but also the people involved and the moments in which their loyalties shifted.

The motions are well rehearsed; Zeke will contact the nation of Hizuru, and Hizuru will contact the outside world, advocating for Paradis, as well as provide the blueprints necessary to help advance the island’s technology.

The plan would take around fifty years to reach completion, the amount of time that is estimated as enough to take to bring Paradis to a similar level technology wise to the rest of modern society. There would be a small-scale Rumbling to show off the island’s power, acting as a deterrent for nations with wishes to invade. 

Hange takes the gun again, pointing it directly at their face. It is unloaded, but it still unnerves you. You weren’t a gun savvy by any means, but the first thing you had been taught by Zeke when going over gun safety was to never ever point the gun at yourself, not even when it had the safety on, not even when it was unloaded. 

Yelena lists off the numbers of personnel in the army, counting all the divisions; the infantry, the navy, and aerial forces. Despite Hange’s and Levi’s best attempts, it is evident how frazzled they are by the revelation. 

One million foot soldiers, three fleets of twenty one battle ships each, new technologies and aerial weapons. Those are the new enemies that they must now fight against, a stark contrast to the mindless but brutal titans they are used to dealing with. 

“If Marley had such capabilities the whole time, why haven’t they attacked in over a year?” asks Hange. 

“There are two main reasons,” Yelena begins. “One; the Pure Titans. Even with the latest weapons available to Marley, they would hinder a land assault. Quite ironic that the very thing that is used to confine Eldians to the island also protects it from outside forces.” 

“Yeah, well, ain’t that funny,” Levi says. 

Yelena sips her tea. “Still, I’m impressed.”

“Impressed?” Hange asks.

Yelena doesn’t answer, choosing instead to take a sip from her cup. She looks at her right, directly at you, as if she wanted you to answer in her place. And you can't and won't ever be able to read her mind, but you’re pretty sure you can guess what she is playing at. 

“It's almost dawn,” you point out. “And we are sitting in a tent drinking tea. There is no commotion outside, no one hurrying to their fighting posts. There are also no protective structures around the base, suggesting that you have exterminated almost if not all titans on the island.”

It's clear they weren't expecting you to speak. Even if Eren told them something, the most logical approach to your presence in the tent was as a buffer, something for the Scouts to pick at, to find weakness in. Yelena is helping you overcome that, because, even if it would be easier to infiltrate them if you are deemed as non-threatening, the trust that would be placed upon you should you be assessed as capable makes them want to take the gamble. 

“And the second reason?” Hange asks. 

“Currently, Marley is at war with multiple nations,” Yelena says. “The loss of the Colossal and Female titan, as well as the defeat of their Warrior unit has given many of their enemies the chance to unite and retaliate against Marley.”

“If you guys are secret agents who infiltrated Marley, I’m guessing you came from conquered nations?” Hange asks. 

Yelena’s and Onyankopon’s faces harden– one fake, one true. 

“Oh, I’m right?!,” they exclaim after. “I bet you’ve got some pretty big backers to go up against Marley then.”

“Not quite,” Yelena says, and after a moment she clarifies. “Onyankopon and I are from conquered nations, but Y/n is Eldian.” There is only one truth in her whole statement, a new record. “We were powerless, forced to play soldiers for the nation that took our homes, but Y/n was deemed a devil the moment she was born.”

The fake backstory you're using makes you a little uncomfortable, but it sure was convenient. They wanted to paint you as smart, but not too intelligent as to outsmart Paradis. Dependable, but not a pushover. Eldian, just like them, facing obstacles even when outside the walls. 

You tune out Yelena praising Zeke for organizing the Anti-Marleyan Volunteers, calling him a god amongst mortals. You hoped that small, subtle discomfort showed in your face, so the two members of the Scouts present would notice that you weren't lost in reverence for Zeke. 

“We are the Anti- Marleyan Volunteers,” she finishes. “Our goal: To free the Eldian people.”

Levi and Hange share glances, no doubt discussing the answer they would give. 

“We would like assurance of your allegiances,” Levi says. “You will not be able to contact Eren, or any of the others for that matter, but we want the girl to come with us.”

taglist: @dressycobra7 @xngelsau @bloodchapell @i-think-im-adorable13 @luna4mnoon @yuuuumii @kermittears @binluvsu

ask or comment to be added!

[queergrasshopperleaps]

you should rly tag cnc if you plan on rbing it further. ppl with rape-related trauma probably dont wanna get jumpscared by seeing it on their dash. respectfully, from a person with rape trauma who got jumpscared by seeing it on their dash.

Heyo! It's not rly something I reblog frequently, but if I remember I'll try to tag it in the future. I don't really tag triggers on my blog since this is really just an amalgamation of things I enjoy. If you want, you can dm me to talk about things further but I really just recommend unfollowing if you want a 100% guarantee to not see things like that in the future since, like I said, I don't really tag.

[teshiee]

totally awesome oppo doodle i did on whiteboardfox !!!! lately also been thinking a lot about destinyshipping,,, theyre pretty nice (ive drawn them at least 5 times already now LOL)

heres the aforementioned destiny,,!! did i use that word right

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, the Baroness causes conflict with the Commander.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,626. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: discussion of war and grief, death mentions.)

Chapter 35: Baroness Touledy's Strategy (Reprise)

Soldiers pushed and parted as a woman, armed and armoured, marched through their training grounds. The Baroness Touledy held her cane in one hand, and her sword—sharp—in the other.

The girls had done their best. Tried playing with the man. But he was more accustomed to the Game than he pretended not to be. And that made what the Commander had done to them all the more disgusting.

He knew what he was doing when he used Lady Trevelyan. He knew what he was doing when he invited Lady Erridge’s friend. And he knew what he was doing when he promised Samient help.

Every part of it, done for his benefit.

No fucking more.

“Commander,” said a lieutenant in warning, eyes widening as she saw the Baroness approach. The Commander, beside her, turned.

“Baroness,” he greeted, bowing.

“Good morning, Commander,” Touledy replied. She flourished her sword, blade glinting in the sunlight. “I thought I might invite you to spar. Since we did not quite have chance on my previous visit.”

The last two words were said with a venom—yet the Commander appeared immune. He handed off his mantle to the lieutenant. “Very well.”

The Baroness smiled. This was the beauty of her plan—for whether he accepted or refused, she would achieve her goal.

That goal was very simple. It was one laid out by Lady Trevelyan herself. The other Ladies had not been there, that day, when her Ladyship had pointed out the Commander’s weakness. That was why they had made the mistake of confronting him privately. But if they wanted to best him, they needed a crowd.

Public humiliation required it.

A space was quickly cleared for the conflict to come; eagerly, too. Soldiers gathered ‘round, whispering and waiting—but were sent away again by the lieutenant. Back to training! Sidelong glances would have to do.

The Baroness welcomed them. She circled into position, facing the Commander. Her greaves ground into the dirt, finding purchase. One hand rested on her cane, the other brandished her blade. She was a mesmerizing sight, and she knew it.

The Commander, less so. His sword had been unsheathed in a draw that was typical of him. No flash, no flair. All seriousness. All bore. A helm was offered to him by a solider, but subsequently rejected. He took his stance opposite the Baroness, and raised his sword.

Hers met it—slowly, in acknowledgment. A look of understanding passed between them. Their swords withdrew.

And then, they clashed.

Touledy’s blade sailed into the Commander’s, clanging with the force of the hit. He, stalwart, withstood the blow. The ricochet of his blade was used to his advantage, momentum carried into a downward swing.

The Baroness blocked it. She jabbed for his side. The Commander jolted away. Nearby soldiers gasped at the close call.

Stalemate reached, the fighting paused. Each backed off, to readjust. Stances changed, blades twirled. Premeditated unpredictability.

“I have heard what you have done for my fellow Ladies, Commander,” the Baroness muttered, taking a step forward.

He watched her feet. “Mm?”

“I wished to give you my thanks in person—and to query why. What could have affected this change of heart, given your earlier purpose in bringing us here?”

“It was the right thing to do.”

He lunged for her, blade swiping down toward her shoulder. The Baroness’ sword shot across, and batted it away. He was left open; she capitalised.

“So you acknowledge that your previous intentions were wrong?” she accused, stabbing towards his gut.

The Commander sidestepped it. “Freely.”

“Interesting. Then one wonders why you had them in the first place?”

“I misled myself.”

Touledy laughed, spinning her blade. “And how exactly does one mislead oneself?”

“We all are prone to suffering a lack of good judgement, on occasion,” said the Commander, “though I take it yours is infallible.”

“Hardly. Though it is devastatingly precise, when required.”

As if to prove it, she pounced, a lancing blow slipping past his attempt at defence, and striking against his armoured side.

“Hit,” he said. They withdrew, to begin again.

The Baroness prepared her stance. “I would say our dear Lady Trevelyan suffered a lack of good judgement, in trusting you, perhaps.”

The Commander’s grip tightened around his blade. “Perhaps.”

“Though I am sure you never intended to hurt our dear Lady.”

The Baroness shot forth, sudden like a spider, striking at his stomach. He smacked it away.

“I never intended to hurt anyone.”

“That seems at odds with your methods.” She swung again. Their swords met, in a series of blows. Through them, the Baroness grunted: “You wished to do harm to us without doing any harm?”

The Commander did not falter with her question. He kept up the onslaught, until an opportunity presented itself. He came up on her left; she defended right. His blade struck the very edge of her chestplate.

“Like I said,” he told her, “my judgement was poor.”

“Hit,” she muttered.

They reset.

“Is that poor judgement the reason you failed to, at any point, tell Lady Trevelyan why she was truly here?” The Baroness raised her sword. “Before you knew such knowledge would break her heart?”

The Commander’s face changed, but he did not respond. Touledy strode forward.

“How long did you intend to keep the truth from her?” She thrust her sword at his abdomen; he stumbled back. “How long would you have lied?”

He tried to counter, but the Baroness slammed his blade to the side.

“Did you consider her feelings!? Or were yours the centre of your concern?”

She sent a cleaving blow sailing towards his shoulder. He deflected it with the back of his blade.

“Do you seek our favour to win back her affection? Do you only do for others that which benefits you!?”

Another strike; denied, again. The Commander readied to defend, and stared her down.

“Baroness Touledy,” he said, “how many mages are in Val Misrenne?”

Touledy froze. “What?”

The Commander lunged, twisting his sword around hers, and wrenching it from her grasp. The tip of his own he raised to her neck, and held her there.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.

“The Red Templars seem to believe you possess a small army.”

The Baroness clenched her fist, and backed away. The Commander lowered his sword. She watched as he bent down, to collect hers, and offered it to her.

She took it, but sheathed it.

“You know the business of Red Templars?” she asked.

The Commander nodded. “Of course. The safety of the Inquisition and the people of Thedas depends on it.”

“I see. I have no idea to what you refer. If you are aware of the Red Templars’ attack on Val Misrenne, then you know it to be a senseless act of violence.”

The Commander holstered his blade, and stepped closer. “I do. But that does not negate the fact that they attack for what they believe to be some kind of reason.” He regarded her with a gaze that she did not allow to intimidate her. “I cannot believe it would be more than ten.”

Touledy sighed. She had a feeling, one way or another, whatever she told him, that he would uncover the truth regardless. And so, instead, she simply told him the truth:

“Six,” she confessed. “There are six.”

The Commander acknowledged this, and glanced at their surroundings. Though quiet enough for their speech to be naught more than mumbles to his soldiers, he gestured for the Baroness to walk with him, away. She drew her cane up from the earth, and walked.

“They arrived some time after the Circles fell. A group of eight,” she explained, as they gained some distance from the training grounds, “though one left to find home, and another passed of old age. They were led by a young woman, who knew my brother—he was a Templar at her Circle.”

“Your brother?”

“Ser Ouen Touledy. She was a but a child when he met her, and very reminiscent of his beloved baby sister. He protected her, like an elder brother would. So much so that, when it came to her Harrowing, he refused the killing blow.”

The Commander glanced at his feet, knowing perfectly well what that meant. “Ah.”

“She survived the Harrowing. Yet, as you can imagine, Ouen was discharged for what he did, and passed at our home, from lyrium withdrawal.”

“I am sorry,” murmured the Commander. “That should never have happened.”

“It is done, and cannot be helped,” Touledy lamented. “But she could be. She arrived at my door, with her little group, to see my brother, and thank him for what he had done. She did not know he was gone.”

Touledy thought of that moment. It had been an ordinary day, despite all that was happening beyond the confines of their town. Then, strange visitors had arrived, her staff told her. But they knew Ouen, so Touledy had to see them.

When she entered the parlour, her world changed. She saw the face her brother had died for, and understood. The Baroness could have believed she was staring into a mirror, held up from the not so distant past.

The girl was so kind, and so sweet, and so grateful. Oh, how she had cried when Touledy had told her.

“I know this is nothing, compared to your pain,” she’d wept, “but he was as if a brother to me. I cannot remember the family I had before. He was the closest I had.”

The Baroness took her hand, in that moment. And she told her, “Then we are sisters.”

She closed her eyes now, to stop the tears of that day from falling anew. “Thallia, is her name,” Touledy told the Commander. “She wanted to repay the debt she saw herself as owing my brother, and volunteered to stay in Val Misrenne, as a healer. I said she owed nothing—but she was welcome to stay, they all were. She is the last I have of Ouen; to turn her away would be to dishonour his memory and sacrifice.”

“I understand,” said the Commander. A gentle tip of his head, and he kept them on a steady path. “People have fought for less.”

“Much less,” agreed Touledy. “She has delivered babies, healed the sick and injured. One of her compatriots is an ‘erbalist, who discovered a source of disease within our crops and eradicated it. When the Breach opened, a rift formed in Val Misrenne. With the last of my brother’s lyrium, they were able to seal it. If not for them—I cannot imagine…”

The mages had been celebrated, after that rift. Those who were cautious before were finally convinced. Parties were held across the town. No demons allowed in Val Misrenne!

Until the Red Templars arrived.

“It was a small band who first came,” Touledy explained. “They knew of my dislike of the Chantry, and thought perhaps we might ally against our common enemy. They wanted supplies, safe shelter if need be, and access to other nobility.”

The Baroness’ reply was predictably derisive.

“One of them was from my brother’s Circle. Tried to claim some kind of friendship, with him.” The Baroness chuckled. “Unlikely. But—he saw Thallia. He recognised her. He whispered to his fellows, and they left.”

“And then they staged their first attack?” asked the Commander.

“Yes,” Touledy confirmed. “They wanted the mages. Val Misrenne refused to capitulate.”

“I cannot imagine they liked their defeat.”

Touledy smiled. What a bittersweet victory it had been. “No. I do not know if they return simply to punish, or if they truly believe that, because we fought so hard to defend our people, that there must be something grander and more insidious going on. I think I do not care either way.”

The Commander sighed. “I doubt they do either.”

They neared a low wall, and the Baroness announced a sense of fatigue. The Commander rerouted, so that she might take a seat.

She rested her cane against the stone. “I will not bore you with details of the siege, as I assume that, if you have done your job correctly, you are already well aware of them. However, I can tell you that the mages plan to do the unthinkable.”

“What?”

“They wish to hand themselves over.”

The Commander shook his head. “The Red Templars will continue their attack regardless.”

“I know. I have tried to persuade them, but as the situation worsens, they become harder to convince.” She bowed her head. “I had wished to stay here, waiting for Lady Trevelyan… but Val Misrenne needs me. I must return.”

“And what of my troops?” the Commander asked.

The Baroness raised her head. “What of your troops?”

“I have a force arriving to the west of Val Misrenne.” He folded his hands behind his back, spine straight, shoulders squared—silhouetted by the rising sun. “They wait on your command.”

“What?”

“I had thought you would ask earlier, but I understand your hesitation—the association of the Inquisition with the Chantry is not ideal for Val Misrenne,” he went on, “but the Ambassador is seeing to it that the clerics hoping to leverage this situation are kept subdued, for now.”

Touledy stared up at him, bewildered—as bewildered as she imagined the other Ladies had been, in their encounters. “Your troops cannot be sizeable, if the Red Templars have not discovered them?”

“They are a discreet party, returning from the Western Approach.”

She shook her head. “Such a small force will do nothing but delay the inevitable.”

“As I have told you before, Inquisition troops know how to defeat a Red Templar.”

She insisted: “And as I have told you, they are not to be trifled with. Even trained soldiers struggle against their numbers.”

The Commander smiled. “The Inquisitor has proven quite capable of dealing with greater numbers than this before.”

The Baroness repeated his words, if only to ensure she had heard them correctly: “The Inquisitor?”

“The Inquisitor’s party happens to be travelling that way,” the Commander muttered, ridiculously coy, “and would be glad of a diversion, should Val Misrenne open its doors.”

Touledy rose, steadying herself upon her cane. “I cannot put the Inquisitor in danger.”

“The Inquisitor is always in danger.”

The Baroness shook her head—but not to refuse. She could never refuse. It was that she knew the betrayal she committed against Lady Trevelyan by accepting. But Lady Trevelyan would simply have to understand. She had no choice but to accept.

“Do it,” she told the Commander. “Please.”

“I’ll send word now,” he said, already turning to go—but Touledy called out to him:

“Wait!”

He stopped, and waited. She came to face him.

“Commander, while I am thankful for this, whatever the outcome; while I am thankful for what you have done for all the Ladies—this will not heal the rift between yourself and Lady Trevelyan.”

The Commander avoided her gaze, yet nodded.

“Lady Trevelyan claims insult on our behalf, yet the greatest injury this has caused is hers, and hers alone. She has never had a home, Commander. Never known that comfort, nor safety. Her parents do not want her, it seems, and the only other place she belonged to is destroyed.” Touledy sighed. “She believed she had found home, here. You have shattered that illusion.”

In mournful tones, he replied: “I know.”

“Then you know what you must do.”

“I do. I will try.”

The Baroness straightened, her usual composure finally returned. “I would wish you luck,” she said, “but, despite our conversation, I do not wish you to succeed.”

“Fair,” said the Commander.

“Let me know, as soon as you know anything.”

The Commander stepped away. “I will.”

[valeriianz]

20 questions for fic writers!

tagged by @honeyteacakes <3 (and belatedly, @tharkuun haha)

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

25

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

400,576 (+ 100k extra from fics i've deleted/orphaned in the past few years haha rip)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

i am at the mercy of the hyperfixation, and currently it's The Sandman and Dreamling exclusively.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1) Salvation (How to Get Away With Murder) 2) The Red Witch (Good Omens) 3) Bolt in the Blue (The Sandman) 4) Let Me Down Easy (The Sandman) 5) Show Me (The Mandalorian)

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

yes and no. i love that people take the time to show their appreciation for a fic and i always want to reply and show how much it means to me... but i have this bad habit of not replying to comments on say, older works or older chapters of a fic. idk why... im just not good at it lol BUT I LOVE AND APPRECIATE EVERY SINGLE COMMENT, EVEN THE LITTLE ONES 💖💖

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

oh, Exit Wounds, for sure haha

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

im a sucker for happy endings so i'd say, everything else lol but particularly Almost Idyllic (The Song of Achilles) due to the build up and Salvation also, because of the events leading up to the ending.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not since my ff.net days haha.

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

very occasionally. and nothing too wild (except for that dreamling butt plug one. that was. hmm.) but i typically enjoy writing first times.

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

i do not.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

nope. though i have seen ideas/prompts used without credit. it doesn't bother me much.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope.

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

once, The Red Witch (which btw has been discontinued, pls don't read it lol). it started off just me, then my editor jumped on maybe 5 chapters in once i realized they were much more versed in magick and fantasy than me.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

haha probably Zutara.

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

ahhh haha... fuck. idk i want to say none. but my brain keeps whispering about the dreamling road trip au. i thought i had a plot but as i continue working on bitb and other little drabbles... ive realized i might've bitten off more than i can chew. and my only option is to completely sideline it until im done with bitb, or change the story (because right now the research i have to do for it is too much and y'all know how i am...) it sucks cos i do want to write it. but it's difficult when all my patience for research is already going into one fic (bitb).

16. What are your writing strengths?

dialogue and monologuing, probably.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

self 👏 motivation 👏 finding 👏 the 👏 urge 👏 to 👏 write (technically, it's tense. i flip between past and present tense constantly and at this point i just consider it one of my endearing qualities pfft)

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

i try to avoid it but when it happens i just use Google Translate and then toss a disclaimer that ive done my best (to which usually a commenter will helpfully correct me and then all is well)

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Inuyashaaaaa (Miroku/Sango omg). exchanging physical notebooks with my friends with fanfics we'd written in school lol

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

truly a tie between Savory & Sweet and Let Me Down Easy (at the moment). the restaurant au was so easy and fun to write (probably because i used to be in the industry) and i reread it a lot. the pacing is fast and i love how immediate Hob and Dream fall into each other haha. Let Me Down Easy was very similar. my major was Media Production in undergrad and although it's been a while since i've held a camera, it was fun putting myself back in that environment. also the angst and tension were just a blast to write and figure out.

(this was an excellent waste of time, thanks again!) tagged, if y'all want, @magnusbae @teejaystumbles @ml-nolan @tj-dragonblade @reallyintoscience @delta-pavonis @staroftheendless

[theundertalenebulartheory]

Chapters: 17/? Fandom: Undertale (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader, Papyrus (Undertale)/Reader, Frisk & Toriel (Undertale), Sans & Toriel (Undertale), Papyrus & Toriel (Undertale), Alphys/Undyne (Undertale), Sans/Toriel (Undertale), Frisk & Papyrus & Sans & Undyne (Undertale), W. D. Gaster/Reader SUMMARY: Post-Pacifist Ending, Monsters are having a hard time on the surface world. Skele-bros/Reader Fic. What happens when a skeleton, a goat, a fish, a lizard, and good-hearted child with the ability to mess with time meets a purple-souled MC that will persevere come Hell or High Water with affinity for finding (and fostering) the web-like connections that surround us all? The answer may surprise you! But it probably is going to involve Metaphors, Branching Timelines, Puns, Magic, Secrets Uncovered, Hope, Intentions, Bones, and more foreshadowing per chapter than you can shake a stick at! Come join me in this vaguely canon-flavored Undertale Fic and dive into the complexities of Gravity Magic, the Existential Horrors of Summoning, and what makes Boss Monster Souls extra-special ;) You’re going to want your red string and bulletin board for this one! Or don’t! Sometimes it’s fun to just come along for the ride!

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: February 26

“Diamonds in the Mud” by Gerry Cinnamon