#can't remember the last time i touched another human being actually

[nighttimenothings]

in that type of mood to punch it out at the gym until i'm sweating and panting and aching all over. arms throbbing in time with my heartbeat, breaths heaving out.

i'd get home to take a shower and my girl would sneak in too. just the two of us under the spray, pressing our foreheads together, just feeling our bodies against one another. we're not doing anything, but the intimacy is everything. it's knowing you're here, that you'll be here on both the good and bad days.

we'll migrate to our bed after we've dried off at some point. damp and flushed and sore, i'd curl up around you, kissing the nape of your neck before we drift off into a well deserved nap.

[orshii]

Guilty Pleasure

✟ Author: orshii

✟ Pairing: Choi San x female reader

✟ Word count: 4,6 k

✟ Warnings: cursing, suggestive

✟ Summary: You go back to your hometown for the summer vacation, not expecting the small town's priest to be a total eye candy. But he seems to be hiding dark secrets underneath his holy façade.

Will you find out the truth?

✟ A/N: *coughs in embarrassment* Uh so...I think I really went insane if I wrote this, there's no way back anymore haha. I really do feel guilty, but then I'm not, cause you'll see. *wink* To be honest I don't know what is this, I just got inspired in the church bruh-- I can't with myself, I'mma just go dig myself haha let's go. Anyways, enjoy I guess. Actually part 2 is out

My day started off boring, as usual. It was a holiday, so I went back home to the town I grew up in to visit my parents and relatives. I really needed a little break from work and from the adult life, which came out of the blue. I didn't really have time to ponder in my life choices as I finished University. I moved away to a big city to start working as an English teacher. It was very new for me, and very tiring, so, I deserved a little break as the summer vacation finally came and I could come home to rest a little before returning to my chaotic, big city life.

We were sitting in church with my parents and my brother, Wooyoung, as it was Sunday. My parents were mostly religious, and so, I had no other choice but to tag along with them. I can’t say I'm not religious myself, it’s just that I tend to give in a lot of times to the vicious temptations, to the guilty pleasure that consumes me like venom. My brain gets consumed by vices, and it takes a lot of time to find the cure to treat myself with. I learned to believe in myself, instead of God, after I had too many disappointments in life. I prayed for help, but it never came my way. So, I have decided that I'm better off on my own, believing in my own strength and whatever hardships life throws at me I will be able to overcome on my own, instead of believing in a God and waiting for guidance and to be saved.

People started filling inside the church as silence settled upon the hall, the priest coming out to stand in front of the altar. It was the moment I suddenly forgot how to breathe. My mouth fell open as slowly I leaned towards Wooyoung.

"Okay, since when did our old and dusty priest become a young and handsome one?" I whispered to my brother, surprised. The last thing I could remember, as I came here ages ago, was our priest looking like a cute grandpa. This priest on the other hand, was the complete opposite of the lovely old man.

He was tall with his body hidden underneath his black long vestment, but even that couldn't hide his broad shoulders, which could be compared to mountains. Wait a minute…since when were priests buff?

Am I in another universe, suddenly? What am I seeing? Why is he so handsome with his black framed glass?

His black hair was whipped back carefully, little strands falling to his forehead. And his face?! Oh my God, literally, I have never seen more beautiful features likes his before. His jawline was as sharp as a knife, his cat-like eyes watching the people whom came here to hear his wise words, that came from his pretty, almost cherry red, lips. I was very enraptured by this man and I felt very guilty for checking him out for thousands of reasons; one, I was sitting in church and these thoughts were very inappropriate; second…he was a freaking priest, which implied that he was the most innocent human being on earth, he can't even look at girls, let alone do even as much as touch them. My eyes fell on his hands, which were holding the Bible, his palm spreading out underneath it with the veins on his hands showing. I couldn’t control my thoughts as I imagined his long fingers tracing down my neck, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Wooyoung chuckled quietly, "He’s a newbie. Just got here a month ago, but everyone is all over him already." My brother's voice brought me back to reality as I shook my head to clear my mind of the embarrassing thoughts.

"My dearest brothers and sisters…" The priest started speaking, his low voice sending shivers through my body. The white rosary around his neck was on full display.

From then on, all I could see were his beautiful face and lips, which moved with each smoothly spoken word. I couldn't take my eyes off him; he was like a magnet and I was the iron being attracted to it. It was silent around me; all I could hear was my own quick heartbeat. Just until he started preaching. Suddenly, his soft voice reached my ears and everything just made sense.

"God is here to help you, even in times when you turn your back on him. He watches you still; he protects you still. But he can't protect you from everything. Bad things need to happen in your life so you learn from them, squeezing every lesson out of it so that you can stand up again with your head held high. People make mistakes, and that is what makes us human. Just imagine if God protected you from all bad things, not letting you make any mistake. You’d think that your life was perfect…" He paused so the people would consume what he’s said as he looked around, watching the people in front of him, who were looking up at him like he was God himself. As he was looking around, his eyes suddenly locked onto mine and watched me sharply. I couldn't breathe, "…but the reality is, no one can be perfect, because nothing is perfect. If everything were, life would be boring…we learn from the mistakes we make, because sometimes there's no one behind our back, just ourselves, to keep us going. This is the purpose of God. He gives you lectures in these alone times, so that you can learn how to be your own best friend, so you can love yourself before you love someone else. This is the reason we shall never turn our back to God, he gives us hope and brings us the light. Amen." His eyes were on mine all the while he spoke, and I was stunned. My heart raced like hell; those words felt like they were aimed right at my heart. It reminded me of my old self, who never loved herself, not even for a short period.

I was still mulling over the priest’s speech in my mind as we stood outside the church, when suddenly I saw him standing in front of my family, still holding the Holy Bible. He was smiling at my mother as if they knew each for ages, his dimples showing on both of his cheeks, his eyes turning into crescents. I seriously needed to get my shit together.

"Is she your daughter, who moved away, Mrs. Jung?" He looked at me curiously.

"Yes, she is. Come here." My mother motioned for me to get closer as if I was still twelve years old.

The priest came closer to shake my hand, "I don’t think we’ve met before; my name is Choi San. I'm the new priest." He said with a soft tone as his face beamed with nothing but kindness.

I shook his hand, "Nice to meet you, I'm Jung Y/N." I slightly smiled at him, feeling a little embarrassed due to the thoughts that went through my mind during his service.

We were staring at each other; his hands still haven’t released mine as if the both of us were stunned into sculptures. My mother's voice pulled us back to reality, and San nervously coughed into his palm. What was that?

"My daughter teaches English to little kids in the nearby big town, she just graduated a year ago." My mother said proudly, her palm patting my back with a smile.

"Oh, that is a very great job. It needs a lot of patience, I assume." He seemed genuinely interested.

"Ah, yes, it's a miracle when the kids sit in one place. It's demanding and tiring, but I like it." I smiled at him, trying to seem mature.

"Hang in there, you’ve got this. I can imagine you as a teacher, it fits you well, and I'm sure you are good at it." I didn’t know if I was simply imagining it, but his smile dissapeared for a second as he was glared at me with sharp eyes. I swear to God, he looked like an animal full of desire. And for priests, desire was the last thing they were allowed to feel.

Days later I found myself sitting in a pub, next to San. I can't believe I'm saying this, but the night lead us somehow here, sitting at the bar and talking about anything and everything.  

The night started off with me going out with my childhood friends to drink something, because we have missed seeing each other. We went to a pub called Silver. The bar could be linked back to our childhood as a playground lay in its place instead back then, when we were mere kids. How fun life was, a place where we used to play as kids now was a place where we got drunk until we blacked out. At least my friends managed to do that, I was still hanging on. My friends had drunkenly rested their heads on the table where we initially sat at.

So, I had texted their husbands to ‘come collect their women’. They had come after them as all of my childhood friends had someone, except me. One of my friend’s told me that they were going to take me home. The night was wild, I could barely see, but somehow as I was looking around the bar, my jaw fell open as I saw someone. That someone being Choi San, the priest himself. He was sitting on a barstool, his back facing me. He was wearing a black turtleneck, broad shoulders on full display, which curved into a tiny waist. I was shocked over the fact that he was hiding a body like that under the black vestments. So, I told my friend that I would be staying for a little longer.

I had stumbled next to him as he sat by the bar, "Since when do priests drink alone in a pub?" I asked frowning, the words coming out of my mouth a bit slow. Giving him a closer look, the black turtleneck was tight against his thick neck, a silver necklace with a big cross reached between the middle of his pectorals, which were big. The black turtleneck he wore was tucked inside his elegant black pants. He looked like a God, but not a good one.

He looked at me a little surprised, his lips curving into a smile when he saw it was me,

"Is it set in stone that priests can't drink alone in a pub now?" One glass of whiskey was casually sitting between his fingers.

I frowned at that, feeling a little dizzy, "I mean…I guess not?"

He chuckled watching my face as I pouted at the realization, "You are cute." His smile never dissapeared.

I frowned again, analyzing his face, "Can priests say such things as well?" It was just weird; I spoke without thinking first.

San started to laugh at that loudly, his laugh was so soft it melted my heart. As he laughed, he raised his open palm up to his mouth, a golden ring decorating his index finger, his eyes formed into crescents as he looked like a cute cat, "So, do you think priests can't say anything at all? That they can't even look at cute girls like yourself?" He stopped laughing and leaned a little closer to my face, his voice low with bass.

My cheeks heat up from his closeness. What was he doing again? The man sitting in front of me was the world's biggest question mark, he acted very suspiciously. I leaned backwards, away from him as he looked at me with his sharp eyes, eyeing me up and down.

"Are you really a priest?" I folded my arms over my chest, looking at him suspiciously.

"Of course, I am." He smiled at me again with that adorable smile, which wasn't on his face mere seconds ago.

"You don’t act like it." I said leaning towards the counter to ask for some water from the barista.

"You didn't like my service on Sunday?" He asked, analyzing my face.

"I did, you said some wise words, I must admit." I said as I opened the water bottle to drink. As I drank, I felt his gaze fell on my neck, watching me as I gulped the water down. Chills ran through my body.

"C'mon, I'll take you home." He said, standing up.

"You were sipping whiskey minutes ago, are you crazy?" I said while looking up at him, as he stood next to me.

"Priests can drive while drinking, so come on, you are a bit drunk. I have to take care of the locals, as a priest." He said with a smile, his voice soft as a light breeze while he offered his hand for me to take.

I just looked at it, and after a few seconds of pondering, took it. He grabbed my hand firmly, and lead me out of the pub.

The summer night was a little cold, as clouds hid the stars above us, and the breeze sent shivers down my body.

"Are you cold?" San stopped, putting his hand on my back to caress it.

Okay, this was starting to get very weird. I just wanted to go home.

"I'm okay, just want to go home." I replied, trying to distance myself from him.

He silently led the way towards his car, which was an old black Dodge with some silver framing on the windows. Okay, he was a rich priest then, I guess.

The way towards my home was silent and a little uncomfortable. I just wanted to get away from this weird situation, away from him, because the longer I was with him, the stronger I wanted to give into the biggest sin trap. That being the realization that I started feeling attracted to a fucking priest.

When he stopped the car, I was ready to get out, but when I reached for the handle, it did not open. I looked at San frowning.

"Oh, sorry, it needs more pressure to open, this thing is as old as my grandpa." He slowly leaned towards me, reaching his hand out towards the handle. His face was close to my own, there wasn't even an inch between us. He cracked the door open, but his face remained close, and I was so stunned I couldn't move my limbs to get away from him. My heart was racing, I was terrified he might hear it. Then all I could see was him leaning closer, towards my cheeks, and he pecked it softly, like a feather.

"Good night, darling." He whispered into my ear. I could feel his hot breath against my cheek, which melted into my skin, not even letting my body process it. He leaned back in his seat and pretended like nothing had happened. I swear to God, I believed I imagined the whole scene.

When I came to my senses, I quickly scrambled out of the car and speed-walked towards my house, leaving him there without a word.

I might be going insane, but I just couldn't process what happened. This man was a whole mystery, there was no way a priest would act like this, at least not a real one.

My suspicions started getting valid as on some days, when I was walking home from the summer school I was teaching at, I accidentally saw our precious priest in casual clothes, which was opposite of what a priest would wear. For example, I saw him one time in ripped jeans and leather jacket, was it what priests wore these days? He was always with some guys as they seemed to be doing some business. The first time I saw him, I wasn't sure if it was really San, but when I spotted him the second time as well, I was sure it was him. And I couldn't believe he fooled a whole fucking town with his sweet and innocent act of a priest, one everyone adored. But the truth was that he was a fucking menace, lying left and right, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. I didn't know what was going on, but I wanted to find out. There was no way I was going to let him continue fool the whole town. I wanted to get some evidence so that he would be kicked out and punished, so that he wouldn’t get any more innocent people into trouble.

So, I started following him around. I saw him on days when he completed his priest duties, visiting families, going to church, holding services. He did his job well, his acting was very convincing, everyone believed it. But during the night? He disguised himself very well, so that I wouldn’t really understand what was happening, but I knew he was meeting with some sort of gang on some nights, giving money over to them for something in exchange.

One evening, as I was following San through an alley, he had reached the end of it. He had just turned left, so I followed after him. But when I turned left as well, I couldn’t see him. I looked around, frowning as I wondered where he could have gone so fast, when suddenly, all I could feel was being pushed against the cold brick wall, fingers crawling around my neck, holding me still. I opened my eyes, which I had closed from the sudden impact. I came face to face with San's furious expression as he looked down at me. His hair fell into his eyes and they looked deadly, sharp.

"Had a good time following me, darling?" His voice was low, like a furious thunder. When he tilted his head, he looked like a psycho. His leather jacket had tightened around his biceps as he squeezed my throat. The same cross was still around his neck, just like at the pub.

"Who the fuck are you?!" I looked up at him, words hardly coming out of my mouth as his hand was still around my throat.

"Stop sticking your nose into everything, and just go home!" He raised his voice a little and loosened his hand just barely around my neck.

I took that as an opportunity, and grabbed his hand, just to tear it off my neck, "What the fuck San? Are you insane? Stop fucking fooling everyone, and get the fuck out of here!" I shouted at him; I was shacking from anger that boiled inside me.

"You have no idea what is going on, so please, just go home!" He started calming down a little as he looked behind his back from time to time. He was acting even more suspicious.

"Then tell me what this is. Cause I'm so fucking conf—" I was interrupted by an ear cracking breaking sound, followed by a loud engine.

"Fuck, they are here." San quickly grabbed my wrist and pulled me along, running out of the alley to his black Dodge, that was parked on the sidewalk, waiting for us patiently.

"What the fuck is happening?" I said as he opened the passenger seat's door, and pushed me down into the seat.

"Just sit in the car, Y/N, there's no time for questions. We have to get away from here." He closed the door with a loud thump and ran towards the other side of the car, just to sit behind the wheel and ignite the engine to life.

My heart thumped like crazy, I didn't understand what was happening. All I could see was San driving like a maniac, checking the side mirrors all the time as I saw a big black Jeep following after us madly. San geared up and pushed the gas pedal to the hilt, we were almost flying. The engine threatened to jump out of the bumper from the sudden speed. We were on the highway, a lot of cars around us, but San very quickly dodged all of them. We sped past them like lightning, just for San to suddenly swerve right and get us onto a lane leading away from the highway, then he swerved right again, then left. I lost the direction we were going in, all I could see was the black Jeep that chased us now having disappeared into the cold, and scary, night. San hadn’t stopped yet, he was driving us far away from our little town. I was terrified to speak up, I just knew this was going to be the end of me. All because I'm stupid and I can't sit on my ass and mind my own business. All because I just had to follow a fucking priest, who wasn't even a priest.

After having driven for half an hour in deafening silence, we finally stopped in front of a big mansion. I looked up at it through the windshield. So, this was going to be the location of my murder? I guess it would be fine, right? At least it's a nicer place to be killed at.

I couldn't look into San's eyes, but I felt him staring at me. My body was still a little shaky from the sudden adrenaline, I tried to calm down myself and accept my ridiculous fate.  

"Hey, Y/N?" San spoke up after minutes of being in the silent and dark car. I guess he was waiting for me to calm down, and for himself as well.

I still couldn't look into his eyes as tears flooded in my eyes, the adrenaline was gone and its demise left nothing behind but fear. I don’t know if I was ever this scared in my whole life before.

I felt San's hand touching mine, very carefully. He might’ve realized that I was terrified, so he didn’t want to scare me anymore, "Hey, look at me." His voice was sweet again, like candies.

I breathed in and out, closing my eyes, to somehow fight against my fear, and then slowly turned towards him. As I looked at him and he saw my teary eyes and terrified expression, his features softened into a worried expression.

"Fuck, Y/N, I won't hurt you! I'm so sorry, darling." He cupped my cheeks, tears appearing in his eyes as well. Upon seeing his worried expression, I somehow felt kind of relieved.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" I asked in a whisper looking, down at my hands in fear.

"Look at me, Y/N!" His fingers curled around my chin to lift my head up. I somehow managed to look into his eyes again, and the softness I saw in them made me relax a bit more, "Of course, I won't kill you, don't say foolish things. I could never hurt you."

He cupped my face again, caressing my cheeks, "I'm sorry if I scared you, darling."

"What is going on?" I whispered again as the words hardly came out of my mouth, having gone dry like a desert.

 "C'm here." He took my hand and pulled me towards himself, making me crawl over the center console and straddle his lap. His hands immediately held onto my waist and pulled me closer to himself.  I circled my arms around his neck carefully as he pulled me down to his chest and hugged me tightly. I took a deep breath of his sweet candy-like cologne, the skin of his neck warm.

"I'm sorry for scaring you. I just…there is a lot going on, and I lost my head for a second. Please, forgive me…" His hands ran up and down my spine, caressing it, leaving nothing but shivers in its wake. His body was a like a magnet, I couldn't detach myself from it, it felt impossible.

"Tell me what’s going on." I whispered into his neck weakly, closing my eyes.

"Well, I'm not a priest." He said, still caressing my back.

I scoffed, "Wow, shocking news."

"How did you figure it out?" His hand slowly traveled up to the hair on my nape, massaging my scalp as I felt my body temperature rise, comically thinking that I was going to slip right through his fingers from the warm touch.

"I saw you a few times with those people…" The way he started massaging my scalp became a little firmer, and a moan almost slipped through my lips "…doing some business, I assumed. So, I started following you."

"My darling couldn't stay away from me, huh?" His hand resting on my waist slowly slipped under my blouse, his hot fingers starting to trace my warm skin up and down. Suddenly, the fantasy I had in mind while watching him in church, during the service, fought its way to the forefront of my mind, it being his hands slowly tracing down the curves of my body. I would’ve never thought that it was really going to happen.

I slowly lifted my head up from his chest to look into his eyes, which left a fire in its wake. The chill I felt an hour ago was gone in seconds, and I have never felt hotter in my life before seeing the heated desire in his eyes, it could’ve burned me up whole.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked him, trying to get rid of the tension between us.

"That’s a very long story, darling." He leaned his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. He pulling me impossibly close to himself as he held my waist with both hands.

"The night is long now that you have kidnapped me." I whispered barely inches away from his lips as they were almost touching mine.

"Yeah?" He whispered back, his lips hovering over mine, ghosting against them. His hands ran up my warm body passionately, his nails digging into my skin roughly.

I hummed at that, as words couldn't escape my lips, his hands on my skin making my stomach drop. He breathed shakily against my lips and I felt his body getting hotter as he finally pressed his lips against mine hungrily. I kissed him back with greed, our lips moving in sync against each other, my dry lips now fully wetted with his saliva, which tasted like sweet candies. His right hand tangled into my hair, running his fingers through it and it made me moan against his lips. San took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside my mouth, discovering every inch of it as my tongue danced along his passionately. I grinded down against his crotch, and he let out a guttural groan at the stimulation. His hand on my waist slipped down to my ass, and he grabbed it harshly just to push me down against himself harder. We both let out a moan at the feeling, and we separated to get some air as I slowly started feeling dizzy from the lack of oxygen. His forehead pressed against mine as we both breathed heavily against each other's mouths.

"We should stop…" San whispered against my mouth, his lips touching mine as he kissed me again, now a little slower. He sucked on my lower lip to take it between his teeth, and bit it so hard that blood started to drop down my chin, seeping into the collar of my blouse. I winced from the sudden pain, making me grind down harder against him. I have long lost my sanity; I have lost against the sins that caged me in until I wasn't aware of anything at all around me.

"Why?" I asked weakly as we separated again.

"Because I want to fuck you properly, on a bed." He told me, sharp eyes boring into my own, almost as if I had no other choice but to obey him. My body shook from the desire I felt for San, and I really had no other choice but to obey his wishes and let him fuck me senseless, giving in to the guilty pleasures.   

Part 2->

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... SOMEONE (Danny) had a PANIC ATTACK (it was warranted) and now he's laying low and trying not to move.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

There’s a green guy in his room.

Danny keeps eating his mush. There’s mush apple in it today, for variety. It’s probably triple-pasteurized applesauce, but it’s something, and Danny’ll appreciate it while it lasts.

The green guy and the lady are talking. Danny is happy to ignore them—they’re quiet, and careful, even if they’re trying not to act too suspicious or too quiet. Danny has the sneaking suspicion that he’s supposed to be getting used to his presence. Like a cat meeting another cat, or something.

The thing is, Danny kind of remembers him—but his brain’s been so loopy and weird, it’s kind of…hard to be certain? There are some memories of pain, and some memories of stress, and…maybe he was there for one of his star-walks? Danny thinks?

His memories are all mush. Since waking up here, Danny’s been more confused the more he’s become aware.

He sticks his spoon in his mouth.

Hello, the green guy tries, flexing some oddly solid aura, but Danny’s very busily ignoring him; the television has another news segment on weather in places Danny’s never seen, and he’s trying really hard to remember what the extra letters actually sound like.

There’s, like, an ampersand in the middle of words here. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

I would like to talk, the not-ghost says without speaking, which is how Danny knows he’s not human. He doesn’t feel like a ghost, per se, and Danny’s breath is normal and as warm as his body can arrange it. It’s still weird though, since he clearly wants to communicate in some way, and Danny just.

He digs his teeth into the plastic spoon. It’ll leave little tooth-shaped dents. He focuses very firmly on the television spot. There are so many towns. Some of them have very silly names. One of them is having an asteroid shower, if Danny trusts his understanding of the icons they’re using.

Asteroids are cool. There’s a couple shots of the sky and a projected time at 8pm in some time zone. Maybe he can get the fast kid to tell his medical team he wants to see them. Maybe they’ll actually let him out of his room at night to watch…?

A hand gently fans at his sleeve so that the breeze jostles the fabric just a little bit. It’s a signal Danny’s gotten used to—a non-verbal, attention-grabbing signal that doesn’t require physical touch.

Danny looks. The lady waves.

He huffs.

“Licie,” the lady asks gently, but firmly. It’s a pretty insistent Please.

Please be polite with the guests, Danny. Your father loves Vlad, so please be nice, Danny.

…Danny doesn’t quite roll his eyes but he does. Look away. He doesn’t want to talk to them. Boundaries aren’t so… Empathic beings are…

“Do I have to?” he asks, and then remembers. Right. Different language. “Ic sceal?”

“Licie. Pleese.”

Danny’s face scrunches up. All the scarring his face probably has pulls taut. “…’Kay.”

“Min þanc.” Thanks.

Danny…reluctantly…faces the green guy.

He looks. Nice. Enough. He’d look better if he wasn’t staring—if Danny couldn’t physically feel how heavy the green guy’s attention was weighing down on him, pressing into his head and shoulders and neck, and—

Danny looks away. Again. The lady sighs.

The green guy sends waves of peace, calm, which is definitely a threat! Danny’s been smacked by Nocturn more than once! He knows what safety feels like when wielded as a weapon!

Apology wafts around the room, but Danny doesn’t want to hear it. Feel it. Smell it? Whatever. It has nothing to do with him. Danny wants to fiddle with the bits of his space station and maybe practice writing his name again, which has so far been less than a success. But he should probably introduce himself soon enough.

It’s only been. You know. …Literal months.

Questions and answers/queries and information? the green guy offers to trade, which is theoretically nice. But Danny’s been hunted for answers before—and sometimes just straight up hunted for fun.

There’s no information he wants to give.

Ask me? comes instead.

…Danny’s fingers still. Wait. He’s allowed to ask?

A bubble of amusement/worry bursts. Yes. If Danny has questions, he can apparently…ask.

Okay. Danny sets the space shuttle aside. He tilts his aura around, and bends it—if the green guy were a ghost, they’d be able to share more emotions with ­Danny’s guard slipped downwards. He’s going to bet it works…kind of the same way for whatever he is.

Who’s the lady? Does she have a name?

There’s a bubble burst of a memory—some dude in all black with little cat ears announcing This is Wonder Woman, hand out to present her to the listener. Without her scrubs on in the memory, she looks…like a warrior.

Armored. Strong. Black hair, gold gauntlets and red boots. Firm back. Like on the television

…In her scrubs, she just looks like the same lady as always. In his head, she looks as powerful and mighty as Pandora.

Danny’s heart picks up. Breathing becomes—harder. Does she fight? Does she fight all the time?

Memories of shared battles play out from the green being’s point of view: punching and throwing and whipping her lasso in the air and confidence and freeing prisoners and the power of the gods behind her, a royal in her own right—

…Will Danny have to fight?

The green guy murmurs something sad, grief flashing up against Danny’s low emotional shields. His hands reach out—but Danny leans back. He doesn’t want to be touched. He doesn’t want to feel the dude feeling bad for him. He just wants to know; will Danny be forced to fight?

There’s a deep, painful sympathy brushing up against him. Danny recoils. The thoughts of healing, doctors, naps, coming off his meds, recovery. Of concern, worry, Wonder Woman settling the patient’s blankets, his green-marred face raw and luminescent.

Healing. Resting.

Which. Danny glares. He gets that. But what happens after? Medical care is expensive, and Danny doesn’t even have hint of an idea of how long he’s been lying here. He knows that nothing comes free.

The green guy’s expression squeezes with concern. His head might be kind of funky-shaped, but the face is pretty human equivalent. Danny would have struggled to read Frostbite’s more than his. Danny doesn’t like that.

Danny misses beings he recognizes. He wants his friends. He wants Jazz. He wants Frostbite or Wulf or…or…

…Or Mom…or Dad…

Something touches Danny’s hand. Danny looks down. The green hand that reaches for him doesn’t grab, exactly, but it lets him know that the dude is there, at his side. I’m sorry, the guy says, more sentiment than thought. And then there’s a struggle to convey the next few thoughts.

…Because the guy doesn’t have as much experience of being outside as the school bell rings, children going in. Lunches in the headquarters cafeteria. The phone in Flash’s hand turned sideways, so that Martian Manhunter can see the dead-fish kiss between Rosalinda and Romero from last night's episode—

Wait, is the guy actually an alien? It’s kind of rude, but Danny. Gawks.

The concern hanging around in the air of the room turns into green-tinged amusement. The green dude and Danny have already had this conversation.

…Danny peeks at his water bottle on the side table and sheepishly rubs his nose. Ah. Whoops. They have?

Yes, the alien continues, and pulls his hand back. But they were having a conversation. About school. And healing. And recovering, and a comfortable space to rest, and an apartment on Earth and peace and family, and—

Danny shoves his emotional shields all the way back up before he. Before he forgets. His heart is pounding. He can’t look.

He can’t.

He.

…He can’t have that again.

The green guy—the martian wants to tell Danny something else, but he can’t—he can’t open himself up to that anymore.

Danny doesn’t have a mom anymore. Danny doesn’t have a dad anymore. His sister is—gone. He’s not going to hurt himself for wanting them back. There's no family and no house and no safety.

There are more quiet, empathetic presses against Danny’s emotions, but Danny pulls the covers up as high as they’ll go, and breathes through the thin cotton sheet pressed against his face.

It catches his tears, when he has them.

Someone mutters, and someone else mutters back. When Danny feels something touch his wrist through the cotton blanket, he can’t help flinching, but the speaker’s voice is familiar enough that he settles quickly enough. Danny listens to the lady—Wonder Woman, he remembers—hum softly.

…It’s a nice hum.

She hums, and she strokes his wrist, and she doesn’t go anywhere. She’s a stalwart, soft presence at his side.

It’s nice.

It's... Relatively, it's safe.

Danny eventually stops acting like a baby, and. Takes the sheet off. He isn’t crying, so there aren’t and tears to wipe away (there’s no need to check the footage, just believe him!), but it takes him a second to get himself reoriented to the room without a giant psychic presence in it.

But the whole time, the lady just…rubs his wrist, and then his mildly obliterated (but mostly healed!) hand. And hums. And lets Danny reorient himself, at his own pace, and in a safe space.

 Danny sniffles. He hopes it’s all mucus in his sinus cavity, and not, like, more ecto. But who knows?

The lady tilts her head forward, until Danny can see the blue eyes peeking over her lavender surgical mask. Her hand comes to her chest to tap against the paper-thin PPE covering her top half.

“Wonder Woman,” the lady says, firmly and clearly. “Diana.”

…That’s a name. Danny’s nose scrunches. That's a human name. That's a very recognizable, extremely culturally familiar human name.

They never introduced themselves, right?

Maybe…well… He is in space. Maybe he’s far enough away that no one will know him if he says his name.

(Or maybe Mom won’t want him back anyway, even if she found him.)

And there’s probably a million black-haired kids named Daniel, anyway. It’s a biblical name. These people don’t even speak English or Esperanto, or anything else Danny knows; so maybe it’s. Safe?

And…maybe Danny just wants to hear his name said again.

“D…”

The lady frowns, and then eases closer. Danny—gently—tugs on a lock of her hair until she lowers, and his mouth can reach her ear.

“D’nny,” Daniel James Fenton whispers into Wonder Woman’s ear.

Diana raises herself back upright. Her eyes are wet.

“Danny,” she repeats back to him. Her callused hands gently take both of Danny’s scarred and lumpy ones. “Wel mete.”

*

“He believes that we are going to require his presence in combat as payment for his recovery,” J’onn reports diligently, and stuffs his trepidation deep into his countenance.

The league around him groans.

*

[sewinrat]

If you are/replace Sebastian includes;

*Reader is female mentioned but I could care less, you just have to be human. Have I done something like this before can't remember...

Oh you poor soul. You don't even know how you got in this mess. You were one day suddenly locked up in a plastic cage and this strange man bought you for an even stranger boy. Now you're stuck with them forever.

The closest you act to in terms of 'first meet' is close to Pomni. And yes you have went into the UNKNOWN and Luther had to pull you back but in this case, the unknown is much more dangerous.

And now you're trying your best to hide and run away from all of them in their weird crazy house of nonsense. Unfortunately you can't even hide well because Randal's dolls will always find you. Luther is another thing. You can't act out in front of around him or else you'll be a 'bad pet' and "that's not how girls supposed to act." His words not mine. Even if you've been put in the ridiculous jester outfit. You'd prefer if they put you in those discipline outfit forever if it means to leave you alone. It doesn't matter if you lose your body.

You got a high chance into being part of the family because Luther might want a little sister but let's not go there. This time.

The other two 'people' in the house, Nyen and Nyon, you thought you could trust but apparently not. You try to avoid them both, mostly Nyen because of the times he threatened you. Although Nyon doesn't do much, it's best to not engage in any way. Why am I describing things like this is your diary?

Actually you might have a diary. But hide them well or else everyone and I mean EVERYONE will read it if you misplaced it anywhere. Randal loves to snoop especially around you. Luther says it's to get to know you better but like a parent, he's a liar because if he reads anything he doesn't like, he'll punish you accordingly. Nyen can use it to manipulate you and make fun of you but Nyon reads it... And that's it. He doesn't do much about it but he's bold so he will gave it back to you even if it's open and in the middle of reading it.

After maybe weeks or even months if time manages to slip later because if you cannot make sense of time, how can you even know the time - you're getting use to it. Not comfortable of course but it's to the point where you aren't actively scared to even look behind you.

You know what, you should be just a little bit grateful that you are Randal's 'friend' while also being under him by being a pet because if you remember in Lucid 14, it shows that Randal likes to keep parts of his 'friends' as the bible recruiter dudes were leaving(But it could also imply that it's his first time doing it while alive or smth). So yeah that's one way to lose skin.

Ranfren Characters thoughts on You(ooc);

Randal: "Oh you met my friend?? Did she escaped again if you knew em... Eh impossible but since you know her, I KNOW YOU~!! A friend to my pet is a friend to mee now come here and let's have some funn." How did you get in touch with her- actually doesn't matter to Randal, more friends the merrier.

Luther: "Hm. Troublesome at first but oh well she's just getting use to her new home that's all so I won't blame them for that. Getting docile but still needs precautions." Somehow he treats you more of an experiment than a pet. Maybe you're those last options regularly people would consider to.

Nyen: He exited the interview because a reaction of the 'new' pet of the house from him is a waste of time to him. You're not worth his trouble. But he did said something about how fun watching you struggle when him and or his master catch you escaping.

Nyon: We couldn't find him to get an interview so we came to the conclusion that he has nothing to say about you. Maybe a little pity. That's all.

Bonus? Tsukada Satoru: "Ah she's quite cute but should keep a certain distance away from Randal. Hm? Jealous? In what way or to who exactly? Randal? Oh I could never. Randal is my best friend, I'm just protecting him away from her." Maybe if you play his heart well, he'll take more of a fancy to you.

[liveontelevision]

Hello friends,

Sorry about the lack of content recently, I've been running kinda low on energy :,) but I have some little treats, never fear.

Here's a short Vox thing I wrote awhile ago, it's angsty it's kissy, it ends with a cliffhanger. Classic fic by me.

I meant to turn it into a full thing, and I just might later? We'll see

CW: Smoking and smooching

Human | Vox x Reader

You cringe, scrunching up your nose when the familiar scent hits you. You approach the TV-headed demon, who was lounging on the large balcony of the Vees' Penthouse. Or was it lamenting?

"Yuck. You still smoke here?"

"It's Hell, doll. It's not like it'll kill me. Can't even feel the high anymore, actually."

"I guess not.. Then why do you even smoke? If it doesn't affect you?"

"Eh. I don't know. Try not to think too hard into that shit." A comfortable silence falls between the two of you.

"Can I bum one?" With a mocking scoff, he reaches into his pocket to pull out the pack. In a thoughtless decision, you place the cigarette between your teeth, pulling his face in your direction and inching impossibly close to him. He seemed startled by your sudden attack.

You hover just in front of his lips, lighting the end of your cigarette with the cherry of his own.

That was definitely an interesting move for someone with absolutely no history of smoking. As you inhale, you choke up and immediately cough out the rest. Vox is only watching you, a smile tugging at his lips while you cough up a lung. Your eyes water and you let out a whimper before propping your arms against the railing.

"Smooth." He comments.

"W-Watch it." You snap back.

You do manage to draw out a smoother hit, looking down at the city that, ironically, seemed so lively.

All that time went to waste. All those years you'd spent chasing over this CEO, being a part of the paparazzi, stalking the media for any buzz, passing his building when you have the time.. had the time. The fact that he's seemingly replicated his dream headquarters in the center of the underworld seemed like a Hell in itself. Constantly mocking you for never getting your big scoop. For wasting your life on him.

You couldn't help but approach it at first. You reluctantly enter the stores and offices that surround the first floor, inspecting all his products. You didn't recognize him at first. I mean, he has a TV screen for a head. His voice is what gave it away. His charismatic facade and sauve persona he uses on any television program. That's what you recognized. Apparently those are skills that stick with you after death.

He found you eventually. You'd been residing on the barren side of Hell. It was cozy. Not everyone had family members with them, you were just the lucky few. Your sweet grandma was here. Sinners who are visibly older seemed to be avoid by most clear-minded demons. Why bug them? And what kind of decisions did they make to end up here and survive for so long? They probably don't even remember why they're here. But some seemed to remember their lives.

Your grandma recognize you almost immediately. She was quick to take you into a part of hell that seemed to bypass the cities and dangers. It, of course, had its flaws. The Hellborn rodents were bothersome, but it somehow managed to be peaceful on its own.

It didn't last long, though. Extermination Day finally caught up to your little home. You have no idea how you survived, it was a miracle. but you were the only one. You started appreciating your aftlife in another fit of irony. You're nearly immortal, maybe it's time to give the city a try.

"Thanks for taking me in, too. You didn't have to do that."

"I can't leave my favorite stalker on the streets." He nudges you, having to lean down a bit to do so. He was towering. You let out the softest chuckle, leaning into his touch, despite it's teasing motivations. You sigh, taking another drag.

"Wait these aren't Valentino's smokes, are they?" You hold it over the edge, ready to flick it from your fingers, if that's the case.

"Definitely not. I wouldn't give you those if you asked." You hum at his words, releasing a puff of smoke. "But, uh.. let me know if he offers you any, alright?" You let out a little laugh and nod.

Your comfortable silence was broken, with the end of your cigarette. You let it crumble to the ground, stomping it with your nice business shoes. Vox rolls his eyes, shooing you away.

"Don't ruin those, they were expensive." He mutters.

"Well I would've been fine if you didnt essentially set my wardrobe on fire." You scoff.

"Your wardrobe? Was a bunch of country bumpkin dresses with poofy sleeves, doll. Even Vel was ready to get rid of that mess." The silence overcomes again. The breeze coming from the sheer height of the building seemed refreshing. You looked up to Heaven. How cruel of them to put it in sight.

"I really thought that was it. That life was short and then you die. That there was no point in trying to get rich and famous as long you were doing something you liked."

"So you liked stalking me?"

"Fuck off, Vox, you know what I mean." You couldn't help but smile. "How could I have wasted all that time on you? I could've been building my skills. Maybe I wouldn't be mooching off of some big shot like you if I did." You looked away, not willing to make any eye contact while mentioning him.

"Hey, you know I don't mind.. you can't prepare for death." He reaches out, he's not sure why, maybe to offer you some comfort. Maybe he just wanted to see your face, again. You darted away from him unknowingly, making his hand recoil.

"But, I mind! I don't want to rely on you. I should be able to do this by myself, I came here the same way you did, I had the same chance to get to where you are now." You huffed, embarrassment from your confession turning your face red. "But I just.. I didn't. I keep wasting my time..."

A cool touch hit your cheek, and before you know it your head had been turned to face Vox. He kept his claws holding your chin upwards, despite your attempts to pull out of his grasp.

"Stop it. There's nothing but time here. Listen, I know this isn't exactly what you had in mind, but- for the first time in years.. I feel... human, again." You blink slowly at him, not exactly minding his touch at this point. "And that's because of you." You hated getting flustered, but his words alone caused you to tense up. He felt your jaw clenching in his hand, bringing him back to reality. With a quick release, he brings his fist to his mouth and clears his throat.

"So.. yeah. Don't get it in your head that this is some sort of.. sugar daddy thing. You're free to do whatever you want. You can do whatever you want. And- you uh.. you're always welcome back." You stare at him for longer than you'd like to admit. Looking for some kind of excuse for your gaze, you hold your hand out for another cigarette. He gets the memo after awhile.

You place it between your lips and before you get the chance to think, his hands are back on your chin, bringing your face close. He mirrors your actions from before. It startled you, the cigarette falling from your lips and rolling off the balcony floor. Both your eyes follow it for a moment, before looking at eachother and sharing a little laugh.

His own cigarette falls from his lips. And with his hand still on chin you're pulled into an expected kiss. The sight of his dazed eyes when he finally pulls away only leaves you wanting more. But.. you can't. You pull away with a sullen look and step away from balcony. Without a word, you leave him alone. He's lost yet another independent spark. His heart can ache later. For now, he's cursing himself for letting anyone see that side of him, again.

♡♡♡

Womp womp

Love the pics where they knew eachother in life 👌

Taglist:

( @vififofum / @thornwolfy235 / @tinywolfiegirl / @chipper-chip / @bat-boness / @misfitgirlwrites / @nayomi247 / @lonelynmisunderstood / @escapistoftherealworld / @b4ts1e / @hamthepan / @kyo-kyo1 / @looking1016 / @polytheatrix / @littledolly2345 / @lillianastuff / @yourlocalcryptidbee /@0strawberrysorbet0 / @themageofblood / @jayyyayaysblog / @floralsightings / @azmosposts / @8har0ley8 / @actuallyspiderwoman / @sirenetheblogger / @christineblood / @kaytemchugh / @cimadreamer / @simpdevil66 / @azmosposts / @m3ow1 / @acrazyartist / @redfoxwritesstuff / @4k1to / @meesachan / @corvusskid / @alientee /@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx / @alon3lylov3r /@sapphireravensworld / @mjmdragons / @catticora / @the-maladaptivedaydreamer / @carrie0-1 / @shamblezzz / @cassandras-nest )

[teejaystumbles]

Against all odds (part 3)

Part 1 // Part 2

After his work is done and Dream finds the time to retreat to his chambers, he pulls out Hob Gadling’s notebook and reads Hob's last journal entry in its entirety.

June 8th, 1989

Dearest stranger, my friend! 

I can't believe I am allowed to call you that! Let me tell you that I nearly fainted when I found your message in my notebook this morning. I've read the words you've written a hundred times by now and still I almost can't believe them to be real. I can’t believe I’m touching the pen you must have held, that I missed your presence in my room

As devastated as I was after you didn't come yesterday, as happy am I that you chose to contact me after at all.

I'm quite embarrassed about my drunken ramblings that you must have read. There's no lie in them, but I would try and put the truth into less desperate words if I could. I must seem like a fool, fixating on you like this, after all we've only met six times so far. Still, what I wrote, that you are my one constant in life, is nothing but the truth. Our meetings are fixed points in time that I measure this immortal life of mine by now. I try not to, but meeting with you has often felt like the start and finish of an era of Hob Gadling, despite it being probably more in the middle of several. Every centennial meeting with you was the most important appointment that I would plan and prepare for (as best as I could) for months, sometimes years. So if writing to you like this is the only way I get to speak to you then I will gladly take it, and thank you for it. 

But make no mistake, dear stranger - I would love to see you again and I hope you will be ready and willing to meet me in person again someday. Because

As we are sharing truths and have both admitted that we're lonely, I would like you to know that I have never been content with our schedule. If you're willing I would love to meet you a lot more frequently. A lot of things I'd like to tell you about are long forgotten again when we meet. I guess this book is a good way to share stories with you more often now, if a regular Friday night at the pub isn't your thing. I kept notebooks like this all my life, to be able to peruse them in preparation for our meetings and choose the best stories to tell you, because I knew I wouldn’t have enough time to share them all. We got cut short so often, I wonder how you appeared to know me so well without me telling you overly much. But then, that is what you do, isn’t it?

Like with Lushing Lou, you know everyone. And now you mentioned that you do not forget anyone. Do you truly know everything about me then? Is me telling you stories of my life more of an amusement than a necessity for you? Could you actually know it all with a glance instead of listening to me ramble for hours?

Please forgive me, my friend, I do not mean to sound offended. You wrote that you enjoy our meetings - and apparently my ramblings - and I know you would not lie to me.

You do enjoy stories, then. Is that it? Are you a collector of stories? Of histories? Or is your interest actually in my interpretation of these stories and events, in how a mere human experiences the things that are so easily visible to you? I remember the spark in your eyes when I told you about printing. I was such a dewy-eyed fool then, it almost makes me laugh to remember. Did you already know what Gutenberg’s machine would mean for the advancement of humanity? Did you see me finally shaking off my rough and bloody persona as a step in the right direction? Or were you simply interested, like you said, in my experience, and how I would change over the years?I admit, waiting for you to finally tell me who you are is hard for me. But I’ve waited this long and I will wait longer, and I won’t be offended if it takes you another hundred years to tell me. We have time, after all.

Much has happened in the last hundred years. Mostly war. Humans have reached new heights of cruelty. We have become even more ingenuous at killing ourselves. We have created weapons to wipe out all of humanity. We are one wrong phone call away from destroying all we’ve accomplished with the press of a button. People are overthrowing their regimes left and right and while that is generally a good thing, I am still looking over my shoulder, metaphorically, stashing money and valuables in uncanny places like a pirate of old, in preparation for what might yet turn into a true apocalypse.

It is stressful, and I admit that the new drugs are very tempting. I have not been able to resist trying most of them over the last two decades, either to be able to relax or to be able to feel something other than dread, to see some colours in all this grey.

I participated in both wars and it left me unable to sleep properly for decades. Not that sleep was anything to look forward to. If I tell you that I’ve not had a dream since before the first World War started you will surely think that I’m being silly. That I just don’t remember them. But let me tell you, about a week ago I had the first dream since, I think it must have been 1916 or 17. It wasn’t anything magical or special, (just something very simple, about lying in the grass on a hill, looking at the sky and watching bright blue birds fly overhead) but when I woke up I cried because I felt such a profound relief! Relief that I could dream again! 

I did dream of something strange soon after, though.I dreamed of a skeletal little man, mad and raving, chasing someone that looked like a weird bird man - and here I want to make clear that I do not intend to insult you, dear friend!, but this man that looked like a bird and at the same time was neither, he reminded me of you. I can’t really put my finger on it. Just something in the way he moved, maybe, or the tilt of his head-

Anyway, it was a strange dream, and I felt reminded of you, which is why I am mentioning it, I guess. I’m sorry for rambling about silly dreams. But their return (for I am certain dreams returned, I did not simply start remembering them again) has made me hopeful again.

Maybe times are a-changin’, who knows. They always are, and hopefully for the better this time.

I could tell you a lot more of the last century, of course, but I don’t know if you care to hear war stories. I do not necessarily want to drag all those unpleasant memories up, as it took me years of therapy to get over a lot of them, if you can forgive me for summing things up like I did.

I will think of better and brighter things to tell you and write to you again soon. I would be very happy if I found a reply from you in the meantime, but please use this book at your own leisure and don’t feel pressured to answer me every time I start rambling at you.

I hope to

Yours, Hob

Yours. Dream swallows and reads the word again, traces it with his finger. Yours.

Hob considers himself Dream’s. He knows it’s just an expression used when writing letters, but somehow Dream also knows that Hob means it to be more than just an empty phrase.

His.

Dream does not know if he wants Hob to consider himself Dream’s. Dream would not trust himself with another, not before and certainly not after his ordeal. Where before his imprisonment he had felt too sharp, too lonely, too easily enraged, he now feels brittle, too thin and too vulnerable. He cannot hold another’s heart and keep it safe. He cannot be trusted with the affections of another. He has learned that, over the last billion years. Every relationship he has ever had has ultimately failed. Because of him.

He does not want Hob’s and his relationship to fail. He intends to fix this friendship that he knows he does not deserve but cannot stop himself from clinging to. Few are truly loyal to him, Dream has learned, even fewer because they want to. Hob is singular in that regard, in his enthusiasm and friendliness when it comes to Dream, despite, or rather because he does not know him. And there Dream’s thoughts circle back to his predicament again.

He wants Hob to know him and like him, but Dream is terrified that introducing himself to Hob will leave their barely-mended friendship ready to break completely.

With a heavy sigh he stops moving, realising that he has been walking in circles in his chamber while his thoughts do the same.

Maybe it will be better to simply start writing.

Part 4

[vickyvicarious]

About all the touching between Dracula and Jonathan... it all culimates on June 30, doesn't it. In case you want to talk about the climax of that saga

It seems there's now two instances.

The heavily implied feeding in Jonathan's room/bed. In his Old Man form, Dracula doesn't turn into mist or bat, so one way or another, he had to touch Jonathan to feed on him.

Jonathan again touching Dracula in his room/"bed". Pretty much immediately after. But this time he emphasizes how very repulsed he's feeling at the contact. "I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me revolted at the contact". Last time he had searched his body he didn't feel this way, but now he sees him as fully monstrous.

But also there's a potential different mirroring contact... Dracula's teeth on Jonathan's skin, Jonathan's shovel on Dracula's skin.

I've actually been meaning to make a post about this for ages. (Obviously. It's been months now.) And I think the final consideration has to include 25 June as well. Because that is when the reversals start to majorly kick in, and those reversals are a huge aspect of any touches going forward.

First, Jonathan's act of climbing the walls like Dracula proceeds right on the heels of Dracula first acting like Jonathan by wearing his clothes. And similarly to how Jonathan was unable to act while Dracula killed a child, Dracula becomes unable to act while Jonathan searches him for the key. I mentioned all of this in more detail in the post I linked above, so I won't rehash it all. But there's another comparison too: Jonathan bending over Dracula in his 'bed' while he is unconscious is a mirror at that time of when Dracula returned him to his own bed (16 May). Jonathan tried to search Dracula's clothes for the key, while Dracula undressed Jonathan. The first time Jonathan is touching Dracula instead, it's a reversal/echo in a lot of ways.

And that's relevant too for this final instance, culminating the castle's progression of invasive touch. While it's possible Dracula put a hand on Jonathan's shoulder or something while walking him back to his room on 29 June, if so it's another unmentioned touch. But, while I could absolutely see that happening, that particular scene might almost be worse if it doesn't have any touch at all, because then we bring back a horrible anticipation (fearful, on Jonathan's part; eager, on Dracula's) which is reflected in Jonathan hearing that he is 'Dracula's' tonight and praying while he waits to see what will happen.

Then we get to 30 June. We hear nothing at all about Dracula biting Jonathan, though I am convinced it did happen. And yes, he would be doing so in his human/old man form. Jonathan moves from the floor to his bed, so there's a strong chance that particular scene repeated itself once more... either before or after Dracula bit him. For reversal/mirroring purposes, I suspect that Dracula hypnotized Jonathan and helped/ordered him to bed first before biting him in his bed. And we don't know exactly what went down. We don't know how Jonathan felt about it. But I think it is likely a fairly direct contrast to the shovel scene... meaning, I think just as Jonathan emphasizes disgust in the morning, while being bitten I suspect there was at least some degree of pleasure. Similar to the "languorous ecstasy" with which he waited for the vampire ladies to bite him on 16 May. Of course, it would be mingled with disgust and fear, but if Dracula had control of his mind enough to ensure he didn't remember anything in the morning, then it's possible those emotions would have been somewhat suppressed or muted.

In the morning, while free of the direct hypnotic influence of a vampire feeding, Jonathan still is unable to remember what happened to him. And yet, as you said, he is absolutely repulsed by having to touch Dracula. Maybe this reflects a sense-memory even if he can't consciously recall what's been done to him. And he hates having to touch him... yet at the same time, he feels a "wild desire" to search for the key at any cost, and when he can't find it, a "terrible desire" to destroy Dracula. The only other time Jonathan uses that word in the castle is when he's describing his "burning desire" to be 'kissed' by the vampire ladies. Dracula says it several times though. Jonathan's desire to touch Dracula, first to take the key (which previously I've compared to Dracula wanting to bite Jonathan) and then to harm him when he can't find it, I think is indicative of another sort of reversal going on with Dracula's own desire/touching him to bite him that night. At the very least, even if you ascribe no relevance to that wording, Jonathan's shovel attack absolutely still echoes Dracula biting him. They both loom over the other one and pierce their skin/draw blood. The anticipation/building invasiveness is over with a final act of violence.

And while Dracula succeeds in biting Jonathan, he fails to turn him (technically the vampire ladies are the ones who don't do that, but I tend to assume it's something he wanted/ordered based on his line about hoping to see Jonathan in the castle again). Jonathan fails to find the key or kill Dracula, but does succeed in harming Dracula and escaping. Both strike a blow here but it's not quite the final one they wanted to happen.

So in the end, the touching culminates there with Jonathan echoing Dracula's touches, just as he did the other times he touched Dracula. But, and I think this is also really significant... while Dracula does far more touching overall, the whole saga concludes with Jonathan making the final touch. The reversal is completed. The dynamic at the beginning, where Dracula invaded Jonathan's space more and more while Jonathan was unable to stop him, is switched around. Jonathan is the one hunting Dracula, and he's the one who has to escape. If Dracula wanted to have Jonathan become a vampire, become a predator, then in a way it has come true here... except Jonathan is only interested in hunting Dracula himself. And since they both got out of the castle alive, that may become relevant later.

[strongheartneteyam]

I wet you like water but she stained you like blood.

Chapter 2

Pairing: widowed!dilf!Jake Sully x younger!female!human reader

CW: angsty as hell, Neytiri is dead in this AU, unrequited love, older man & younger woman relationship (y/n is in her 20's), feeling like you're only there to fill in the gap someone else left (Neytiri, in this case), mentions of death and being a widow, complex feelings, talks of trauma, CAN BE TRIGGERING TO SOME, mentions of sex, mentions of sexual fluids, reader feeling guilty about being with Jake not long after Neytiri's death

Not proofread. And I can't even read what I just wrote, without even correcting it, because I have to feed my cat and take care of dinner right now. I'm just praying this stuff makes sense. I'll correct any mistakes as soon as I can. Sorry in advance lol This amateur writer here never has enough time on her hands...... 🥲

Chapter 1 𓆩♡𓆪

You're so much older and wiser

And I wait by the door like I'm just a kid

Use my best colors for your portrait

Lay the table with the fancy shit

And watch you tolerate it

If it's all in my head tell me now

Tell me I've got it wrong somehow

tolerate it (Taylor Swift)

𓆩♡𓆪

Jake was a widowed father of 4, he was an attractive, responsible, charming, older man. And he was also funny when he was just chilling, hanging around his friends or his family. Last but not least: he had a delicious "dad bod", a word people came up with to describe older men who are still toned but have some cute fat here and there.

You were a girl in your 20's, a young xenobotanist living in Pandora, who used to spend her nights alone, eating cup noodles, watching and rewatching old TV shows from when the planet Earth was still a place where humans could actually live in, and feeling lonely. So, when Jake Sully got his eye on you, you fell head over heels for him.

You knew well you could never replace Neytiri. Even after her death, she still had a place in Jake's heart that nobody, not even you, would ever be able to claim as yours.

Still, you could not let Jake go. Still, you insisted in staying. Still, you didn't seem to love yourself enough to say to yourself "I deserve better" and wait for a guy who actually loves you, not one that seemed to only love your company and well... your body most of all, as it seemed.

Okay, maybe you shouldn't think this bad of Jake. You knew he felt really connected to you, in a deep level. You two would talk late at night and he would always be vulnerable and tell you about real personal and deep stuff about his life - the one in the human body and the one in the na'vi body -, while the both of you would eat roasted meat and fungi, up in some tree in the middle of the Pandoran forests. But you knew he did not love you. Even if you could feel his heart beating fast through his chest when he kissed and touched you, away from everyone, never in front of anybody, because you two were adults and knew damn well that situation, him seeming like he was so happy and living his best life with another woman, a much younger human girl, who was at an age where she could actually be his daughter, wouldn't sit right with anybody, not human, not na'vi - given that he had children that were still mourning the death of their mother (one of them being a little girl, Tuktirey).

That sacred feeling, love, was saved inside of Jake's heart for Neytiri, his deceased mate, even after death. He bonded with her through tsaheylu. You, as only a human, no neuro queue to connect with his in sight, knew you could never compare to that primal bond he had experienced with her. But worst of all (you felt horrible saying "worst of all" but you knew you didn't mean it like that, like you didn't care about other people's feelings), Neytiri was the mother of his children. She might be with Eywa now but you knew Jake would always remember her looking all beautiful and incredibly feminine carrying his first born, Neteyam Sully, and his other two biological children in her belly (Kiri was adopted after her biological mom died, a dear friend of the couple, Grace Augustine. Kiri was a miracle kid. Her mother was bearing her inside of her body after her own death, inside the lab. That was crazy stuff your human mind would never understand, you thought. Only the na'vi could understand the magnitude of Eywa's power. You yourself knew she was strong and respected her but didn't love and worship her like they did.)

Thinking about the way Jake must still adore the memory of Neytiri and think about her and even cry missing her gave you a big lump in your throat and made you wanna throw up. You felt like the worst being in the Universe thinking like that, but you swore, truly, that feeling that way was not you being a petty selfish girl, jealous of the man you were currently in a situationship with and not even considering to have some respect for his grief and the grief of his children - who had just lost their mother -, but it was actually the love you felt for Jake manifesting in your body, in a psychosomatic way. The pain and desperation you felt thinking about the possibility of him never getting over Neytiri made you sick to your stomach, it made the bones inside of your flesh ache.

The first time you saw him talking to Norm one day at the lab, his tall, large frame in all its glory, his blue skin so beautiful, his dark blue stripes adorning his whole body in intricate patterns, his long brown hair falling on his toned back, his tail looking so cute, reminding you of a kitty cat.... "I'm fucked" You thought to yourself. "Am I really catching feelings for this older na'vi man who will probably never want me in this way?! Damn, he's still mourning his dead mate.... Neytiri died not even a whole year ago... I must be evil to be thinking about him this way at this moment. Stop that, you crazy stupid heartless girl."

You looked at him again and he was smiling, his fangs touching his lower lip. He had such a cheerful, precious smile, even though you knew he had been through a whole lot of pain and trauma in his life. "He must be really strong and resilient. That's beautiful." You thought to yourself

Jake Sully had the right amount of muscles but still had soft flesh in all the right places, his tummy just perfect enough for you to be able to squeeze it if you wanted to, his thighs thick but the muscles were balanced with sweet softness. He made you feel a raw kind of heat in your lower belly and think about him just before sleep, like you were a damn schoolgirl. Sometimes (okay, many times...) he made your panties slick with your own juices when you imagined him taking you in his arms and kissing you hard, dominating you like you were his. Which you wished you were. Until one day that wish was fulfilled. You were in cloud nine when that happened.

Jake had been in the marines back when he was human and lost the movement of his legs, being left needing a wheelchair to move himself around and do day to day activities. He lost his twin brother back on Earth, too, after he - Tommy - had been mugged. And now, he had just lost his wife to death too and was left alone to take care of his 4 children. Poor thing must have PTSD, if the na'vi brains were able to have the same disorders as humans brains had. You didn't know, to be honest. You were a xenobotanist. Your area of expertise was the biology of extraterrestrial plants, not the biology of extraterrestrial bodies.

The fact that he still was capable of irradiating happiness through his eyes, smile, voice and overall presence made you weak with admiration. And love, you must say. Because thats what you were: weak and in love, all for and with Jake Sully.

Too bad his feeling were not even close to being the same as yours. He loved you as a friend and he lusted over your body. He wanted to protect you from any harm anyone could ever do to you. The bitter part of it all is: he could never protect you from the harm he himself did to you. The harm being giving you pieces of what could be his love, but it wasn't. That was the worst crime he could ever commit against you. At least that's what the pungent pain deep inside the arteries of your heart told you. Every night. Every time you remembered he didn't love you, but he loved Neytiri. Everytime you got reminded of the fact that you were alive and she was dead but you still were not his favorite.

Goddammit. How did you end up competing with a dead na'vi woman over a na'vi man's love? You sure were losing your mind.

But falling in love with Jake Sully proved to you that you were not the nerdy science girl who used to always put reason first and feelings last, that you always thought you were. Not when it came to love, at least. Or not when it came to this relationship.

𓆩♡𓆪

If any of you wanna be in the taglist for this fanfic, just leave a comment 🤍 ily n hope you're having a nice day/night 💓⚘

[landoom]

As a long time F1 fan, it’s blows my mind how scrutinizing “fans” are these days. It genuinely feels like the drivers have to watch every little thing they say or else the internet will just take any little comment and run with it as if that driver is the worst person to exist.

I’ve seen the clip people are talking about with Lando and like? I don’t understand why everyone is losing the minds over it? Yeah alright he definitely could’ve had a little more empathy but I highly doubt he knew the extent of what they were dealing with heat wise, I can imagine it’s frustrating when he himself was not feeling well from the heat either.

If “fans” are so upset over people not having empathy why are we focusing on a little off hand comment that I highly doubt had any malicious intent behind it, rather then the insane amount of hate that goes around in this fandom instead. It gets frustrating to watch bc these “fans” anger always is so circumstantial. And this goes for any driver.

They don’t care about empathy when they’re contributing to the tons of hate about a driver they dislike or when death threats are getting thrown around but are more than willing to get angry about a random comment and preach empathy and respect only when it’s beneficial for them or fits their narrative they have of a driver. In this case Lando.

Anyway sorry for the rambles, I’m just so sick of all this hate. It’s been so upsetting to see what the F1 fandom has become over the last couple years. The hate was always a problem but it just seems so much worse now.

You don’t like someone? Ignore them. Bc hating on drivers like this is only making you a worse person.

I'm 100% agreeing with you here.

Lando's comment was not the best thing to say but we actually don't know how any of the people involved were feeling after the race nor what knowledge Lando has about what happened after the race with George and Lewis. For all we know, they could have seen each other there, George and Lewis might actually have had heatstroke or not, and Lando might have felt bad too or not. And, for me, he was more making fun of how Toto shared an update when we didn't even see an official statement about Franco, for example. But that is my way of interpreting what he said and I can understand that other people have interpreted it in another way.

Still, some people feel allowed to judge and hate when we don't have facts to base our judgment on. You can be shocked by Lando's words of course, but some comments clearly came from people who were just waiting for another excuse to hate on him.

But it goes further than just the question of was Lando's comments right or not...

Social media are wonderful because they bring people closer but are also an awful invention!

Back in the 1990s when I started really actively following F1, we had to rely on magazines and interviews around the GP. We barely knew anything about the drivers. And I'm so grateful for the access we now have to them but we still need to respect some boundaries here!

And we need to touch grass and remember that, drivers and sportsmen in general are first and foremost human beings. Which means they have flaws. Some see them as role models. I don't.

I understand that you can decide to not like or stop liking a driver because he expresses opinions you don't share. But for me, it will never excuse hate. And, like you said, you can't preach something and act the opposite when it suits you and hope you'll be respected for that!

[blueberrypancakesworld]

You were never a monster

Ramón Salazar x wife!reader

warning : hurt/comfort, emotions, fluff, kisses, blood, injury, no use of y/n

Summary : Leon had spared him, left a monster behind and now he, the despicable creature has to face the love and especially the feelings of his wife. In front of her, a creature that barely resembled the man she had married. Was it even possible to love something like that?

info : Thank you dear @lovesick-on-the-loose for the request it was a pleasure to write the scenario, Ramòn in his monster flower or chymere as the case may be is simply interesting. Have fun reading :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A lord, he was a lord a Kastelann, the eighth and momenta last exalted of the Salazar bloodline. His family was honourable and old and established in Spain, feared by those who hated them and actually loved by the people.

People a simple being who, with the birth of Ramón and his traits, turned away from the family, their saviours. If they didn't want and accept him, they would feel all his wrath and so would the lord.

Even if his power was not as glorious as that of his predecessors, even if he lacked beauty and grace, he had one thing above all… his lord.

The holy Lord Saddler, the might he gave him as powerful as it was deadly and a figure that hardly helped his appearance.

In the time he was immersed in the cult, his insides plagued by pain and the burden of his family on his shoulders, he at least had hope for a time of betterment in his probably short life. ,,Another good morning my darling" he was woken by her voice, his wife didn't have to get up early for that but she insisted on looking after him.

A sacrifice of love and compassion, a mix that did not hurt Ramón, but rather honoured him more than anything else. It was her love that made him hope that one day hope would be brought to his family.

From the make-up session together that ended with a chaste kiss on the back of the hand, the hours spent together in the library and the garden where some flowers he had planted for her grew when he had seen her hoping in a book, always coming back to the type of plant.

She was the one who put herself between him and Sadler, knowing that the more her beloved Ramón stayed away from her, ,,Your sorrow truly touches me, your kindness is a gift…but you can't do anything about what's coming" he had told her when he came back late at night to a missed dinner and she stayed alone again and dined alone.

Even if his apologies were sincere, when she heard his cries and rants through his door, the rage inside him, the curse of his family haunting him, he didn't let her share in that pain.

She loved Ramón, she had seen his noble side, the side of a nobleman, not the monster he had allowed himself to become for as long as he could remember.

She suspected that Saddler wanted something from Ramón again, she herself had only seen this ‘holy man’ once but he was creepy, had hardly anything human about him and if she was honest he didn't even seem really alive. ,,A ride in the countryside would do us good, darling," she had tried to approach Ramón, taking his cool hand in hers and curtsying.

It was a rejection like the next and the next, he didn't want her, didn't want her company and even if she didn't know he was afraid, she knew when the echo of gunshots could be heard in the village that it wasn't something but someone coming towards her.

It didn't even take three days before Ramón seemed to get more nervous, only dealing with his ‘bodyguards’ that she tried to avoid, the cold reddish eyes and the claws she had only seen once was enough to send a shiver down her spine, ,,You stay in your chamber until I collect you…I love you" he brought her into her chamber, his hand gripping hers tightly and running it over the gold ring on her wrestler.

,,Ramón’ came from her after he had kissed her and she heard the door close, the key turn and his footsteps move away. He had chosen his fate and saved her life.

Her fear increased with each successive shot, she banged on the door and none of the servants answered the bell, she was a prisoner in her own home this bounty hunter or soldier whatever he was had come to the castle had seen him from her window only briefly looking around.

However, she was stuck in her room…until the moment the castle suddenly went silent.

No gunshot, no scream and no voices seemed to be wandering around the castle and she was startled when her door opened as if by magic.

Carefully looking out she found no one, no one seemed to be here and she feared the answer to the question of where her husband was, lifting her dress slightly she walked faster through the castle searching the places where Ramòn usually was but with each time she pulled open the door and looked where he was her heart beat more and more with fear.

The whole castle seemed to be empty and as she was about to go to the stables to saddle her horse and ride out she paused, a place she had never been and had only been once before.

Hastily rushing back to the castle, she took the steps of the staircase two at a time, almost tripping and tearing her dress if she hadn't held on, ,,Ramòn! Darling, I'm on my way!" she shouted into the dark vaulted cellar complex and grabbed one of the torches and held it in front of her, trying to roughly remember the passage that led to the cliffs that were almost the end of an island.

Her footsteps in the corridors echoed the sound of hissing and hissing, a painful wail that made her hope it wasn't too late, she didn't want to lose him.

Stepping out of the corridor she threw away the torch and saw that part of the bridge had already been torn down, stones were kicking up dust, shell casings lay on the floor and she saw the corrosive acid running down the walls.

,,Ramòn?" she asked quietly, afraid that the mercenary was still here but he wasn't and she breathed a sigh of relief when he seemed to have moved on and she was alone with her husband, wherever he might be. He had not answered her repeated questions, but the sounds suggested that he must still be alive.

Walking onwards through the ruins of the only beautiful passage, she saw this creature lying on a cracked stone field in front of her, but above all she saw with horror that this something lying there was her beloved.

Screaming his name, she hurried towards the creature and saw the fleshy, steaming petals, which she couldn't seem to describe in any other way, trying to cover Ramòn, ,,Darling…you-you're alive" she said, almost whispering as her hand lay on one of the leaves, cold and slimy, she could feel the life underneath.

But he pulled back, trying to get away from her but his huge body wouldn't allow it, ,,Don't…don't…look at me,’" she finally heard his voice consumed, hoarse as if someone had shot him so many times in the body that the blood was in his throat.

The tentacles with which he was probably defending himself lay between them both and she could no longer look into his yellow eyes, ,,A monster…I don't need any help" he continued to mumble but couldn't manage to heave his massive body out of the way.

Carefully she raised her trembling hand, feeling fear mixed with grief as she carefully pushed the tentacles out of the way, ,,Ramòn you are not a monster" she began and even though his form looked horrible, the slime and acid could most likely kill her.

He was obviously badly injured, she could see the blood on the floor, the fight they had had was not only brutal but also protracted. ,,Besides, don't hide yourself and your pain from me, I can see your suffering," she warned and reached through the outside and grasped his hand, ice-cold, she was afraid he would be dead if she hadn't felt the wince and the sigh.

Ramòn, though hardly his former self, slowly put down his tentacles and opened his petals, ,,You…you don't see me as a monster?" he dared to ask, holding her hand and crawling towards her almost hopefully, golden eyes full of pain and devotion looking at her.

She shook her head, feeling the tears blur her vision as she moved closer and his other hand also reached out to her, ,,You are my Ramòn, my husband…my graceful Castelan," she assured him and gave him a single careful kiss on the forehead. The lady took her time with her beloved.

Hours passed until Ramòn had changed back to some extent, came out of his shell and she dressed him in a velvet curtain to replace his lost clothes.

The walk back to the main castle seemed to take hours but in all that time he held her hand, leaning on her and most importantly she heard the ,,Thank you my love" which she returned and hugged him tighter to let him know he was not alone.

He would never be alone, he had never been a monster, he was her husband, her beloved and above all a person who may not have been perfect but someone who could love and that was all that mattered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@ramontism , @goldenponcho , @xgrisleyx , @ghostssi

[theflyindutchwoman]

I'm a cop. I was standing this close to the guy. Okay? Right across from him, and I never saw him coming. But she did, though. She- Some part of her didn't feel right about this whole thing. She hesitated. And I-I pushed her right at him.

| ANATOMY OF A SCENE - CHENFORD EDITION 2.11 - Day of Death

This is such a small scene, easily overshadowed in an episode that is filled with so many great moments… But I love how it provides some insight into Tim's state of mind. He's usually so good at compartmentalising his feelings and emotions to focus on the job… unless it gets too personal, like with Isabel. Or here, when they realise that Lucy has been kidnapped… The way he's growing more desperate and agitated by the minute… He's feeling powerless and working the tip line is not helping at all. If anything, it frustrates him even more. Tim, at his core, is a man of action and this is particularly evident here, where he's itching to kick something. Anything. A sentiment that is all too reminiscent of the time he punched a wall after Isabel's overdose. He manages to rein it in a bit, but barely, thanks to Angela… She's trying so hard to be present for him, to be the voice of reason, but she's also going through her own issues. She can't hide her worry though. For Lucy, of course. And for Tim… It's hard to believe that seeing him like this wouldn't trigger some memories for her, of how he used to be after Isabel's disappearance. But most of all : she knows him. She knows he called her for more than just looking for Lucy, that something is weighing on his mind and that he needs to unburden himself.

The guilt he's feeling is so palpable, so tangible when he's remembering and retelling his last moments with Lucy. The cracks in his voice… The tears in his eyes… It's eating at him. The way he's rewriting history too, feels so real and authentic : guilt can make you reinterpret facts, question every little things you've said and done, and this is what he's doing here. He didn't necessarily push her towards Caleb : his advice to go out and have a drink or two with another human being was actually sound. And Lucy wasn't particularly hesitant either : the reason she wanted to go home was because she was exhausted after the day they had, not because she was suspicious. But that doesn't stop him from feeling responsible.

The way his voice breaks a little when he admits he never saw Caleb coming… I think that's the most unforgivable part for him. That he failed her, as a cop, as her TO, and as a friend. He drilled into her the importance of 'cop eyes', that her default mode should be suspicion… Only he didn't see anything that alarmed him (besides not liking the guy and acting a bit jealous). That's why he's beating himself up so hard : in his mind, he should have seen something… he should have prevented all of this… And what hurts him even more is that he firmly believes that he overrode her instincts. The very ones he helped her hone. He spent months testing her, teaching her to trust herself and stop second-guessing herself. To be more confident. That was the whole point of her Plain Clothes Day. That's what makes it worse for him : that she valued his own opinion over hers and that led to her kidnapping. And that's why it will be so important for Lucy to set the record straight later… why he will be so touched that despite everything, his opinion is the one that matters to her the most. That she never blamed him.

And lastly, it says absolutely everything that Tim's behaviour in this episode has been paralleled later by Wesley and Angela, a married couple. Tim went feral and threatened to pull a guy inside out if he didn't give him an information that could lead to Lucy while Wesley promised to have a guy tortured if he harmed Angela… And here, Tim wanted to kick some doors, refusing to just sit there and do nothing, which is pretty much what Angela said to the Feds when Wesley was taken hostage… It was always more than 'just' guilt driving him...

[astarions-bride]

dirty prompt 18 with Nikolai?

“Why don’t you go put on something pretty for me?”

That was such a vague description for you to go off of and you were left staring into your closet for what felt like hours. You were dressed in nothing but your silky undergarments, hands braced on your hips, and a small pile of discarded clothing steadily growing at your feet. A date with Nikolai that didn't involve a rave or fucking in behind a bush in some woods was a rare occurrence and you were stressing yourself out trying to find the perfect outfit. You can still remember the sultry tone he used, blue eyes glinting in the moonlight, and the tips of his fangs poking out as he grinned. You shivered at the memory of those sharp teeth sinking into your own flesh and the answering swirl of warmth coiling in your stomach had you questioning your sanity. You quickly brushed aside those thought and dragged the next item off the hanger to inspect.

An hour later you were no closer to finding an outfit when suddenly cool hands curled around your hips. You nearly jumped out of your skin at the touch, your heart leaping into your throat, and you cursed quietly at the soft chuckle from your lover. You swore he got some sick enjoyment at hearing your heart race in fear. His long slender fingers brushed over your warm skin greedily and you felt him nuzzle your temple before moving to place a lingering kiss over your carotid artery.

"When I said to put on something pretty I did mean actual clothes," he teased before nipping at your bra strap with sharp teeth and you let out a small huff in annoyance.

"It would help if I actually knew where we were going," you muttered before zeroing in on his fingers trailing over the waistband of your panties.

He pressed the rest of his body against you and you shivered out of reflex despite his clothes offering a barrier against his chilled skin.

"The rave, of course. Feeling a bit...peckish," he drawled while placing another kiss to your throat and you felt yourself deflate at his answer.

"I thought we would be going somewhere else for a change," you said and sharp teeth pressed against your skin hard enough for you to wince.

You knew it was a warning.

"I very well can't drink all of your blood and it's dangerous for my kind to be around humans," he explained patiently, for what felt like the hundredth time, but you still felt yourself pout.

You turned in his arms to curl your hands over his broad shoulders and looked up into his eyes. You noticed his face looked more gaunt than usual, delicate veins becoming noticeable underneath his now sickly pale skin, and even his fangs seemed more prominent and extended. The hunger in his eyes is what finally had you crumbling.

You dragged your fingers across a sharp cheekbone and watched as his eyes fluttered close. He nuzzled into the warmth and you felt yourself smile. It was rare to have him in such a soft state. Nikolai was usually tense and ready for a fight, his body coiled and eyes trailing every person that walked past, and a cruel smirk twisting his features. A true predator hunting for prey.

"I guess it will be okay...but no fucking in the forest. I'm still washing dirt out of my hair from last time," you chided and watched his lips curl into a playful grin.

It always seemed after a good hunt and feeding, Nikolai was more randy than a teenager, and you suspected it had something to do with the rush of new blood.

There had been countless awkward situations you found yourself in due to him being too handsy and nearly frantic after eating, including some of his 'family' walking past you two going at it like rabbits, and then having to calm him down at the vicious snarls he released at his territory being disturbed. Knowing his feral behavior over you during that state left you giddy and more aroused than what should be healthy, but then again you were dating a Vampire.

"No promises, my darling," he said, cocky grin in place as he leaned down to peck you on the lips, and you rolled your eyes.

"Let's get me fed and then we can find somewhere nice to get you fucked," he continued and you couldn't help the excited giggle the escaped you.

He stayed plastered to your side as you eventually picked out a racy little dress that him grinding shamelessly against you and you gave him a little show while slipping it on. His eyes were hooded and you could feel the hunger radiating off of him in waves and you just knew that you were in for a treat once he was fed.

You could hardly wait for the bloodbath to begin.

[for-a-longlongtime]

On Dieter, Goya's Black Paintings, and Pedro on Talk Art 

Alright y'all, it's Saturday evening, I have nothing better to do (I actually do but I don't feel like it), so welcome to my mini TED Talk about 'how to pay too much fucking attention to the Pedro cinematic universe'. None of this is new, and maybe everybody already knew about this, but I didn't... so here's a nerdy tangent courtesy of googling/wikipedia-ing.

I was reading a Dieter!fic (this one right here by @chaoticgeminate - go read her writing!) earlier today, which refers to the 'Saturn Devouring His Son' painting - that giant mural Dieter is working on in The Bubble:

(his brush isn't even touching the wall tho, ha)

The original 'Saturn' by Goya

The fic mentioned its part of 'The Black Paintings', so I got curious and started googling. I'm no art major or expert, so please allow me to just paraphraze the Wikipedia page. 'Saturn' is part of a group of 14 Goya paintings that are called Pinturas Negras/The Black Paintings. They "portray intense, haunting themes, reflective of both his fear of insanity and his bleak outlook on humanity" --this was late in Goya's life, and was connected to several illnesses he had experienced (and the fear of relapsing) and political turmoil in Spain at the time (post-Napolean war, changing Spanish government, etc.

Trivia fact 1: Goya actually made these paintings right on the walls of the Quinta del Sordo (so-called Deaf Man's villa) where he was staying -- so I love that Apatow had Dieter also paint right on the walls.

Trivia fact 2: while Goya was living in this villa, he actually became gravely ill (again) - not by a pandemic obviously, but it's hard to not link that loosely to the COVID period. He had never intended for these 'Black Paintings' to become public; "these paintings are as close to being hermetically private as any that have ever been produced in the history of Western art" (the murals were eventually transfered to canvas by other folks once he had moved out of the villa). Switching back to The Bubble -- I love how the tragic influence of Goya's illness(es) and art/things 'made at home away from the world, not intended for an audience' (so obviously, in a bubble) has that connection to the COVID experience and how many folks were suddenly homebound, along with the burden of illness in many ways (lord knows this all did a serious number on our mental health). In the movie, Dieter and the others do not want to go into isolation again, but that solitude is what eventually led him to painting on the walls in his room. This is not a 'grand discovery' of any kind, but I got a kick out of the parellels once I read up on it - and honestly makes me appreciate the movie a bit more, haha.

Not happy about another quarantine period.

Alright, more hyperfocusing after the cut:

Some googling led me to a post from last year by @nicolethered (gifs in this post are hers), and she included screencaps of the walls of Dieter's room (during that drug scene), which I hadn't even noticed while watching the movie. Upon taking a closer look, I noticed they're outtakes from other pieces of Goya's Black Paintings! I thought that was really cool, they sure worked on the details with that set (there's one more that's shown in a different shot but I can't exactly figure out which outtake that is):

First one is a mirror image from Two Old Men Eating Soup and the second one is basically Satan aka 'The Great He-Goat' from the Witches' Sabbath painting. Which IMO makes for fucking hilarious perfection a.k.a. trivia fact 3 -- because we all know about Dieter and his little emotional support goat, LOL. Excellent connection.

*insert sound bit from Hot Ones interview* : "Just let me love you!"

Anywaaay there's more. The Bubble was shot during Feb 22, 2021 to April 16, 2021, right? Pedro has spoken about how his input in shaping Dieter was mostly regarding his outfits (the Crocs, the robe, etc). But then I suddenly remember the Talk Art interview he had done in 2018, and how he namechecks 'The Dog' by Goya - and lo, guess which painting is actually part of the 14 Black Paintings? Yeap - the dog! So I checked the podcast and he was asked, 'if you could be any painting, what painting would you be?' by Russell. Here is the painting, and below it is what he said on Talk Art:

'The Drowning Dog' by Goya

"I think… it's a Goya. Yeah, old school. I think it's called 'Dog Buried in Sand' or something like that. It's so… I remember feeling it was such a visual representation of helplessness, in such a… come on, let's all admit that helplessness is a very recurring feeling for many of us, you know what I mean? When it comes to so many things. I guess… I was in Spain, in Madrid, and I was 20. And I went to the Goya museum. What's interesting about it is that the head of the dog is really quite small and sort of adorable, it looks like a stray mutt, and the painting - if I can remember it correctly - is very rectangular. There's so much above him, like the world just seems so big. It's quite incredible, isn't it? I know it's really sad, and sort of dark, and maybe I really like enjoy perceiving myself like..." (He gets interrupted by Russell, and then continues;) "Yeah, he's certainly not dying, it's sort of - it's a moment", (then interrupts himself with;) "Maybe he's totally dying, there's no way that dog is getting out of that. That dog is SO fucked. Anyway, that's the painting that represents my life". (All three of them burst out into laughing.)

If you're still reading this - I am impressed with your dedication to my silly little post, haha. Anyway, I just thought it was so striking that there basically is a straight line from the painting he mentioned in Talk Art to what Dieter is painting in the Bubble. Makes me wonder if perhaps he - or even Russell/Robert - had any input in that part of Dieter's backstory.

Thank you for attending my TED Talk on artistic analysis of Dieter Bravo during COVID, we now resume your regularly scheduled program for Saturday night. 🤪

(Have I been smoking because a local dispensary actually had 'Mando' bud? I sure as fuck have and I blame that for this post.)

[team-118]

ok I decided I don't actually care if I get prompted or not I'm just gonna start writing so. lmao. enjoy!

Eddie-centric, Chris and Eddie, pre-201, 1.1k, on ao3

Inspired by this post by @hunybody which gave me fucking brainworms.

65. I'll help you study.

Tomorrow, he starts at the 118.

The words had started swimming off the page hours ago. Eddie’s temple is fucking throbbing, but he can't look away from the textbook splayed out in front of him. He knows that if he looks up now, he'll come face to face with the brick of a digital clock he's had since high school - reading some ungodly time like three in the morning, probably.

Instead, he rubs his knuckles over his blurry eyes and starts tracing another diagram. At this point, he could draw the blood vessels in the human arm in his sleep - and honestly, he might be doing it asleep right now - but he refuses to take any chances.

Tomorrow, he starts at the 118.

Eddie can't really remember the last time he wanted something to go well so badly. He was a good student until senior year, kept his grades up enough to keep his mother happy and to earn the occasional nod of approval from his father. He had half-formed dreams, this wispy idea of the person he grew up wanting to be. He knows how to study. (Knows this isn't it.)

But then there was Shannon, and then the army, and then Chris, God, Chris. He wouldn’t take it back, not when it gave him Chris. But sometimes, he misses the feeling of being…genuinely good at something. Working his ass off, and then watching it pay off. Burning himself up with how bad he wants something, until his eyes sting and his fingers burn and there's the cold, fiery satisfaction of knowing he's truly given it his all. Knowing what the fuck he’s doing with his hands. Eddie doesn't really get that, these days - not between three dead-end jobs and the voice that keeps telling him to quit while he's ahead, which sounds a little too much like his mother for comfort. Maybe he could get it in LA.

And he's good at firefighting, is the thing. He didn't really keep in touch with anyone from the Academy, doesn’t have much to compare to, but he figures that having two stations fighting over him is a good sign. And when that one instructor had kept him after class (while Eddie distractedly checked for texts about Christopher) and told him to consider the paramedic route, it hadn't been for nothing. And when he had the fastest time in his class for that baby fire rescue drill, forcing himself to control his breathing when all he could hear were Christopher’s cries, it meant something.

Eddie could do this. He could really do this. He wasn't going to strut into the firehouse with an ego - had too much shit on his plate to even pull it off, really - but he wasn't about to spend his probie year as the man behind on all his shifts. Talk is cheap, though, and Eddie is a man of his word, which brings him back to this: anatomy diagram, flashcards scattered, the dim light of his bedside table lamp and the dogged kind of determination that Eddie hasn't really felt about his career in, well, maybe ever. And the clock next to him, which reads 3:17 AM.

He forces himself to exhale. The little crescent moons his nails are digging into his palms are going to leave a mark, but they'll be gone by the time his alarm rings. Tomorrow, he's Staff Sergeant Diaz, on his way to Firefighter Diaz - competent, unflappable, earning his title. No one needs to know how fucking hard he's fighting to tread water.

Eddie finishes up the drawing, goes to flip the page, and ends up knocking over the glass of water he'd sat down with. Thankfully, the plastic doesn't shatter, but the liquid soaks into his socks in seconds. The cold hardwood under him does nothing to muffle the clatter as it falls.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Eddie mutters to himself, clearing his notes and books out of the way. Shit, Christopher. He freezes, halfway crouched, not daring to breathe in case his son stirs.

The only sound is the tick of the clock in the hallway. He breathes again, trying to make as little noise as possible while he cleans up his mess. He almost gets away with it, too.

“Daddy?”

Eddie whirls around, gasping, hand to his heart on instinct. It makes Chris giggle.

“You look like someone out of Abuela's movies,” he tells Eddie around a smile. His crutches click on the floor as he comes closer, and Eddie’s glad the water is gone so he won't slip.

“Aren't you supposed to be asleep, Superman?” Eddie asks Chris lightly, pulling him in for a hug.

“You're not asleep,” Chris pouts, and Eddie can feel it in his shoulder. God, this kid.

“No,” Eddie admits, sighing. “No, I was thinking about tomorrow.”

“Are you nervous?” Chris's eyes are huge, round like a full moon.

“Yeah, buddy, I'm a little nervous,” Eddie tells him. “But I'll be okay. I've got my good luck charm right here, don't I?” He kisses Christopher’s cheek, wet and messy so Chris will squirm in his hold and laugh again.

“Daddy!” Chris squeals, and Eddie tickles him until Chris is kicking before he picks him up, spins him around, and deposits him safely on Eddie’s bed.

Chris looks up at him, breathless, bright. He picks up the diagram Eddie had been working on, discarded on the bed next to Chris. Chris looks at it intently, eyebrows furrowed, considering.

“I'll help you study,” he tells Eddie seriously.

“Chris, you need to be in bed.”

Chris crosses his little arms. “So do you. I'm not going if you're not going.”

And, well, the kid's got a point.

“Nothing gets past you,” Eddie sighs, lying down next to Chris. He grins back, big and toothy.

“What's that on your forehead?” Chris asks, reaching out to touch.

“Hm?”

“You have lines.” Chris’s little index finger runs between his eyebrows, smoothing out the creases.

“Oh, um,” Eddie falters. “I guess it happens sometimes when you get older and you worry about things. Your forehead gets all tense.”

Chris is fascinated. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really.” Chris pushes, testing. Eddie winces. “Okay, sometimes. Ouch. A little.”

Chris smiles up at him. “You'll fix them, Daddy. In your big red firetruck.”

“Yeah.” Eddie swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I'll try.”

“I know you can do it,” Chris tells him, voice fading into a sleepy whisper.

Eddie pulls him in by the back of his head, kissing his forehead. “Thank God for you, kid.”

“Love you,” Chris mumbles. “I helped,” he says, all quiet and proud.

Eddie laughs under his breath. “You always do, Superman.”

If you want to send me a prompt you can do it from here.

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #308

Like most Tuesdays, I had entirely too many appointments today. One was for psychotherapy. Another one was for physical therapy. And the last one was the regular dentist.

Regular therapy was interesting today. I spoke for a full hour and a half about things I dare not speak of in this space (at least until you're safe). It was… cathartic to say the least. I spoke at length about the way I perceive the world; it's definitely not normal, so there's not a whole lot of folks I can talk about it with. My therapist understands it when I speak, and that's amazingly refreshing.

…Before you ask - no, I don't wander around having hallucinations or whatever. Due to my experiences growing up, some of my perfectly normal human senses are sharper than they ought to be, and sometimes that's a problem in certain contexts. I won't explain any more than that, at least not yet. Maybe in a few years, depending on how things go for you. We'll see.

That said, something tells me that maybe you already know what I'm talking about. Or maybe not. Who knows; it's not as though I'll ever be able to ask you and find out.

…

Physical therapy was after that. I got a new exercise that I think works the rhomboids…? Or something around there. It's very unpleasant; it hurts to move those muscles. But I gotta; if nothing else, the results of doing it will help K understand what's going on a little better, hopefully.

…And then the dentist. The outer surface of the molars on the upper right side of my face feel like they're being stabbed to death with white-hot needles anytime anything touches the white of the tooth near my gums. I guess my gums are a little bit receded there for some reason, and also those teeth are being moved around, and so parts of these teeth that aren't normally exposed are now exposed. Apparently the sensitivity will go away with time. I hope that's true. I was given a special toothpaste to help. I really hope it works.

At very least, though, the pain I'm experiencing isn't the result of something rotting - to make sure of that was the whole point of this appointment. It's annoying, but I can deal with the pain until it stops being a thing. Hopefully it'll stop being a thing relatively soon.

There was a great big gap of time between physical therapy and the dentist - like 2 hours. But both physical therapy and the dentist are in the same relatively faraway town. So rather than go to physical therapy, go home, only to go back, J and I just chilled out nearby. I found a nice park:

...I wonder... would you sit with me here?

...A swing is a lot of fun. I wonder if you've used one before. If you haven't, then I hope you get to try it; I think you'd like it a lot, actually.

J was still in the building working at his computer in the presence of the free Wi-Fi. I was by myself. So I sat on the swing and enjoyed swinging on it for a while, wishing you were here with me.

...I know it's impossible. I know. It's okay.

My hands started to get sore from the chains, though; it's been a long time since last I've used one of these on a regular basis. So from there, I wandered around, taking pictures for you:

...I found a hat, too!

...It was a very pretty hat. I'm sure someone must be looking for it, so I left it there; there doesn't seem to be a lost-and-found anywhere, and no more visible place to put it than this. I really hope that whoever lost it will remember where they left it and come back soon to retrieve it.

...I don't have a whole lot more to write about today. I had to be at a lot of places and do a lot of things, so I'm pretty tired now. I don't have any big or insightful thoughts to write to you; just lots of pretty pictures of autumn, and a brain that is not quite soupy, but is approaching that general direction, for sure.

...I hope you're okay where you are. I wish you could tell me that you're okay, or that you're gonna be okay. I get worried about you; I can't even begin to imagine the difficulties you're facing now. All I have is the wish that I could somehow help you through them; no one should have to go through difficult things alone.

Well. I guess I'll end this here for today before I start rambling or something.

I love you. Please stay safe out there, okay? I need you to come back to us safe and sound. Because lots of people need a friend like you. And even if that wasn't true... I would certainly enjoy a friend like you. Because then we could go and play video games and take neat pictures of things and eat tasty snacks and talk about all kinds of cool stuff.

I'll write to you tomorrow. So keep doing your best out there. I'll be cheering for you from here.

Your friend, Lumine

[farfromstrange]

Butterfly Effect | Michael Kinsella x Reader

Masterlist

Chapter Four: Dirty Chai

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Barista!Reader (afab)

Summary: Michael can't stop thinking about you and you can’t stop thinking about him. Although the way you channel your feelings inherently differs. At lunch, you decide to become his personal coffee delivery service and hope it will get you some answers. He's not very open when it comes to his past, but you manage to see a glimpse of who he really is. Or, you take another shot at unraveling Michael's guarded heart, still hoping he will finally take a step toward you in return and that this odd attraction you’re feeling isn't just one-sided.

Warnings: Smutty themes 18+ MINORS DNI, male masturbation, allusions to oral sex, allusions to handjobs & allusions to p in v, fluff, pining, kissing, hurt/comfort, a bit of angst

Word Count: 6.7k

A/n: This is just a taste for what's to come, both in the naughty and in the angsty sense. Thank you all so much for your love and support so far and I am currently planning a continuation of this series with these two that follows the actual storyline and plot of the show but also with my own twist on it. I'm not sure when or how, but I've got the idea because Butterfly Effect has become by far one of my favorite fics to work on because it's just a bunch of human beings with no superpowers, and that's an awesome challenge after writing Marvel for so long. Anyway, enjoy this chapter!

Read All Previous Parts Here...

18+ under the cut!

Michael dreams of you. Your lips on his, your hands in his hair. He dreams of the dress you wore the day before last, the soft skin of your thighs, the smell of your perfume, and how it felt to hold your hand.

He dreams of you and your godly lips. He thinks about what else you could do with them, how your hands would feel tugging at his hair as he gets on his knees to worship you, to show you that you deserve to be pleased too, and he wonders what the rest of you would taste like. You’re divine, there is no doubt about that, but he feels this desperate need to spread you open and eat you whole like you’re his last meal on death row. He craves more than a kiss. You’re everywhere as he sleeps, and your lips paint delicate patterns on his skin until he’s writhing in the sheets. 

With a gasp, Michael’s eyes shoot open. He’s lying on his back, his body covered in a sheen of sweat. He looks down. His cock is aching hard in his boxers. 

It’s morally wrong to think of you in that context. It’s even worse that he reaches into his underwear to find pre-cum leaking out of the mushroom tip, but he’s so hard, it hurts, and he can still feel your lips on his.

This obviously isn’t the first time he has woken up hard after a dream, but he had never craved it to be a reality until now, and that’s all he can think about.

If you hadn’t pulled away the day before, would you have asked him into your apartment? Would you have led him to your bed, take your clothes off, and spread your legs for him so he could indulge in something other than the voices in his head? He now knows that your touch can make the world go quiet. He realized that there is something about you being so physically close to him that makes all the blood rush from his head to his cock, and he feels as if he’s on a high or drunk or both when he thinks about the power of your hands alone. Your mouth though, that’s the strongest weapon you possess. Not just when it comes to words.

He remembers the kiss vividly. Your lips moved with a purpose like this was something you knew you wanted, and they moved rhythmically against his as if you’d done it a million times before. He remembers getting lost in how warm you felt. Your chapstick still lingers, and when he opens his mouth, he swears he can taste you. 

His cock throbs. It’s so wrong it already feels right again; the relief he feels when he starts stroking up and down his shaft to the faintest memory of your lips makes everything else turn gray. 

Your hand would be softer than his calloused fingers, but from what he could tell before, you have a stern grip and you would probably pay close attention to every last vein and the slit that drags through his tip with your delicate fingers because you never do anything short of perfection. 

You would be eager to make him come undone in the palm of your hands, maybe you would even use your mouth. Those lips that he only got to taste once would wrap around his cock. You would struggle to get him down your throat fully at first, but then you would hollow your cheeks and suck his soul right out of his body through his cock. The pleasure would be out of this world.

You would suck and lick at him, you would kiss him all over as your hands explore his body, and you would make sure he’s taken care of everywhere at once. Maybe your nails would rake over his skin, tug at his chest hair and find his nipples only to play with them. You’re addicted to detail, and you would feel so good wrapped around his cock – first your mouth and then your sweet cunt he suspects tastes just as perfect as your lips.

Michael thinks about you in the lewdest of ways and the guilt is knocking on his door relentlessly, but he’s lost in the feeling of his hand that he wants nothing more than to be yours as he strokes faster and squeezes his aching cock harder. His abs tighten. He groans and he pants and he knows by saying your name in such ecstasy makes what he’s doing even more wrong, but then he thinks about your mouth and that smile of yours turning into a slack jaw as you’re writhing and moaning his name, preferably with his head between your thighs or his cock buried deep inside of you instead of his sloppy hand, and he’s done for. 

It takes only a few more strokes before his cum spills messily into his palm and all over his stomach, and the orgasm is painfully intense, it drags on for ages as your face dances foggily in front of his inner eyes and your voice whispers sweet nothings into his ear. 

Perverse, that’s the first word that comes to mind when Michael finds his way back to himself. What he just did crosses so many boundaries, and yet the secrecy and obscenity of the situation makes his cock twitch all over again. You’re unaware of the thoughts you have put into his head. You’re so innocent, untouchable, and that makes you even more intriguing. He wants what he could have, but in his mind, he can’t have you, and that makes him want you even more.

Michael wants you in more ways than just because he’s seeking comfort, and as the physical need grows bigger, the demons in his head are going crazy with what it would mean if he acted on his desires the way he wants to. 

Do you touch yourself to the thought of him too? He wonders. Did he get you as worked up as you did him? He hopes. The thought of you touching yourself while moaning his name, perhaps with a vibrator or your slender fingers alone barely allows him to get off the cliff he jumped off from. He doesn’t want to think about it because you pleasuring yourself to the thought of him has the power to make him hard again, but he catches his mind slipping to the sight of you in your bed, the sheets barely covering your naked body as you fuck yourself, and his name slips from your lips so sinfully perfect.

Michael.

He groans. His cum sticks to his stomach, and it’s seemingly everywhere. He can’t do this again. It’s wrong.

All he wants to know is if he has the same effect on you, but you were the one who kissed him, you’re the one who keeps making moves, and he suspects he’s not so far off with his suspicions. But it’s dangerous territory he finds himself on, he realizes that now more than ever. 

And the day hasn’t even started yet. So much could happen in a span of twenty-four hours, enough to change the course of everything. He’s not consistent like you, and his life is too messy.

On the other end of the city, you’re floating. It feels like it, anyway. When you come to work that morning, everything is perfect. Well, it’s not entirely perfect, but you’re somewhere on cloud nine and can’t be bothered with theatrics. 

You serve every customer with an extra bright smile. Today though, you’re not being kinder than usual to make up for a bad day; you’re being nice because you’re happy. You feel fulfilled. The sun is out on the streets and especially, it is shining brightly into your heart. 

“Have a wonderful day!” you tell the elderly woman who ordered your signature latte when you hand it to her, and she gives you a bright smile back in return. 

It’s days like today that you live for. 

Sarah cocks her head to the side. “Okay, what did ya smoke today?” she asks. 

You stop humming the song that’s stuck in your head – whatever was on the radio this morning truly spoke out of your soul, and now the melody won’t escape you. “What?” you ask. 

“Yer very happy today. Unusually chipper. Especially to the fuckers who are being absolute cunts in here. So ya either snorted a line of coke this morning or somethin’ exciting happened last night.”

You ignore her suggestive tone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm, sure. Ya have a glow surrounding you. Did ya finally get some cock last night?”

“Sarah!” You swat her playfully. 

The customers in the café don’t need to know every detail about your sex life. You wish you had one, and you would probably glow just as much, but it was just a kiss. A kiss that makes you feel like you’re in another world, but still just a kiss.

You sigh almost dreamily. His mouth would surely feel even better all over your body. Attention to detail, you’re sure that might be his thing. It wouldn’t be the first time you fantasized about his hands or his mouth on you, but you don’t feel as comfortable doing it at work as at home in the privacy of your own bedroom. 

“Seriously,” Sarah snaps you out of it again, “what is going on with you?”

You twirl and throw the towel over your shoulder. With a grin, you turn back to her. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” you say. 

“I do, that’s why I asked.”

“Can’t I just be happy?” 

“If it’s about Mister Tall-And-Mysterious who came in the other day–”

You cut her off, “I have tables to clean.” 

“Did he come in ya this time?”

“SARAH!”

Her laugh echoes through the room, the blush on your cheeks threatening to overtake every inch of skin it can find. 

Grabbing a bowl of warm water, you make your way into the sitting area. Sarah’s eyes remain on you, and you can tell she’s suspicious. She won’t leave you alone until she’s got her answers, but you are still too happy to jinx anything; you would rather keep her guessing than gush about something that might shatter your heart sooner or later. For now, you want to be happy, and cloud nine is comfortable enough for that. 

Your eyes flick to the clock almost anxiously, counting down the minutes to your lunch break. When it finally strikes twelve, you’re back behind the counter and you’re using the lack of business to use the coffee machine for your own purpose.

Sarah watches you as you brew some espresso on one end while pouring a perfectly balanced chai tea into two cups. You add the coffee and the fresh foam, a bit of cinnamon and caramel, and to top it off, you paint an actual butterfly on it with cocoa powder, and that’s when she knows that you’re not preparing coffee for another customer or yourself, even. You’re doing this for someone else. 

You write the name on the cup in capital letters. “Perfect,” you murmur to yourself. 

“Should I book that Dirty Chai on your account?” Sarah asks. 

You cast her a knowing smirk and she returns it. 

“Go get him, darling. One of us has to.”

With a quick yet cheery, “Thank you. Appreciate it!” You lose your apron, get your bag from the break room and head out into the busy streets, the two to-go cups balancing in your hands.

You go past the gas station next to the deli a little outside of downtown, and that’s when you spot the car dealer Michael mentioned, and the car wash that connects to it. To you, this is the best idea you’ve had in a while. 

The jacket around your shoulders is his. You’re wearing a soft cardigan underneath; your skin is used to Dublin’s rather low temperatures, after all, so you can easily give the jacket back to him – although you considered keeping it that morning, and that thought is quick to reappear when you reach your destination. And then, you get nervous. 

What if he doesn’t want to see you? What if you interpreted the kiss wrong? What if he thinks you’re crazy for remembering where he works? And what if he tells you to go to hell and you will never find someone as special as Michael again?

Now you’re overthinking and quite frankly, you know you’re overreacting, but damn it, you can’t stop the spiral your mind falls into, not even if you tried. 

Getting what you want is so much harder in practice. Your thoughts have been all around him for a while now, but last night knocked it out of the park. Every living thought is about this man you barely know, and you woke up with the sudden urge to change that. You’re determined, and you are going to get what you want. 

As someone always so focused on doing the right thing and pleasing everyone else, meeting someone who doesn’t know how to make the first step because he, himself, is caught up in shit you don’t quite understand yet is a challenge that forces you to come out of your shell. 

You fidget with your dress. You hope the perfume you added before you left doesn’t smell like you’re trying too hard, and you send a prayer to a God you don’t believe that your hair isn’t ruined from the walk. The coffee is still hot, which eases your nerves a little, but you’re not even sure he’s going to like it – it’s a different take on coffee once again, one that you’re not sure if he’s going to like. Is he a tea person? If he’s not, he might not like it. What if he doesn’t? You’re going to look like such an idiot if he doesn’t like it and you came to his place of work just to bring him coffee that’s actually tea with toppings that don’t usually go into a Dirty Chai for nothing. 

You don’t want to seem like you’re trying too hard, but it suddenly feels like you’re a walking groupie if not a stalker already. 

No, you paid for these drinks, you painted a fucking butterfly onto the foam, which is a hard task to achieve, so you have to at least try. 

You once again take a step toward him. Now quite literally. 

Michael is engrossed in spraying down the Prius before him with a hose that he doesn’t see nor feel the curtain behind him shift. You watch him for quite some time, his sleeves rolled back and the rest of his clothing covered in wet splatters. His hair is disheveled. There is something tragically elegant about the way he looks, even when he’s a mess, and the flexing of the muscles in his forearm makes you sweat. 

“So this is what you do all day,” you decide to speak up. 

He almost loses control of the hose when your voice tears him out of the thoughts that were inevitably about you, too. He turns to look at you. You can tell he didn’t expect you to come. 

“That looks even more exhausting than my job, and I have to talk to people.”

Your name rolls off his tongue in a stammer and his cheeks flush a bright pink as if you caught him doing something illegal, and you find yourself smiling shyly back at him because obviously, you’re not here to embarrass or hurt him. 

Michael turns off the hose before it can wet you both, running a hand over his sweaty face. “You–” he collects his thoughts. “What’re ya doing here?”

You hope he didn’t mean to sound so harsh, or maybe he’s simply shy when it comes to you seeing this part of his life. You’re not sure, but you make sure to be a bit gentler from now on. 

You step forward and lift the cups in your hands like an apology. “I remembered what you told me about where you work,” you admit, “and I thought it would be nice to bring the coffee to you, for a change. You know, since you can never know how busy work gets and you– well, not to make assumptions or anything, but you seemed to quite enjoy the coffee I made you. Daily ritual type of thing, you know?”

He frowns. “So ya came here instead of waitin’?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m sorry, did I– I mean, did I misinterpret something? Did I go too far? Is this pushing boundaries? Should I not have come? I– I’m sorry if I broke any unspoken rules. That was never my plan. I just thought… well, maybe that’s the problem. I’m so sorry, I–”

“No!” Michael responds, cutting your rambling short in the process. He can see the blush on your cheeks and the slight quiver in your voice, signaling you truly believe you did something wrong. It seems to break your heart a little, and that is the last thing he wants. 

He lifts his hand almost as if to calm you. “There are no rules and ya didn’t cross any boundaries,” he says. “I didn’t expect to see ya here, is all. I’m surprised.”

“Oh.” You hope he means it positively. “Sorry,” you say again.

“Not– not in a bad way. You… ya came here. Fer me. With coffee.”

You blush. “I did.”

He’s overwhelmed. Out of all the things he expected to happen, seeing you here was not on his list. You took the time out of your day to walk to him, and the thoughts that kept him awake at night reappear as soon as he sees your face; you’re wearing his jacket, still, and you still smell the same. 

This is a bad, bad idea, but it’s impossible to deny that he’s caught a liking to you. He couldn’t push you away the way he knows he should. If anything, his desire to keep you close at all times grows further now that you’re right in front of him, coffee in hand, and he reminds himself that you’re here for him – it’s an honor, almost, that you would consider doing this for him; it’s an honor that you care about him. A curse disguised as a blessing. The temptation is sweeter than common sense because he knows his common sense can be wrong too, and you’re exactly what he needs. He no longer has the strength to deny it, especially not to himself. 

“So stop apologizin’. It’s… sweet.”

Your blush deepens and it turns even your chest a distinctive red. “I also came to return your jacket,” you add when the silence grows awkward. You know talking too much will only make it worse, but you can’t stop yourself. You slide out of the item of clothing while trying not to disturb your drinks. “Coffee, a jacket, and some time. That’s what I can offer. If you don’t want to take it, that’s fine too, but–”

“Thank you,” he cuts you off. 

“Oh… you’re welcome? I just thought it’d be nice.”

“It’s very nice, yeah.” 

“I thought we could get to know each other more and… talk. That is unless you don’t want to, in that case, I’d apologize right away. I’m bad at reading signs sometimes. And I talk a lot. I don’t know how to shut up. I’m sorry.”

His eyes soften. He looks at you with newfound determination, and his words carry pure honesty. Michael steps forward to take the jacket from you, grabbing the coffee cup that has his name written on it in the same move. 

“I can take a few minutes off,” he says. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. 

Staring into his eyes, you forget your name for a second. You were bold enough to kiss him the other day, but all that confidence seems gone now. Your fingers brush him when he takes his cup, and the shockwaves that the simple contact sends through your body make you dizzy.

He smiles, but he’s just as caught up in the way he’s feeling as you are, and the confusion leads to an inner turmoil that makes it hard to sort out what exactly it is that sets his heart on fire when he sees you so clearly now, and when his hands brush yours like he dreamed it would. 

You’re wearing a dress again. It fits you perfectly. If you wanted to tease him, you should have just told him so because this is torture. 

How can one man dance around his own feelings and not acknowledge them or try to change something about them? He’s a tough nut to crack. 

You clear your throat. “I made you a Dirty Chai,” you say.

His eyebrows shoot up. “A Dirty Chai?” he asks.

“I know it sounds odd, but you know what chai tea is, right?”

“Right, yeah.”

“Do you like chai tea?”

“I’ve had one ages ago, but it was good.”

“Well, that’s a relief because while this is coffee, it’s also chai tea. It’s chai tea with espresso, milk, and some foam. Dirty Chai. Because it’s not pure–“

“The coffee makes it dirty?” he says.

You nod. “Exactly.”

“And is tha’–“ he sniffs the cup. “Cinnamon?”

“I noticed you like cinnamon.”

He wants to wipe that stupid blush off your cheeks. You look way too good, even in the dim lighting of the car wash. 

“I also drew a butterfly into the foam,” you say, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

Sarah was right, you suck at flirting, and he probably thinks you’re insane now for how fast you’re talking. You’re a barista, you’re used to remembering orders, but you memorized his likes in particular and that just feels weird to you.

Though when you look at him, you’re met with an unexpected look of pure adoration. 

Michael stammers, his cheeks flushing the same color as yours. He puts his jacket aside and lifts the lid to check on your painting – you didn’t expect him to do that. You’ve meant it as a nice gesture, but now he’s actually looking at it and he fills your heart with warmth and your tummy with butterflies. It sounds like destiny, almost. 

His lips curl into a soft smile. The butterfly is as clear as day. You have a talent for all things that have to do with coffee, and no matter what you bring to the table, he finds himself in awe of your competence every time.

“That’s almost too beautiful ta drink,” he mutters to himself.

You look away. 

“Thank you,” Michael still has his eyes on you, “that’s lovely.”

“You’re welcome,” you say.

He puts the lid back on. “Would ya like to walk with me?” 

You smile, nodding along. “I’d like that very much.”

He guides you out of the slippery car wash back onto the street. You walk in silence as you sip your drinks, the sun shining down on you with only the softest touch of heat while the wind continues to rustle the leaves in the trees.

The awkwardness was to be expected. Neither of you has found the guts to mention the kiss, and now that you’re taking a stroll through the streets of a part of Dublin you’ve barely been to, you’re not sure if there is even a right time for you to say what you want to say – you’re not even sure what you are capable of saying any more.

Michael’s shoulder brushes yours and you shiver. He’s so close, your heart beats faster at his proximity. He wears the same cologne that is etched into his jacket, but he also smells like the soap he uses to wash the cars.

“So, yer a writer then?” 

It surprises both of you that he’s the first to break the silence.  

There’s a difference between pretending to be interested just to make conversation and being interested in what the other person has to say, and with Michael, it’s clear that it’s the latter. When he looks at you, his eyes always meet yours and he makes sure to tilt his ear in your direction so he can hear what you’re saying. He’s attentive. He cares. He doesn’t expect people to care about him, but he pays attention to everyone else and he shows when he’s interested, even if it’s not intentional. It makes you feel more comfortable talking about something that has often filled you with dread.

“Yes,” you say. “That’s right.”

“What do ya write?”

“Well, I tried my hand at a few things, but what I got stuck on the most were period pieces.”

“In the style of Jane Austen, ya mean?”

Your eyes light up. “That’s exactly it!”

“I figured,” he smiles. “I read sometimes and ya strike me as the kind of person who would would get inspired by Jane.”

He reads. It’s a small detail, a small piece of information that you will cherish forever because he opened another door in his heart to reveal it to you. 

“Ya must be good then,” he continues, “if ya write stories set earlier in history, I mean. Not everyone can do tha’.” 

You smile. “I have this, uh, old book collection at home,” you say, opening another window to your own heart. “It’s the first time I fell in love with a story from the past. Not just because it’s a classic, but because it drew me in. I wouldn’t consider myself a history buff, but there is something enchanting about stories told during that time that make me want to do the same.”

He hangs onto every word your say. He’s not much of a talker but he’s a good listener. He probably learned to be quiet in the past because maybe he was forced to, and now he sees the world, but he doesn’t say much about it. He only listens. 

Your pinky finger brushes his as you walk a little closer to him. “Jane Austen’s stories have such a sad beauty. I love modern romance as much as the next person, but there is something about classic literature that makes me want to convey the same vibe and reimagine past times. And perhaps romanticize them,” you say. “Because life sucks sometimes and people need to romanticize every aspect of it, even if it’s just the past, you know?”

His focus remains entirely on you. He hums, telling you he understands, before forming a gentle smile. “Have ya ever thought about publishin’?” he asks.

“Thought about it, yes. But I’ve never even finished a book. I don’t have an agent or a publisher on the line ‘cause I haven’t come far enough yet. It’s the reason I work at the café now. A desk job wasn’t for me, but I can’t seem to find my footing when it comes to writing because I don’t know how to finish something I’ve started. It’s kind of an exhausting feeling, I have to admit.”

“Yeah,” Michael murmurs, “I know what that feels like.”

“It’s a lot more complicated than that. I used to let it tear me down, but with this job, I don’t see a reason why I should anymore. So I tried being more optimistic.”

“No, I get it. I can see tha’. Ya don’t strike me as a pessimist.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are ya apologizing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, don’t. Not fer somethin’ like this.”

He stops and you halt your step, too. You find yourself right in front of him. His breath fans across your skin. He’s being nice to you today. Not that he’s ever been not nice, but it feels different today.

“I’m Michael–“ his hand stops halfway, hovering just above your cheek, “Kinsella,” he says. 

He looks at you as if that’s supposed to ring a bell, but other than that it sounds familiar, you’re not sure how you’re supposed to react. 

Your smile reappears fully; now you know who he is. At least his name. But your souls feel connected enough already to say that you know his essence, who he is inside, and not a single story from his past could ruin that. You see the person he is, nothing else matters. If only he could accept that. 

“Okay,” you say, and you tell him your full name in return. He deserves to know.

He smiles almost sadly. “I hate washing cars,” he admits.

“I figured,” you say.

Between the two of you, there is a lot you have managed to just figure. There is a silent understanding that exceeds knowing all the details about the other’s life. You’re prone to romanticizing, but with Michael, there is a raw realness to it that has nothing to do with pathetically wishing things to be good. You’re good for each other. That’s the truth, and it’s the truth you should focus on.

And Michael Kinsella seems like an honest enough man to you that you feel like giving up would be the wrong choice, no matter how hard he is to get around.

“I was away for eight years.” He’s opening up without saying much, but it’s the truth nonetheless. “And then I came back and everythin’… changed. The place yer working at, the Butterfly Effect, I didn’t even know it was there until I found it. I used to frequent Mister and Mrs. Dunham’s coffee shop tha’ was there before ya, but that was eight years ago and there’s so much shit I don’t recognize. It’s like the air has been poisoned.”

With a confused frown, you ask, “What do you mean?”

His nostrils flare. He takes a deep breath. “Yer not like that,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yer a breath of fresh air. I, uh, appreciate that. I think.” 

You tilt your head. “Oh,” you breathe softly. Your palm meets his shoulder. “Well, you shouldn’t be breathing poisoned air, so I’m glad I’m not that.”

He glances at your hand. 

The next question burns on your tongue. “Why were you away for so long?” you ask him then. 

He stiffens under your touch and his eyes grow weary, almost vacant. You hit a nerve. Michael almost recoils. He knows you might, too, once you get to know who he truly is, and that’s what has him in a chokehold, and the fear makes it impossible for him to talk. 

“Most of the time, people don’t just go away for eight years without a reason.”

You’re too curious for your own good.

“Wasn’t voluntary,” he says. 

“What do you mean?”

“What I said.”

“Why is it–“ you kill the space between you and press yourself flush against him, “–that every time I think I’ve seen a glimpse of who Michael Kinsella really is, I still don’t seem to get you?”

“Because it’s dangerous out there, love.” This is the first time he’s called you that. “Honesty turns into a weapon that gets people hurt.”

“People you care about?”

“Yes.”

“And you care about me?”

Weakly, he nods again. 

“Are you scared?”

“You’ve no idea.”

His vulnerable admission makes you reach for his cheek and cradle his face in your hand. He drops breathing. “You know, I am driven by this desperate need to get to know you,” you admit. The hairs on his face feel soft under your fingertips. 

Michael closes his eyes. “Not a good idea,” he says. 

He wants to tell you everything. You’re the kind of person who doesn’t have a single bone of judgment in her body and that’s dangerous. It could get you into a lot of trouble, and the thought of losing you is something he can’t bear.

You shrug. “I know, but there’s something about you…” 

“What’s tha’?”

“I’m not sure, I just get the feeling that deep down, you just need someone to take care of you,” you say. Your hand still rests on his cheek and he nuzzles into your gentle touch. “That you want to be happy and leave your past behind, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

You’re tumbling dangerously close to an edge Michael might not be able to pull you away from, but you’re so close, he can’t push you away. You draw him in. And your words have never been more true. He wonders if he’s really such an open book, even if it’s just to you because you read him better than he understands himself. 

“And talking about it to people helps, you know? Sometimes, you just have to let someone else in or you’ll never find true happiness.”

When have you become so wise? You often don’t take your advice, but it seems like the people around him don’t usually try to pull him out of the dark hole he’s in but rather force him to live with it, to be silent, to be shy, and that feels wrong to you. No one should ever have to feel this way, not even when they claim it’s their life.

Which Michael does, a lot.

“There’s things ya can’t understand,” he says. 

“You’d be surprised at just how much I’m capable of understanding.”

“God, why do ya have to be so insufferable?”

“I don’t know,” you retort, “why do you?”  

His chest heaves with a sigh. “We should go.”

As he turns to leave, you grab his hand and haul him back. “I don’t mind not knowing everything,” you try again, “but it would make things a lot easier.”

“I told you my name,” he says.

“I know.”

It’s just a name. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“Yer way too nice to a man like me,” his voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks. Michael’s face has fallen and his eyes glaze over with a sad darkness. The world is on his shoulders and he is slacking under the weight. 

You want nothing more than to hold him. Your hands brush his shoulders again. He doesn’t flinch away, he stays. 

“I just care, there’s nothing more to it,” you say. 

He can’t put his feelings into words. The fact that you care fills him with a sense of being loved that he is not quite used to feeling. You’ve lit a fire in him. It won’t die. But the voices in his head often have a different plan.

“It’s okay to ask for help, Michael. You’re not alone.”

And then your arms wrap around him and you pull him close. He’s hesitant at first, the feeling overwhelming, but then his instincts kick in and he hugs you back. His head lands in the crook of your neck, clinging to you like you’re his lifeline, and you make sure to tighten your hold so he knows he’s safe in your arms – because he is. You’re a terrible fighter, but you can keep his heart safe. You can protect his soul the way he deserves. That, you can do. 

This is different from the first time you hugged him. You were thankful back then. When you hug him this time, it’s more emotional, it’s intimate, and you get lost in each other’s arms for what feels like an eternity. 

He pulls away with a heavy sigh. You look at him. “Are you okay?” you ask. 

Michael can only nod. 

Your hands move from his shoulders to his face again. You cradle his cheeks, and for a moment you’re scared of breaking him. He looks so fragile, his skin reminding you of the thinnest glass that might break if handled incorrectly. 

He holds eye contact with you. Your eyes switch between his lips and the brown of his irises that look a lot more green in the sun, then back to his lips. You lean forward. This isn’t you; something deep inside of you is controlling you, compelling you to kiss him, and you’re too weak to fight the urge. 

Your lips finally find his again and all the lights in your brain go out. They short-circuit. 

His grabby hands find your waist, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. You’re not the only one who is eager today, but you’re too lost in the feeling of his soft, plump lips moving against yours in a fight for dominance to even care or pay attention to much more. He no longer wants you to take the lead; Michael presses his lips and body against yours with a force that catches you by surprise, and he catches you with his arms that function as a safety net. 

You feel so alive. He holds the back of your neck with one hand while the other travels across your back and then high enough to brush the seam just below your breasts, and you gasp. You’re in public, but he’s relentless, and you’re forced to take what he gives you. 

His hands are everywhere. It’s like he wants to memorize every inch of your skin, to brand you into his brain. Calloused fingers caress your bare thigh and your arms, his lips never wavering in their intensity or how skillfully they move against yours in a rhythm you both seem to know without ever having heard about it. 

By the time you pull away to breathe, your lips are swollen, your pupils are blown wide and you’re sure his hands on your hips left their mark from how hard he was gripping the flesh. 

You have to find your footing again. The distinctive haze that has found its way over the wasteland of your thoughts clouds everything in its path. It makes your knees go weak and your vision turns into a fog. His eyes are the only thing that manages to shine through. 

Michael touches his lips almost as if he can’t believe it happened again. You never turn down a challenge. He’s convinced now that you want him and he wants you, but other than the physical aspect, he is scared of what it might mean, of what it might do to you, and how much more he can screw up in such a short amount of time, and he stands there like a statue, his thoughts turning into a destructive tornado that makes rational decisions impossible to make. 

Your lips are as soft as he remembers them. Your hands in his hair felt like heaven. He got to touch your skin this time, and whatever he imagined this morning didn’t come close enough to what you truly feel like. 

You run a nervous hand through your hair. “I, um—“ you lick your lips. “My lunch break is almost over,” you manage to say. 

He slides his hands into his pockets. “Yeah,” he says, “Mine too.” Except Amanda might kill him because he doesn’t have an official lunch break. 

“Did you like it?”

You’re such an idiot.

He blinks, flabbergasted. “What?”

“The chai! I meant the chai. Did you like it?”

“Oh! Yeah. I mean… yeah, it was grand. Thanks.”

“Good.” You adjust the straps of your bag. “That’s good,” you say. Your cheeks are redder than a rose at this point. “I’m glad you liked it.”

He nods. “Me too.”

“I liked it too. The chai. Dirty Chai. It’s a real success. People like it. But I also like other things, you know? It doesn’t have to be dirty. It can be dirty because dirty is better, but– well, I– about today, I mean, I–“ 

You should stop talking. 

A silent curse slips your lips. “I have to go back to work,” you say. That’s not what you were trying to say, but it saves you the embarrassment. 

Michael raises his hand, but the ‘Wait,’ that’s forming on his lips and the question for your number gets lost in translation. “Okay,” he says instead. 

You expected more from him, but it’s clear that there won’t be coming much else from him soon. 

“Okay,” you repeat. “Have a nice day, Michael.”

“Yeah, you too.” 

“Thanks.”

He watches you leave with your head hung low and your steps a little faster than they were before. It doesn’t take long for you to disappear around the corner, leaving him standing there, pondering what could have been or should have been and what an idiot he had been. 

He should have just asked for your number. He should have come out of his shell because it’s the same you have been doing for him consistently the past few days. You deserve someone who can take a step toward you, not someone who chickens out at the last second. You deserve someone better than him. 

Michael crosses the street with a heavy heart. He shouldn’t have let you go. He returns to work with twice as many thoughts, and every time he closes his eyes, he can see your face clearly now. You haunt him in the best ways possible, but he suddenly finds himself scared of ghosts. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can withstand the storm inside of him, but you deserve better than what he can give you, and that’s the kind of self-loathing he will continue to carry with him until he sees you again because he knows that when he does, he will only fail again. 

Next door, unbeknownst to him, Amanda has been watching him through the window behind the cars. She saw him leave with you and the kiss unfolded right in front of her eyes like a bad movie. She doesn’t remember seeing your face anywhere before, and Michael hardly ever talks about his personal life, but you seem different. You seem normal. Someone who wears butterfly clips in their hair is not cut out for the kind of life he stems from, and Amanda grows suspicious. 

A few seconds later, the line clicks. “It’s me,” she says, her eyes fixated on the now empty spot outside where you once stood. “Listen, I just saw somethin’ and I think… I think ya need to talk with your brother before he makes a mistake.” 

Unbeknownst to Michael, a storm bigger than the one inside of his is brewing outside, and it comes in the shape of none other than his own family trying to take away the only sliver of hope he’s had since prison – and he is not prepared for that. 

Tagging: @bellaxgiornata @loveroftoomanyfandoms @acharliecoxedfan @lina-mar @itwasthereaminuteago @mattkinsella