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jadekitty777 · 5 years ago

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The Miraculous Tales of Luckybug and Qrow Noir

Anyone ready for an onslaught of fics from me for the next week? Because that’s what’s happening my friends.

(I apologize that my blog will also be running on super speed for the next week as I reblog stuff. I also apologize in advance that I won’t have time to read many, if any, fics. My own still need to be edited and finalized. Aaah lil’ stressed honestly).

Day 1: Flirting

Rating: K+

Pairing: Qrow/Clover

Word Count:��5600

Ao3 Link: The Miraculous Tales of Luckybug and Qrow Noir

Summary: In the daytime, he was Clover Ebi. Just a normal college student, with a normal life. But there's something about him no one knows yet. Because he has a secret. A miraculous secret.

(AKA: The Miraculous Ladybug AU no one asked for)

“Voici, À Bientôt!”

“Merci beaucoup. Bonne journée!” Clover replied, taking the box from the smiling cashier.

As he stepped out of the bakery into the busy streets of Paris, he gave a sigh of relief. Though he’d been living in France for the past two months now for his Spring Abroad program, he couldn’t help but feel a little anxious every time he had to converse with the locale. His accent wasn’t the best and some words he just couldn’t remember the right inflection for.

Then again, as he got to Green Belt Park and took a seat on one of the empty benches, leaning back to enjoy the stunning view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, he figured being in such a beautiful city was a good excuse to remain speechless.

He set his bookbag down beside him, opening the flap, and then the top of the box, revealing two small slices of cake. “Okay Ruby, you can come out. It’s safe.”

In a flash quicker than lightning, a red streak zipped from his bag and into the box. A moment later, the kwami looked up at him with starry silver eyes and asked, “You got me two?”

He tapped her on the head, right between her antennae. “The strawberry is for you. The other is…”

“For Qrow, right?” As she looked up at him, he decided that the paragon of heroism should not have such a shit-eating grin.

“It’s not-!” He knew his face was getting hot. “We have to work on the sociology project this evening so I thought he’d appreciate it.”

Not fooled for a second, Ruby said between bites of cake, “You should just tell him.”

“I don’t think I should be taking love advice from an immortal being that transcends time.” He craned his head back, watching the thin clouds above drift along the sky. “Besides, it’s not that easy. Qrow is, he’s just so-” He pictured the other man, all dark hair, captivating red eyes, and shy, personal smiles wrapped around a gruff voice that belayed layers of emotion. Clover sighed longingly, “Wonderful.”

Even without eyebrows, Ruby rose one. “Ah-huh. I can see how you’re having trouble.”

He cracked up. It was nice to have her sensible perspective around. He had to wonder how different his life would have been if he never picked up that little black box with the note ��You’ve been chosen’ left underneath it.

Having come into his life around the same time Qrow had, she’d been privy to a behind-the-scenes look to how his relationship with the other man shifted from strangers to close friends. She was the only one who heard his secret thoughts as that bond grew into intense feelings.

“I really mean it though. It’s always best to be honest with your heart.” The kwami told him.

“I know you’re right. But is it what’s right for Qrow?” At her head tilt, he explained, “He’s got a crush of his own, remember? The one he’s so vague about?”

“Maybe he’s so vague because it’s you?”

He snorted. “Only if he knows I’m Luckybug. He’s got blue eyes, remember?” That was one of the only things he’d been able to pull out of him, besides the gender. Which, after a simple process of elimination, meant it was either Qrow’s best friend Taiyang or James, the leading RA in their dorms back home. Well, or rich and prissy Jacques, but he knew Qrow had better standards than that.

“He could be colorblind to green?” Ruby offered hopefully.

He gave her another pat on the head. “I don’t think it works that way, but thanks for trying to make me feel better.”

She made a soft noise, before floating up from her bed of crumbs to sit on his shoulder instead. “He hasn’t mentioned this person the entire trip though, right?”

Clover started in surprise. She was right, he hadn’t – which was a huge change from the near weekly aside he’d give about whatever his ‘prince charming’ was up to. “You think it’s fading away?”

“I’m not sure.” She said, looking towards the city’s prized monument. “But I think it might mean this trip could be an opportunity to tell him how you feel. What better place to do that then the city of love?”

He mulled that over. When he found out his university offered abroad studies during junior year, he had been so excited. He’d always wanted to travel, but the prospect of going alone was also nerve-wracking. Qrow, facing much the same enthusiasm and inhibitions, had struck a deal that they would go together. That also meant they had been spending an exorbitant amount of time together, living together in the shared home with a few other students. Shared a room, even.

How many nights had they spent together, just talking about nothing and everything? Mapping out plans over train and bus schedules to fit in as many big sights as they could on their free weekends of tourism? Walked along the Seine at night, the city lights reflecting off the water, where Clover would inadvertently get lost staring at how gorgeous Qrow looked in the casting glow?

Maybe… he could…

“Clover, the sky!”

The sudden alarm in Ruby’s voice had his head jerking upwards. To his horror, the space above the tower was turning black with red lightning streaking across. The telltale sign of Omen at work. But she couldn’t be here!

But sure enough, from the depths of the portal, a large, winged Grimm appeared. It looked like a giant raven, with terribly sharp claws and razor-tipped feathers.

His kwami looked to him, determined. “We need to transform.”

He nodded and grabbed his phone, sending a quick message to Qrow, before stuffing it and the bakery box in his bag. After a cursory glance around, he ducked into the shadow of a tree trunk. “Alright Ruby, charm on!”

The clover-shaped brooch on his chest glowed and Ruby collided with it, and in an instant, he felt his civilian clothes disappear, replaced by a skin-tight, red and polka-dot suit and a mask that covered his eyes. His hair lengthened, his normal, spiked quiff falling into a messier comb over, some of the bangs tickling against his forehead. As the magic of the transition faded, he plucked the yo-yo off his belt and went racing across the park, throwing it at a rooftop, feeling the end latch onto a chimney. With a pull, it retracted and he went flying through the air, landing at the top in one smooth motion. He paused only long enough to leave his bag behind before he went racing along the rooftops towards the emergency.

“I don’t understand. How is Omen here?” Clover asked to no one, feeling panic begin to rise. Did something happen to the team back home? The thought made him sick.

Maria had been very strict about how many miraculous he could put on the field in his absence, not wanting to have another fall into the wrong hands like the Pegasus miraculous had. So, he – or more specifically Luckybug – left Yang the Dragon with Tai and Sun the Monkey with Elm, giving both specific instructions to protect San Francisco in his absence. He’d only called for their assistance a few times before when things got really hectic, so he was hoping Noir would be able to balance the less experienced miraculous users out.

But to think Omen may have defeated all three? That was too awful to imagine.

He looked up at where the bird was circling the tower, dread settling into a hard knot in his gut.

How was he going to do this alone?

“Your stinky fish, madame.” Qrow presented the sardines with a flourish.

Blake lit up immediately, diving for the can and fishing one out for herself.

He left the rest of the can on the desk in easy reaching distance, before setting back into his chair where a very blank word document was staring back at him. He gave an agitated huff. He’d been hoping to at least come up with a few research topics for their paper before Clover got back from his lecture in International Affairs. Which was, Qrow mentally reminded with a fond eyeroll, not a required course for the program they were a part of. But Clover just couldn’t help himself, saying it might come in handy for his GPA score as he signed himself up for the class.

Tch, overachiever.

The distinct feeling of being watched sent a shudder down his spine, and he gave the spirit beside him a look.

The cat kwami stared back, unblinking.

“Blake you’re freaking me out again.”

Her ears twitched and she went to fetch another sardine. “I was just waiting for you to get that dreamy look on your face again.”

He flushed. “D-Dreamy?”

“Mmhmm. It kind of looks like,” She gave an exaggerated sigh, placing a paw against her cheek and fluttering her non-existent lashes.

“I never look like that.” He deadpanned.

“Whatever you say.”

“I don’t! And, anyways, what’s it to you?”

She didn’t reply, taking the time to munch into her fish instead.

He sighed, focusing back on his laptop, switching over to the internet to check on the feed from back home. No new reports of any attacks on any of the news blogs. It was like their enemy had decided to take a vacation at the same time he had.

When Qrow had first became Noir, Maria had told him to be very careful with what information he gave, even to other miraculous holders. He intended to vaguely tell Luckybug he would be out. So, it had really been a stroke of luck when Luckybug announced first on their last mission together that a family emergency was going to keep him out of commission for a while – but that he’d left Tatsu and Timber in the wings in case he needed help. So, he never shared his own intentions. Instead, he placed Kali in charge of Weiss the Bee until he returned, knowing that the power team Lucky had left behind would need a more versatile and calculating fighter in their midst.

(The role he normally filled, he thought with a sense of pride).

He’d been checking on things back at the home front regularly, knowing it only took minutes before social media was trending any new crisis, but it had been unusually quiet. He was sure Lucky was doing the same, wherever he was.

His heart clenched up, thinking about him. They’d been fighting the good fight together for over a year now, and it hadn’t taken much for Qrow to become smitten with the mysterious, masked hero. He’d thought he was everything he ever wanted; strong, daring, ambitious, with a dazzling smile and a baritone voice that was to die for. He was certain their time apart would be torturous.

Yet, it hadn’t been.

They said distance made the heart grow fonder, but it was more like his heart had forgotten. He couldn’t pinpoint when it was exactly that he’d become so preoccupied by Clover. How he’d grown to appreciate his gentle gestures and thoughtful words, his hearty chuckles and sincere expressions. It was as if stepping out of the war woke him from a stupor and gave him a chance to see things he’d missed, even when they were right in front of him.

Qrow sighed, placing his chin in his hand.

“This is my favorite part.”

“Huh?” He looked down at Blake, recognizing that mischievous gleam in her yellow eyes.

“The best story I get to witness is when one of my hosts falls in love.”

“I-I’m not falling in love!” He said immediately. “I have a crush.”

“Really.” It was her turn to deadpan.

He shoved himself away from his desk, offense all over his tone as he echoed, “Yes, really. You know how I feel about Lucky.”

He paced the length of the room, coming to stand by the window, staring down at the busy streets below. A moment later, he felt her weight on his shoulder, almost nonexistent, but there.

Her whisker tickled his neck as she turned her head towards him. “What do you know about Luckybug, really?”

Qrow leaned his arm along the glass, meeting his own reflection’s eyes. “I know he’s smart and funny and he’s always willing to put everything on the line to do what’s right.”

“But what do you know of him specifically? What’s his favorite color? What’s his family like? Does he like anchovies on his pizza?”

He snorted at the last one. “He’s my romantic interest, not yours.” His smile slipped away. “I know what you’re getting at. Unless we reveal who we are to each other, this can’t go any further.” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “I know that. But it still feels wrong, somehow. Are… my feelings that fickle?”

“Not fickle.” She levitated, hovering by his face. “They just had no room to grow. These things have to be nurtured, but if there’s nothing there to care for it, they’re only bound to wither away.”

That had been way too scripted. He gave a laugh. “That’s it, I’m not downloading anymore trashy romance novels on my phone for you to read.”

Her ears flattened. “If you make me sit through your boring lectures, I’ll break the sprinkler above your head.”

“Alright, I fold.” He held up his hands in surrender. Though he was almost positive it was an empty threat, he didn’t want to tempt fate with the kwami of destruction.

She softened. “Anyways, I think with-” She abruptly cut herself off, suddenly darting against the window. “What’s that?!”

He jerked around, spotting where the sky was darkening on the horizon, turning a deep, inky black. He’d seen it so many times before, the magic was unmistakable.

“You don’t think…” Blake trailed off.

“Omen.” Qrow finished, features smoothing into one of rigid resolve. He turned to the kwami, her expression matching his own.

He lifted his hand, the jeweled ring glinting back at her. “Blake, luck off.”

Clover landed in the courtyard, shouting as he ran. “Everyone, clear out!” He desperately tried to remember whatever French he could. “Fuir! S’il vous plaît!”

“Chanceux!” One of the locals cried, desperately trying to find their phone.

“Non, fuir!” He repeated.

A screech from above made him cover his ears, looking up to see the giant bird climbing down the Eiffel Tower, the vertical walk down unnerving somehow. He backed up as the bird landed on concrete, its impressive height daunting him. His fingers clenched around his weapon, backing up as the bird lowered its head. Its beak was big enough to swallow him whole if it wanted.

It seemed that, at least, was enough to make the people around him finally start to flee.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?”

The voice had him looking higher, spotting the speaker mounted on the beast’s back like a queen in her bed of feathers. Omen walked forward until she stood on the bird’s crown, lowering her sunglasses just enough to reveal crimson red eyes as she stared over the tops of the rims at him.

“What are you doing here?” Clover asked, pulling the yo-yo’s line out as a warning.

She only smiled patronizingly, as if he were no more a threat than a child. “That’s none of your concern.” She pushed her glasses back up, flipping her raven-haired braid over her shoulder. It fell like a horse’s tail along her back, between the wings the Pegasus miraculous granted her.

He felt bad for the imprisoned kwami being forced to do her bidding.

“Tell me, where’s your cohort?” Omen asked, giving a cursory glance around as if Noir would just pop into existence.

“I think I’m more than enough for you.” He instantly realized that had been the wrong thing to say as she laughed.

“You’re alone.” Fuck. “Well, that makes this even easier.” She gestured to the bird she stood on. “But as I’m a fair opponent, I’ll give you a choice. You can hand over your miraculous now, or you can resist and my little Nevermore can have a bit of fun first before I take it.”

As answer, he only started to rotate the yo-yo at his side, the device whooshing audibly as it swung in fast, heavy arcs.

Omen’s dark wings stretched open. “The fun way it is.”

She shot up into the air – but he didn’t have time to worry about her as the Nevermore immediately struck forward, beak opening to snap him in half. He jumped backwards, throwing his weapon out with a yell. It nailed the bird right in its head, the creature giving a sharp cry before it shook it off and straightened up. It opened its wings, the span of them covering a third of the courtyard, and gave a few hard flaps.

It was like being blasted by hurricane winds. Clover yelped as he was thrown off his feet and went tumbling across the concrete. The Nevermore, able to make up the distance in one bound, was on him in an instant. The wind whooshed right out of his lungs as a taloned foot came down on top of him, pinning him to the ground. He grunted, bracing his right arm between him and the appendage trying to crush him while sticking his left arm between its toes.

The bird jerked its head down for another strike, the razor-pointed beak filling his vision like a guillotine.

He swung his left hand upward, the yo-yo flying high and it was by pure luck he got it right in the eye.

The Nevermore gave a pained cry, hopping back. Suddenly, Clover could breathe properly again. He jumped to his feet, slightly lightheaded, throwing his line out again in hopes of tying the creature up and bringing it down.

Instead, with exact precision, the bird caught the end of the yo-yo in its beak, pulling it taut, and then threw its body around, bringing what was on the end of the line with it. Before Clover could process it, his body was yanked forward and he went flying through the air. Everything around him blurred into a mesh of greens, blues, browns and whites, blending together into a sickening cacophony.

He braced himself for the impact.

It was softer, and warmer, then he expected.

“Not having a great day are you, lucky charm?”

He gathered his bearings, realizing who had caught him and jerked his head up in surprise. “Noir?!”

Noir grinned back roguishly, winking one green eye at him. “You know, if you wanted to fall into my arms, you just had to ask.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Clover pushed a hand against his face, rolling out of his grasp to stand on his own. He retracted his yo-yo and studied his surroundings, taking note that he’d been tossed so far, they were underneath the Eiffel Tower. “What are you doing here?”

His teammate didn’t get a chance to answer, the bird giving another of those deafening screeches as it tried to shove itself between the legs of the tower. They both jerked away, before twisting around and running the other way.

“Could ask you the same thing!” Noir shouted over the noise. “Where’s Omen?”

“Lost track of her.” Which meant she was playing her normal A-game: Exhaust them by making them fight her pet so that it would be child’s play to steal their miraculous. Their goal was to defeat it – because if he could purify the contaminated feather within the creature, it would act like a direct attack against Omen, usually enough to weaken her into fleeing.

“Alright let’s – Watch it!”

Both of them jumped back when the corvid was suddenly in the path of their escape route, its gigantic foot missing them by inches when it was thrust under the tower, claws raking over the ground.

That was no good. Clover looked around, before pointing towards the ceiling of beams above them. “Up.”

Noir gave a nod, reaching out to grasp him around his waist and taking out his quarterstaff. He tapped it to the ground, and within seconds it shot them upwards as it extended. When it was high enough, they leapt onto the first section of metalwork, protected in the shell of crisscrossing steel. Noir compacted the weapon back into baton length, turning to him, “Alright, now what?”

“Now we just-” He started to say, raising his yo-yo, when the whole tower rattled as the Nevermore clamped onto the side they were hiding in. It gave a few wild cries, slamming its beak between the spaces as it tried to get to them.

Noir watched it warily before he called, “We’re safe for now, do it!”

Not wasting a moment, Clover threw his weapon up in the air with a cry, “Lucky charm!” The end of the yo-yo began to glow with the magic of creation, until it held the brilliance of a star. Then, with a pop, an item materialized, falling back down into his waiting hands.

It was a fishing rod.

Noir gave it, and then him, a dull look.

Clover was grinning. “Well, looks like-”

“Don’t-!”

“I’m giving fly fishing a whole new meaning.”

His partner groaned audibly. “You are worse than Tatsu.”

“No one is worse than Tatsu.” He joked. Tai’s never-ending set of puns really did fit the bill for cartoon-y superhero though.

Another slam from their enemy had dirt raining down on them from above.

Getting serious again, Clover rose both the rod and the yo-yo, saying, “You knock it off, I tie it up, and we end this.”

“Got it.” Noir nodded, pointing his staff towards the bird. “On your signal.”

He threw both lines upwards, yanking himself to a higher vantage point, running along the metalwork. They were so high up, it was like he was running towards the sky. Just as he got to the end, he yelled, “Now!”

At the same moment he jumped, the pole extended, slamming into the Nevermore’s chest. It was thrown off with a cry and both of them flew parallel to one another. He wound both weapons back then swung forward, the hook of the fishing rod and the ball of the yo-yo twisting around either wing of the bird. Flightless, it plummeted with another screech to the concrete, slamming down hard enough to shake the earth.

Clover’s landing was much softer, falling onto its chest and using the momentum to leap off of it like a trampoline, landing again several meters past its head. He held both the lines fast, ensuring it couldn’t get free.

“Cataclysm!” Noir came soaring out of the tower next, the power of his own destructive magic having taken shape at the end of his baton, glimmering black like an obsidian gem and curved like a scythe. As he came down, he swung it around, impaling the sharp end in the center of the monster bird’s chest.

It gave one last croaking cry, the ends of its wings curling up before falling flat as its body turned to dust, leaving nothing behind but a single, black feather. Clover threw out his yo-yo for it, the ball end splitting open like the shell of a ladybug’s wings, before snapping it up. He pulled it back in, hand open to catch it.

An arrow struck the end, knocking it off course.

In quick succession, another two arrows were shot off as Omen bared down for them, swooping in like a Nevermore herself. Clover swung the fishing rod, deflecting the one coming his way. Noir did the same for the one aimed at him with a quick spin of his staff, before using one end of it to vault himself upwards and meet their enemy half way.

As they grappled in the air, Clover took the chance to yank on his weapon in. With a flit of his fingers along the yo-yo’s surface, it glowed white, purifying the feather.

Omen gave a pained cry, before slamming the limb of her bow against Noir’s head. Clover’s chest tightened in panic, rushing forward as his partner fell like a stone from the sky. He just barely made up the distance in time to catch him in his arms, relieved to find him still conscious. They both looked up as they heard a scoff.

“Tch. Eventually your luck is going to run out. Nothing will stop me from creating a new world.” Omen sneered. “Until next time, boys.”

She shot an arrow above her, another red and black portal opening up. With a flap of her wings, she flew into it, gone as quickly as she had come.

Clover sighed, looking down at his partner. “You alright?”

“Ugh, gonna be feeling that one tomorrow.” Noir grunted, pressing a hand to his head, one of his leather cat ears being pushed down. His injury didn’t seem to hinder his ability to realize their position, because that telltale smirk overtook his face. “Though, guess I’m the one falling for you now.”

“I’m not above dropping you.”

“Are you always this mean to invalids?”

He loosened his hold just a smidge.

Noir clung to him. “Okay, message received.”

Clover set him on his feet, seeing the people starting to trickle back in to investigate the scene.

Time to go.

Once they were safely hidden on the rooftops, hidden in the shadows of a chimney, Luckybug turned to him with that million-watt smile. “Thanks for the assist. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Qrow lent back against the brick. As he spoke, his normally rough voice came out even rougher around the edges; the way it always did when he was Noir. “I’m sure you woulda figured it out lucky charm.”

“I’m glad I didn’t have to.” He replied, averting his gaze down. He spun the white feather between his fingers, frowning in consternation. “I still don’t understand how she got here though. Her portals shouldn’t be able to reach this far.”

Any other time, he would have been eager to ponder over the details of this latest attack with him, but he knew his time was running short and something more important was on his mind. “Could say the same about you. You got family out here?”

The frown became more defined. “Noir, you know I can’t-”

“Tell me, I know.” He waved off the excuse. “But that could change, if you told me who you really are.”

Lucky sighed, placing a hand on his hip. “Okay, what brought this all on again?”

Qrow met that blue-eyed gaze he’d once fallen in love with, feeling like everything between them was as thin as the wire of the other’s yo-yo. Uncertain and easy to break. If he wanted to make it stronger, he needed something more.

Now or never.

“Look, all that flirting I do? It’s not for show.” He pushed off the wall, clearing the few steps of distance between them. His heart raced in his ears. “I like you. A lot. I want to get to know you, the real you. But, I need to know if I even got a shot.”

“Noir…” He knew the answer before the other even spoke. It was all over his face, etched in his sad smile and downturned brows. “I’m sorry, but my heart’s already with someone else.”

“Oh.” He turned away.

Funny, he thought it’d hurt more.

A tentative hand rested on his shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” Qrow replied, surprised that he meant it.

Before more could be said, both their miraculous started to beep in warning.

The hand slipped away. “Guess time’s up. I’ll… see you around?”

Qrow nodded, hearing Lucky retreat along the roof. Before he could leap away, he called, “Hey, that person of yours. Do they know?”

“I, uh.” Gravel crunched underfoot as his teammate shifted his weight anxiously. “Not yet.”

“You should tell ‘em.” He looked over his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. “Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Lucky’s eyes widened, and then he was smiling back. “Thanks. Someone’s going to be really lucky to have you too, one day.”

Qrow reached for his staff, heading his own way. “Well, duh. I’m incredible.”

The other cast his line, flying away with a laugh. Qrow watched him go, before dropping down into the alleyway. He ducked down behind some boxes just in time, the leather bodysuit falling back into his normal wear.

Blake collapsed into his hair with a sigh. “I’m going to need about fifteen more sardines.”

“Glutton.” He got to his feet, knowing his nest of black hair would hide her just fine as he headed for the sidewalk.

“Qrow? Are you okay?”

Answering it the second time around wasn’t any harder then the first. “Yeah. I just needed to know for sure. Now I know it’s okay to let him go.”

She didn’t respond verbally, but he felt the way she nuzzled his head, though whether it was meant to be for comfort or encouragement was hard to say. Maybe both.

It took about fifteen minutes to get back to the share house he and a half-dozen other students were living in for the duration of the program. When he stepped inside, he found it oddly quiet, the only noise a slight shuffling in the kitchen. A glance revealed his twin sister was there, hunched over the counter, nursing a cup of tea in one hand as she pressed her forehead into the other.

Heh, maybe she felt him get clonked in the head earlier. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” She mumbled. “Just a migraine.”

He lowered his voice, “You the only one here?”

Not up for talking more, Raven merely nodded.

Strange, Clover should have been back by now. “Okay, I’ll make sure to tell everyone to be quiet when they get in. Feel better, sis.”

She offered him a weak smile. He ducked out of the kitchen, heading back for his room. As Blake floated down to her still open can of tiny fish for a much-needed recharge, Qrow snatched up his phone to send out the group message, only to find two missed messages from Clover.

The first one was from nearly an hour ago. Sorry, running late!

On my way now. You won’t believe what happened at the Eiffel Tower. That one was from just a few minutes ago.

Qrow quirked a smile. If Clover only knew…

He tapped back a reply. I know. I went out to try and get a view of it. Forgot my phone.

He could see the other was replying, but he switched to the group text in the meantime, sending out a warning to be quiet for his twin. He’d just hit send, when another string of texts came through, one right after the other:

How do you forget your phone? You’re supposed to get photographic evidence!

Anyways I’ll be there in a few.

Also, noted.

Qrow headed for his bed, flopping across the sheets with a groan. The aches of the day were starting to set in, and he felt ready for a shower and a nap. He buried his pounding head into his pillow, shutting his eyes.

He didn’t open them again until he heard the bedroom door click shut. He rose up on his elbows, scanning the room quickly. The sardine can was gone, as was Blake.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Clover asked as he crossed the room, dropping his bag on his bed.

“Wasn’t asleep.” He ran a hand over his face, adding, “Much as I wanted to be.”

“You doing alright? You look pretty beat.”

Beat up was more like it.

“Been a long day.” He offered as explanation. It did little to wipe the concern from the other’s face. “I’m fine Cloves. We got that paper to work on.”

Clover ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Sure we do but we can take it easy for tonight. Can’t say I wouldn’t mind to turn in early myself.”

“You? Mr. Extra Credit?”

“Haha, very funny. I mean it. I have this terrible crick in my neck. Oh!” He dropped his hand so he could go digging into his bag. “But hey, I did bring you something that just might cheer you up.”

That got Qrow to finally sit up, trying not to seem too eager as the other procured a small, white box and held it out towards him. He reached across the space between their beds to take the gift. Once it was safely on his side, he pulled open the top.

“It probably got a little smooshed, but it’ll taste the same.” Clover was right about that – the cake had fallen on its side, and smears of icing clung to the top and sides of the box.

Qrow swiped a finger across one of them, gathering just enough to take a taste, and his eyes lit up. “Double German chocolate? You’re too good to me.”

“Nah, I can be better. Because I have… a fork!” Clover waved the plastic utensil around, winking his way. “What would you do without me?”

“Probably have less dorky interactions to deal with.” He replied, reaching out again.

Instead of grabbing the tines, he curled his fingers over where the other’s held onto the handle.

Qrow deliberately met his gaze, smiling as suavely as he could. “Thank you, Clover.”

Though his cheeks turned a little pink, Clover met him match for match with his own charming smile. “Anytime.”

As they both pulled back, they couldn’t help but think this was the start of something good.

Underneath their beds, unbeknownst to them both, Ruby and Blake shared knowing smiles.

#clover ebi #qrow branwen #fair game #fairgameweek2020 #rwby #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

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illbefinealonereads · 5 years ago

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Blog tour day! Today I’m sharing some information about Lobizona by Romina Garber, as well as an excerpt. Scroll down to learn more.

Some people ARE illegal.

Lobizonas do NOT exist.

Both of these statements are false.

Manuela Azul has been crammed into an existence that feels too small for her. As an undocumented immigrant who's on the run from her father's Argentine crime-family, Manu is confined to a small apartment and a small life in Miami, Florida.

Until Manu's protective bubble is shattered.

Her surrogate grandmother is attacked, lifelong lies are exposed, and her mother is arrested by ICE. Without a home, without answers, and finally without shackles, Manu investigates the only clue she has about her past—a mysterious "Z" emblem—which leads her to a secret world buried within our own. A world connected to her dead father and his criminal past. A world straight out of Argentine folklore, where the seventh consecutive daughter is born a bruja and the seventh consecutive son is a lobizón, a werewolf. A world where her unusual eyes allow her to belong.

As Manu uncovers her own story and traces her real heritage all the way back to a cursed city in Argentina, she learns it's not just her U.S. residency that's illegal. . . .it’s her entire existence.

Early Praise: “With vivid characters that take on a life of their own, beautiful details that peel back the curtain on Romina's Argentinian heritage, and cutting prose that shines a light on the difficulties of being the ‘other’ in America today, Romina Garber crafts a timely tale of identity and adventure that every teenager should read.”–Tomi Adeyemi New York Times bestselling author of Children of Blood and Bone

“Romina Garber has created an enthralling young adult fantasy led by an unforgettable Latinx character Manu. In Manu we find a young girl who not only must contend with the injustice of being undocumented she also discovers a hidden world that may explain her very existence. I fell in love with this world where wolves, witches and magic thrives, all in a rich Latinx setting!” –Lilliam Rivera, author of Dealing in Dreams and The Education of Margot Sanchez

Buy Link:https://read.macmillan.com/lp/lobizona/

Author bio:

ROMINA GARBER (pen name Romina Russell) is a New York Times and international bestselling author. Originally from Argentina, she landed her first writing gig as a teen—a weekly column for the Miami Herald that was later nationally syndicated—and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Her books include Lobizona. When she’s not working on a novel, Romina can be found producing movie trailers, taking photographs, or daydreaming about buying a new drum set. She is a graduate of Harvard College and a Virgo to the core.

Social Links: Twitter: @RominaRussell // Instagram: @rominagarber

Excerpt:

I awaken with a jolt.

It takes me a moment to register that I’ve been out for three days. I can tell by the well-rested feeling in my bones—I don’t sleep this well any other time of the month.

The first thing I’m aware of as I sit up is an urgent need to use the bathroom. My muscles are heavy from lack of use, and it takes some concentration to keep my steps light so I won’t wake Ma or Perla. I leave the lights off to avoid meeting my gaze in the mirror, and after tossing out my heavy-duty period pad and replacing it with a tampon, I tiptoe back to Ma’s and my room.

I’m always disoriented after lunaritis, so I feel separate from my waking life as I survey my teetering stacks of journals and used books, Ma’s yoga mat and collection of weights, and the posters on the wall of the planets and constellations I hope to visit one day.

After a moment, my shoulders slump in disappointment.

This month has officially peaked.

I yank the bleach-stained blue sheets off the mattress and slide out the pillows from their cases, balling up the bedding to wash later. My body feels like a crumpled piece of paper that needs to be stretched, so I plant my feet together in the tiny area between the bed and the door, and I raise my hands and arch my back, lengthening my spine disc by disc. The pull on my tendons releases stored tension, and I exhale in relief.

Something tugs at my consciousness, an unresolved riddle that must have timed out when I surfaced . . . but the harder I focus, the quicker I forget. Swinging my head forward, I reach down to touch my toes and stretch my spine the other way—

My ears pop so hard, I gasp.

I stumble back to the mattress, and I cradle my head in my hands as a rush of noise invades my mind. The buzzing of a fly in the window blinds, the gunning of a car engine on the street below, the groaning of our building’s prehistoric eleva- tor. Each sound is so crisp, it’s like a filter was just peeled back from my hearing.

My pulse picks up as I slide my hands away from my temples to trace the outlines of my ears. I think the top parts feel a little . . . pointier.

I ignore the tingling in my eardrums as I cut through the living room to the kitchen, and I fill a stained green bowl with cold water. Ma’s asleep on the turquoise couch because we don’t share our bed this time of the month. She says I thrash around too much in my drugged dreams.

I carefully shut the apartment door behind me as I step out into the building’s hallway, and I crack open our neighbor’s window to slide the bowl through. A black cat leaps over to lap up the drink.

“Hola, Mimitos,” I say, stroking his velvety head. Since we’re both confined to this building, I hear him meowing any time his owner, Fanny, forgets to feed him. I think she’s going senile.

“I’ll take you up with me later, after lunch. And I’ll bring you some turkey,” I add, shutting the window again quickly. I usually let him come with me, but I prefer to spend the morn- ings after lunaritis alone. Even if I’m no longer dreaming, I’m not awake either.

My heart is still beating unusually fast as I clamber up six flights of stairs. But I savor the burn of my sedentary muscles, and when at last I reach the highest point, I swing open the door to the rooftop.

It’s not quite morning yet, and the sky looks like blue- tinged steel. Surrounding me are balconies festooned with colorful clotheslines, broken-down properties with boarded- up windows, fuzzy-leaved palm trees reaching up from the pitted streets . . . and in the distance, the ground and sky blur where the Atlantic swallows the horizon.

El Retiro is a rundown apartment complex with all elderly residents—mostly Cuban, Colombian, Venezuelan, Nicara- guan, and Argentine immigrants. There’s just one slow, loud elevator in the building, and since I’m the youngest person here, I never use it in case someone else needs it.

I came up here hoping for a breath of fresh air, but since it’s summertime, there’s no caress of a breeze to greet me. Just the suffocating embrace of Miami’s humidity.

Smothering me.

I close my eyes and take in deep gulps of musty oxygen, trying to push the dread down to where it can’t touch me. The way Perla taught me to do whenever I get anxious.

My metamorphosis started this year. I first felt something

was different four full moons ago, when I no longer needed to squint to study the ground from up here. I simply opened my eyes to perfect vision.

The following month, my hair thickened so much that I had to buy bigger clips to pin it back. Next menstrual cycle came the growth spurt that left my jeans three inches too short, and last lunaritis I awoke with such a heightened sense of smell that I could sniff out what Ma and Perla had for dinner all three nights I was out.

It’s bad enough to feel the outside world pressing in on me, but now even my insides are spinning out of my control.

As Perla’s breathing exercises relax my thoughts, I begin to feel the stirrings of my dreamworld calling me back. I slide onto the rooftop’s ledge and lie back along the warm cement, my body as stagnant as the stale air. A dragon-shaped cloud comes apart like cotton, and I let my gaze drift with Miami’s hypnotic sky, trying to call up the dream’s details before they fade . . .

What Ma and Perla don’t know about the Septis is they don’t simply sedate me for sixty hours—they transport me.

Every lunaritis, I visit the same nameless land of magic and mist and monsters. There’s the golden grass that ticks off time by turning silver as the day ages; the black-leafed trees that can cry up storms, their dewdrop tears rolling down their bark to form rivers; the colorful waterfalls that warn onlookers of oncoming danger; the hope-sucking Sombras that dwell in darkness and attach like parasitic shadows . . .

And the Citadel.

It’s a place I instinctively know I’m not allowed to go, yet I’m always trying to get to. Whenever I think I’m going to make it inside, I wake up with a start.

Picturing the black stone wall, I see the thorny ivy that

twines across its surface like a nest of guardian snakes, slith- ering and bunching up wherever it senses a threat.

The sharper the image, the sleepier I feel, like I’m slowly sliding back into my dream, until I reach my hand out tenta- tively. If I could just move faster than the ivy, I could finally grip the opal doorknob before the thorns—

Howling breaks my reverie.

I blink, and the dream disappears as I spring to sitting and scour the battered buildings. For a moment, I’m sure I heard a wolf.

My spine locks at the sight of a far more dangerous threat: A cop car is careening in the distance, its lights flashing and siren wailing. Even though the black-and-white is still too far away to see me, I leap down from the ledge and take cover behind it, the old mantra running through my mind.

Don’t come here, don’t come here, don’t come here.

A familiar claustrophobia claws at my skin, an affliction forged of rage and shame and powerlessness that’s been my companion as long as I’ve been in this country. Ma tells me I should let her worry about this stuff and only concern myself with studying, so when our papers come through, I can take my GED and one day make it to NASA—but it’s impossible not to worry when I’m constantly having to hide.

My muscles don’t uncoil until the siren’s howling fades and the police are gone, but the morning’s spell of stillness has broken. A door slams, and I instinctively turn toward the pink building across the street that’s tattooed with territorial graf- fiti. Where the alternate version of me lives.

I call her Other Manu.

The first thing I ever noticed about her was her Argentine fútbol jersey: #10 Lionel Messi. Then I saw her face and real- ized we look a lot alike. I was reading Borges at the time, and

it ocurred to me that she and I could be the same person in overlapping parallel universes.

But it’s an older man and not Other Manu who lopes down the street. She wouldn’t be up this early on a Sunday anyway. I arch my back again, and thankfully this time, the only pop I hear is in my joints.

The sun’s golden glare is strong enough that I almost wish I had my sunglasses. But this rooftop is sacred to me because it’s the only place where Ma doesn’t make me wear them, since no one else comes up here.

I’m reaching for the stairwell door when I hear it.

Faint footsteps are growing louder, like someone’s racing up. My heart shoots into my throat, and I leap around the corner right as the door swings open.

The person who steps out is too light on their feet to be someone who lives here. No El Retiro resident could make it up the stairs that fast. I flatten myself against the wall.

“Creo que encontré algo, pero por ahora no quiero decir nada.”

Whenever Ma is upset with me, I have a habit of translat- ing her words into English without processing them. I asked Perla about it to see if it’s a common bilingual thing, and she said it’s probably my way of keeping Ma’s anger at a distance; if I can deconstruct her words into language—something de- tached that can be studied and dissected—I can strip them of their charge.

As my anxiety kicks in, my mind goes into automatic trans- lation mode: I think I found something, but I don’t want to say anything yet.

The woman or girl (it’s hard to tell her age) has a deep, throaty voice that’s sultry and soulful, yet her singsongy accent is unquestionably Argentine. Or Uruguayan. They sound similar.

My cheek is pressed to the wall as I make myself as flat as possible, in case she crosses my line of vision.

“Si tengo razón, me harán la capitana más joven en la his- toria de los Cazadores.”

If I’m right, they’ll make me the youngest captain in the history of the . . . Cazadores? That means hunters.

In my eight years living here, I’ve never seen another per- son on this rooftop. Curious, I edge closer, but I don’t dare peek around the corner. I want to see this stranger’s face, but not badly enough to let her see mine.

“¿El encuentro es ahora? Che, Nacho, ¿vos no me podrías cubrir?”

Is the meeting right now? Couldn’t you cover for me, Nacho?

The che and vos sound like Argentinespeak. What if it’s Other Manu?

The exciting possibility brings me a half step closer, and now my nose is inches from rounding the corner. Maybe I can sneak a peek without her noticing.

“Okay,” I hear her say, and her voice sounds like she’s just a few paces away.

I suck in a quick inhale, and before I can overthink it, I pop my head out—

And see the door swinging shut.

I scramble over and tug it open, desperate to spot even a hint of her hair, any clue at all to confirm it was Other Manu— but she’s already gone.

All that remains is a wisp of red smoke that vanishes with the swiftness of a morning cloud.

Excerpted from Lobizona by Romina Garber. Published by Wednesday Books.

#lobizona #romina garber #blog tour #excerpt

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let-it-raines · 6 years ago

Text

Not Your (soul)Mate {10/15}

Killian Jones doesn’t like the idea of soulmates. He sees how happy his friends are with theirs, but he still doesn’t like the idea, not when he’s found love and lost it time and time again only to still not know his sign. He has no markings on his skin, no voices in his head, but then one day he meets Emma Swan and everything changes. Because, well, he may not have ink on his skin to tell him who to love, but the very first time that he hears Emma’s voice he knows that she’s the one for him. Then again, that could simply be his desire talking. After all, for every word she speaks, he becomes aroused.

It’s not the worst thing in the world to be incredibly attracted to a beautiful woman, but things aren’t that simple when she doesn’t have any interest in being his soulmate.

He’s screwed. And not in the good way.

Rating: Mature

A/n: Will my posting schedule ever make sense? Probably not. Anyways, thanks for reading, my pals! You guys are the best, and I love love love you all for loving this story and these two crazy people💜

Thank you to @captainsjedi for her love and support and artwork!

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

Tag list: @initiala @snowbellewells @karenfrommisthaven @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @emmas-storybook @searchingwardrobes @spartanguard @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @xellewoods @thejollyroger-writer @galaxyzxstark @cssns

-/-

No part of her understands why their cable bill is mailed to her. They’re a cable company. They provide TV and internet and yet they’ve never heard of paperless online billing. It’s ridiculous. And yet the minute she’s late with her payment she gets an increasingly nasty series of emails that shows they obviously know how to use the internet. And since Storybrooke Cable is the only company that provides internet in a sixty-mile radius, it’s not like they don’t have the funds to set up a website. Hell, she’ll take a class and learn how to program the website for them if she has to.

Well, probably not. That’s all a little dramatic, but she really hates having to go down to the mailboxes in the basement to get her mail so that she can go upstairs and write a check and buy a stamp to mail the payment in. It’s not the biggest deal in the world, but she hates it.

She obviously would not have lasted in a world without internet.

The old stairs creak beneath her, a sound that she’s used to when she’s carrying her laundry downstairs (it’s how she knows when she’s on the unsteady step since usually she can’t see over the full height of her clothes which is what procrastination gets her), and she quickly descends downstairs to the row of mailboxes that rest against the wall in front of the washing machines and dryers that work at least ninety percent of the time.

She and Belle need to move to a nicer place. They can afford it, but then again, if Belle moves, it’ll probably be with Will. It’s a constant thought every time Emma thinks about it, so she never quite works up the courage to bring up moving somewhere else. This place is just fine, they’ve made it their home, and so what if she has to walk to a bit of a creepy place to get her mail to pay her cable bill. It’s not like anyone in this town is actually going to do something to her.

They’d have hell to pay.

The stairs could use a little work, though, maybe a few new light fixtures for the hallways too.

Pulling out her key, she twists it in her box, opening it and grabbing the few envelopes that lay flat against the metal. She closes the box, locking it back up, and as she walks up the stairs, she shuffles through the mail, tripping on a loose board as she sees neat black script inked across the white in the upper left corner.

Killian Jones.

What the hell?

What the hell is he doing sending her a letter? Even though her toe is still stinging from how she jammed it, the pain worse than some of her injuries she’s gotten on the job, she stops in the middle of the staircase and rips the letter open.

Dear Emma Swan,

You’ll have to forgive me because it’s been awhile since I’ve written a letter that’s not an e-mail. I’ve been told by a rather reliable source that it’s a bit old-fashioned to write like this, but I do like a bit of a challenge. So, Swan, I’m sitting at my desk writing you a letter on stationary that Ariel found me and with my very favorite pen. And while I don’t expect you to write back, I have included several stamps to encourage you. You wouldn’t want me to waste money, now would you?

Anyways, I find myself wondering about you because you intrigue me. There are things I’d like to know. For instance, how long have you been a secret nerd watching the History Channel and National Geographic? I, for one, have been a fan for years. It’s fascinating to learn about things that have happened in the past. What other interests do you have? Do you enjoy sports? Read any good books lately? What is your ultimate favorite baked good? Do you like cooking them yourself? Are you one of those people who have a favorite flower? I am partial to sunflowers over roses, preferring the brightness of yellow, but then again, there are yellow roses.

I’m simply but a curious man who enjoys knowing the answers to my questions, and in return, you can feel free to ask me anything you want. I’d even tell you what kind of underwear I wear since you seem to be averse to answering that particular question.

Sincerely,

Killian A. Jones

“Oh my God,” she mumbles, scanning over the words one more time before opening up the envelope to see several stamps with pictures of sailboats on them.

A part of her absolutely cannot believe that he wrote her a freaking letter, but then again, she’s not really shocked. That’s exactly something that he would do just to annoy her, and the fact that he included stamps is really over the top. She’s not going to complain. She needs stamps, but damn, the man is persistent.

But she’s not going to write him back.

Absolutely not.

She folds his letter back up and puts it in the envelope before walking up the rest of the stairs and turning in the stairwell so she can get back to her floor, quickly moving into her apartment to write a check so she can send off the cable bill before she gets to work this morning. Belle is still sleeping, so she tries to stay quiet as she grabs her purse and walks right back out the door, all of her mail in the front pocket of her purse.

All day she ignores the letter that seems to be burning a hole through the leather material of her purse that’s hidden under her desk, but it’s more of an attempt at ignoring it than actually ignoring it, because when David leaves to go question a fight that broke out down by the pier, she grabs a piece of paper out of the printer and starts writing something back.

Damn it. Has she lost control of her limbs?

Jones,

You’re ridiculous. Seriously. I can’t believe you took our texts as a challenge, but then again, it is you. I have no idea why I’m writing you back, but you did say that I could ask you any question I want, and, well, I simply can’t pass up that opportunity.

So tell me, what is the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you? And spare no detail.

Sincerely,

Emma Swan.

PS: I am a mean ping pong player, and I agree with you about the roses. If you’re looking for a good book recommendation, though, I suggest Belle. She gives me all of mine.

Oh, and bear claws.

And I want to know what the A in your name stands for.

Quickly, she stuffs the paper in an envelope, seals it, writes his address on it, places a stamp in the corner, and puts it in the mailbox outside of the station so that she literally can’t take it back without tampering with federal law. She’ll bend a lot of rules, but she’s not going to break federal law over something as dumb as a letter.

Two days later, she gets a letter back. There’s no formal address this time, and she kind of likes that…not that she likes this.

Really went straight for the kill then, eh Swan? It took me a bit to remember what exactly my most embarrassing memory is, simply because I’m so suave that I don’t have many embarrassing moments.

However, when I was a young lad of twenty-three, I had the night off and left base to go out to a pub with a few of my mates. This was something we did often, something we’d done for our five years together, but on this particular night I indulged in a few too many glasses of rum. My tolerance wasn’t quite what it is now, even if I do wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck now, and while I don’t remember the night but in a few glances (particularly me telling the lasses that I was the Captain when I was not), I do remember waking up in the flat of a woman I didn’t know without my clothes anywhere in sight. Either she stole them, my mates somehow stole them, or something else happened, but my options to get home were either walking in the streets of Birkenhead in the nude or wearing this lass’s mother’s nightgown. It was this billowing, flowery thing, and while I fully believe I can wear anything I want, let’s just say my actual Captain did not take too kindly to me walking back onto base in something that was not approved. I was written up three times for one incident, and I’d just like you to imagine me having to explain why to my superiors why I was wearing a nightgown when I had no idea myself.

I have to say, though, nightgowns are quite comfortable. Lots of air to breathe. It’s likely a good thing that my mates thought it would be funny to buy me a nightgown when I was promoted. It was much more my taste. Silk is wonderful, though I don’t think I ever wore it. I much prefer my briefs.

So, there’s a story of one of the brightest moments of my youth, and while I’m sure you’ll somehow use it to torture me, it’s yours to know.

My middle name is, Andrew, by the way, and the lovely Belle has recommended me to The Guest Book as reading material. It’s rather good. Feel free to borrow my copy if you’d like. Speaking of Belle, I hear Mr. French makes rather delectable bear claws, but he’s in a fierce rivalry with Mrs. Lucas over who makes the best. Personally, I think they’re using pastries as a bit of foreplay, but that’s simply a theory from an observer.

Now, Swan, I’ve metaphorically shown you mine, so you should show me yours.

Have a good week,

Killian Andrew Jones.

Emma doesn’t realize it, but by the time she’s finished reading the letter, she’s got tears streaming down her face, just a few of them, from laughing at the thought of Killian running around in a nightgown. That’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard, but for some reason, she has no issue imagining him walking into base in a flowery nightgown that hits at his knees and shows off all of the hair on his legs with the shoulders being a little tight. It’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, and she’s glad that Belle is still at the library so that she doesn’t ask what in the world Emma is laughing at.

It would be a little hard to explain.

Well, not really, but she doesn’t want to explain. Because her explaining any of this would make her have to explain other things, and since Belle already knows that Killian sent her the basket of baked goods months ago. So it would be too difficult to explain her...having to explain. This is kind of like some sort of bad inception.

But Belle’s not even here, so it definitely doesn’t matter.

While she’s still laughing, she gets up from the table and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a wine glass out of the cabinets and pouring her a glass of the wine that she and Belle didn’t finish drinking last night. If she’s going to spend her time writing letters to Killian, which is a ridiculous concept in and of itself, she should at least have some alcohol in her.

Not enough to make her have to wake up without clothes and have to borrow an ugly nightgown from the mother of the person she’d slept with but some alcohol all the same.

She doesn’t have any paper here, so she has to shuffle through some of the old notebooks Belle keeps on their bookshelves, and takes out a lined page from the back, settling down on the couch with her wine and paper and pin while Drain the Oceans plays on the TV.

Killian Andrew (Asshole) Jones,

I’ve added the “asshole” because I really did think that was your middle name. You did say you would respond to it, but I guess Andrew is okay. Is that a family name? Your father’s maybe? I don’t have a middle name, didn’t even have a last name, only my first, but I’ve always kind of thought it would be something classic since my first name is.

Shit. I just got wine on the paper. Oops.

So you and that rum, huh? You seem to be a fan of it. And also nightgowns. Are you sure you don’t sleep in one of those? Is that why you don’t have a girlfriend? You scare them all away with your nightgown. I imagine it makes easy access to...things, so really, they should like it better than the briefs. It’s just a great mystery that may never be solved.

Granny’s bear claws are better than Mr. French’s hands down, but Mr. French has better pastries overall. Plus, he’s like my dad, so you implying that they have a thing going on is really kind of freaking me out. I bet Granny wears a nightgown, though, which makes my earlier joke about easy access so much creepier.

Some things simply shouldn’t be imagined. But if you’re going to, make sure to tell Ruby to scar her for life.

I haven’t read that book, but if Belle recommends it, it must be good. I’ll have to check it out. I’ve been very into historical romances lately, which isn’t really on par for me, but there’s simply something about Jane Austen, you know?

Thanks for telling me your most embarrassing story. You’re right. I’m totally going to use that against you, and no, I will not tell you my most embarrassing story. It involves karaoke, though, so it’s a good one.

Emma

If she hadn’t had the wine, she probably would have realized that she revealed a bit too much in her letter, but after she seals it that night and sends it off in the morning, still using the sailboat stamps Killian provided, she doesn’t think about it.

Not at all.

What she does think about is the fact that eight days go by without a new letter. She didn’t even realize that she wanted another letter, that she got a weird sense of excitement over them, until she wasn’t receiving one in her mailbox.

Who has she turned into that she’s checking her mailbox daily?

What decade is this?

But her week has gone by as normal, spending her days at work, reveling in the hour break she gets to eat lunch with David or Ariel, and her evenings at home, sometimes with Belle, sometimes not. On Saturday she, Ruby, Belle, Mary Margaret, and Ariel all spent the day at the beach, waking up early enough to beat all of the tourists there, and settled down with blankets and umbrellas with bags full of food and a cooler full of drinks. They didn’t bother moving, not unless to dip into the ocean to cool themselves off or to run up to the pier to use the restroom, and even if her eyes constantly trailed down to the pier to look at the fleet of ships and boats and what not resting outside of the Jones’ office.

And if her eyes kept checking her texts even if most everyone she spoke to was already there, no one had to know. Though she does think that Ruby noticed.

She wasn’t very subtle in her desperation.

But she didn’t see him, not that she wanted to, and she tried to push it all to the back of her mind to enjoy the day as the sun beat down on her skin so that she got the slightest bit of a tan that she hopes stays with her until the fall.

Okay, so she thinks about the lack of a letter a lot.

However, she wasn’t thinking about it when she was driving home from work, but now that she’s standing next to the door of her apartment with Will holding a stack of their mail, it’s all she can think about.

Shit.

Why didn’t it occur to her that she and Belle share a mailbox and that Belle could see one of these letters? How could she have missed that?

“Hey,” she cautiously greets, placing her keys down, the clanging loud in her ears, on the table and stepping further into the room, “I didn’t know you were coming over tonight.”

“Belle and I are going to dinner. Why do you have a letter from Jones?”

“Huh?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady even though her heart is beating wildly in her chest, the sound louder than it has been in a long time. She can feel it all the way down to her toes. “I have a letter?”

Will raises his eyebrow, obviously not believing her, and as casually as she can, she steps forward and takes the letter from Will, stuffing it away in the back pocket of her jeans.

“So where are you guys going for dinner?” Emma asks to change the subject.

“Eric’s place. He gives me a discount.”

“Ah, yes, because everyone wants discount fish.”

“Oi, it’s not like he’s giving us the old fish.”

“So you think. If you guys die in a few days, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“We’ll be dead, and you’ll be bragging about it.”

“Exactly.” She steps around Will and sits down on the couch, reaching down to unlace her boots and kick them off. “I guess I’ll miss you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Emma,” Belle shouts, and Emma leans her head back to look down the hall to see Belle standing in the hallway, “can I borrow those teal heels that you wore last week?”

“Yeah, they’re in my bathroom.”

Belle doesn’t say anything back, but less than a minute she comes into their living room wearing the teal heels and a little black dress, fluffing out her hair over her shoulders while Will grabs his coat off the chair, stepping up to her and kissing her cheek, whispering something that Emma doesn’t pick up on, which is good. It’s private, and she doesn’t need to hear things about their private life.

Her hearing thing has been wonky lately anyways. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

“We probably won’t be back until late,” Belle tells her, and Emma reaches her hand up over the couch to let Belle grab onto it. “Do you want me to bring you back anything?”

“Nah, you two go have fun. Don’t do anything that I’ll have to investigate.”

“Well, that just takes all of the fun away.”

After the two of them leave, she leans up on the couch and pulls the later out of her back pocket, hoping that Will forgets about it and doesn’t mention it to Belle, and quickly opens the sealed envelope, her nerves running over every inch of her skin and making her fingers shake the slightest bit as she straightens the creases out of the paper.

Emma,

I apologize for my late reply, but you seem to have caught me at a bad time. I had a client call and request a refurbishment on his seafaring vessel (his words, not mine), and I’ve been consumed with it. I love this job. It’s a way to keep me connected to the ocean, a place where I spent so much of my life, but this is different. And it certainly didn’t help that my wrist decided to act up a bit this week. It’s the weather and all.

Regardless, I do wish you would have told me your most embarrassing story. I feel like it’s a real ice breaker, and I love karaoke....if I’m drunk. But then again, bad things seem to happen when I’m drunk. So wine? That’s your vice? I always took you more as a tequila or whiskey type, but then again, I’m learning that I know very little about you, love. Though, I like that it’s changing a bit, if I may be so bold.

Jane Austen is bloody brilliant, and it’s nice to hear of someone else appreciating her. Mr. Darcy and I have a lot in common, you know? I, too, screw up with strong-willed women and then have to realize the error of my ways to have them allow me back into their lives. Or, at least, I hope. Tell me, if you’re a fan of historical romances, how are you not a fan of letter writing when that is such a core piece of the story? Is it simply that you don’t like modern day letter writing because it, for practical reasons, doesn’t make any sense? We could have had this entire conversation in ten minutes, but it’s taken eight days. Yet, this is a bit more fun, even though talking to you does incite other kinds of fun.

As to my middle name, it’s my mother’s maiden name. My father’s name is Brennan, and the only thing I carry from him is the Jones name, which is likely a good thing. He wasn’t a good man. He was a drunk, and he abandoned us when I was ten. I’m proud to be a Jones because of my brother and my mum, so like you, I suspect that my last name carries a weight that most don’t.

Anyways, that’s much too much information about me. Tell me, Swan, there’s a Summer Regatta coming up in two weeks. Do you think you’ll be at the festival? I know someone who can get you a free ride on a boat.

Killian.

He’s got a screwed up family too.

That’s what she gets out of all of that. It’s not that he loves the same books that she does, not that he correctly guessed her drinking vices, not that he practically invited her to be his date to the regatta in over Labor Day weekend. It’s the fact that he has a screwed up family, a drunk deadbeat dad and a dead mom. She knew his family life wasn’t great, if only because Elsa never mentions having to take the kids to go see Liam’s parents.

Huh.

She can kind of see it now, can see that he is a bit of an orphan too, and even though he had parents, it breaks her heart. No one should ever have to grow up without having people love them, and she’s thankful that Killian had Liam and their mom. That’s a nice thing for them to have a family, even if it’s not what most people would call complete.

Maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s the fact that she suddenly understands Killian in a way that she knows only a few people can, but she pulls out her phone and lets her fingers move without thinking about it too much.

Emma: So not a fan of karaoke then? Is your voice that bad?

The three dots pop up almost immediately after she presses send only for them to disappear, only coming back every few seconds. He’s either trying to think of what to say or realized that he’s texting back incredibly fast. It’s nice to know some things never change.

Killian: For someone who is incredibly attracted to my voice, that’s a bold thing for you to suggest.

Emma: Touché.

Emma: So it’s not bad then?

Killian: I’ve been told that it’s actually pretty good, but I find that karaoke does nothing but bring embarrassment unless you’ve been drinking all day.

Emma: Okay, but say you have…what’s your go-to song?

Kilian: Easy. Anything Elton John. He’s so easy to understand.

Emma: You’re kidding, right?

Killian: Nope.

He definitely has to be kidding.

Emma: I figured you’d be more of a Queen or Beatles guy. I’m pretty partial to Queen.

Killian: Well, I could do those too. Or pretty much anything from the eighties. I feel old, but I don’t know a lot of the new songs.

Emma: That’s because you are old.

Killian: Being older than you doesn’t make old. And as you can tell, I’ve retained my youthful glow.

Emma: Sure, we’ll call it that.

She takes another sip of her wine and turns the volume up a bit on the television so that she’s not simply staring at her phone waiting for him to text her back. That’d be pathetic. Then again, she’s sitting at home drinking wine and watching the History Channel while her roommate is out on a date. That could be considered pathetic. Or very, very smart depending on who is asked.

Killian: What are you up to tonight, love?

Emma: Watching Drain the Ocean, though I’ll be honest and say I have no idea what’s going on.

Emma: You?

Killian: The same, actually.

Emma: Creepy.

Killian: Believe it or not, I think we have similar taste in television shows.

Emma: Ugh, I know. I can’t believe I have so much in common with an old man.

Killian: If you keep flattering a man like this, he might get the impression that you like him.

Emma: Never.

Emma: At least we don’t like the same foods. Unless you secretly like junk food.

Killian: I enjoy certain kinds, but I don’t think I have the same propensity for grilled cheese, onion rings, and bear claws like you do.

Emma: I also like poptarts and brownies. Oooh and lots of icing.

Killian: You’re a child.

Emma: Oh, come on. You don’t like icing?

Killian: If there’s cake attached, yeah.

Emma: No, no. You’ve got this all wrong. Straight out of the can.

Killian: You also eat raw cookie dough, don’t you?

Emma: Duh.

Killian: I do like cookies, though. And mostly pastries that involve fruit. It makes it all feel a little healthier.

Emma: You’re in shape. I think you’ve got the healthy thing down.

Killian: I knew you liked staring at my ass.

Emma: I said nothing about your ass.

Killian: Just my general body then? The abs? The biceps? My collarbone? What about my left ankle? You’re into period romances. I bet the left ankle really does it for you.

“Oh my God,” she mutters to herself, putting her glass down on the coffee table and standing from the couch, smiling to herself as she reads the message and walks to the kitchen. He’s such an idiot.

Such an idiot.

And now she really wants something sweet to eat, so she presses up on her toes and gets a can of chocolate icing out of the pantry popping open the top and grabbing a spoon out of the drawer so she can at least be a little civilized about the whole thing. Without putting much thought into it, she holds the spoon full of icing up to her mouth and takes a quick picture, not checking to see what she looks like before sending it to Killian.

Emma: See? This is the way to eat sweets.

The three dots pop up before they disappear just like before, and she doesn’t really have time to think about it before the front door is swinging open and Belle is walking inside, an obviously bright red flush on her pale cheeks.

“I’m engaged,” she squeals, holding her left hand up as she walks into the apartment, a small diamond ring resting there.

“What?” Emma gasps, nearly choking on her icing before she puts the spoon and the container down, running her tongue over her teeth to wipe up all of the excess icing. “You’re engaged?”

“Yes! Will asked at dinner. Oh my gosh. You know, I always swore I wouldn’t be one of those girls, but I did the thing where I put my hands over my mouth when he got down on one knee.”

“Of course you did,” she laughs, reaching forward and wrapping Belle up in a hug, squeezing her as tightly as she can while she sees Will walk into the apartment, bags of takeout in his hands and a smile on his face that tells Emma he’s just as happy as Belle is. Good. They deserve all of the happiness. “I’m so damn happy for you. Both of you.”

“And you’ll be so much happier when you know that I brought you earplugs for tonight,” Will tells her when she hugs him.

“That is so gross.”

“I’m simply trying to be helpful.”

“Babe,” Belle laughs, walking over to the two of them and leaning into Will to press a kiss into his cheek, “stop grossing Emma out and give me five minutes to tell her what happened before we can let her put the earplugs into use.”

“Nope, nope, no,” she refuses, putting her hands in the air, “you guys just go. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Perfect.”

“Please ignore him.”

“I promise you I’m trying.”

Will and Belle go back to their room, and she takes the opportunity to grab her phone, her icing, and plant herself in front of the television, turning to volume up so that she doesn’t have to risk hearing anything else. Tonight will probably be the night that her weird hearing thing picks up again.

She is so damn happy for the two of them, a bit of a buzz of happiness spreading over her skin, but she can’t help the little voice in her head that wonders what’s next for her if the two of them are getting married.

She hates that she thinks that.

Her phone dings, and she looks down at it, forgetting that she was texting Killian before Belle and Will came home.

How long were they texting for her friends to get engaged during that time? That’s…a lot of time. Did it really all go by that quickly? She didn’t even notice.

Killian: I mean, there’s definitely something sweet in that picture that I’d like to eat.

Emma chuckles under her breath, unable to help herself, especially when accompanying the text is a picture of him holding a banana over half of his face, the scars on his wrist and the chain around his neck visible even in the dimness of his apartment. And damn it. This was not supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen.

She likes Killian Jones.

#Not Your (soul)Mate #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan fic #Captain Swan

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yehet-me-up · 6 years ago

Text

Frozen North ~ Night Two

Pairing: Chanyeol x reader

Genre: Horror/Suspense/SPOOP in general/light romance (because who else would I be?)

Word Count: 1,927

Rating: PG13 (nothing gruesome, but knowing me there will be swearing)

Summary: You run a late night radio show dedicated to telling scary stories and urban legends, the creepier the better. Listeners call in and share their own, creating a small but loyal community of folks like you who love this sort of thing. One night, a man calls in with what sounds like an all-too-real story and before you know it, you’ll do anything to make sure he’s safe.

Frozen North Masterlist

Your dreams that night are full of howling wind, women with long white hair and red eyes, chasing you off a tree-lined path and onto a dark and haunting expanse of ice. You claw at the sheets, unable to pull yourself from the dream.

The sound of ice cracking, deep and earth shattering, snaps you from sleep and you gasp in the freezing air.

When you realize you’re safe in your bed you huff out a laugh and slump back into the pillows. The readout on your phone tells you it’s not even six in the morning, but you can’t fall back asleep.

You want to call the number again. Logically you know it was a one-off. A prank or someone trying to be entertaining.

But something in your gut tells you that Chanyeol is in serious distress and you want to yell in frustration. What more can you do?

To stave off your unease you take a quick shower and review your essay for today’s class on the widespread cultural and psychological effects of contemporary mythology.

The professor is a genius. Getting Dr. Paul Langford as your thesis advisor was a coup. Every class he’s taught during your combined MA and PhD in Mythology has been riveting, and this quarter’s is no exception.

When you’ve killed enough time you bundle up in your parka and thick boots. Before slipping your phone in your pocket you stare at it, willing Chanyeol to call again. To tell you it was a joke and that he’s fine.

You shake your head. ‘Ridiculous,’ you say to yourself. Why on earth would you care so strongly about someone you’ve never met?

The gnawing in your gut begs you to dig further, but you smother it. Shoving your phone in your pocket, you march out the door and begin the walk to class.

‘Today we’ll be talking about panic,’ Professor Langford says from the front of the class. ‘And, just to be wild, let’s start with my favorite widespread mass psychological panic - Koro.’

He clicks the button and a photo appears on screen, black and white and grainy, showing a cluster of men lying in hospital beds. Abjua, Nigeria 1981 reads the caption.

‘Koro is a delusional disorder in which someone believes their sex organs are disappearing, retracting, or have otherwise been stolen or taken. It has infected mass communities across Africa, Asia, and Europe at various points over the centuries.’

He clicks and a slide showing an illustration of men and women burning a witch appears. ‘An outbreak of this contagious belief struck Europe in the fifteenth century. Over a dozen women were burned for reportedly stealing men’s penises.’

The class stifles laughs and muttered jokes.

‘Exactly,’ he says with amusement.

‘Obviously the incidents of women stealing men’s genitals in reality is very few. But what makes this belief that their genitals have been stolen so contagious? Why has it appeared at so many places at so many different times? That is what we’ll be discussing this week - the insidious and manipulative nature of myths and how they’ve been weaponized over history to eliminate certain groups.’

On your way out of class the professor calls out to you. ‘Great show last night, Roxy,’ he says with a wink at your stage name.

‘Really?’ you say, surprised. ‘I had no idea you listened to it.’

He straightens his tweed jacket. Though he’s older than you there’s a youth in his eyes and his manner. ‘I might be a teacher, but I promise I’m still hip with the underground scene.’

His lips twitch and you both laugh. ‘It was a pretty wild show. What did you make of that Alaska story someone called in with?’ he asks.

You chew on the inside of your cheek. ‘I don’t know if it was a story. It felt - it sounded - I don’t know. Like he was really in danger.’

He leans against the desk and folds his arms, considering you. ‘Really? What makes you so sure?’ There’s an intensity in his eyes you can’t understand.

To someone as intellectual and established as him it feels like unsteady ground to admit that you believe in something that might not be real. ‘I’m not sure it’s anything tangible. Just something in my gut.’

He nods, watching you closely. ‘Well, keep following it. If you find something it might be an interesting twist to your Phd.’

‘Yeah, we’ll see.’ You feel your phone in your pocket and suddenly a chill runs down your spine.

You can’t explain it, but you need to be anywhere but in this room. ‘I should get going, I want to get in some library time before work. Thanks for a great class today.’

‘Thank you for your contributions, as always,’ he says with a wave. The odd sharpness has left his eyes and you breathe easier on your way out.

When you walk into the station later you’re surprised to still see Jennifer, the station manager, at her desk. She’s on the phone and waves to get your attention when you walk by.

‘Yep. Got it. Thanks,’ she says and hangs up the phone. ‘Hey lady, come on in, have a seat.’

Over the years you’ve sat in this office a handful of times. Once when you interviewed for the open spot. Once to review the format and logistics for your show. Ever few months since to check in about advertising plans, listener numbers, and other such things. She’s never been so animated before.

‘Great show last night!’ she says.

Your mouth drops. ‘Wait, you listened to The Long Night? I thought you hated this kind of ‘spooky stuff’?’ you ask, using your hands to make quotes in the air.

‘I normally do. I listened when I got in. Larry let me know that the streaming numbers for your show were through the roof this morning and I wanted to see what the fuss was about.’

‘Really? What kind of numbers are we talking about?’ You lean forward in your seat.

She turns the computer screen so you can see that chart on it. The blue line is steady and then at the point showing the last 24 hours the line curves upward sharply. ‘Triple. And growing by the hour.’

You gasp. ‘Why?’

She snorts. ‘That Alaska thing. It was compelling stuff. Your show is always good, Rox. But last night, I don’t know, it was chilling. People are interested. The blog for The Stranger even highlighted it. I think that’s what brought in a lot of the traffic.’

You sit back in your chair and toy with the phone in your pocket, torn. Everyone seems to think it’s just a stunt. Why does that feel so wrong?

‘Anyways, just wanted to say, keep up the good work,’ Jennifer says with a wink.

‘Thanks,’ you say absently, standing.

In the hallway you watch the street through the blinds. Night has already fallen, blanketing the Seattle neighborhood with darkness. You lean against the wall and pull out your phone, unlocking it and pulling up the call list again.

Chanyeol’s picture stares up at you. With your thumb hovering over the call button you debate with yourself. What if he’s just some guy? What if you call and he says you’re nuts for ringing him back?

After a minute, he makes that decision for you. Your phone buzzes and his face enlarges, filling the screen.

CHANYEOL WOULD LIKE TO FACETIME reads the screen.

You’re so surprised you almost drop the phone. Quickly, you press accept.

This time, there’s only darkness. Silence. No howling wind or blowing snow. After a beat, you hear breathing.

‘Hello?’ you call into the phone. ‘Can you hear me… Chanyeol?’

Bumping and scuffling are heard and finally you can hear breathing. ‘Hello? Who’s this?’ comes his voice.

You sag in relief. ‘It’s… Roxy, from the radio show? You called last night? About the… white woman?’

Silence greets you and you wonder if you’ve lost him. But the call lingers on the screen.

‘What… what day is it?’ he asks quietly.

You frown at the screen. ‘It’s Wednesday the twenty second. Why?’

He groans into the phone. ‘I can’t- I think I’m losing time here.’

You want to push to understand. ‘Is your name really Chanyeol?’

‘Yes, of course it is,’ he says and grunts, you hear something scraping as he moves. ‘Fuck, I - what happened to me?’

‘I don’t know. You called the station last night. You sounded like you were in danger.’ You hold the phone closer, trying to make out anything in the blackness.

‘I think I might be,’ he says. His voice sounds thin, haunted. The calls cuts in and out.

‘I can send help,’ you rush to say into the phone before you lose him. ‘You’re in Nome, right?’

‘Nome? Like in Alaska? Why-’ he says, confused, before the call drops.

Frantically, you hit the call button. The line rings and rings and you growl with frustration. No matter how many times you try you can’t get through and you run a hand through your hair and groan.

‘Hey, Rox. You ready?’

You turn to see Daniel leaning out of the booth, tapping his watch. The time on your phone says 7:55 and you jolt.

‘Shit. Sorry. I’m coming.’

He ushers you into the booth and you hurry to take your coat off and pull out your notebook.

The show itself goes fine, even though the entire time you’re anxiously waiting for the show to be over so you can try to call him back.

A writer who goes by Lisa the Forsaken calls in with a Slenderman-inspired story that gets a lot of good traction. Your bit on the connection between spiders and trickster myths is followed by a nice discussion.

Just before midnight, when you’re yawning and tapping your foot, preparing to wrap things up, a number pops up on the screen that makes your heart stop.

1-907-613-2458 - UNLISTED NUMBER - NOME

You hit answer, cutting off the ad that’s playing.

‘Hello? Chanyeol?’ you ask frantically. ‘Are you alright?’

Behind the glass Daniel raises his brows at you. You wave at him and mouth ‘later.’

A whining sound is heard faintly through the line and you press your headphones closer to hear it. ‘Hello? Is... someone there?’

You smile with relief. ‘Yes, hi. It’s me. Are you okay? Do you remember talking to me earlier?’

At this Daniel gives you a surprised look.

‘No, not really I -’ the sound cuts out on a deep sigh. ‘I’m not sure where I am. I’m - oh god,’ he says, his voice going low and making your heart speed up.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘She’s back,’ he moans, closer to the phone. ‘Please. Please no. Help me-’

The line cuts out and a tone comes through. You and Daniel stare at each other. He looks just as shaken as you feel.

Reluctantly you hit the disconnect button and wonder what to do. The time reads 12:01 and you jump back on the line, swallowing to clear your throat of the fear that had taken root.

‘I’m Roxy and this has been The Long Night. See you guys tomorrow… stay safe.’

Daniel hits play on the pre-set content and hits the button to speak into the booth. ‘Roxy, what the hell was that? What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know,’ you say as much to yourself as to him, staring at the number still on the screen. ‘But we have to do something.’

Tagging @itskindofafairything and @yeoldontknow <3

#DRABBLEPALOOZA #chanyeol x reader #chanyeol fanfic #chanyeol au #exo au #exo fanfic #exo x reader

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lokikingofasgardslover713 · 7 years ago

Text

Sparkling Topaz & Mead: 7

Masterlist

One Two Three Four Five Six

Loki Laufeyson x Plus!Size Reader

Words: +1,300

Warning: Smuttish? Fluff

A/N: This is the last of the series! Don’t worry I have others planned!

It was early, the trickster stepping out of the bathroom to look over to the wall of glass to a familiar figure standing there, looking out over the trees. Pulling the towel around his waist Loki started forward slowly, feeling as if he made a sudden move she would vanish, just like the other night.

“I thought you didn't care for my music,” Y/N hinted to what played, still facing the glass, the collar glittering around her neck.

“I don't,” he spoke stopping not far from her, Y/N looking back at him with a smirk.

“You are a terrible liar, has anyone told you that,” Y/N laughed turning to face him.

Stepping forward but pausing, taking a step back when Loki started for her, not sure of his intent, shocked how gently he took hold of her, but felt his seidr bind her so she couldn't leave.

“Do they know,” Loki asked gently, kindly, looking down into Y/E/C orbs that glittered with the morning sun.

“The team? Yes, Thor offered to remove the collar, but I told them I needed to speak with you first, the way I left was shitty,” Y/N spoke trying to read the god who was looking her over as if he was seeing her soul.

Weary of Loki when he reached up to the collar, making herself stand still while calloused fingers caressed over tender neck to take hold of the collar. Breathing a sigh of relief when he pulled it free letting it fall to the floor, fingers lacing into loose hair to tug Y/N’ face up to capture her lips in a heated kiss.

Y/N panting for air when he finally released her, emerald orbs catching the sun. Tongue darting out, exposing fangs along with a bloody lip, Loki running a thumb over it to heal it. Unable to keep the smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth, harder still when Y/N kissed it in thanks.

“Looks like you're keeping them,” Loki lamented, moving his hand to her cheek, cherishing over it.

“Appears so, a reminder I guess. Look if it's a problem I can go stay on the West coast, there’s a team out there & they could....,” Y/N began quietly, still unable to read the god, her seidr still weak, burnt out.

Loki stopping her from saying anymore, capturing her lips once again, but careful of the fangs. Nipping at her bottom lip, & immediately Y/N allowed his tongue entrance. Without hesitation she returned the kiss, cupping his face to pull him closer, tangling her tongue with his, filing him jolt slightly when he ran his tongue over sharp fangs.

Finally, Loki allowed Y/N a full breath, stepping back to allow her some space but not letting go, looking down to look her over, as if making sure she was ok.

“I don't want you to ever leave my side again, & you want, if I have anything to do with it,” Loki spoke possessively, fear flickering in her eyes.

“I would do nothing to hurt you, you know that Y/N. I wouldn’t treat you like him, trust me, I want you to be my equal, not under me, unless it's in bed. I dare say even then that I would allow you on top anytime you wanted,” he smiled devilishly down at her, watching a light return to her eyes that he hadn’t seen since Mordred.

“Sosssosso, you’re not mad, about what I did,” Y/N stammered, filling his seidr gently release her.

“I told you lover, I've done far worse,” Loki continued, caressing along her shoulder, fingers cherishing over the thin strap of her shirt, slowly pushing it away, meeting her gaze.

“I should go let the others know. So, I can get my room back, I think they rented it out already, my stuff…,” Y/N began, watching Loki look over towards the corner that served as the living area littered with books.

Following his gaze, Y/N saw the pile of boxes & clothes, it was hers, no mistaking it. Looking back up to Loki who smirked, getting the idea that she needn’t worry about where she was staying.

“Ok, so I’ll be right back after I…,” Y/N got out turning to leave to speak with the others, but the firm grip snagged thick thighs, jerking her up to the gods waist, & on instinct wrapping them around him along with a crushing grip around his neck.

“Loki,” Y/N yelped out, pulling tight to the god, not meaning to claw at his back but there was nothing to grab onto.

“They know you're here love, let us have a moment,” Loki spoke huskily into her ear as she remained wrapped around him like her life depended on it.

“I want drop you,” he laughed, carrying Y/N over to the kitchenette, sitting her on the counter next to the stove.

Watching him closely, Y/N studied his every move as he moved about in the towel, leaving little to the imagination as to how he felt about her return. Giving a nervous grin, blushing & looking to the floor when he caught her. Stepping over to the stove to heat the water for tea, something he had been making for her.

“You know if you used your…,” Y/N began, trying to distract from how she blushed, meeting his amused gaze as he pulled two mugs from the back of the counter to place them next to her.

“It does no good to rush things like this, it want taste the same,” he began, stepping between her legs to get close, anchoring his arms on either side of her putting them eye to eye & leaning into speak on her lips.

Tongue darting out to wet her lips, pulling bottom lip between teeth, looking down at the, the, well the growing issue between them. Jumping slightly having forgot about the fangs & looking back up to Loki shyly. Remaining still as the god reached up to wipe over & heal the bleeding lip once more.

“You need to practice with these, so you will quit doing this,” Loki smiled, moving his hand to cherish along a warm cheek, free hand coming up to the nape of her neck.

Pulling Y/N in for a gentle kiss, cool hands ghosting over warm flesh to push the straps of the top down, surprised she didn’t stop him from exposing the top of her ample breast. Releasing her to step back, leaning his forehead to hers, & tuning into her breathing.

“Stay with me dove, let me take care of you,” he breathed, filling her look at him, hands sliding to hers, calling her seidr with his so that the two danced with one another.

“Why,” Y/N swallowed, trying to force the lump in her throat down, never had someone be so gentle with her or her seidr before, it felt odd.

“Because you deserve it…. Because I dare say I love you & can’t think of nothing more than staying by your side, of centuries, millennia, for how ever long time will allow,” Loki gently reassured Y/N, looking into Y/E/C orbs that sparkled with the light from there combined seidr, just as his did.

Jerking her hands from his, Y/N grabbed his face, pulling him to her forcefully, crushing their lips together, not caring if she bloodied her lips. Filling Loki tense for a second but quickly relaxed into her. Y/N opening her legs wider, pulling flush to him, hips bucking involuntary, but didn’t care it was how she felt. Pulling away with a loud pop, wrapping her arms around the gods neck to burry her face into his neck, holding tightly to him. Cool fingers caressing the small of her back, rubbing soothing circles there.

Pushing back to look at him, the tingle of seidr on her lips, watching the same seidr dance across his.

“I love you too,” Y/N breathed, keeping her arms around his neck, thumbs flipping the wet hair on the nape of his neck nervously.

“Don’t worry, like I told you,” Loki began, hands going to rest on a thick waist, tracing circles with his thumbs.

“I have places we can go it they don’t approve, of anything. Understood dove,” Loki cooed at her, nuzzling at her nose.

“Understood lover,” she smiled, fangs glittering, a look that he was beginning to love.

Tags:@beets1bears1battlestargalactica @linnyrero7-blog @gramaeryebard @mamapeterson @aikibriarrose @legolasothranduilion @weehawkendawngunsdrawnyouron @lilypalmer1987 @nickyl316h @andiyholly @prettybubblesintheair @moonfaery @jovanna-shewolf @dark-night-sky-99 @katstablook @reallyheckinggay @slender--spirit

#loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki x ofc #loki x plus size reader #loki (marvel)#loki smut

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askwithakiss-blog · 7 years ago

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Closed!

Hey guys!! I'm closing both Killua-kun and Promise’s accounts, but I figured I’ll make two different posts.

Thanks for how kind you were to my boy and how amazing you’ve all been to me.

I’m officially closing my hxh blogs, and I don’t want you guys to look back hoping for more. However, I know a lot of people were really intrigued by his story, so this is a text summary-- a lot of whys, things that happened, and things I had planned for Promise. All under the cut!

Thanks again!! If you want to keep following me for my art and my stories, I’m over at @teacupbun ~ <3

----

Ahead is super duper heavy stuff. It also is a little bit long-winded;; sorry! TW: mental abuse, underaged rp sex mentions, stockholm syndrome

Please don’t feel obligated to read.

This was all real for me. It’s not just a fun story I had planned, so if that’s too much, you can turn back now.

okay, good?

From the start, askwithakiss was meant to be a story about recovery, and ultimately was a coping mechanism for me. Every bit of it was legitimately hard for me to come out with. This is gonna be very emotionally-charged, so I apologize in advance if things are sloppy!

I wanted to stop being afraid of telling my story, and so I tried to approach it through art and comics. In the end, I didn’t follow through; maybe it’s because I am still cowardly, or continuing to think about it and frame it like I was the only one who was hurt was very distasteful for me. Mostly, I just moved on.

I think I’ve really hurt people along the way. I left some good people and some not-good people. I surrounded myself in company that made me change how I acted, and taught me to be wary of the world in both good and bad ways.

Promise was created originally as chikainochuu, a roleplay blog for Gon I made 3 years ago. He was made to accompany a Killua blog whom I thought was fascinating and cool, who went by the url of fic//kle//trans//mu//ter. It’s deleted now, so don’t worry, and please please please never try to seek them out. For your own safety.

We roleplayed together and I fell in love I guess. From then I entered an emotionally abusive relationship with fickle’s writer that reflected in almost every rp that we did as Killua and Gon too-- I only realized it retrospectively.

The writer would get upset when I hit it off with everyone so well in the RP community that I stopped making so many open starters and communicating with people. His Killua would get upset whenever Gon expressed that he wanted any sense of agency over himself, insisting that Gon needed to stay weak so that Killua could “remain in control.” His Killua constantly convinced Gon that all he needed was Killua, and Killua would protect him. Both I, and my Gon in turn, bought it without question.

His Killua would tell Gon about how he’d have literal sex with other Gons and they had all “forced themselves upon him.” He’d tell me this too. He’d tell me that all his other girlfriends were crazy and abusive and forced themselves on him. Naturally, I became complicit in order to set myself apart, which might have all been a fool’s errand. And, of course, in turn, Gon did too.

He’d ask me repeatedly to have a smutty RP. I’d tell him that I wasn’t good at writing smut, and I couldn’t do it. He’d constantly tell me that he was horny for it, and so I eventually caved and gave him what he wanted. This pattern was frequent, messed up, and bad.

There have been moments on this blog where Promise alludes to these scenes and he is terrified and scared of what he’s done. It’s not good memories. None of it has been, and it made my life an living hell where I can’t even bear to see the word “fickle” without going into an absolute frenzy.

Promise became a character who I brought back after leaving my RP blog to be by me while I tried to figure out how to cope. It was easier to figure out a character arc and plan it out than to approach my own life. He became a weird Gon-- too old and wise and worn for his age. I liked him a lot. He had an ability to encourage me, because I would look at this character who I heavily projected onto and tried so hard to find his happy ending despite all the shit he dealt with. I liked to think he’d do the same for me.

As far as the plotline with his nen, I had intended that he had it and accidentally used it during his fight with Creep way back then in a desperate attempt to gather enough power to try and protect someone he still cared about. It caused something to happen where the promise of “I’ll never use nen again” was broken and consequences kicked in, and so he had officially “lost” any enhancer nen he had, as well as any ability to use it. His arm took longer to heal because he no longer had nen. A bit nonsensical, but it was where I was at back then.

Just before that, he told Kitty that he wanted to finally re-learn how to use nen, after being told for so long that he shouldn’t because he was told by Killua that it would hurt everyone he loved and it’d be his fault. Promise was thrilled with this idea, and was convinced that becoming strong again with nen was how to help him feel better on his own as well as protect others.

As for future plot plans...

Promise’s dreams to learn nen again were supposed to be shattered when he finds out his nen is permanently sealed off. He kind of resigns with this attitude of how it simply wasn’t meant to be.

After that, Promise was going to realize how applicable it was to his life in general. Shit happened, and he no longer had some of the things that made up a big part of his confidence--- his ability to fend for himself, his nen, and his Killua. With that, he realizes that he and Killua were also just simply not meant to be.

Promise comes to term with the fact that he’d been trying to cling on to the idea of Killua as well as nen because they provided him stability and validation of his strength and worth. He tried desperately to claw them back into his life, tried to relearn nen, tried to find a way back to Killua. Tried to be again who he once was, though it was long torn away from him by the foolish mistakes he had made.

We never wanted to call anyone a mistake, and surely, meeting him was never meant to be one. But alas, there was a time before any nen or Killua for Promise-- whether this was better or worse didn’t matter, but there was a time when he was able to survive by just being the best person he could be, and not by trying to be a person he used to be.

Promise is then able to let go of Killua and trying to relearn nen, knowing he can still do a lot of good in this world without any of that. He didn’t need to be a hunter anymore-- he didn’t need to chase anyone or anything.

That’s the details of what I had planned for this boy. Hey, thanks if you read through all of that.

I wanna say thank you to everyone who showed me kindness despite how I’ve... been in these years. I’ve not been the best person I could have been, but I’m trying my best now, and I’ll keep trying my best.

I earnestly hope that every one of you continues to be lovely and supportive. I personally did not have a great time within this fandom because of this relationship that... for lack of a better word, scarred me. But, the community on the askblog side here has always been absolutely wonderful, and by far probably the best memories I can take away from being in this fandom. I’m sorry it’s a bit sappy, but you guys honestly made my stay worth anything.

Watch out for each other, alright? Thank you so much.

#good night!#;end

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mothmanismyuncle · 7 years ago

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Part of Your World

Hi, your friendly neighbourhood fanfic trash here, delivering you the first chapter of something that I borrowed from a great post I saw on @keithsblackknight !! Check out their blog, and I hope you enjoy.

As a narrator, I know that I should probably start this story out with like, “Once upon a time,” or “In a galaxy, far, far away,” but this story doesn’t take place once upon a time or in a galaxy far, far away. It happened in Brooklyn, last summer. Now don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t make it any less of a faerie tale. There’s demons, and curses, and star-crossed lovers (We’ll get to that bit. Steamy. Good stuff.) but, like, our dashing protagonist takes the Metro to work? What I’m sayin’ is, stick with me, alright?

This whole thing started in an unassuming corner shop, owned by a man and his wife. They sold newspapers, coffee, sandwiches, the usual fare for a corner store. They were open late, and many people would come in and out to get food to soak up the cheap beer they’d drank at the bar down the block. One particular night, the husband was working the til. His wife was upstairs with her feet up, as she was eight months pregnant with their bouncing baby boy. The door chimed and he looked up from his phone. A woman in a red dress and white pumps perused the chip and candy selection lazily. She didn’t look like their usual customers, but who was he to judge? At least she wasn’t ripping open packages in the aisle and going to town before she paid. He looked back down at his phone. The replays from the Giants game kept him rapt for a few minutes until he felt a presence on the other side of the counter.

“Hiya. Is that all for you, Miss?” The woman set down a bottle of water. He picked it up and began ringing it out.

“And a pack of Marlboro reds, please.” She said, voice sultry. She watched him through her eyelashes and he reached for the cigarettes. He rang them up as well.

“Can I see some I.D.?” He asked, hooking one side of his lips in a grin. She fished the piece of plastic out of her wallet with a coy smile.

“It’s been millennia since I’ve been asked that.” He leaned on the counter and took it between two fingers.

“Well, I can’t see why that would be the case,” He looked down at it. “Miss Rowena. What brings you to these parts? You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“That’s because I’m not,” She said bluntly. She took the pack of cigarettes and handed him a twenty. He made change and she opened the pack.

“Sorry, sweetheart, but you can’t smoke in here,” She reached for a lighter anyway and took a long drag.

“Oh?” She said simply.

“We can step outside, if you’d like,” He offered, handing her her change. She put it away carefully and tilted her head to the door. He followed her, and she finished her cigarette in relative silence. He’d tried to ask her a few questions, but she’d only smiled at him.

“Do you know why I’m here, Michael?” He squinted. He didn’t recall giving her his name.

“For the smokes?” He replied, frowning.

“Oh, of course. That, but there’s something else.” She tapped a painted nail on her chin in a caricature of deep thought. “Oh, that’s right. What’s her name, Sarah?” Michael’s heart slammed into overdrive. How did this lady know about Sarah? “I know all about Sarah, Michael. Call me Rowena, call me Hera. I have many names, but none of them matter. What truly matters, Michael,” She got close, and the smoke from her mouth curled around his face. “Is that today is your day of reckoning.”

“Reckoning?” Michael stammered. “I don’t understand.”

“Men like you rarely do.” Rowena, Hera, whatever snapped. “I know all about men like you. You take and take, but nothing will ever be enough. I’m here to punish you, Michael.” She sniffed.

“Wait, wait, there’s gotta be something I can do,” He said, taking a step back. She shook her head.

“It’s too late. The damage has been done.” She smiled. Earlier, Michael would have called it coy, but now it looked downright predatory. “I know that you’d only make yourself into a victim if I’d have cursed you, but your boy is a different tale entirely.” Michael’s eyes flew wide.

“What did you do to my son?” He demanded.

“Oh, now he considers his family,” She sneered. She dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the heel of her shoe. “Every day that boy lives, every breath he takes will be a reminder to you that you are scum. You did this to him, Michael.” She hissed.

“Did what? What did you do?”

“You’ll see. Go upstairs. Your wife needs you.”

Shiro’s head whipped back and the knife that slashed across his face drew rivulets of blood that cascaded over his jaw and down his throat. The fingers tipped with claws that tangled in his hair gave another tug and that dragged a growl from his throat.

“Still have some fight in you, I see,” The Queen sneered. “It’s too late. Your little stunt is over.” She threw him to the ground.

“There will always be more of us, Lilith,” He snarled, but she used her ample powers to lift him against the wall by his throat.

“Then I will kill more of you.” She whispered into his ear. “You, though. You’ll make such a pretty example.” Fear gripped low in Shiro’s stomach. He didn’t fear death. He’d welcome it like an old friend, should he die on the battlefield. Lilith, however, had ways of making one wish they had died instead. An icy feeling gripped him in his core and it spread slowly, agonizingly slowly, through his veins and to his limbs.

“What’s happening,” He gasped, fighting to move. Lilith’s face broke into a grin.

“You were one of the most fearsome generals, Takashi.” She said playfully. “Your face would send mortal men into hysterics. It was almost cute.” Shiro was dropped roughly to the floor and he stared in horror at his hands. His claws retracted, and he felt his whole body becoming smaller. Weaker. He reached up to run a hand through his hair to find that his large, curling horns were gone. His mouth felt strange without fangs and Lilith now towered over him. “Try to recruit an army like this, pretty boy.”

“No,” He muttered. “No!”

“Get out of my sight.” She snapped her fingers, and between heartbeats, Shiro found himself standing in the middle of a bustling street. Neon signs glared at him, brighter than the fires of Hell, and the sounds of cars and music didn’t drown out his screams as he fell to his knees.

“Michael Kogane?” A nurse called into the waiting room. She looked pale, and the clipboard in her hand shook. “You need to come quickly.” He jumped up from his seat and followed her. “There’s been… Some complications.”

“What complications? What happened?”

“There was something… Unexpected.” The nurse didn’t say anything else. They went into the operating room. A doctor stood next to the table his wife lay on. She was impossibly still. The doctor faced away from them but turned as Michael came nearer. In his arms, lie a child. Michael shuddered to think that it was his. The thing was small and its skin was a light shade of purple. It had thick, purple fur on its face and head, and its fingers ended in sharp claws. It opened its eyes to burble at Michael, and they were a sickly yellow.

“It’s unlike any birth defect we’ve ever seen before.” The doctor said quietly.

“Is that… My son?” Michael asked. “What about my wife?”

“There was nothing we could do. She lost too much blood, and insisted that we save him first.” The doctor replied. “She said you had agreed on the name Keith.”

Keith was fifteen years old the first time he’d completely snuck out of his house. He knew he was different. It didn’t take a genius. I mean, he’d seen people on the TV and on the internet, and none of them really looked like him. Hell, his dad didn’t even look like him, but he didn’t really think about it, you know?

Eighteen now, and burdened with glorious teenage angst, he flopped onto the couch next to his father in the recliner.

“Dad, will you play Call of Duty with me?” Keith asked. His father let out a burp and set down the can he’d been connected to like a lifeline.

“Not now, Keith.” He’d said quietly. “Daddy’s busy.”

“But Dad, I’m bored.” He huffed. “Are there any more shows I can watch?”

“No.” His father had snapped and Keith shrunk back. His dad took a deep breath, pinching his nose and reclaiming his composure. “No, Keith. I’ll go to the video store later.”

“What if I come with you?” Keith said, coming closer to his dad.

“Absolutely not.” Came the immediate response. “You know you can’t go outside.”

“But dad, come on,” He’d whined. “I want to pick out my own movies. Can we get Netflix? I want to watch something new,”

“And I want to be left in peace and quiet for one night!” His dad snapped again. “We don’t all get what we want.”

Keith had gone to his room after that. He laid on his bed, staring at the stars stuck to the ceiling. When he was growing up, his dad had told him he was allergic to the outside, whatever that meant. Keith’s nightly excursions to the roof of his apartment complex told him otherwise. He knew to stay out of sight. He knew other people couldn’t see him. He was a freak. He picked at the bed frame with his claws. The grooves he left were not the first, and he knew they wouldn’t be the last.

He stayed in his room, reading articles on his ancient computer. He loved reading about cryptids and wondered if that’s what he technically was. He snorted at the idea of people making memes about him.

The red letters on Keith’s alarm clock had ticked around to single digits again before he moved from his bed. His dad was passed out in the recliner, surrounded by more cans. He draped a blanket over him before going into the kitchen to get a bologna sandwich.

Keith had found that he was naturally a nocturnal being, more comfortable in the dark than in the daylight. He wasn’t sure if that was because of whatever made him look like The Wolfman or if it was due to the fact that his dad had boarded up all the windows. He only saw the sun in brief flashes when his dad entered and exited the house in the daylight. Once, a few years ago now, he’d tried to go to the roof in the daylight. The loose plyboard from his window swung open, the sun had hit his eyes, and he had hissed and slammed it shut. The headache he had for the rest of the day was deemed not worth it, and he didn’t try again.

The bologna sandwich stuck to the roof of his mouth. The damn bread was stale again and Keith rolled his eyes at it. Maybe he could guilt his dad into ordering pizza the next day. For now, though, he choked down the rest of the sandwich and checked to make sure his dad was out cold. He shook his foot lightly, and he didn’t even snort. Perfect. Keith crept into his room and grabbed his sketchbook and pencils. Most nights, he’d go onto the roof and sketch the skyline. Once he’d sketched a bird that stuck around long enough for him to get a good look at it. Tonight, though, he opened the door and smelled something in the air. Almost like the time the toaster caught on fire with a Pop-Tart in it. Someone moved at the edge of the roof and Keith froze. Was it too late to dart down the stairs?

“Whoa,” the guy breathed. Definitely too late, but he’d try his best anyway. “Hey, kid, wait!” Keith’s feet pounded down the fire escape, but the other guy was a bit quicker. “What do you think you’re doing? You could be seen!”

“What?” Keith squeaked.

“In here,” The guy put a hand on the back of his head and forced him to duck into the window above his. Keith did as he was directed, but his hands shook and it felt like he was going to upchuck his sandwich. “What the hell are you doing in a place like this? You could be killed! There are eyes everywhere here.”

“What?” Keith said, a little more shrill. The guy stopped. “Who are you?” The guy sighed and tucked the pack of cigarettes back in his pocket.

“I sometimes forget.” He muttered darkly. “Takashi Shirogane. Ex-General of Hell, at your service,” He said, a wry smirk playing on his lips. Keith’s heart slammed against his ribcage.

“I’m Keith.” He stammered. “Why did you push me into your apartment?”

“What are you doing around here? You’re a little young to be topside, aren’t you?” Takashi asked, crossing his arms.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Keith said flatly.

“What’re your orders?” Takashi asked, screwing up his face. “Are you spying on me?”

“Dude, I don’t even know who you are. Why are you not freaking out right now?” Keith’s voice broke. Takashi took two quick steps toward him and Keith raised his sketchbook as the most piss-poor shield anyone has ever seen. The sketch of the bird faced Takashi, and he looked at it with a puzzled look on his face.

“What?” Takashi said, tilting his head at it.

“Listen, man, just let me go. Please don’t call the cops. My dad will freak out and I’ll never get to go to the roof again.” Takashi made a face like he knew all those words, just not in that order.

“What?” He said again.

“Now damn it, that’s what I was asking you!” Keith said, throwing his hands in the air. The anger leeched out of Takashi’s face, curiosity replacing it.

“Either you’re the best spy Hell has ever sent, or you genuinely have no idea who I am.” He murmured.

“I’ve told you no less than three times that I genuinely have no idea who you are.” Keith replied drily. “Please let me go.”

“Where do you live?” Takashi asked, frowning.

“Like I’d tell a kidnapper that,” Keith snapped. “I’ve seen SVU. I know what happens to kids who get taken away.”

“What?” Takashi said again and Keith snarled.

“You’re the one to jammed me into your window!” Keith’s eyes flashed to the window in question. The still-open window. The still-open window that was no less than five feet from where he was standing. Both men seemed to have the same realization, and before Keith could even act on the impulse, the window slammed shut of seemingly its own accord and a force pushed Keith into a nearby kitchen chair.

“We aren’t done talking,” Takashi growled. Keith nearly shit his pants.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking wizard,” A bewildered look crossed the other man’s face.

“No?” He responded. Shiro was completely aghast. The kid looked to be old enough to have had his powers for years. Why was he so shocked? “You’re well old enough to have learned how to do that.”

“No?” Keith echoed. “Nobody knows how to do that!” Keith’s voice broke again and he noticed, mournfully, that his claws were destroying his sketchbook. He set the book down gently on the table.

“You look like a demon, but you’re clearly not one,” Shiro mused. “Where did you come from?”

“I’ve lived in this building all my life,” Keith said, shaking his head. “My dad owns the store downstairs,”

“Does he, now?” Shit. “That man’s human. I’ve seen him before.”

“Of course he is. And you’re not?” That gave Shiro pause.

“No. Of course not. And you are?” Keith nodded profusely.

“Yeah. My dad says so, anyway.” Shiro nodded a few times.

“Let’s talk about this, okay? Call me Shiro.”

Keith was finally released an hour or so later, head spinning. The man said that he’d replace the sketchbook that Keith left on the kitchen table. He’d gone to check on his dad (still passed out) and laid back in bed. What the hell had happened? The guy told him some crazy bullshit story about being from literal Hell and being cast out to live as a human, but Keith didn’t quite buy it. It was a bit harder to be a sceptic when he went to brush his teeth in the mirror and he saw his reflection looking back at him. Where else could somebody this ugly come from, if not Hell?

The next night found Shiro in the same place, with Keith quietly clambering up the fire escape. The man was sitting on the edge of the roof with a small green bag next to him.

“You came back,” Shiro called. He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Where else am I going to go?” Keith scoffed. As a rule, he generally stayed away from the edges of the roof to avoid any sightings, but Shiro patted the ledge next to him and Keith found his legs moving of their own accord.

“I brought you something,” Shiro said, holding out the bag. If Keith didn’t know any better, he’d say that under the scar on his face, he was blushing. Keith peeked into the bag.

“No way,” He breathed. It was a new sketchbook, but also a set of inking pens and a box of Prismacolor alcohol ink pens. “For me?”

“Yeah. You’re really good, Keith. I flipped through the other sketchbook.” Shiro said, slightly embarrassed at how weird that sounded out loud. “I hope you don’t mind,”

“No, it’s fine,” Keith said, opening the pack reverently. “I’d just been using one of my dad’s number two pencils,” He chuckled. “I only saw this kind of stuff on YouTube.”

“YouTube,” Shiro said flatly. Keith raised an eyebrow.

“Please tell me you know what YouTube is.” Shiro laughed.

“Of course I know what YouTube is. I’ve been strictly topside for twenty years. How do you think Bill Gates got so successful? I know the guy who gave him his deal.” Keith’s brain skipped a gear.

“No. Huh-uh.” Keith shook his head a few times. “Not even going there.” Shiro laughed, and for some reason, it made Keith’s face heat up. He quickly changed the subject. “So what do you do, like, as a job? Do you still do demon stuff?” Shiro shook his head and gave a small, dark, chuckle.

“Would you believe I’m a lawyer?” That made Keith roar with laughter.

“No way. And you live here?” He asked. Shiro shrugged.

“This building was one of the only ones that didn’t look into your history if you paid in cash,” Shiro said, taking another drag of his cigarette. Keith nodded as he doodled. “What do you do?”

“Wither away to nothingness. Sit in my room quietly and pretend like I don’t exist.” He muttered. It was only after Shiro was silent for a few moments that he looked up. Shiro was watching him with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. “It’s a joke. Supposed to be funny?”

“Ha, ha,” Shiro said drily. “Do you really never leave?”

“Look at me. I’d get shot at in the street.” Keith scoffed, suddenly not feeling like drawing anymore.

“You’re right. I guess without powers it’s hard to blend in.” Shiro said thoughtfully. Keith rolled his eyes.

“You think?” He muttered. Shiro changed the subject.

It became a nightly ritual. Keith’s dad would drink himself into a coma, Keith would sneak out, and he and Shiro would sit on the roof and talk. Sometimes Shiro would bring him things, like books and movies. Keith would show him videos and other stuff on Shiro’s phone. Keith was becoming enamoured with the thing. His prized possession was his computer, but it was getting up there in age and was starting to bog down. Shiro’s phone was so fast, and Keith played a bunch of games on it every time Shiro let him.

“Do you not have a phone?”

“What?” Keith had asked, blinking.

“I was just, you know. If you had a phone. We could maybe text?” Keith chuckled.

“The Ex-General of Hell, using emojis?” Keith said drily. Shiro actually did blush that time. “No. My dad never really saw the point. I don’t go anywhere.”

The mood was darker that night, and Keith had climbed into bed bitter that morning.

The next day, Shiro was later to the roof than usual. Keith tried to focus on getting the colours of the sky where the sun was setting right, but he was impatient. The sound of someone clambering up the fire escape had him peering over the edge. It was Shiro, and he had a small bag behind his back.

“Okay, so I brought you something,” Shiro said, a grin breaking across his face. He handed the bag over. “You play with mine all the time, and maybe you’ll get less lonely during the day,” Shiro babbled. Keith’s eyes widened as he peeked into the bag.

“No way,” It was a phone! It was the same kind as Shiro’s, but the plastic was red instead of black. “No way.”

“I put my number in there and stuff,” Shiro said, a hand on the back of his neck. For all his demon bravado, Keith was starting to learn that the guy was really just a dork.

“I can’t take this from you,” Keith said, shaking his head. “This is gotta be expensive,” Shiro scratched the back of his head.

“Sure, but who else would I spend money on?” He said softly, brow crinkling. “I lost everyone when I Fell. You’re the first actual friend I made since.”

“We’re friends?” Keith asked, tilting his head to the side. “I mean, I’ve made friends on Xbox Live and on the internet, but,”

“Not the same?” Shiro said, grinning.

“No way,” Keith breathed. They both cracked smiles at each other.

“Well, turn it on! Come on, we’ll play this new game I found.”

#takashi shirogane #keith kogane #sheith #vld #voltron #demon au

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noble-pro · 6 years ago

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GB Mountain Running Champs

I have struggled with my running since the ON Snowdonia Trail Marathon. It was probably the best opportunity for me to qualify to run for GB, but I blew it. I wrote an honest blog about it (read here), hoping it would give me closure, and it kind of did. But also kind of didn’t. I had gone into a deep dark place up on Mount Doom (Snowdon) that day. I had to wring my brain that day. I promised myself all kinds of things to just finish that race. I called myself all kinds of names. I had to bend my will and my body to just keep going, rather than just give up, collapse and transform into a blob of steaming hot dung. I got off the mountain, uninjured, unhurt, my family still loved me, the sun was shining. But as my muscle soreness healed, my mind soreness didn’t. I found it hard to commit to training, hard to withstand any sort of pain. I dropped out of Ladywell 10,000m cos it was hurting a bit. My training was sporadic and quite unfocused. I had tried to pick myself up, get motivated, YES! I am back! Then I would sleep-in the next morning. I get the email confirming I have been selected to run for Wales in the GB Mountain Running Championships, I am scared to do it. I had poured my heart into the Trail Marathon, and wound up 10th. Here is a race I hadn’t been training for at all, against the best mountain runners in the country, I could really embarrass myself. The race is in Snowdonia, I have done the course before, it is a stunning route. I moved here to do races like this. To be running for Wales, injury and illness free, it should be the most amazing opportunity ever. I can’t turn this down due to fear. I resolve not to think about it. Not to focus on it, just to roll with it.

Race day is beautiful sunshine, not a cloud in the sky. I’m not that nervous, training has been going a bit more consistently, and although I haven’t done anything on the mountains, I am looking forward to it. It is a hot day, and windy. Watching the juniors finish is like something out of Apocalypse Now. One lad falls on his bum and can’t make it 10 meters to the finish. Runners are lying in the field crying, and some have collapsed with heat exhaustion on the mountain. The seniors line up. We are told that the top 2 are picked automatically for the World Champs in Argentina, with 2 more discretionary places. We set off. I am feeling pretty bad almost immediately. I hang on with the 2nd group, but it’s hurting and we haven’t even left the tarmac yet. By the time we get up onto the fells, I am all wrong. I have to really practise my ascending, it does not come naturally. I have not been practising. It is NOT coming naturally.

The climb up to the first peak, Eilio, is a long hard slog. I am hurting. Every time someone overtakes me, it feels like I gain a stone in weight. I had been secretly hoping to come in the top 10 here, and be first Welsh Man home. I am now slipping down into the 20s, and am the 4th Welsh man, the field pulling away with every step. I have totally lost my head. I want to quit. I am trying to think of an excuse. I can’t. I am in a Welsh vest. I already quit my last race. I have given myself total permission to just go out and enjoy this one. There are no excuses here. Then Emma Collinge comes past. A very fast woman who I saw finish 2nd in the World Championships a few years ago. It shocks me. I am angry with myself. I want to quit again. How can I compete with the fastest men if I can’t beat the fastest women?

It’s a bad day. So what am I going to do? Drop out because it’s hurting? Because I’m getting beaten by a woman? Let's draw the line now. No more talk of dropping out. Finish the fucking race. I manage to tag onto Emma, and, gradually, sort my head out. The pain subsides and I get my breathing back. It is windy and Emma tries to wave me infront to take some of the load. I refuse. I am giving Emma my total respect here, and therefore we are in a race against each other and I’m not interested in helping her one bit. I wouldn’t shield a guy from the wind either. I stay behind, I can feel myself coming out of the hole. I know that once I get to the top of Eilio, everything should swing in my favour. I just have to believe it. That’s exactly what happens. I launch off just before the top, and am instantly gaining on the field. The visibility is perfect and I can see everyone stretched out infront of me. From thinking ‘when will this ever end?’, to now ‘I hope I have enough time’. The ridge is a wonderful rollercoaster of ups and downs. I’m flying past people on the downs, and grinding past them on the ups. Two guys in front of me stop for a second to get some water off a spectator, I forgo the water so I can pass them both cleanly. Dyfed at Track Tuesday, has advised me to jump one particular stile instead of the next, I do it, it gets me past Max Nichols (excellent mountain runner), Dyfed is right there cheering! My confidence is soaring. I have pulled myself near to top 10, and am now the 2nd Welsh man. I have so much support on the mountain it is brilliant. Everyone roaring that I am looking better than the guys in front. A few guys even shout that I could make it onto the plane. I just focus on the next guy, and the next guy. We leave the ridge and now there is just one long gentle downhill all the way home. It is perfect running for me and I am trying trying trying. I zoom past runners like they are not moving. I’m getting hot, my thighs are burning, my feet are on fire, I don’t care, I wish there was more road. I can see flashes of Math Robert’s red vest impossibly far ahead. I am closing him down, meter by meter, he is looking behind, I am about 10 seconds away. I can’t get there. I finish 8th. I am enormously happy with that. Maybe my best ever performance on the mountains. I beat lots of excellent mountain and road runners. Ofcourse now I wish I had specialised a bit more, done a few more hill sessions. But, more than the result, I’m thrilled with my awesome self for clawing out of a hole. I turned the momentum around and got a very unlikely result, top 10 in the country.

Great run from Math and a royal battle. We are having the rematch next weekend at Newborough parkrun if anyone fancies a go! Thanks loads to everyone who came out to support, Welsh Athletics and the team, and to Arwel for picking me! Great photos as always from the guys at SportPictures.Cymru 16/09/2019 AM PM Monday 10 REST Drive to Wales Tuesday REST 2 miles in 10.50. 5 laps, 4 laps, 3 laps, 2 laps, 1 lap, 200m, 100m (lap jog rest). 6.05, 4.47, 3.33, 2.19, 65. 10 miles total perfect weather for track and great group Wednesday 5tm 10 Thursday 5tm 10min @20kmph tm. 8 miles road. 10 miles total 10min effort feels good, doable! Friday REST 5tm Saturday 5 @7min miling GB Mountain Running Champs. 10 miles total 8th place. Very happy Sunday 18 miles @6.10min miling. 23 miles total REST morning run with Tom and Cal Rawlinson, great little long run TOTAL: 93 miles tm = treadmill Non-Running Related Highlight of the Month Straight after Mountain Race on Saturday, knock back a chocolate milk and walk up Moelwyn Mawr with my dad. Epic day.

Thing I’m Digging This Week: Just love Lana Del Rey. This music video, the effortlessly cool style, the lyrics; “Fuck it, I Love You” – genius. Best Thing On The Internet This Week: Latest episode as Kipchoge trains to break 2hr marathon. A gold mine of useful stuff here. Love the way he finishes mammoth track session, few high fives, and chill on infield, no yelling, no prostrating on the track, no theatre. Job done, go home. Read the full article

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feynites · 8 years ago

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Feynite you amazing and wonderful cinnamon roll... I can't get to the NSFW sharkbait post :( both links just redirect back to the same page. Permalink isn't even working. Knowing my favorite OC couple ever is doing smutty things that I can't read is making me look like grumpy brooding birb. Help me favorite author, you're my only hope!

Sorry for the delay, Anon! I copy and pasted the fill below, hopefully it will work this way. If not you might have to give me different contact info so I can send it to you by some other means. I’m still getting stuff sorted out so the blog is on semi-hiatus as I work on making new master posts, side blogs, and experiment with themes until I find one that does what I want it to.

(And to everyone on the whole I have lots of pending asks and I see all the awesome stuff you guys have been doing, but I’m saving it for when this is all done because I’m trying to organize what’s already on the new blog, so I’m posting new stuff at a bare minimum right now. Thanks for being patient! And sorry for the issues! <3)

Uthvir is strong.

Thenvunin knows it. He does not typically forget it. After all, it is part of how they so routinely over-power him. But he is still bigger than they are, and especially on the mortal plane, these things can be a factor, and, well…

He swallows, as Uthvir lifts him. As they grin, all sharp teeth and shrewd eyes, and pin him against the wall.

“Well well, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting you to come back so soon,” they purr.

Thenvunin shudders.

“I was answering a prayer,” he insists, because he was. But there is no petitioner here. Though he was absolutely certain he heard the call, while he was in the midst of… experimenting, with blending in. Trying on some clothes. For research purposes. Certainly not because of any particular interest in unfitting, subpar materials, and their garish, bright colours, and their inappropriate access points for grasping demon hands.

Uthvir’s grip is still wedged into the ‘back pockets’ of the ‘jeans’ he had been trying on, when the call had reached him. A trick, of course.

They raise an eyebrow at him.

“A prayer? Really? And is there some imaginary petitioner hiding in my bathroom?” they ask.

Thenvunin frowns.

“Obviously, you have tricked me here,” he says, lifting his chin. Uthvir’s gaze drifts to his neck, though, and he shivers – shudders – as they press closer. Grinding their hips against him, in a base, lewd act that nevertheless has him straining within the confines of his jeans. Oh, that is a definite downside to this clothing, he thinks. A robe never confined him so. He braces the tips of his feet against the back wall of Uthvir’s hallway, and braces himself for assault.

“I am very tricky, I suppose,” they murmur, before pressing their lips against the side of his neck.

He is expecting the bite. The heat of their breath, and the prickling of their teeth. His wings are still far away, but he still feels them twitch, a little. His blood surging and tingling as Uthvir’s peculiar aura wreaks havoc on his holy personage. It is a force of effort to make certain he keeps his aura hidden. But he would not wish to reveal it, and risk drawing too much attention. Even here. And, he reminds himself, it is a good thing to distract Uthvir. Keep them busy. Whatever the cost to himself, sacrifice is in the nature of angels.

He is so focused on making certain his hidden wings do not betray him, that when Uthvir’s tongue presses against his skin, a gasp escapes his lips.

They pause.

And then they grind their hips against him once more, firmly enough that he can feel their own growing arousal. The contact is electric, like-but-unlike their couplings in the other planes. There is an immediacy to it that is different, though. The way some things here tend to be. Scents, sights… sensations. Thenvunin bites his lip to keep from making another sound, and Uthvir bites into his collarbone, wicked and unrepentant.

“What do you say, babe?” they whisper. “Should I fuck you against the wall, or carry you off to my inner sanctum?”

Thenvunin huffs, a little shakily.

“As if my input will have any say in it,” he retorts.

Uthvir’s lips press against their second bite mark. A mockery of sweetness. Thenvunin knows how lust works – even angels can turn harsh with it. Unable to resist their wilder impulses, incapable of care or concern once they are overcome. Demons, obviously, could never fare better, though… though Uthvir beguiles better than most.

He swallows, as they work their mouth gently across his tingling skin.

“Want me to let you go?” they ask.

Thenvunin feels an inexplicable rush of frustration. Of course he does. Certainly, he does not seek out these – these ravishments for their own sake. But he is committed to his task, and anyway, Uthvir would hardly just let him leave. Not without twisting everything to some nefarious purpose later on, if nothing else.

“I want you to get on with it!” he snaps, and decides is frustration is owed to Uthvir’s needless games, and attempts to draw some humiliating admission or other from him.

Their mouth moves up to the side of his neck.

His pants are beginning to feel almost dangerously restrictive, and the press of their cock through the thick material, right up against his own, is very distracting.

“You’re the one who made the booty call, babe,” Uthvir tells him, with a low chuckle that seems to sink right through his skin.

His hands tighten on their shoulders, and the ridiculous garments they’re wearing.

“I was answering a prayer!” he insists.

“From who?” Uthvir counters, pulling back just enough to catch his gaze. Their lips are a little flushed, and their hair looks a bit softer than usual. Thenvunin swallows. It is never enough that he submits to their attentions, it seems; they are always asking him things, and stopping, and trying to get him to make noises, to look at their eyes, to humiliate himself. A demon’s hungers are certainly the most perverse. The angels Thenvunin courted were much more willing to let him simply lay back and fulfill his obligations, even they complained about it at times.

Still. Thenvunin is not obliged to debase himself, just because he is being debased.

“You tricked me,” he insists, as their grip on him shifts; hands moving from his backside to loop underneath his thighs. Uthvir pulls him away from the wall, and he stifles a gasp as his weight shifts, pressing him against them differently. He holds on – strictly for balance – as they turn and begin carting him through a nearby doorway.

“If you say so,” they tell him, easy in their stride, and their smirks. They cannot possibly see past Thenvunin, but they manage to navigate the room well enough anyway. Wisps of shadows follow them in, and the red in their eyes gleams a little, as they deposit him onto the duvet of a neatly-made bed. He topples backwards, his hair spilling across the pillows, and an unintended shaft of light skitters out from his aura. Only enough to make the blankets beneath him shimmer, for a moment.

Uthvir’s gaze rakes over him. Pointed enough that he can almost feel it; like the press of their claws, whenever they draw their touch over his bared skin. The accursed jeans suffocate him.

“What an angel you are,” they purr.

Thenvunin’s cheeks heat further. As do other places.

More frustration, of course.

“Do your worst,” he challenges, and regrets it as soon as the words are past his lips. Uthvir’s smirk widens, showing off the full effect of their teeth, as they lift a hand and snap their fingers. Thenvunin’s heart speeds up, his breath escaping him all in a rush as a dozen dark tendrils curl up from beneath the bed, and wrap around his skin. Binding him against the sheets, encircling his wrists and ankles, spreading his legs wide and caressing very pointedly against the side of his jaw.

“Happy to oblige,” Uthvir tells him. “What’s the word?”

Them and their damnable words.

“…Starling,” Thenvunin mutters, trying not to squirm. He is dignified, he reminds himself. An angel of the highest order. It does not matter how uncomfortable his pants are, he will endeavour to live up to his reputation, no matter what is inflicted on him.

Uthvir trails a hand down his chest. Down and down, as they devour him with their gaze, until their fingers come to rest at the fly of his pants. He wants them to unbutton it, to free him – only because of the discomfort. He glances at their nails, focusing again on containing his angelic presence. They have shredded enough clothing with those claws. He will not request that they use them, absolutely not, it’s not as if he enjoys having the fabric torn from his skin in a frenzy of aggressive desire.

He’s only watching their claws because he knows what they can do with them.

They flex their hand, and there is something infuriatingly knowing about the look they give him, before they slide a hand down his thigh.

And then they snap their fingers again, and Thenvunin blinks as he finds himself rolled over. Uthvir’s wicked restraints moving him about, pressing him face-down against the blankets instead. He swallows as his knees are bent, the vulnerability of the position not lost on him as Uthvir trails their hand across him again – this time down his back. Tracing a few almost-idle patterns, their warmth close enough to feel, even where they aren’t touching him.

Thenvunin bites his lip. The blankets are soft against his cheek, but the restraints keep him from supporting himself. Hold him tight enough that movement isn’t really much of an option.

Uthvir brushes some of his hair away from his back. Sends it tumbling over the nearby pillows, and then starts tracing patterns over him again. Idly outlining the… the base of where his wings would be.

He swallows as the sensitive skin tingles, and he has to struggle to keep his wings from manifesting. A memory of their fingers, pressing between his feathers, drifts up to him. His cock throbs.

“Uthvir!” he finally protests.

The breath has barely left him before their hands come down, and their claws tear through the sturdy material of his jeans. Ripping off the pockets they had slipped their grip into, and reducing the seat of his pants to tatters, as the fabric pulls just hard enough to sting in places. And hard enough to press even more firmly against the front of his crotch. He struggles to retain composure, as Uthvir traces their touch over him yet again, their fingers moving from tattered denim to the exposed skin of his backside. And then drag their claws through the material at his thighs, hard enough that he can feel the red marks they must be leaving behind. The fabric loosens enough that he gains some relief at his crotch –though, not enough to free him.

And the pants will be ruined, now.

“Uthvir, I did not bring any other clothes,” he protests.

They chuckle, and give his backside a firm pat.

“I’ll loan you something,” they say.

At which Thenvunin feels the mattress shift, and hears them lean back. Rustling around with something, as the dark bindings on him pulse, just faintly. They shift over his skin. Not relinquishing their hold, but moving just enough to tease; to caress in places, that leave him tingling. He hears a cap open with a ‘pop’, and is about to ask what Uthvir thinks they are doing when their touch returns – slick, and cool, and spreading something over his skin. Through the tattered fabric.

“What do you think, babe? Shall we get right to the main event, or would you like me to suck you off first?” they ask. “Might help you relax a little…”

The lubricant warms as they spread it towards the cleft of his ass. He can feel their nails receding, their touch going careful. Beguiling, he reminds himself. Making lewd demands, asking for humiliating concessions. It is a game, and that is why they do not…

…Why they are careful, with him. Sometimes. In ways that others have not been, in the past.

“I want nothing of the sort!” he insists.

Uthvir leans over his back. Their jacket feels strange against his bared skin. The zipper is too cold, the leather is too smooth. They brush some of his hair aside, with the hand that isn’t wandering further south.

“No?” they ask, lowly, and with a certain growl in their tone. “Maybe you would prefer my mouth on-”

They stiffen.

All at once, in fact. Going absolutely rigid, and halting mid-sentence. It is strange enough that Thenvunin feels a twinge of concern, and turns his head towards them. Breaking his usual rule of trying not to look. But he’s barely turned his head when he feels the air shift all around him. Uthvir’s weight vanishes. The feel of their clothes at his skin, their hand toying with him, both go, too. The restraints keeping him in place abruptly let him go, and Thenvunin topples to the mattress, off-balance and surprised.

For a few seconds, he just lies in a startled heap; blinking past the hair that has fallen over his vision.

Then he pushes himself upwards, and looks around. Bewildered, at first, as he realizes that Uthvir has just… gone. He can feel traces of them having been here a moment ago, of course, though, and as he reclaims his wits, he realizes what must have happened. They have gone spiralling through the astral planes. Moving quickly; someone must have summoned them.

All Thenvunin’s distractions cannot do much if a mortal calls Uthvir to them.

That is surely the source of his profound annoyance and disappointment at the moment. The irritation is potent, and his frustration comes racing back. Vibrant enough that his wings flick back into existence, cutting the mortal trappings around him with blinding light that scars a nearby wall, knocks over one of the bedside tables. Thenvunin’s arousal is potent, his backside is slick, and his skin is still tingling. He sits. Rigid, and viscerally displeased with this turn of events.

He will have to wait, he supposes. If nothing else, he should find out what Uthvir has been up to. He cannot follow their trail, not with their head start and not with his… disarray.

Hopefully the mortal does not make a deal. Perhaps they will simply be sensibly frightened of Uthvir, and flee. Then Uthvir can come back quickly.

And of course, not make a deal to corrupt any mortals.

Which is Thenvunin’s primary concern.

Absolutely.

…Absolutely.

A minute passes. Then another. Thenvunin folds his hands over his chest, and shifts uncomfortably. His pants are quite obviously destroyed. His face twists, as the oil Uthvir put on him rubs unpleasantly against the tattered material, and the bedspread. It is hardly dignified to sit around in ruined pants, really. At least nudity is artful. Thenvunin had gone into battle in little more than a sheer robe, he hardly needs a pair of decimated mortal jeans.

He gives it another moment, and then gets up and peels them off. Sighing in relief as he is finally freed from the confines. What terrible garments; he’s never wearing the likes of them again, not if he can help it.

But their absence makes his state of arousal all the more clear.

And, really, that is quite undignified too. Thenvunin takes another moment, and glances around the room. Uthvir’s room. Empty of Uthvir, though there are… odd traces of them, here and there. Not as many as Thenvunin has seen in his glimpses of most mortal homes. The closet door is slightly open, and he can see their clothes, though. And the pillows on the bed are scarlet, rich and deep. There is a comb on top of the bedside table that is still standing. A few familiar-looking hairs are caught in it. Next to it is a magazine, with an image of several knives gracing the cover.

Uthvir pinned Thenvunin with a knife once, he recalls. Centuries ago. They didn’t actually stab him, although it was a near miss; the blade sank through his robes, though, pinning him in place as they climbed over him. Dark tendrils spreading outwards from them, and sinking into his wings. Like enmeshed fingers, except, of course, nothing so sweet.

His heartbeat speeds up again, and his cock twitches.

It seems likely, at this point, that the mortal did not simply flee. In which case, they may be gone awhile. And it is undignified to be sitting on a demon’s bed, hopelessly aroused. There is a solution, he supposes… and he is alone…

He gives it a moment more, and then reaches for himself. Closing his hand over the shaft of his cock, and letting his wings flutter a little as he gives himself the stimulus Uthvir has so fiendishly made him crave. Quickly, he thinks. And, well. Memories are tied in with such reactions, of course. It is pure pragmatism to recall the last time Uthvir had their hand on him. Their grip firm, nails still sharp, as they loomed over him. Filthy words pouring from their lips, all of them peculiarly complimentary – but then, that was Uthvir’s way. They were cunning.

Thenvunin strokes himself. Cunning, and fierce, and relentless. Always grasping him, sinking into him. Claiming him. His feathers flutter a little as he tries to mimic their touch. His nails are respectably short, and his hand is larger. And the angle is wrong. Not that he wants Uthvir stroking him instead, it is simply expedient. But he can still manage on his own, focusing on retaining his reaction so that he does not do any more damage to the room, and letting his breaths grow ragged in the meanwhile as he stokes himself higher and higher, and-

The air shifts. A familiar presence rushing back into the space of it, dark tendrils fanning out like wings.

Thenvunin snatches his hand away from himself, scrambling backwards as pure, mortified dread sinks through him, and manifests in a burst of unnameable panic. His wings sweep forward and his leg kicks awkwardly outwards, and with a sound that is most definitely not a panicked squawk, he falls off the bed and smacks against the floor.

There is a moment of poignant silence.

Then the distinctive tap of footsteps. Thenvunin finds himself momentarily to overcome with humiliation to move.

Uthvir walks around the other side of the bed, and peers down at him.

“Did I startle you?” they ask, and there is definite amusement in their voice.

“No!” Thenvunin insists, even though that is not actually something he should be denying. He looks up at them, ready to disclaim any and all untoward activities, and assure them that his hand was most certainly not anywhere they might have momentarily thought it was, at a glimpse, when they first came into the room.

And then he sees the gash on their cheek, and his brow furrows.

“You are bleeding,” he notes, getting to his feet. “What did you do?”

One of Uthvir’s hands moves up towards their cheek, but they stop midway, and then shrug. Thenvunin gives it a second. But the gash doesn’t close. It isn’t actively bleeding, at least, there are no rivulets racing morbidly down Uthvir’s cheek. But Thenvunin has seen them in fights plenty of times. Healing such a wound should be no problem for them.

“Why are you not closing it?” he demands.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow, and shrugs again.

“Hardly your business, is it?” they counter. “Perhaps it was part of my dealings. I do apologize for the interruption, by the way. Though it seems you carried on well enough without me.”

They smirk, and Thenvunin all at once recollects his situation, and goes rigid. His cock is still flush, his flesh still heated; Uthvir’s gaze drifts pointedly towards it, and his throat goes dry, and he feels at once excited and a little sick.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he insists.

They move closer, and slide a hand over his hip.

“No?” they ask. “It was such a pretty sight, for all of the half a second I caught it. Were you thinking of me, while you touched yourself?”

“Certainly not!” Thenvunin snaps, and then flusters. “Not that I was touching myself! If I was it was only to – I was only rearranging my person, after you set me so horribly askew! I was most certainly not touching myself, my libido is by no means demonic, thank you very much. Such activities would be far too…”

He trails off, then, as the cut on Uthvir’s face finally begins to close.

So they… they were trying to heal it? It only took a while, it seems. Longer than it should have. Their hand slips around to his backside, but Thenvunin finds himself staring as the red mark is reduced back down to nothing.

“What is wrong with you?” he demands.

“According to you, a great many things,” Uthvir blithely replies. There is just the faintest hint of strain at the corner of their eyes.

Thenvunin folds his arms, stalling them from moving any closer.

“Obviously! But why did you take so long to heal?”

The question has Uthvir’s lips twitching downwards, briefly.

“Didn’t I say it wasn’t your business? Maybe I was just too overcome with lust to bother,” they tell him. And he might believe that, except that they alwaysbother. Wounds are not a laughing matter to Uthvir, even considering how eager they are to inflict all manner of scratches and bites on his person. Thenvunin wavers, caught by a queer uncertainty, and Uthvir’s gaze drifts off towards his wings. Which have flared up, and knocked over the other beside table.

“Put them away, babe. There’s no danger here,” they tell him.

Thenvunin sniffs.

“That is preposterous. You are here,” he points out. But after a second, he does push them back again. They are conspicuous, and while it takes concentration to set them aside, it also takes power to keep manifesting them on the mortal plane, too. And he has found too few sources of true faith to spend his strength carelessly.

One of Uthvir’s hands caresses his folded arms.

“Now,” they say. “Where were we…?”

Thenvunin opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, they slip a foot behind his, and push him backwards; and he tumbles unceremoniously onto the bed again. His heart leaping, pulse racing, as Uthvir looms over him, and summons up the tendrils to bind him again. It does not take much for his thoughts to get lost once more, as they seem content to leave him lying face up again, and bite their way down his body.

But even after they have ravished him and taken him, left him spent and exhausted in amongst their blankets, he finds himself thinking about it. A wound to the face can be accidental, or the result of a fight – but sometimes it is a statement, too. A reprimand, of sorts.

Who could reprimand Uthvir, though?

And why?

#citrus #sharkbait #anonymous

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lettherebedragons · 8 years ago

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Hey y’all.

I’m sure some of you may have noticed my inactivity lately, and I figured I should probably explain. Obviously, this is a personal blog, so it’s not like you were expecting content

(aside from the fact that I apparently promised the entire multiverse pictures of Rome while I’m here how the fuck)

but I’m sure that there have been many personal posts from my mutuals and stuff y’all reblogged just for me that I just never responded to, and while I managed to read through a week’s worth of dash backlog before a combination of Hellsite and Shoddy Roman Internet knocked me back to the present, there is no way I’m ever going to read every post I’ve missed since April 15th.

Also, as circumstances will make clear, I really wasn’t feeling up to posting again until I got this particular explanation off of my chest. So yeah, this’ll be that, and honestly, I would really appreciate you giving this a read, but of course, you don’t have to. Especially if you don’t need or want anything sad in your dash right now. Thanks.

So, a bit over two weeks ago, I woke up to the news my cat had died.

It wasn’t entirely unexpected. Cisco was 17, he had had a good, long life. One of my biggest concerns in going off on the Rome Program, in fact, was that I would be gone for ten weeks, followed immediately by another ten in California. Five months felt risky, although it didn’t occur to me until after I heard the news how deep down, I had still been certain he would be there when I got home.

I was certain enough that I didn’t do any special goodbyes when I flew away in March.

I still cannot remember what the last things I said to him were. So much of this devastating grief since then has been in realising that I never said goodbye. That I wasn’t there. That I don’t have emblazoned across my eyes, indelible that I may never lose him, how he looked the last time I saw him alive.

I am dreading coming home. Never in my memory have I come home without Cisco there.

Mikey, Redhat, and Cisco joined my family when I was just two years old. They came the usual way-- dropped off at our house by my mom’s ex-husband, who figured that if there were any group of suckers who would immediately adopt three weeks-old kittens, we were them. It transpired that he had found them in his car engine.

For full context of how much a group of cat-loving idiots we are, keep in mind that this was when plans were already underway for a trans-continental relocation of our entire lives to America when Mom’s ex shows up at the door.

My mom says it was Cisco who convinced her, the second he, a tiny wriggling ball of tabby fluff rolled over, and his stomach was revealed to be this fuzzy expanse of golden fur with black polka-dots. I suspect she would have been convinced even if all three had looked like naked mole rats, but I assure you, Cisco was beautiful.

My parents, also being ridiculous y2k computer geeks, named the cats after failing stocks they had at the time. Mikey is short for Microsoft.

(He was named first, because my parents are also also ridiculous punsters.)

I was raised to consider these three like my siblings. When my mom spoke to the cats about me, I was called their sister. The low-grade antagonism and ride or die affections between myself and all three certainly were par for the course.

(My current roommate insists I’m a fictional character, and this particular tidbit didn’t help my case at all.)

I remembering thinking as I sat on the couch after reading my mom’s short email, crying harder than I can explain, how hard it is to put into words the loss of a loved one who isn’t human. A ‘pet’ feels like a job title more than anything else. Something replaceable. It cannot convey the loss of an individual, the loss of an entire person, someone who has simply run out and whom there will never be more of again.

And regardless of his species and role in my life, that is what happened when he died.

Cisco was always the sweetest of the three. Never once in his life did he ever attempt to bite or scratch anyone. Given his origins as a certainly at least semi-feral street kitten, this is incredible. Knowing his bloodthirsty siblings, to whom I can attribute grand networks of scar material, this is nothing short of a miracle.

A few years ago, he lost the ability to retract his claws, and even then would only scratch us on accident, usually when trying to extricate himself from hugs and other indignities. Most of the time, it just inconvenienced him, and it was a sad and hilarious sight each day to see him walking over blankets or upholstery and suddenly find himself stuck by the claw to the fabric.

He often had difficulty unsticking himself, for while Cisco was gentle, he never was smart. Family theory had it that the three cats all had to tussle to get control over one brain. Redhat and Mikey would keep it going back and forth between the two, and only when they each fumbled, Cisco got to be the smart cat. After Mikey’s death eight years ago, we generally agreed Redhat had seized permanent control of the brain.

(When Mikey died, we began to say we had ‘three cats, but one of them is dead.’ It had always been the three, and to not have all seemed inconceivable until some impossible terrible day when we had none.

My mother called me a week ago and asked if she still counted as an old cat lady with only one left.)

Cisco might have not been a very smart cat, but he was one of the most human. His face was startlingly expressive, and he interacted more with people than to cats. Every meow he made carried emotion as clearly as telling us how he felt, with a range of nuance that quite easily surpasses that of some people I know.

(When I think off how I will lose him yet further, I think of forgetting his voice.)

He had a bizarre taste in food. Seaweed and brewer’s yeast were all-time favorites, though he never shared Redhat’s obsession with drinking my mother’s tea right out of the mug every morning. What he did do every single morning was walk onto Mom’s desk, seat all 13 pounds of him across her chest, and declare it to be a time for hugging.

He was always very shy and terribly affectionate. He liked to sleep on convenient persons nearby, and every night I heard the screams as he accidentally trod on his sister, already curled up beneath a blanket, and began an old fight anew. Guests would be privileged to see him for a moment as he stared down from the top of the stairs, or they would see him standing for ten minutes in the middle of the dinner table as we tried ineffectually to usher him out of the parmesan.

He was always so tolerant of me, growing up and learning how to act around cats and humans alike. I don’t remember a time without him, but I know three-year-olds don’t speak Cat as fluently as fifteen-year-olds do. Cisco, I owe you an apology for the millions of cuddles I scooped you into, the various ink, chalk, and lipstick stains, and the billions of naps I interrupted just to hear you make that confused chirping sound. My bad.

He was gorgeous, with incredible green eyes and stupid little tufts of coarse hair growing out of his chin. He had whiskers that were long and crooked and he liked to sit in the bathtub and stare at us until we ran the tap for him to drink from. He could be loud and quiet and I could curl up to sleep next to him and feel safer than anywhere else. He was perfect, so, so perfect.

I miss him everywhere that he is not. I am hit with waves of grief time and again.

The morning he died, it was Easter Sunday, and the bells across Rome rang as I heard the news. They rang as I cried.

#a eulogy #but seriously #reading this is a favor to me #a form of memorial #and i would appreciate it #my cats

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thefaeriereview · 5 years ago

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Blitz: Matched to His Bear

https://ift.tt/3bFNFeU

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Matched to His Bear

Author: Lorelei M. Hart & Colbie Dunbar

Publisher: Surrendered Press

Cover Artist: Megan J. Parker-Squiers

Release Date: September 10, 2020

Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romance, MM mpreg romance, paranormal romance

Trope/s: Shifters. Fated love. Shifter hero/Human hero. Bond or die

Themes: Blind dates. Dating. Jealous pack member. Losing control of his bear

Heat Rating: 4 flames

Length: approx. 35,000 words

Even though it’s part of a dating app series, each book can be read as a standalone.

This is the second book in the series. Matched to His Wolf was the first.

Buy Links - Available on Kindle Unlimited

Amazon US | Amazon UK

Fate doesn’t use dating apps to pair true mates...except when it does.

Blurb Fate doesn't use dating apps to pair true mates...except when it does. Alpha Brad Galway is a hot successful lawyer and Beta of his Den with omegas throwing themselves at his feet. From the outside, it appears as though he has everything he could possibly desire. Inwardly, he has a bear clawing to get out—no longer willing to stand by and let his mate go unclaimed. But there’s a problem with his bear’s plan. Brad doesn’t know who or where he is, just that they crossed paths in an airport over a year ago. If he doesn’t figure out how to control his bear soon, he risks losing everything—including his life. Human omega Gabe Rafferty is excited to start his new job as a professor of English Lit. Ever since a layover in an airport last year, he’s felt like his luck has changed. He can’t explain how or why...but something happened that day, and everything from that point was onward and upward. He just wishes he had someone to share it with. When Gabe is talked into using a dating app, he isn’t expecting much until he stumbles onto profiles that are fixated on the TV series, Shifter World. And he definitely isn’t anticipating the smoldering alpha who recaptures that feeling he experienced at the airport. Sparks fly, feelings grow, and their worlds are turned upside down in the very best of ways, but is it too late for Brad’s bear?

Matched to His Bear is the second book in the sweet with knotty heat Dates of Our Lives, an M/M mpreg shifter dating app romance brought to you by the popular co-writing duo of Lorelei M Hart and Colbie Dunbar. It features a human who stumbles into a world he never knew existed thanks to a silly little soap opera, an alpha who is losing his humanity, a stalker bear who turns out to be more trouble than anyone could’ve suspected, and an adorable baby. If you like your shifters hawt, your omegas strong, your mpreg with heart, and your HEAs complete with true mates and a bundle of joy, one-click today Excerpt The kitchen island was covered in bowls, pans, and other stuff. “Has the food delivery guy been and gone?” “Nope. We’re cooking breakfast.” He glanced at his watch. “More like brunch.” “You cook?” I asked, holding up a bunch of green things and studying it. “You don’t?” “No,” I replied. “I do,” he informed me. “And about the whole ‘we’ cooking thing…” My voice trailed away as Brad handed me a wooden board, a knife, and an onion. “What do I do with this?” He grinned and kissed the end of my nose. “Can you chop it, please, Gabe?” “Okay.” I was game for anything. I placed the onion on the board, and with both hands on the knife, brought it down over my head, and missed. Though I got the board, the knife sticking out of it reminded me of the aftermath of a pirate battle in a swashbuckling book. “Gabe!” “Sorry, I’ll try again.” Brad stood behind me and murmured, “Here lies our dearly departed knife…” “Did I kill it?” “Almost. Let’s try again.” He placed his hands on mine, but I wriggled my ass against his crotch. A sharp intake of breath from him had me giggling. He pressed himself against my body and placed his lips on my ear. Food first, and then I’m taking you back to bed.” “Mmmm.” “First we have to peel the onion, and then we chop it.” But by the time he cut into it, I was blinking tears from my eyes. “Owww! It hates me.” Brad took over and I sat on a stool. “You watching, Gabe?” “Mmmm. Yes. Taking it all in,” I said as I leaned sideways and peered at his ass. That wasn’t a fib. I was paying attention, just not to what he was doing. “Liar.” He held up an oddly shaped red lump. “Know what this is?” “Something you’re going to cook?” I was quite proud of my answer. “A pepper. A red pepper.” “I thought pepper was something that came out of a grinder.” Brad slapped a hand on his brow. “How is it you’ve managed to survive in the world up until now? And have no idea what you’re putting in your mouth.” And as he said it, his mouth formed the perfect O. He understood the hole he’d fallen into, and I was going to tease him about it. I tilted my head to the side. “I always know what I’m eating, but I’m not talking about food.” I grabbed a dish cloth and swatted his ass. He leveled a glowering look in my direction. “Keep distracting me and we’ll never get brunch.” “Promise?” But my belly grumbled and I bowed, awarding the first round to him. He made quick work of cutting the pepper, threw oil in a pan, and asked me to stir the red pepper and onions while he assembled herbs and spices, which were all shades of red or brown. I peered at the mixture as I stirred, not sure what it was supposed to be. “You can leave it for now. We’ll keep an eye on it,” he told me as he turned down the heat and opened a tin of tomatoes. “Time for extracurricular activities, I asked?” I swooped under his arms and bobbed up, kissing him on the mouth. “You are a delightful distraction,” he croaked as my tongue flicked over his teeth. “But let’s finish cooking and then you’ll be my prisoner, unable to leave the bed for the rest of the day.” I clapped my hands. “Are you going to tie me up? “I wasn't planning on it, but if you behave…”

About the Authors

Lorelei M. Hart

Lorelei M. Hart is the cowriting team of USA Today Bestselling Authors Kate Richards and Ever Coming now joined by their friend, Ophelia Heart. Friends for years, the three decided to come together and write one of their favorite guilty pleasures: Mpreg. There is something that just does it for them about smexy men who love each other enough to start a family together in a world where they can do it the old-fashioned way ;).

Social Media Links

Facebook | Newsletter Sign-up

Colbie Dunbar

My characters are sexy, hot, adorable—and often filthy—alphas and omegas. Feudal lords with dark secrets, lonely omegas running away from their past, and alphas who refuse to commit.

Lurking in the background are kings, mafia dons, undercover agents and highwaymen with a naughty gleam in their eye.

As for me? I dictate my steamy stories with a glass of champagne in one hand. Because why not?

Social Media Links

Blog/Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

Newsletter Sign-up | Pinterest

Hosted by Gay Book Promotions

Follow the tour and check out the other blog posts here

via Blogger https://ift.tt/3jWMzOG

#Blogger #gaybookpromos #book blitz #Contemporary Fiction #Contemporary Romance #LGBTQ+#M/M #mPreg

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the-dyslexic-blogger · 5 years ago

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Me Myself and i....Oh and the rest. 13/06/20

There are multiple of me.

So the title might confuse some no one still really knows about this condition but I have DID or Dissociative identity disorder I have four alternative personalities which all represent a part of my life its hard having DID especially when one of your alters is a two-year-old.

There are some trigger warnings towards self-harm suicidal mentions eating disorder mentions, with a side of abuse mentions ooh and also sprinkle of sexual assault. WOOHOO, that sounds like a fun one a walk in the park.. .ohh there might be ducks...ill get some bread...

Having DID is weird when you can zone out, and one of your alters can take control over everything you do and say you can zone out in the kitchen and zone back in and you could have destroyed a whole city and blew the world up and be butt naked in front of thousands of people (that was a good afternoon).

I am joking for disclaimer usage.

But there you go I said it I have DID. I haven't wanted to admit it, but I have currently four alternative personalities so five people in me head

I will talk about the alters and what they represent I will talk about them and use images that my friend drew of them he is the only one that knows.

I have Stripe, Blue, Cody and Eliza they all live in my head and like… (SENTENCE BEGAN DRUNK, MAYBE FINISH LATER?)

Stripe

He represents my depression and suicidal thoughts. He will very often take over and cut me. It's horrible I can be doing a normal thing and then boom he takes over he is a lot like me, but he looks like a demon his red glowing eyes are staring at me right now I wish he'd fuck off. He and Eliza are both bad alters that try to hurt and kill me multiple times. Stripe has taken over and gone on walkies and self-harmed he talks to me most the day lingering over my shoulder telling me I'm better off dead and he is the reason for all of my impulses. It's hard having DID I've said that thousands of times now but it is, okay? I hate it. I wish I never had it. He makes a good impression of me. He's a demon who can fly.

One time he took overtook one of my knives and cut my arm, my friend walked in and stopped it, he tried to walk away from it like nothing had happened. Still, he didn't get away with it as my friend took it away and hugged me until I retook control he's been a part of me for years now I don't remember exactly when I developed my DID, but I think it must have been since I was about 16 so there you go. Four years.

A lot of the time his high pitched squeal penetrates my ears with his whispers of 'you're not good enough' and 'your friends hate you' his claws dig deeper onto my shoulder and grips me harder every time I don't listen to him, and all I'm left with is the shadow of the sheer guilt taking over my whole life.

He looks like a demon he has a stripe all down the middle of his body, and his eyes sometimes glow in the night he says a lot of stuff things he knows will hurt me. He has horns on his head and is constantly trying to get me to cut myself and convince me that I need to feel the relief and pain while the blade kisses my skin and slices my wrists up. He stops me doing things I enjoy like, for example, musical theatre there was this person there who was a snake. He always said she's going to do it again you're going to be sexually assaulted again if you go outside.

I asked what the person that knows about this and what they said it is like when Stripe takes over:

"When Stripe takes over, it's very creepy. I can look in the eyes of my best friend, someone I love, and it's not them in that head. It's someone… something else. Stripe usually tries to pretend to be Dino, but he never expresses any emotion except hate, which is how I know its not my Dino in there. He never says stuff like "love you" or even "I'm alright". He's a dickhead basically."

Eliza

She's a lot like Stripe, but she represents my eating disorders she also doesn't like it when I'm happy she's around a lot when my eating disorders are present she's a skinny demon her ribs are present like she wants me to be she dislikes people who like me and she doesn't think I deserve my friends or my food she's not a good alter and she works with Stripe they work closely together and try to take me down, so I drown in a massive wave of depression and suicide unable to breathe under the weight of living and the weight of my shitty past. So again, all I want to feel is the sweet relief of the pain that they make me think I deserve.

Eliza only recently came back as taking over, so the person does not know anything about her really has never experienced her first hand.

I realized at this point of the blog that I can't add pictures to blogger or tumbler so funnn I'll add my YouTube channel where I will post pictures of them there.

Another update as I'm editing I will upload it when I have a chance.

Cody

He is the protector of my alters he comes out to protect me he's kind caring he took over when terrible events happened in my life he represents my creative side he is also my anxiety the part of me that feels anxious. He doesn't do what Stripe does and make me anxious, but he is forced to feel anxious. He takes over a lot when I'm doing coding or feel very anxious that it's overwhelming. He's friendly and looks after my other alter a lot Blue who is two.

He has only recently come back he was a part of my life in college but when Stripe came in Stripe killed a lot of my alters, and he was the only one left hence why I fell into a deep depression at that point, and Cody went.

Cody enjoys coding drawing music I gave up drawing as I believed I was shit I still do but oh well when Cody takes over that doesn't matter so drawing it is then. He takes over when he feels I'm in pain mentally, or in danger from myself, he cares a lot about me and others.

Cody is again a demon but a nice one, of course, he always is listening to music or drawing or wrestling a two year old oops. Still, he has made friends with a lot of my friends without them knowing his voice is slightly different to mine. He is anxious but very chill at the same time he has never hurt me or anyone he took over when the most traumatizing events have happened to me to save the wrath of the trauma train crashing as there was an overwhelming amount of trauma. Hence, he took some of the wrath for me to save destruction. So in a way, me and Cody share the same trauma, and we can relate even though he's in my head.

It's quite funny sometimes I forget people cannot see them so ill say to my friend 'hey look over there at one of my alters, and they have to remind me that he's not really well to them but are in my head they feel so real.

Here is what my friend said about Cody…….

"Cody is a really cool friend. When we are texting, he usually lets me know if it's him, and in-person he has a slightly different, more chilled-out voice than Dino, even when he is anxious. He also has a cool necklace on a leather cord that Dino never wears, but Cody likes to put on when he takes over. He always calls me "bro" and he's just a really nice wholesome guy, a lot like Dino to be fair, but they're very clearly different people."

Blue

Okay so here we go blue is a two year a lot alter shes hyperactive and energetic she is called blue because when she first started to emerge, I used to just laugh and be unable to talk or anything so being a computer nerd, I named her blue after the Blue screen of death every ICT students nightmare…*shivers*

So yeah that's how she got her name, and oh yea did I mention she can set things on fire… well yeah, she can she sets Stripe on fire a lot shes scared of him, but sometimes she gets the courage and will not hesitate to set him on fire…and her attention span oh looks a tree where was I forgot? Oh yeah, attention span she doesn't have one. I think she's incapable of having one she is very close to my friend and also Cody my other alter I talked about him above unless you lazy bugger have skipped down to this bit then you don't know but find out read above.

But yeah that's blue.

Here is what my friend said about Blue….

"Blue is ADHD as in she is the personification of ADHD. She's a really cute little two-year-old, but she doesn't have any concept of consequences for her actions, and no impulse control so she can be tricky to manage, especially when she's excited. We recently got her a pacifier to suck on and she always tries to get it as soon as she's in control. She's also obsessed with balls, so we got her a big, yellow bouncy ball too. Me and Dino spent hours building a fort once, which Blue managed to completely demolish in about five seconds. Her response was to say "oops" laugh her ass off, and then giggle "bye-bye" with a massive, very proud grin, and collapse, leaving Dino to wake up and be very, very confused about what the fuck was going on. As difficult as she can be to manage (she's a two-year-old with the strength of a twenty-year-old, it's a fight to keep her from tearing the building apart) she is a really, wholesome, and adorable little kid. I love Blue very, very much, and she actually calls me "Dada" which is pretty cute."

So there you go my alters. Welcome to my brain there are five people in my head including me it gets crowded sometimes and annoying when you're trying to rest, and all you can hear is a two year a lot screaming ball every 5 seconds, but they are apart of me, and I would not change them for the world well maybe stipe and Eliza but at the same time they make me who I am today they are me in my head they are my personality.

DID is a strange mental illness to have its strange to have five people in my head anytime another could emerge I used to have more but Stripe killed them I had Rosie and mae. Rosie was like blue and mae was like Cody, but they aren't there anymore who knows they might be hiding like Cody did I kind of hope so I miss mae she was based off of a character out of a night in the woods I do miss her but oh well.

So there you go another blog of reasons I should be institutionalized because I am a danger to myself and could kill myself at any given moment.

Disclaimer that's a kinda joke…… mostly ……90%......... Nah……….99%... #Mentally unstable...fun.

Stay strong you bootiful bean.

Love you

Dino the Dyslexic Blogger xxx

Some helpline as usual for DID

Nhs https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/dissociative-disorders/

This morning (I know I know but it looks helpful… don’t judge me) https://www.itv.com/thismorning/dissociative-disorders-helplines

Mind- https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/dissociation-and-dissociative-disorders/dissociative-disorders/

Survivors network https://survivorsnetwork.org.uk/resource/dissociative-identity-disorder-d-i-d/

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