#clearly height is indicative of follower count

[tinycozycomfort]

rest in the cup of my palms (part three)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter three: compromise

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or  you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: joel helps you work through your doubts.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn / (for this chapter) -> sad thoughts about fatherhood, idolization!!, oral sex (f receiving), edging

word count: 5k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: thank you for your patience and thank you as always for reading! and special thank you to @pascalisbaby for bearing with me as i cried my way through this i love u

read on ao3 / main masterlist

“For the first time, I could clearly perceive the nature of feelings and emotions—I physically felt their consistency… the surge of a wave, the crumbling of a cliff… I understood the necessity of comparisons and metaphors using water and fire.”

Annie Ernaux, Simple Passion

───────

Minutes go by, but sluggishly, painfully—a dull crawl that mimics the cinematic use of slow-motion. The fracturing feels pre-climactic and almost momentous, too-long strides of seconds that pave the way for something grand. 

In reality, you’re just waiting; in this barely-lit, one shot hallway, aptly partnered by a life-sized amount of discomfort. You feel like a piece of something sprouted up from cement, forced into a mold not made with you in mind—love and like and candy-sweet, feverish feelings—unable to be removed now that you’ve grown in over the lip. Reaching for the sun. And he’s beautiful above you, radiant enough to burn behind closed eyelids—the image that shines there a carefully chosen snapshot that only adds height to where he hangs in the sky.

You’ve become so tired already, from the work-up and the frustration and the effort to stop it—like being outside all day with no reprieve until sunset; he’s that strong. It’s been restraint, followed by actions that negate it, followed by reinstating restraint, and still it doesn’t stop daylight from happening. Morning and high noon and six-o-clock oranges will never stop happening, so why not free yourself of the excessive rumination and the fighting? You’d much rather try to brave him—sunscreen and shade and a flat hand above your brow. Trying is good, easy, uncomplicated. Tonight, you can try. This is a good idea.

He’ll be here soon to prove it, too—on his way to come collect you, confirmed by the oblong rectangle of text on the brick clutched in your fist.

You move enough that it wakes up again, ’Fifteen minutes.’ flashing across its face, burning under the pad of your thumb. The thing is overheating now, somehow having absorbed some of the furious twisting of your excitement, and you shove it deep into your bag to let it cool—too honest of a mirror.  

You will your body to restart, moving back out onto the yard in search of Ian, to warn him of your exit—the only courtesy you have enough patience to give—frantic to get to the good part. 

You find him out by the flame, one foot resting on the brick-lined ledge of the pit, a still-full beer bottle tight in his grip. It’s tepid, too, if the lack of condensation is any indication. You curl your nose and he tips the top towards you, a waft of sour citrus pouring out. 

“What happened? My friend came back very upset that you were gone,” he teases, cocking a smile and rolling his neck over in question, languid and unserious.

“I’m leaving, actually. Didn’t want to go without saying.” You knock the bottle with the back of your hand until it threatens to spill over in the other direction. It’s unoffending, really, a nervous reaction, but it has him visibly questioning what ten minutes out of view had done to make you so taut.

He straightens up minutely at your unrest, only enough to reel back his exaggerated demeanor without drawing looks, “Are you good to drive? I haven’t had any of this yet—I can take you home.” 

“I’m not driving. I’ve got a ride.” 

“With?”

“Joel’s going to come get me.” 

His eyes widen, mouth spreading with what you’re sure are five too many questions, so you stop him before he can continue—afraid to mar his night with what you imagine would be too much to navigate right now, “I’ll explain tomorrow. Text me when you get home. I love you. I’m fine.” 

Part of you—a part that has no say right now—feels guilty for doing this to him a second time, for putting your friend through another half-witnessed, poorly justified fit of emotional anguish. He was the one who brought you here, to get away from this very thing, but somewhere in your bag there’s a faint stir, hard vibration jostling the contents, and you fail to think Ian through, again.

He’s barely even started to nod before you turn, slipping through the side gate and out onto the lawn. 

It only takes another handful of stretched-out moments—time lost completely on you now—before opaque beams cast across the curve of the street from the top of the cul-de-sac. They drop off into low-lights once the driver registers your presence and you push forward on shaky legs, knees locking—blood having gathered in your chest from anticipation, sloshing around your heart and cutting off circulation to your limbs. 

The vehicle—a truck—passes you, hitting the end of the block and returning up the drive, passenger door addressing you when it stops, your reflection warped in its convex surface. The window rolls down with a whir, and Joel’s face appears in the slit, eyes tired and hair flattened unintentionally—you absolutely woke him up. 

You let yourself in, hiking up a static-logged leg to settle in the seat before he pulls off back onto the street. It’s silent for too long, and you’re returning to a familiar feeling of acceptance, just like all the nights in your past where you’d admitted to yourself that you were going home with someone, driven by fuzzy feelings of instant connection and promise. It makes him easier to grasp—more human-like.

“You were asleep,” you mumble sheepishly, acknowledging his unpreparedness in an attempt to forgive your own. 

“‘Wasn’t supposed to be. I was waiting up for Ellie. I—uh, I thought you were her when you called.” 

He sounds just as level as he had on the phone, fingers rapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, “She texted a few hours ago to let me know she was out for the night. I fell asleep before I could see it.” 

Joel tucks the corner of his elbow in the window, laying his cheek on curled knuckles, and you chance a real glance at him for the first time. 

His dark blue t-shirt is wrinkled where it had been bunched at the torso, hanging limply now over a pair of rumpled jeans. Creases of sofa or pillow-case run up like tendrils on the skin of his arm, pressed in at various degrees of depth—restless enough to continue to pivot, even in repose. 

He looks homey, spun out of flesh-colored wool thread and plush, unlike the fatigue you’d seen on him in the classroom, or the buzz of anxious tension on the side of the school a few days ago. Here he’s just Joel, free of the idea of him or his actions; just-awake Joel with nothing to say except the truth. Pressure sits weighted on your shoulders, lingering guilt from choosing to savor, even if within the safety of emotional distance. It’s okay to look, isn’t it? Although looking isn’t all you had in mind.

“Can we go to your house?” 

“Did you drink?” 

Joel peers over his shoulder at you, and he looks meek but not small, like the question itself isn’t embarrassing but the act of asking it is. Oh. You remember your last encounter, how you’d blamed your exit on the wine, and your heart constricts at the idea that he’s asking because he’s afraid you’ll leave again. In all honesty, you wish you could leave, be strong-willed enough to have him let you out a block from your front door, never to be seen again. But you’re weak, at the mercy of your need to test your limits, your brain dipping into its reserve while your body fights to feign presence, hands rolling into fists in your lap.

“No. I haven't gone out much since the break started. Decided against getting fucked up.” 

He hums, satisfied, eyes falling ahead. The tires grind under you, lulling you into another tense quiet until he’s pulling up to the front of a well-kept, stone-faced home at the end of a short street. You lean forward to see more of it beyond the curve of the windshield, lined in copper trim with fender-shaped dents bruising the cover of the garage. It’s a call-back to grade school—what limited experience you had traversing the suburbs as a child—visiting friends in large, traditional houses with pretty concrete fountains and security-alarm signs forced into panels of fresh grass. 

Joel steps out and comes around the car to open your door before you have the chance to do it yourself, popping open the handle and stilling for a second before just stepping out of your way, perhaps in the sake of not being overly cliche. You try to appear unaffected by the notion, climbing down with a smile and sealing the door behind you, but you inwardly relish in his considered movements—he’s taming himself for you.

He leads you into the house—as quaint as it seemed to be—smelling warm and peppery like heat-soaked wood. It’s very much lived in, riddled with evidence of use—scuff marks at the threshold and smudged fingerprints in the dark paint on the walls where boots were taken off with the assistance of a grip. A side table brackets one side of the entrance, littered with bobbles and keys and a few other store-bought treasures. At its closest foot are several pairs of little sneakers, piled tall and wide on a wedge of rug, too narrow to be Joel’s. 

Ellie. 

There are signs of her everywhere, this faceless extension of him, her name scribbled on a few papers on the table and in the corners of framed drawings in the hallway; gorgeous hand, she has—all of the figures looking as true to life as they could, even when confined to paper cages. She lines the edges of their domicile, a path of lovingly curated representations of her, right down to a monogrammed leather sketchbook that sits on the dining table. 

And everywhere she is, he follows. Parts of him loom over her place-holders—guitar picks marked J in a dish with a box of charcoal nubs, a rolled up wad of button-up laid over a dark green backpack, a men’s watch sharing space on the counter with two tiny drops of backed silver. He watches over her within the borders of every container, open and solidly present behind her like a tough-knit net—ready to catch.

You step out of your shoes and he walks further in the house with haste, knocking around in what you assume is the kitchen when he returns with a glass of water.

“For you,” as he passes it, “Just in case.” 

“Thank you.” 

He curls a thumb into a belt loop at his waist, body teetering awkwardly as he watches you drink. You note the more-than-safe distance he’s put between you, the same kind he had implemented last week between his heart-wrenching confession and the point where this entanglement had escalated.

“Okay, so. I’m going to change. Do you want something too?” 

You can’t help but smile, a nervous laugh held tight in your throat, “Yes, we can go to your room.” 

Even in the dark, you don’t miss the flush of red along his jaw, the same shade he’d worn in the gallery, wine-soaked and unpracticed. 

You flinch inwardly. How is it that you are remembering so much about him when he’s existed in your world for less time than should be notable? Only two interactions, now three, but they’ve earned their slot in your fondest of memories; nothing substantial provided still, and he casts your sunrises and warms your earth. You fear what touching him again will do to you.

Joel smiles something shy back, walking past you and motioning for you to do the same. He leads you back through the display, minding the little shoes as he climbs up the steps. 

There are photos lining the staircase, less symbolic than the downstairs decorations, but just as revealing. A few of Joel and another man, similar in stature with a full smile and thick, slicked back hair, clasping shoulders or standing pin-straight side by side at different ages in mall-kiosk, christmas card style. Another of a young girl, all teeth and sparse freckles and pale cheeks. She’s wearing a cap and gown, shiny polyester catching in the flash, edges hazy with blur. 

That’s her. His daughter. You’ve seen her, you realize, from a few modeling sessions you’d done when you offered to cover for the younger students. You already knew her, too, floating around more than a few hellos on the days you’d sat for her like a silent idol. It feels odd to be in her home now, the two of you connected in a way she hasn’t come to partake in quite yet. She’s been at the head of your conversations with Joel until now—in this moment when she’s here but not here—and you wonder how much he’s considered her place in all this. You should at least thank her, you suppose; nod at her picture in prayer or cross your fingers that you might actually get to meet her—see her again, rather—and get to say it to her face.

Joel walks ahead of you as you linger, unbothered by your interest. You’re glad he does when you reach the last row. 

A larger frame bookends the slideshow, standing alone in its unique appearance. It’s hand-made, a thin string of painted ferns on the edges, the wings of something like a butterfly or moth wrapping over the right-hand corner, precise and niche enough to be nothing other than a gift. The picture inside is of the two of them together, happy and puffy-cheeked with their arms wrapped around each other, back-lit in front of some kind of museum display. 

Pure joy. His comfort. 

A swell of pain lodges in your ribs, eyes drawing wet. He’s losing her, you think, in a way he hasn’t even begun to realize. He's missed so much of her life—at no fault of their own—and will pursue her future as a bystander. You long to give him some kind of relief in that, maybe out of pity or maybe out of need. You wanted to be on your own, you wanted to be separated from everyone else out of spite for letting your family and your ex tower over you, heavy-handing their influence in false gestures of kindness. Not loving. Never loving—only present in best interests and helpful advice. Things that gave you purpose and points. Who was tallying? What have you to show for it now? 

You only ever wanted acceptance from them, to be recognized as a person instead of as a student or a daughter or a girlfriend—to be able to transcend role and become an active participant. 

It’s too perfect, this thing you each individually lack; what comes of someone who cares and someone who needs caring? 

“Hey.” Joel calls from the end of the room, pulling you out of your dissection of his life, voice soft like he’s seeing an apparition he’s unsure is there. 

“Hi.” You whisper, walking towards him, ignoring his tentative boundary, “You know, I did everything in my power to not call you.” There’s no point in keeping secrets now, from him or yourself. 

He crowds you in the doorway, body slumping on the line of his spine so he can entrap you more securely, u-shaped shoulders and outward facing palms, “Why did you call?”

“I couldn’t help it,” and before he can interrupt, “Joel, I need you to know that this isn’t going to end well.” 

“End? Have we started?” 

“We were doing this before we both knew it, I think. That’s what you were talking about, right—like we’ve met before?” 

“That’s right.” He’s breathing shallowly, unable to hide his desire for proximity now that you’ve allowed him more than he started with, chest moving back and forth like the breeze of the heater is enough to push his tide, “And I meant it.”

“So did I.” 

“Then what are you so scared of? If it’s familiar?” His knee knocks into the slice of thigh above yours. He’s getting closer. 

“Just because I want you now doesn’t mean I should have you.”

“What if I want you to have me?”

“Even worse.” The heat of his face leaks out onto yours and you open yourself to it—the hot sun in July, the boiling rain of mid-summer, all encompassing and working hard to bring you up to temperature so you can burn along with it. Setting you ablaze. 

You lean up, the tip of your nose catching on the stubble lining his jaw, careful to not break eye contact for longer than the briefest moment, nudging him in short taps. 

“I do, though, honey. I think you know I do.” His knee pushes between yours, digging into the joint of your leg to unfold you, the rough denim over his zipper dragging across the knob of your hip.

You curl a hand around the fabric covering his stomach, wrinkling it past the point of correction as it folds under the damp of your fist. He’s far from at length now, both nothing of what you intended and exactly what you wanted. He’s thrilled about it too, seemingly—the muscle under his torso fluttering when your nails drag against him. 

He’s everything again, everywhere, soft tanned skin and jeans he came up here to ‘change out of’, the invisible halo around him swallowing you, coaxing you into his orbit. You want all of it, piece by piece and for all he’s worth. 

“I don’t want to waste you,” you murmur, and there’s that unashamed boldness again, honesty rushing out like an unsupervised beast. Joel wraps his thick fingers around the side of your neck, thumb pushing into soft cheek, between rows of teeth and over skin, pushing them apart. 

His eyes are glossy, like he’s just gotten up from a long sleep, gauzy and sloppy and sticky. His mouth hangs open to mimic yours as he speaks, “You couldn’t. I have an endless amount to give,” and then he’s licking the outline of your open lips, slipping his tongue in to press along the roof of your mouth and up up up to the back of your teeth. He’s puffing hard out of his nose, dipping in and out of your split, licking even the pad of his thumb where it pokes through the hollow, touching himself inside you. 

His free hand grips the top of your ribs, leading you backwards towards the bed until you’re seated at the edge of it, his back curved harshly to continue to taste you. 

You’re kissing him back, you know that, but your thoughts float up to cloud your pleasure and you’re getting ahead of yourself all over again. What does he want? Why does he want it? Would he be upset to learn you’re trying to give him less? You flip the hem of his shirt between your forefinger and thumb, toes curling against the carpet—walking that line of self-doubt. 

He breaks away, so careful again even with no clear need to be, “What’s wrong?” 

“I’m just nervous.” 

“About now? Or about me?”

“Both.”

“Just talk to me, then. Tell me why we shouldn’t—we can work through it together. Let me take some of that worry off of you.”

Joel braces a knee on the corner of the mattress to hold himself steady, gripping you under the joints of your shoulders and pulling you towards the center of the bed. He deposits your body like nothing, kneeling at the apex of your thighs. 

Your voice shakes, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He works at the buttons on your shirt with long fingers, drawing it over the hills of your shoulders until your collar rolls in on itself from the force, falling away. Joel wraps the layer over the panel of your jacket and pulls, undressing you like he has to memorize how to be able to put you back together. He does the same with your bra, achingly slow, but you can feel tiny tremors in his wrist as it runs against your back. 

You just watch for a minute, unable to link what he’s doing to reality, arms feeling weak like the dull ache of a full-body cold, akin to sickness. 

“Go on, honey. Only gonna keep going as long as you do.”

“I— I feel connected to you. I don’t want to.” 

He closes his eyes and bobs his head, I understand, and your body starts to feel numb at your core, pulsing so violently it prompts you to roll your ankle to make sure you haven’t left it behind. 

“More,” he pants, running fully-spread hands over every piece of bare skin, your nipples pulling tight as the motions move from gentle to greedy, passing to tugging. 

“I can’t do this again. I have a hard time letting go. What if you want me for the wrong reason and I can’t hate you for it?” 

He pops the button of your pants, lifting you up off the bed to take the garment down and off, dipping his fingers into the rim of each of your socks on the way to remove them at the same time.

You push your forefingers into the band of your underwear, but Joel meets your hand as you start, winding a finger around the lace and pulling opposite so they catch—leave these on. 

You comply, but you know you’re already wet through them, know that he can see it, and you can’t decide if you want him to know his effect on you, legs buckling in no clear direction; but he feels so good, and he’s almost where you want him, and he’s waiting for you to keep talking, so you lean into the heat. You spread.

“It’s easy to tell myself you’re different once I’m in it. But it never works out right. I get too attached.” 

Joel settles in, shouldering the left side of his body under your thigh to bring you open further, wrapping his arm around it and letting a hand situate against your belly. He turns his right palm away from himself, flattening it like a warning sign before he pushes it against the crease of your cunt, rubbing in slow circles with the curve of his fingers, right under the points. You thrash, trying to force him just an inch up to where you’re throbbing, but he doesn’t budge—he’s making you earn it.

“What if you just want me because you think you need someone to take care of? What if you find out you feel better alone?”

He dips two fingers into your cunt through the film of your underwear, shallow but firm—more than just curious. You feel like you might just come from this, from just the suggestion of him. 

He uses his forearm to butt against the underside of your thigh, prompting you to lift it towards your chest, and he leans down to cup your clit into his mouth, fabric and all. His mouth is searing with the aid of the material, a tight suction that insulates the heat he’s expelling. 

You’re heaving now, light-headed and loose as broad strokes of his tongue soak the already tainted cloth, the extra stimulation from its drag enough to make your head spin. You’re sure that if you breathe any harder your chest will cave in.

“Hm?” He asks against you, demanding, the vibration of it setting your skin alight, and you force your nails into the dip of your hand to keep your mind in the room. You’re stuttering, but it’s not enough of a response, so he leans back—cruel and merciless. 

“What did I say?” he coos, left hand pinching into the swell of flesh at your side.

It stings but you gasp, eager to take, even if the attention so so far away from where it should be, and you have to count your breaths out in groups of five to come back into focus. 

“What if I’m willing to take what you give me? Does that ruin the safety I’ve built for myself?” you whisper, and finally he peels back the curtain of fabric, only enough to present your entrance, rough fingers greeting your opening with no resistance, twisting and hooking them so just the tips are fixed inside. He positions himself above his hand, spitting onto your still-covered clit, watching it slide down and gather where you join. It’s unnecessary, with how much slick you know is pooled there, trailing down onto the sheets under you, but you chalk it up to just having another piece of him inside of you—you’ll gladly accept it.

You’re so very close, and he can tell, maybe from the shake in your hoisted leg or the lack of time in between airy cries, and he just slides in, right to the first knuckle. No room to be ready.

The sound of blood rushing in your ears is so loud you don’t hear yourself when you start begging. You writhe under the hold he has on you, relieved and overwhelmed and a few inches from your soul pouring right out of your body.

And then he’s not moving again, lessening the recovery time he’s willing to allow you, and you try to dig through the fog of arousal to find real words, but your mind can only conjure up a single-syllable sentence as you beg him to relent. 

He frees himself from the clutch of your leg, shimmying out so he can use his unsodden hand to cradle your head, the weight of your skull limp in his palm, “You can do it. Get it all off your chest.”

Joel presses his thumb up under your cheek, pulling at the crease of your lips like he can will you to speak with force alone. 

“I can’t. Please. Just finish.”

“You have something else you want to say. I don’t take kindly to giving up. C’mon.”

He gives you a half-step, reminding you part of him is still within you, fingers curling up against the soft muscle and you skip over a hard inhale. 

“How am I supposed to know what I’m up against if you won’t tell me?” He says it like it’s obvious, like this is some very common step in relationship-building—finger-fucking you as a reward for confessing your skepticism. 

You’re tense, holding the whole of your body in one, tiny scrap of you and it feels like you’ve entered some kind of limbo, suspended in the place between tension and relief, so close to falling that you’re not sure you want either of them. 

He angles himself again, pushing his entire heft into your hip with a wide hand so he can fit himself flat against the bed, mouth hovering over your cunt again. He exhales hard over you, the fingers still tucked in your cunt moving as he adjusts. 

“Please?” He begs sweetly, high enough on the end that you know he’s mocking you, “You can do better than please.”

You huff hard, swallowing thickly—trying again, “What if you—What if—,” you manage, and the lead-up must be convincing enough because he bows again, body fully flat so he can latch on to your clit with his mouth, lips closing tight around the bud through cotton and sucking hard, the hand inside you stirring to life, his twisted positive reinforcement serving you well.

“Fuck, Joel. Fuck—What if you make me love you, just to leave me?” 

Your ankle drifts down to find purchase against his waist, and you can feel him moving, working himself into the mattress. In the chaos, you’d forgotten about his want, and being reminded of his ability to take makes your sweat run cold. He could fuck you now, and instead he’s fucking the bed thinking about you—even bringing you to completion is enough to make him chase release. You lean your head back behind your shoulders, your orgasm overtaking you one harsh wave at a time, stomach filling with thick, hot syrup. You push your teeth so deep into your lip there has to be blood but you can’t taste it, all of your senses honed onto where he’s unraveling you, shrinking in on itself in preparation to violently burst.

He weighs in, now that you’re already cresting, “I won’t leave you, sweetheart. Not now that I know what you need.” 

His admission, his promise, is enough to make you see white, pushing your peak into overstimulation far too soon, and you have to be crying or begging or something because he immediately slows, winding you down in an organic way—taking his time leading you past bliss. 

He pulls his hand free of you, sliding his grip over the damp, half-mounted fabric and peeling it away, hand circling your calf to maneuver you gently.

You’re fully naked now, and when he rolls over to stand at the foot of the bed, you remember he’s still clothed. There he is, above you again like he brings the dawn, bent shirt and uneven waistband and shiny slip over his lips.

It looks different from your memory though, here he looks inexplicably pained, face wrinkled, and then settles another reminder—he hadn’t come.

“Wait, Joel.” 

He doesn’t answer, just recedes to another part of the room you can’t see over your heap of arms and legs. 

You’re still swallowing ragged mouthfuls of air, not quite normal, when he reappears, the feeling of hot cloth against your still fragile cunt makes you writhe.

“Joel.” 

“Yes?” 

“You didn’t get to… finish,” you mutter, and how you’re too embarrassed to address his arousal even after what just transpired is beyond you. 

“No need to rush anything. I can take care of myself for now, plenty of time to get to that point.”

“What now, then?” 

“Sleep with me. I can take you home if you want, or to your car, but I would much rather if you stayed.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

[bits-and-babs]

🗝️ Some kind of a guide seems fitting for him and because it’s me, I always think he’s out guiding a team or just you and all hell breaks loose!

Trekking through the Sahara or the Amazon or the Himalayas. Summoning Everest or just going on a fun outing for a weekend camping. It all seems like such a good fit for a Mills AU because he’s so rugged! Anything you like would be amazing!

Thank you for sharing your talent! 💗

⋆𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄

pairing: TourGuide!Mills x f!Reader

word count: 2k

warnings: 18+ MDNI, references to slow-ish burn, yearning, 69ing, spanking, dirty talk (he talks you through it 😩)

summary: Heartbreak takes you on a tour of the Zambian safari plains, where you trip into a vacation romance- literally.

mills masterlist | main masterlist | follower celebration | taglist

Waxing and poetic reviews of the ‘life changing’ tour of Zambia’s safaris had led you to book a flight at four in the morning while three glasses of wine into your ridiculous display of moping heartbreak following another failed tinder romance. Yes, the giraffes interested you, but you’d be lying if the reviews detailing how sexy the tour guide was didn’t sway your decision.

When Mills introduced himself to the group, you swore your jaw nearly hit the grasslands in shock. He was gorgeous, the golden sunshine melting his gilded irises and warming his face. You had mentally scolded yourself on the first day, because you swore you spent more time ogling his, frankly ridiculous, body than observing the herds of zebras that plodded along the dusty tracks.

Delusions set in by day three. Eating the fruits that were provided at the safari lodge, you were convinced he would glance up at you from his cereal, his eyes flicking back down to the bowl that his hands engulfed. Talking yourself out of the absurd notion only got harder when you eventually did catch him looking at you, distracted and enamoured by the mother elephant pushing her calf along with her trunk. His eyes had been warm, honey pots dripping with amusement as he absorbed your excitement, appreciating your interest in the animals he had clearly grown to love.

Day five is when shit hit the fan. In your defence, the sun was in your eyes and you’d left your sunglasses on your pillow back at the lodge— there was absolutely no way you would have noticed the fallen branch from the Baobab tree, even if you had been watching where you were going rather than ogling Tour Guide Mills’ ass. You trip over it unceremoniously, hitting the sun-baked ground with a sickening thud.

Tears spring to your eyes almost immediately, pain shooting up your ankle and catching you entirely off guard. You’re unsure if it was the sound of the impact or the agonised gasp that grabs Mills’ attention, but he’s over by your side in an instant.

“Are you alright?” He asks you, his voice both music and ridicule to your ears. Of course you would make a tit of yourself in front of him, karma loved to keep you on your toes-

“I’m fine,” you wheeze, but you are not. The stabbing pain in your ankle indicates you are far from fine, but fuck, Mills is. When you look up at him it almost takes your breath away, his long black hair tied into a bun to keep the heat of the baking sun off his neck. Strands have come loose in the breeze, framing his face as he leans close to look you over.

“You’re hurt,” he speaks plainly, and you wish a leopard would just launch itself from the bushes and carry your pathetic carcass up a tree rather than face the mortification of being the reason he had to stop the tour.

“It’s just my ankle, I’ll be oka-“

“Phiri,” Mills calls to his fellow tour guide, catching his attention with a wave of his gigantic palm, “Can you continue on your own?”

Phiri must nod, because Mills is scooping you up bridal style before you even have the chance to insist upon struggling through the rest of the tour. Your arms dart out quickly at the height he stands at when he rises effortlessly to his feet, a totally subconscious action that causes heat to swirl in your cheeks as he begins the journey back to the lodge.

It must only be fifteen minutes at the very most, but it feels like hours. Mills smells mind-numbingly delicious, a mixture of the perspiration drawn out by the sunshine and something earthy, woodsy. Soon, despite the fact you were doing nothing other than tremble in his arms, you’re sweating more than Mills is.

You can’t bear to look at him, but you can feel his eyes on you. There’s a rumble in his chest, one that sounds vaguely like a chuckle. Perhaps for the sake of not shrivelling up and dying while the vultures pick at your poor, humiliated bones, you elect to ignore the sound of amusement from him.

Hauling you into the doctor's office, Mills is a silent, hulking presence in the doorway as the doctor checks you over. The professional indicates it is most likely that you have mildly sprained your ankle, informing you that you should be back to normal within a couple of days. He concludes with a devastating blow: ‘You need to rest, though. Don’t walk on it.’

This piece of advice leads to Mills insisting upon carrying you to your lodge. This time, you find yourself leaning into the broad expanse of his shoulder, grasping the cotton of his khaki t-shirt and taking in the oaky scent that you swore if you breathed in any deeper you’d inhale the whole man.

“Here we are,” he says, the man of little words, as he moves to slowly sit you down on your mattress. You clocked the stupid fucking sunglasses on your pillow, just where you remember leaving them.

Mills, as much as he is absolutely not being paid for this, takes his time ensuring your comfort. He props up pillows for your back, your shades placed neatly on the bedside table. When you’re all settled, however, he doesn’t rush to pull away.

His eyes are dancing over the frame of your lips, flicking up to your eyes when he realises how long he has stayed in your personal space. You don’t complain.

“… How can I thank you?” You whisper. It comes out breathier than you plan, a lilt to your tone that makes it sound far closer to a moan than a steady question.

“Don’t mention it at al-“

It’s not him. It’s not you, either. You both crash into each other with insistence, moans of relief bleeding into each others mouths as you finally embrace after days of craving each other. It’s an oasis, whetting the insatiable lust that had clouded your concentration and judgement. There were only so many times you could pretend your fingers were Mills, and you had far surpassed that total only two nights into your trip.

“Hah-“ you gasp softly into the kiss as Mills’ hands wander over the tops of your thighs, squeezing at your hips and tugging your body slightly closer to him. He seems equally as needy, chasing your lips when they part from his for breath.

“Come here,” he orders softly, though it sounds more like a plea. You can’t deny him, delivering kiss after hungry kiss to his open mouth as your fingers fiddle with the hem of his cotton T-shirt.

It all happens so fast, without contemplation. He’s stripping you out of your clothes delicately, making sure to avoid your tender ankle as he carefully pulls the leg of your trousers over it. The groan of delight that rumbles in his chest when he sees your lacy white set beneath your safari garb makes your heart stop.

“Pretty Thing,” he murmurs, tracing your nipple through the lace of your bralette. It’s Mills, and the touch causes a shuddering exhale to creep from your lungs. “Here.”

That order again. It flips your stomach over, and soon Mills is moving you like a ragdoll, with such ease that it’s almost dizzying. Mills spins your body, facing you away from him before grasping your hips and pulling you back towards him.

When his mouth meets the soaked crotch of your panties, you’re arching back into his face without thinking, a loud sigh of bliss escaping you. At first he sucks at your clit through the fabric, but he loses patience and pushes the panties aside, delving into you and enjoying your taste as he laps at you with his tongue. Meanwhile, his hands explore the plains of your body, hands squeezing at the flesh of your ass and thighs. Without looking at them, they feel gigantic against your body, covering an expanse of your skin that puts the distance of the Sahara in the north to shame.

You don’t need prompting. Your hands are pushing the elastic waistband of his boxers down, his cock resting against his stomach as you push them over his thighs. Greedily, you take him into your mouth without even bothering to take in the view, desperate to taste him. The salt of his precum coats your tongue, and you both moan in unison.

“Fuck,” Mills breathes, his palm cracking against the curve of your ass. It’s not too hard, but the spank sends your heart wild, swallowing down his length and whimpering at how he stretches your throat and fills your mouth.

The veins on the underside of his cock pulse against the roof of your mouth, his hips jolting slightly as your tongue traces his frenulum. You’re so needy, letting him fuck your face despite the threat of a gag pulling at the back of your throat. It’s messy, the wet, sopping sounds obscene to your own ears.

Mills’ hands travel all over your body, up your waist, reaching forward and under to squeeze your tits. You’d wanted to make this some form of an appreciation for him carrying you across the safari-lands, but he’s insistent upon making you feel good too.

“Oh, shit-“ he gasps when you take him particularly deep into your throat, gagging around him. Mills’ head falls back onto the pillows, rocking his hips up involuntarily until your nose is pressing into his pubic bone. He’s rambling a sorry, the apology slurred and almost indiscernible over the sloppy sounds of you sucking his dick.

“That’s it,” he whispers, his hand moving between your legs to rub rapidly over your clit. You’re caving inwards at the sensation, hands grasping at the tops of his thighs as he talks you towards your orgasm. “You’re so fucking good. So hot—wanted to drag you into my room the minute you walked in here, giving me those ‘fuck me eyes’ all the time. Can you feel it coming? Huh? Your thighs are trembling. There it is- there it is.”

You cum with a whimper around his dick, mouth stuffed full of him and unable to make much of a sound— but fuck, it utterly obliterates you. Rocking back onto his fingers, onto his face, you sob as he juts his hips up once, twice. He cums down your through with a haggard groan, sinking his teeth into the flesh of your ass in an attempt to muffle the sound he makes.

It becomes a frequent pastime. A long safari ending with a quick, desperate fuck. You discuss what will happen when you return home, the two of you skirting around the fact this has become far more than a vacation hook up. He gives you his number, of course it’s a shitty Nokia phone, but it makes so much sense.

“One of the vervet monkeys took my iPhone,” he grumbles when you arch a brow at his brick phone.

For now, without the stress of leaving, Mills holds you in his arms, your hips slotted between his thighs and head resting on his chest. You’re exhausted, still recovering from your injury while enjoying as many safaris as you can— and fucking Mills every waking minute.

You feel Mills gently touch your shoulder, rousing you from the blissful sleep that almost had you. A whine creeps past your lips, eyelids heavy.

“What?” You mumble, pausing when you see Mills press a finger to his lips and point to the sliding glass doors that he had left open.

A baby giraffe, a few months old, peeks its head into your cabin. Its eyelashes flutter as it looks over the box room, blinking slowly. You can’t help but wake, a grin pulling at your lips as it slowly backs away, unamused by the lack of edible greenery.

“Wow,” you whisper, watching it begin its slow journey back to the herd, tail swishing behind it.

“Worth it?” Mills murmurs, brushing his fingers up your spine softly.

“Worth every single penny.”

END

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[onlineshwe]

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[electrasev5nwrites]

Ninja Daily: Vapors 36

"Are you ready?"

Aiko ignored the question, letting her gaze slide off of Ao and examine the place where she had been brought. Mist had made the (not unwise) decision to perform the sealing well outside of village boundaries to hopefully prevent destruction if she failed. Of course, they had also had to position her close enough to Mist that reinforcements could arrive if something went wrong.

They had likely also had the foresight to post teams between her position and Konoha. If she were to try to make a break for that direction with their new jinchuuriki or even just the tailed beast itself, they would be waiting to interfere.

She made a note not to make any sudden movements in that direction. They would almost certainly hit before asking any questions. They were trying to pretend that they trusted their new allies, but Mist certainly wasn't skimping on security measures. They must have offered something Konoha really wanted in order for Shizune to have agreed to this. Kakashi-shishou had been right. It was an idiotic idea, and if she made a single wrong move, she may as well kill herself to spare herself the trouble of dying horribly from potent exposure to poisonous chakra.

Aiko did her best to remind herself that she had always done her best work under pressure. It was true and she was hoping like hell that the trait applied to this instance.

"You are the candidate, I take it?"

The boy sitting cross-legged outside the decrepit little house glanced up at her with a little sullenness in his expression. He was all elbows and knees, clearly in that awkward stage where his weight hadn't managed to keep pace with his height.

"Hai, Uzumaki-sama."

Well, that was weird. Sure rolled off the tongue nicely, though. She tabled that thought for later and let her brow furrow. "No need to be so formal. I'm going to be seeing you naked, after all," she drawled, moving to grab his wrist and probe with her chakra to make sure he was water-natured. Good thing he was too young for her to ogle, or this procedure might have been even harder to focus on. "Aiko is fine. And you are?"

He flushed, even down his neck. "Shinji, Aiko-sama."

She let the inappropriate honorific slide and her eyebrow raise. "Shinji, huh? You ready to do this?" Aiko jerked her head to indicate that he should follow her inside and pried open the door, swiping through the seal on the door that was doubtlessly meant to keep it sterile and free of natured chakra that might contaminate it.

Ao cursed, frowning darkly at her. "There was no need for that. I will not be providing assistance."

She snorted with a bit of intentional arrogance. "That's an amateur's trick. I don't need it."

That was a lie. If she were ever making her own seal, she would definitely need to use that trick. But with one that Jiraiya had helped her design? If it failed, it wouldn't be because of a piddling factor like chakra contamination.

Besides, she was pretending to be an expert. If Ao was busy being irritated by her lack of modesty about her expertise, he wouldn't be counting how long it took her to get the job done. Hopefully. Her strokes were not nearly as effortless as those of a real seal master, simply from lack of practice. A month of cramming and a few years of dabbling did not an expert make. Then again, who in Mist would know the difference? To hear Jiraiya tell it, their seal 'masters' might serve their village better by starting up a band or moving away entirely so that Water Country wasn't quite so embarrassed by their hilarious ineptitude.

It was also possible that Jiraiya was just a sealing snob. If so, he must have really thought her promising, because he gave her yellowed sealing notes from 'an old student' of his. It had been a struggle not to roll her eyes at his feeble attempt to share something of her father with her without actually telling her that this was an inheritance of sorts. If she hadn't known what they could contain—the hiraishin, the holy grail of fuinjutsu—then she might have tossed them into storage.

Aiko heaved a sigh, examining the workstation she would be using and holding out a hand for the container with the Tailed Beast. The roiling chakra inside almost took her aback—it seemed much more active than that inside Naruto. Then again, it had been used much more frequently in the last decade. Perhaps the Three-Tails' mind was closer to the surface.

Wondering if she could make contact with that apparent consciousness, Aiko extended a tendril of her own chakra into the agitated blend of leftover chakra (that had to be Yagura's, she noted distantly) and

A

Rush

Of mOVement

And

air

trappeD

TRApped

BoiLIng over

wait

TouCh

You?

Aiko pulled back into herself with a lurch, blinking furiously to ward off a sudden headache. Was… was that madness what it was like for Naruto to touch Kurama, or was that distinctly the three-tailed beast? She couldn't help but feel sorry, stupidly sorry for a creature that would kill her as soon as look at her. Her stomach churned. Did she really want to do this sealing? It... It might help save the Three-Tails (and I wish I knew its name, she thought crossly, it's disgraceful to use the species name instead as if it isn't conscious) from Akatsuki. On the other hand, letting it be free even for that brief period of time was arguably less inhumane than what she was about to do for a village she didn't particularly care for.

'Sorry,' she tried to send through a featherlight touch of her own chakra that twisted into the meld and was almost instantly devoured by a foreign mind hungry for a gasp of air and contact. 'I'm sorry.' She was careful not to let herself be sucked in again—if she lost herself, she might not be able to claw her way back next time.

It had been decided that this seal would use the Hama gate much like Naruto's seal, so Shinji would be on the floor and doing his very best to be still.

'This is going to take at least an hour. That's a long time to lie back and think of England.'

Then she frowned slightly. Unbeknownst to her, her companions seemed to take that as a critique of the preparations and looked around nervously. 'It's just… the phrase 'Lie back and think of Mist' just doesn't have the same sort of feel to it, but I suppose that's more relevant to the situation at hand.'

"Well babe, we may as well get started. Ao, if you're remaining in the building I want you in the anteroom. I'm sure you're going to be staring the whole time, but do try not to do anything distracting like move around or drop dead." She (very calculatedly) waved absentmindedly at Shinji. "and you get naked. Just a minute, I have a towel you can use to protect your precious modesty, but that's all." If she really were an expert, she would be thinking about variables and what she was about to do, so she should appear to be distracted. Hence the drop in social niceties.

With an easy motion, she untucked a scroll the height of her palm and laid it out on the floor, using just one finger and a subtle brush of chakra to unseal it, drawing out a collection of ink, brushes, and the previously mentioned towel. It was fuschia and stained with bleach.

It had been purchased specifically for this use, actually, and faux-aged the day before Ao had shown up. Her supplies should look well-used and personalized, as if she had just grabbed them out of her own house at some point. It might tick Ao off a bit to think that it hadn't even occurred to her to check her supplies before agreeing to do something Mist thought was pretty damn important. But it would also help legitimize her and make the implicit claim that she did a lot of messy fuinjutsu.

'A whole lot goes into pretending we don't care what they think,' she thought with some amusement as she tossed the towel over her shoulder to the boy she could hear undressing. 'Has there ever been a more elaborately stupid deception between supposed allies in Elemental Nations history?'

She answered her own question easily: Probably, but she would never know of it. It wasn't like Konoha was ever going to admit to this particular farce either.

The two males lurked uncomfortably while she unstopped her blood-tinted ink and casually scribed the containment seals at the four corners and the ceiling in the exact center. The first time she had practiced this, she had idiotically put one on the floor as well. Jiraiya had cuffed her over the head for that.

"What's the point of that, idiot? Are you so worried about the badgers knowing what's going on that you'll risk letting your subject smear ink all over the place with their no doubt grubby skin?"

Aiko let herself smile as she completed the easy, familiar motions.

When she turned to see Ao lurking in the doorway suspiciously and Shinji scratching at one leg with his other foot, she rolled her eyes. 'This sealing would go much more smoothly without them here.'

Unfortunately, it was not to be. So she made do.

"Lay down, with your head exactly under that concentric circle design," she ordered. "No, on your back. Don't worry so much about the towel. Ao's seen it all before and I have a little brother."

Aiko knelt at his left side and lined up five bottles alongside his hips, in easy reach. Then she had a thought and smoothed her hand over her hair to make certain that nothing had fallen out of the braid falling over her shoulder—contaminating the sealing with human genetic material was a phenomenally stupid way to die. It was fine, so she placed her right palm on his heart and made the first stroke with his left, forcing his chest to still when he shivered.

"Stop that." The trailing tendril became the base of a spiral. She spider-webbed tiny elemental symbols along the outside edge, along with the translating key that Jiraiya had beat into her head. The boy under her hands shivered. She tapped her right hand in warning. "I know the ink is cold, but even minute movements could distort what I'm doing. Believe me, you do not want that."

With the basic form done, Aiko lifted her right hand and set the container on Shinji's heart where her palm had been before. "This is the tricky part," she muttered, brow furrowed.

It was also the part that took the longest time. With excruciating care and repetition, Aiko inked a filtering seal onto the top of the little box that currently contained a three-tailed demon and placed it exactly on top of the matching seal over Shinji's gut. He gasped and flinched, eyes wide open. "You'd be better off with those closed," she advised gently. "The calmer you are, the less uncomfortable this will be."

If she could have, she would have drugged him for this. But the rush of foreign chakra would flush any sedatives out of his system anyway.

She placed her right palm on top of the little box, and pushed. Shinji immediately began to scream and tried to move. Aiko had been anticipating that. Her own chakra solidified and coalesced into cold silver chains, much more delicate than usual almost as if they were part of a necklace. They slipped and shot, trailing from the center of her back, around and over her shoulders in order to secure him in place. She might have soothed him again, but he wasn't listening.

'I hope Mist has a medic who can do something about these chakra burns.' Aiko grimaced, ignoring his screams. Damage to the chakra system was the major drawback to putting a tailed beast into an adult. Only very young children had undeveloped systems that could be taught to tolerate a sudden influx of a foreign substance. But she refused to take part in that in a non-emergency situation like this. Perhaps it was selfish, but on some level Aiko believed that the need for informed consent to a life-altering procedure like this was more important than damage that could be mitigated by good health care at the cost of sentencing an innocent child to hatred and fear.

At least Shinji wasn't alone, she noted sardonically. She wasn't enjoying this part either. Through gritted teeth, she ignored the white hot whine of pain in her palm where residual chakra from the struggling, no doubt panicking beast surged against her skin like electricity hidden in thousand pound waves.

'I'm going to need a medic when I'm done,' she noted distantly.

Things were definitely not going as smoothly as she had hoped. But this was one of the scenarios Jiraiya had covered with her, so she bit her lip and endured through the pain. Somehow she managed to split her attention between the constant steady push and the corresponding sigils she was inking with her left inside the spiral to lock away what she had sealed and prevent it from coming back up.

It could have taken hours, days, or been over in forty minutes. It was impossible to keep track of time when all she knew was the next repetition and pain screaming at her consciousness. A real master like Jiraiya would have done this in half the time without the unpleasant side-effects, but she was just lucky that it was starting to look like she would survive. She must have made a minor placement error earlier on and missed it, otherwise this would have only been uncomfortable.

But eventually Aiko had tucked away everything but the residue burnt into the friend tenketsu in her hand, which she knew better than to try to manually force into the seal. It would dissipate on its own, or she could get Jiraiya to help her later. As long as she was very careful, it shouldn't do any damage to her or anything else until it was treated. (the 'anything else' part of that was crucial, as this chakra would definitely burn the skin off any other living thing it touched. She mentally resolved to give no hugs for a while, unless she ran into some Akatsuki or something).

Aiko wearily tossed the box aside, letting it break against the wall, and slumped down to rest her forehead on her knees. Gradually, she began to notice sounds from the real world again. She hadn't even noticed that she was tuning them out, but the raspy sound of Shinji's breathing and the brisk scrape of sandals that must have been Ao pacing in the halls tugged at her awareness. She focused on her Karin-honed chakra sense for just a moment out of pure reflex to be sure that Mist hadn't been up to anything while she hadn't been paying attention- and froze.

"Ao! Are you expecting company? We have a small group within four miles."

"What?" he rumbled, bursting into the room. She lifted her head to peer at him. His gaze went distant as if he were focusing on his sensory abilities as well. He gave a jerk and a curse, tugging the long cloak off his back and hurriedly wrapping it around the unconscious boy on the floor.

"I take it that's a no," she mumbled to herself. Then she cleared her throat. "Rebel faction that doesn't want Mei to have a jinchuuriki, perhaps?" she shrugged the thought away. Speculations could wait. "Well, obviously someone dropped the ball on that whole 'secret time and place' thing you guys had planned." Ao scowled at her, flinging the unconscious jinchuuriki over his shoulder.

"Enough, smart mouth. If they're here for him, we need to go."

Aiko cast a quick glance around and determined that there was nothing there she couldn't afford to leave and followed Ao out. She had to cradle her injured hand against her torso to keep the burns from getting any more irritated than they already were.

As they started running, she used another chakra pulse to get a lock on the signals she'd felt earlier.

"Oh, hell."

She could practically hear her companion roll his eyes. "What now?"

"They know we've left," she half-shouted over the wind. "They're coming in fast and altering trajectory."

"I know." He said nothing else, but increased his pace. Aiko's mind was racing.

"How far do we need to go before we can signal down help?" He didn't even try to pretend there were no Mist loyalists stationed nearby, grunting out an answer.

It was close. Very close. But not close enough that they could reach help before their pursuers caught up. She didn't like the plan that occurred to her. Not at all. With a Konoha nin, sure. She trusted most of them relatively well. But Ao could leave her to die without blinking an eye.

But it was the only plan, so she spoke up. "One of us needs to stall so the other can flag down help." Her lips twisted bitterly. If she showed up without Ao (with or without the jinchuuriki) there would be suspicion. Even if they didn't attack her on sight, they would almost certainly take far too long to listen to her and head back to help Ao. She couldn't afford to let Ao fight here because she couldn't ensure his safety… and she didn't see a way to get out of this mess alive if he didn't.

He gave a harsh little laugh of surprise. "You trust me, kid?"

Aiko didn't answer, but she stopped running. "Hurry up, old man." She muttered as he faded into the distance. She dimmed her chakra signature and began to cut sideways so that she could intercept the interlopers, trying to calculate just how much freedom of movement she had even with her pained hand.

'Four, white masks and unmarked allegiance,' her mind tabulated as soon as they broke free of cover. She didn't expect that they would actually fail to find her. Aiko only needed a moment of surprise to help even the odds a bit.

And she used it, forcing out a much thicker, longer chakra chain than she had used earlier that day and guiding it, twisting, along her left arm in a straight shot that caught the approaching shinobi closest to her through the heart. It was a bit messy—rather than try to tug it out, she instantly dissolved that chain and leapt away to dodge the surprisingly weak barrage of shuriken that dotted her old position.

'Something is not right. Unless they have genin level throwing skills, that should have come much closer to hitting me. And if their shuriken skills were so poor, they wouldn't be armed with them.'

But the alternative was unthinkable—the possibility that they didn't want to kill her. She had ambushed and killed one of them already. That was enough to make almost anyone lose their temper and fight with seriousness. The only reason not to was if you needed to take someone alive. The thought sent chills down her spine and panicked adrenaline surging through her veins.

None of them said a thing. It took a lot of discipline to remain silent and apparently disinterested in combat. It wasn't exactly common to exchange real conversation with your opponent like Naruto might, but most people at least made threatening statements or grunt sounds when they did something strenuous.

That alone told her more about her opponents than the little she could gauge from their drab uniform-style clothing. They were a trained unit, and not the ragtag Mist dissidents she had supposed. That tugged at something in her consciousness- but no, it couldn't be.

'Three targets. One female, two male.' One of the males carried some sort of sword, so she chose to ignore him for the moment. That could possibly be used to deflect her chains, and she didn't want to waste time re-materializing them more than she had to. Her normal jutsu repertoire was almost useless here- these opponents were too advanced for them to work in direct combat, and most of her skills were biased towards helping her avoid direct combat. Besides, with one hand almost useless, it would take far too long to channel chakra.

The other male was aggressive, leaping through the chain she'd flung to engage her in close combat. She dropped the technique entirely, falling back on the skill that was still her strongest. Taijutsu was what she practiced most. That focus seemed to serve her well right then—if she hadn't been obsessive about the skill, this opponent would have incapacitated her with the first blow. He opened with a crushing kick to her ribs that she side-stepped, then spun around before she could get in a retaliatory hit and aimed a punch at her torso. When she unthinkingly blocked with her right, a crunch rang out and she involuntarily made a pained noise.

'I can't fight this guy close range for long. He'll rip me apart.'

It was like… well, it was like fighting a stronger Sasuke if he were twice as fast and wanted to seriously hurt her. She saw the same technical perfection and ruthless efficiency in this opponent's movements. This person had been practicing taijutsu much longer than she had. She took that as confirmation that they hadn't been trying to kill her—no one with taijutsu like this would carry shuriken if they were so bad with them. He had engaged her this way to incapacitate her.

So she cheated.

Aiko leapt straight backwards, ignored the screaming pain and forced out an enormous series of chakra chains, tracing one down to wrap around her injured, burning hand as it moved and pushing the leftover demonic chakra into it. Her tenketsu would be forced open and she wouldn't be able to use any jutsu with it until someone provided medical assistance, but it served to seriously poison her chains.

Of course, her opponent was no doubt ready to dodge the chains he had seen drop his teammate like a stone... so she didn't shoot them at him like a projectile weapon. Aiko flung one up to block the sharp hit aimed at her collarbone, and twisted the rest of them out into a wide arc that surrounded the pair. The move was so phenomenally stupid that her opponent didn't seem to see it coming. No teacher would actually recommend trapping yourself in close-range with a taijutsu type. It was suicide, and not the kind that preserved your honor. The kind that made you a punchline in some bar later that night while your killer and his drunk buddies snickered.

This was the tricky part, she noted glumly. If she fucked this up, she'd be pulping herself with her own weapon. Once he was done being sad, Kakashi-shishou would so totally judge her forever.

The dome of chains condensed, clanging into a short space that forced the two shinobi inside into an impromptu hug—and burned her opponent alive with the demonic chakra that she had laced it with.

But he didn't scream.

Thoroughly creeped out, Aiko dropped the technique altogether and cased the situation—

And blinked in surprise.

"They fucking left," she said, disbelievingly.

Well, that seemed to confirm that they were after Shinji, and made her feel like a self-centered idiot for thinking that they might have been trying to capture her. Her fight had been short—they could only be a minute ahead of her at best. She leapt into the chase, not even bothering to track by sight. It was faster to flicker on her chakra sense and follow their straight path towards Ao. He had to be close to reinforcements by now.

As she ran, she tucked her injured arm fully inside her flak jacket as a makeshift sling to prevent it from being jarred. With her left, she drew out a trio of kunai and tucked her index and middle fingers through two of their rings and pinched the other between her thumb and index. She was already releasing it when the two shinobi harrying Ao came into view. The older shinobi had dropped his burden unceremoniously on the ground and was using senbon to force the two opponents away from his charge. He looked up at her for a brief instance, and she felt a thrill of fear that he'd left Shinji open to either one of the masked shinobi.

Then he reminded her that he was an elite, both as a hunter-nin and one of the two people a kage trusted to act as her bodyguards when he effortlessly intercepted the drive the masked man made towards Shinji and threw him into a tree like a ragdoll. Aiko winced at the sound of his head cracking against the wood.

The four shinobi were still for an instant, and seemed to size each other up. Aiko half expected them to pair off into fights at that point—and then the crunch of another Mist shinobi landing in the clearing before flinging a line of shuriken at the interlopers startled the tableau.

The female moved to defend herself. Her last companion fled in a flicker of speed.

Aiko gaped, for a second, and then her brain caught up. "He's going to get rid of the bodies!" she shouted to Ao. He grunted.

"Well, stop him then." Left unsaid was that there must be something to hide if he was fleeing to the spot of the older fight instead of making a break for freedom.

She might have been mistaken. Either that or he was fast enough that he had already gotten what he needed and fled. Aiko examined the scene, frankly unnerved that nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Had he really just been fleeing for his life?

The strange, improbable suspicion that had occurred to her earlier when she had noted the masked shinobi's discipline and resurfaced when they maintained silence even through intense pain rose again.

It was stupid, she knew. She shouldn't even be thinking it. There was no reason for Danzo to have known about this operation. Only Mei and possibly Tsunade should have known the details. And why would he want to sabotage relations between the two?

Just to assuage her suspicions, she knelt and forced open the rapidly chilling jaw to stare at the tongue. ('ew', she noted vaguely). Then she let the jaw drop.

"Well, fuck."

Tsunade probably needed to know about this. Mist probably didn't.

A quick pat-down revealed that the corpse in front of her carried slight hints that were meant to point to Mist funding. Danzo was thorough. Their black clothing was local textile material, and the poison she smelled on their weaponry was definitely a supposedly-exclusive Mist recipe.

But the seal on that tongue could only come from one source, to her knowledge. She wasn't familiar with all of the parts, but she could definitely piece together that it was a stupidly thorough bit of fuinjutsu.

She couldn't do anything about the man escaping, or the one she had left Ao fighting. It was hard to hope they escaped, but that would simplify things. Aiko awkwardly pulled out an open scroll and her one remaining bottle of ink. She had to use her teeth to take the top off, and this was probably the ugliest seal she had put together in months. But it worked.

Aiko thanked all the stars she could think of that at least the corpses were starting to congeal, because hacking off a man's head was hard with one hand was hard enough without blood spraying into her eyes. That was like, the worst. Being on a time limit didn't help.

Luckily, she had a full scroll and two scorch marks on the ground by the time she felt someone approaching. A mist shinobi looked down at her placidly. "I'm to escort you back to the village to talk to the Mizukage."

"Glorious." Aiko climbed to her feet. The scroll in her pouch hung heavily on her mind. But as long as no one searched her, (which they couldn't do if they still wanted to stay attached to Konoha) there would be no way to prove she had taken anything.

Luckily, no one seemed to accuse her of anything untoward. It was probably because they didn't care to bother with it. She discerned that Ao and his back-up had managed to take the last woman captive. They were probably going to torture her until she talked. Because the seal on her tongue would keep her from talking, they would be torturing her until she died and ending only with unsatisfactory hints that she had been connected to their rebels. If they pried open her jaw and noticed the seal, they would almost certainly suspect that a sealmaster beyond what the rebels could boast had been involved. But Mei's paranoia about the rebels probably wouldn't allow her to completely dismiss the possibility.

Actually, she knew, that might make it worse. Mei would be worried that her dissidents had acquired funding or support.

The highlight of her debriefing was that it was short. The Mizukage was in a surprisingly good mood, which formed a nice contrast to Ao's habitual doom and gloom. Aiko sensed that as soon as she walked in, with the keen senses of an elite nin.

"Drinks all around!" Mei toasted to nothing, before tossing back a glass of something pink that practically sparkled in the light.

Aiko blinked, taken aback. "Um…"

She didn't have a default response for that. Luckily, Ao stepped in for her with a glower that made the Mizukage roll her eyes. "Oh fine. It's not even alcoholic, you spoilsport," Mei pouted. She shoved the now-empty glass away and gave Aiko a sultry stare. "Well, I suppose I owe you my gratitude."

"It was my duty," Aiko responded easily. She'd been prepared for that verbal trap. It didn't do to have foreign villages 'owing' you favors that they might seize opportunities to pay back.

Mei threw her head back and laughed. "You're sharper than you look," she accused. "If you ever find yourself in need of career opportunities, feel free to come talk to me." She gave a little sharp smile that detracted from the fact that she was blatantly recruiting a foreign nin. Jiraiya must have been right about their desperation for sealing experts. "I'm sure you'll want to get going," the Mizukage drawled, tapping her fingers against her desk restlessly as if she wanted to push it away. "Heaven only knows that if you don't get that grump who came to get you out of the village, he and Ao are going to get into fisticuffs."

Her skinny, young-looking bodyguard choked on nothing. It wasn't the best attempt Aiko had ever seen at impassive inattention.

"Ah… You mean Kakashi-shishou?"

Terumi Mei glanced consideringly at her from under long eyelashes. Then amusement glittered in her eyes. "If that's the one with the silver hair and the fantastic ass, then yes."

Aiko followed that to its logical conclusion and then recoiled, eyes wide. 'I bet he does have a fantastic ass.' She must have looked appalled or grossed-out or something, because Mei gave a laugh that shook her shoulders. 'Oh. I bet she thinks I think shishou is really old.' She took the assumption and ran with it, shuddering theatrically. "Well, now you've put thoughts in my head that can never be un-thought."

"You're welcome. He'll meet you in the lobby, I'm sure."

"Uh…" Aiko considered asking to see a medic before she left. It would be pretty uncomfortable to travel the entire way home with a broken forearm and chakra burns, not to mention that shishou would not be pleased about the poor condition she was being returned in. Then again, Mist's medics were notoriously bad. She would like to go home instead of getting trapped in a hospital with unfriendlies around while she was vulnerable. Instead of saying a thing, she gave a bow and a polite good-bye.

Tsunade was just sitting down on the couch in her office to read when there was a knock on the door. She heaved a sigh, wondering why the hell she even bothered. The instant that she relaxed, someone showed up to tell her about depressing problems. She should go back to her desk to present an imposing figure…

'Fuck it, I'm staying here. They can stand.'

"Come in."

Hatake Kakashi pushed his little apprentice in. The girl looked pale and awful, frankly. For some reason she'd cradled her arm against her chest and her zipped vest was covering it.

"Fix it." He glared at her.

Aiko coughed. "Ah, actually I think I should debrief first."

A thrill ran through Tsunade. "Hatake, get out or shut up. I'll take care of this, but I want to hear what happened. She'd need to give me details before I 'fix it,'" she concluded with sarcastic air quotes. "Uzumaki, report."

The girl stiffened professionally. "I met with a one-man escort, the Mizukage's bodyguard Ao and proceeded to an unknown location. I could locate it again if necessary. The sealing was successful with minor complications, ending with chakra burns on both myself and the subject. Subject was one Shinji, last name unknown, male Mist ninja. Approximately age 12. Almost immediately after the sealing was successful, four interlopers began pursuit. They were disguised, but their textiles and poisons were local. One was incapacitated and brought into Mist's custody, one escaped, and I have two sealed in this."

She held out a make-shift scroll (clearly not one she had purchased from the standards suppliers). "Due to the hints on their person and their interest in acquiring the jinchuuriki to the exclusion of other targets, I had initially thought that they were Mist dissidents attempting to prevent Terumi Mei from gaining access to a powerful weapon. That would account for their lack of interference until the sealing had been completed. However, at least the two that I killed had a strange seal on their bodies that implied access to fuinjutsu far above what Mist could provide."

Tsunade's expression had been stilling as she talked. Her shishou seemed just as interested—he hadn't asked a thing on the way home. That made sense—it was considered unethical and illegal to share mission details before the completion of the mission, but she would have told him if he'd asked.

"Where was this seal?" She leaned forward.

"On the back of the tongue," Aiko informed.

Tsunade carefully kept the pleasure off her face at that. "I see. If given a copy of this seal, would you be able to decipher its purpose and possibly devise a counter?"

The teenager looked a bit stunned. "Ah, I could try. I was able to pick out its general purpose at a glance. It seemed to prevent the carrier from talking, although I don't think it makes them literally silent. It's likely in regards to sensitive information."

The Hokage was mildly impressed. She'd already suspected, but if the girl had gotten that from one look… this might work after all. "Consider yourself on a sabbatical to investigate this project, then. I'll get you a copy tomorrow." She rolled the scroll between her fingers consideringly, and then stuck it abruptly in her shirt. She didn't want to lose it in the couch cushions.

Hatake choked on his tongue.

"Come over here then, girl." Tsunade patted the couch. "And let me see those burns."

When she'd healed up the kunoichi and waved Hatake out of her office ("Before I toss you through the wall," she'd roared) Tsunade went to crack open a celebratory sake. Then she realized that Shizune had once again purged her supply and left candy and mints. Sulkily, the Hokage popped something sour and cherry-flavored into her mouth and crunched.

'Well, that worked out.'

She let herself smile for the first time, now that she was alone.

'Danzo took the bait, and now I have a sample.' She couldn't prosecute him for the Uchiha affair without endangering poor Itachi, but she knew that he had to have his fingers in other pots. The only reason he hadn't been caught before was that his people couldn't talk. If that seal was broken, it would be child's play to bring him down.

Tsunade was particularly smug about that manipulation. Honestly, it was like the man thought his spies were the only ones in the world. When hers had found out about the location, she had leaked it for his to find with just barely enough time for him to send out a team. She'd known that Mist didn't trust Konoha—the Uzumaki girl would have been surrounded by anxious shinobi ready to leap into a fight. The battered state of her shinobi was a little surprising. Mist had been too paranoid about the possibility of a failed seal and stayed too far back to assure the protection they had promised.

'When they borrow my things, they should return them in a little nicer condition,' she noted sarcastically.

Of course, Mist was probably more worried about the sudden likelihood that their rebels had found sponsors. What a tragic coincidence that Danzo chose to use the easy target as a cover for his operation if they were caught. Who could have predicted that?

The worst part about being the Hokage was that you didn't get nearly enough chances to smugly share the proof of your obvious brilliance. When everything went well, no one would ever know.

[cuchufletapl]

Personally I just rely on the tags and summary — that's usually enough to see at least if I vibe with the prose and the author knows what punctuation is.

And also. I don't really care about the stats in general, but also to be frank I don't think they're a particularly efficient measure for quality?

If you're going by highest number of kudos, bookmarks or comments, then it will skew in favour of older fics or fics that were posted at a height of fandom activity (simply because more people have read them) and long multichapter fics (because they periodically appear at the top of the feed, so more people come across them and they don't get buried like a one-shot might). A massive amount of readers logically leads to a large amount of kudos — it doesn't mean that the fic is bad, but it does mean its numbers are more due to exposure than quality. (It can be both but. Y'know. Sometimes popularity doesn't mean shit and sometimes it does. It's a bit of a toss-up, really.)

But most people who use stats as a guide figure that out so. Okay. What about what you suggest, OP, a kudos-hits ratio? That makes sense, right? For example, if a hundred people have read a fic and fifty liked it enough that they hit kudos, that seems to be a pretty good indicator that it's gonna be good. It's solid logic, I used to use it as a bit of an indicator of what to expect, too.

Except that's not how hits work.

From Archive of Our Own's Statistics FAQ page (emphasis added by me):

Hits are a counter of how many times a work has been accessed. A hit is registered every time a visitor navigates to a work's page, with the following exceptions:

• If two visits in a row come from the same IP address, only the first one is registered.

• Moving between chapters in a work will only register one hit in total, not one hit per chapter.

• If you're logged in, hits are not counted when you visit your own works.

A kudos-hits ratio is biased towards one-shots and fics with a lower chapter count, because hits ≠ readers.

Hits = visits, even if it's the same user returning to reread or read a new update (as long as it's not twice in a row).

But wait, there's more!

Admittedly, I'm not sure if this is true or just a rumour because I haven't seen anything alluding to this on AO3's info pages or even Fanlore, but looking at my own AO3 history, I think it tracks. Take it with a pinch of salt anyway, but it seems that for every 24 hours that you leave a tab with a fic open, it will also count as a hit.

So for example. There's this ongoing fic that I'm subscribed to — I have been since I first found it when it had nine chapters or so, and every time it updates I rush to go read it. The fic currently sits at 32 chapters.

Wanna take a guess how many times I've visited this particular work, according to my AO3 history?

Image Description: Text from a history entry on Archive of Our Own. It says: "Last visited: 30 Mar 2024 (Latest version.) Visited 99 times."

One single person equals ninety-nine hits in this case. And since I can only leave kudos once, if I were the only person reading it, that would mean this fic would have a 1:99 kudos-hits ratio. Which. Applying the misconception of hits = readers, does not sound great. It's way above the 1:10 ratio OP uses, at least.

I think a few dozen hits there must've been from leaving the tab open, but I know that I've returned to this fic over thirty times — not only for updates, but to reread chapters that I particularly liked. Clearly, this would signal that I think this fic is good (and it is, in my opinion)!

So when you use stats as the deciding factor on whether you read a fic or not, you're going to miss out on some hidden jewels out there. If you use the filters to sort by kudos, you'll probably miss out on one-shots and short fics that have been newly posted or were posted during a lull in fandom activity. If you take note of the kudos-hits ratio, you'll probably miss out on multichapter longfics whose regular readers have accessed it over a hundred times each.

Honestly, I think the best method to find quality fanfic is to check the bookmarks of the authors you like and follow the trail.

Another AO3 thing I’m curious about, how do yall decide if something is good enough to read? Usually I follow a rule of 1 kudos for every 10 hits. One because it’s easy math and two it’s yet to fail me. Thoughts? Do you just go for it and pray it’s good?

[moondust-writes]

Requests are temporarily open!

Anything OC related will be put on @wheredreamsareforged for sake of not making a new area to my masterlist pertaining to my OCs

However, for my current followers, I am only taking requests pertaining to Genshin Impact and it's characters. This is particularly due to a game I am partaking in that is specifically for Genshin Tumblr.

Link to that here; the bias list was also uploaded here!

Now that that is out of the way, here are some basic rules:

i will not be writing anything for Klee, Diona, Qiqi, Yaoyao, Sayu, and Kusanali. even platonic

i have only played up to Yae's part in the Inazuma Archon quest, before we actually fight Ei but a few quests after we meet Scaramouche; any character after that you can still request for but i cannot guarantee they will be done due to lack of familiarity with the character(s)

this is gender neutral only unless it is for friends / dedicated to someone specific! AFAB and AMAB will be used however for anything NSFW

speaking of NSFW, I cannot guarantee anything of that nature; and i especially will NOT be writing NSFW of: Xiangling, Hu Tao, Xingqiu, Chongyun, Collei, Barbara, Razor, Bennett, Mika, Fischl, Xinyan, and any younger/teenage or teenage-implied characters who we do not know the ages of (height does not count, i am a 4'5" adult. trust me, its possible)

for NSFW, i will only do light kinks, nothing major or deep into BDSM just for my own comfort and others as well

nothing big for this one, but i will not be using non-canon pronouns for a character who's pronouns have been clearly stated (i.e. she/her for a male aligned character), nothing against those! i just prefer to try and portray characters how they are in canon (with an exception for things that aren't obvious like sexuality or gender identity as pronouns =/= identity)

Other than that, feel free to send in any request! My master list is right here; currently empty / devoid of links. keep in mind that these are not indicative of which characters I 100% will write for! Please feel free to request someone not on my masterlist

[influencerdatabase]

Unlocking the Power of Influencer Marketing

In today's digital age, influencer marketing has emerged as a powerful tool for brands to connect with their target audience and boost their online presence. Leveraging the influence and credibility of social media personalities, companies can effectively promote their products or services to a wider consumer base. However, to maximize the potential of influencer marketing, it is crucial how to find the right influencer for your brand. In this article, we will explore the steps to identify and collaborate with the perfect influencer to achieve your marketing objectives.

1. Define Your Goals: Before diving into influencer selection, clearly define your marketing goals. Are you looking to increase brand awareness, drive website traffic, or generate sales? Understanding your objectives will help you identify influencers who align with your desired outcomes.

2. Identify Your Target Audience: It's essential to have a deep understanding of your target audience. Determine their demographics, interests, and online behaviors. This knowledge will enable you to find influencers who have a significant following within your target market.

3. Research and Vet Influencers: Conduct thorough research to identify potential influencers who resonate with your brand values and have an engaged audience. Look for influencers whose content aligns with your industry and who have a track record of successful collaborations. Consider their follower count, engagement rates, and the authenticity of their audience.

4. Analyze Metrics: When evaluating influencers, don't solely rely on follower counts. Dive deeper into their analytics and metrics. Look for engagement rates (likes, comments, shares), reach, and the quality of their content. Micro-influencers, with smaller but highly engaged audiences, can often be more effective for niche markets.

5. Authenticity and Brand Fit: Assess the influencer's authenticity and determine if their personal brand aligns with your company values. Evaluate their content style, tone, and messaging to ensure they resonate with your target audience and convey your brand message seamlessly.

6. Engage with Influencers: Once you've shortlisted potential influencers, start engaging with them. Follow them on social media, like and comment on their posts, and share their content. Building a genuine connection can increase your chances of a successful collaboration.

7. Reach Out and Personalize: Craft a personalized message when reaching out to influencers. Highlight why you believe they are a perfect fit for your brand and how your collaboration can be mutually beneficial. Show genuine interest in their work and express enthusiasm about working together.

8. Establish Clear Expectations: When discussing collaboration details, clearly communicate your expectations regarding content creation, posting schedules, and performance metrics. Set realistic goals and ensure both parties are on the same page to avoid any misunderstandings down the line.

9. Monitor and Measure: Regularly monitor the performance of influencer campaigns. Track key performance indicators (KPIs) such as reach, engagement, click-through rates, and conversions. Evaluate the effectiveness of different influencers and adjust your strategy accordingly.

10. Build Long-Term Relationships: Successful influencer marketing goes beyond a one-off campaign. Nurture relationships with influencers who deliver excellent results and align with your brand's vision. Long-term partnerships can help create a consistent brand presence and enhance credibility over time.

In conclusion, influencer marketing can be a game-changer for brands seeking to expand their reach and connect with their target audience. By following these steps and finding the right influencer for your brand, you can unlock the power of influencer marketing and propel your business to new heights of success.

Must read: 5 Effective Strategies for Collaborating with Influencers to Boost Your Brand's Social Media Presence

[vaovalis]

Vao’Valis Basic Character Record

~All scores are intended to measure low to absolute top-end Super Powered Beings, and are weighted as follows - 

1 = Average Human 2 = Peak Human -- Average and Peak Human scores reflect a broad and extremely common thresh-hold of what a typical human may attain, but may be supernatural in origin. Weak magic and minorly beneficial mutations may fall within these bounds, as will the vast majority of normal humans/human-like beings within the natural scope of their potential. 3 = Low-tier Superhuman 4 = Low-Mid tier Superhuman 5 = Mid-tier Superhuman 6 = Mid-High tier Superhuman 7 = High-tier Superhuman -- Covering the wide gamut of magnitudes and intensities of mortal-grade Super Powers, scores of 3-7 are typically the hard limit of even the mightiest Super that is still mortal in nature and not Divine/Comparably Cosmic of nature and scale. 

A small number of conventionally recognized Supers in the City of Heroes universe would have powers and characteristics exceeding a score of 7; chiefly, the powerful Incarnates and similar.     While it is possible for a truly exceptional but biologically normal human to occasionally achieve a score of 3-4 in certain skills and abilities under remarkable collusions of circumstance, scores of 5 and higher are strictly Powered and can never, by a normal human with normal human limitations, be attained under any conventional circumstances. 8 = Low-tier Deific 9 = Low-Mid tier Deific 10 = Mid-tier Deific 11 = Mid-High tier Deific 12 = High-tier Deific -- Whether one is statting out an actual god or something godlike in power, scores of 8-12 are the Cosmic-tier stats, with even an 8 reflecting a degree of power, scope and potential in the given characteristic that is typically only possessed by gods, cosmic entities, eldritch horrors of the highest magnitude and similarly unbounded/truly primordial entities.  

The most powerful mortals with Incarnate abilities may reach scores of 8-10 in certain cases, but scores of 11-12 are often so overwhelmingly potent and unfettered by limitation that very few of the gods themselves wield power of this magnitude even within the scope of their divine portfolios.

****************************************

Vao’valis - 

Height

: 5′ (152.4cm)

Weight

: 98lbs (44.45kg)

Eye Color

: Gold, banded through with red motes and flecks. Cat-like irises that burn dull ember-like red when emotionally piqued and in the dark.

Hair

: Black and red. Varies in length by style.

Species

:  Wildling - ‘Wildling’ is a collective term for Vao’s broadly kind, though there are numerous variations and mutations of Wildling that would/should count as species unto themselves in most respects.   Vao herself was naturally born a monoform wildling with cosmetic mutations that provide only trivial hindrances and benefits.

General Description

:   Vao’valis is a lean, wiry female with compact musculature, small breasts, nearly no curvature of the hips, pale skin and sharply pointed ears.  The words ‘lanky’ and ‘slender’ both apply poorly for how they clearly got into a fight with her body structure and appear to have both lost.

Her teeth are similar to human teeth, but sharper and more pointed than flat.  Her hands are six-fingered, gnarled with callouses and thick hide-like skin over the knuckles. They sport short, sharp, unattractive talons that jut like utility knife wedge-tips from the tips of her fingers. Such talons make minorly functional melee weapons in a pinch, but look like they would better serve as climbing aids for how thick and chisel-tipped their points are.

If seen, her feet have only the faint indication of the outline of toes. Where toes should be, she has a thick-webbed slab of flexible toe-meat that probably wouldn’t be attractive even to the avid foot fetishist but would probably be quite handy for swimming. 

Often carrying herself in a manner that flits between overly expressive and motionlessly huddled into herself, Vao’valis’ femininely curved, perpetually youthful 20-somethingish face could be called pretty if you like impishly pixie-like facial features and a wide array of overly dramatic facial expressions that ‘talk’ almost as much as she does with her mouth.

Vao’valis will often be seen wearing clothing that was clearly chosen because it pleased her, not because it was expected to be attractive.  It would be evident to most inanimate objects that Vao puts no effort at all into cultivating an attractive appearance, though she has excellent hygiene and is a reasonably clean, tidy person when it comes to how she keeps her belongings and worn accoutrements in order.  

While she seems to make no effort at all to look stylish, pretty or attractive for any gaze other than perhaps her own, it will not be uncommon to witness her admiring someone else’s style or attractive presentation if the whim strikes her.  

**Physical and Mental Attributes - 

Strength:  1

    - Vao’valis’ physical strength is completely unremarkable, and comparable to a that of a human of equal size and stature. She is in good physical shape for her compact form and figure, but she’d find it difficult to do more than two pull-ups and asking her to carry 50lbs or more is going to get awkward for her pretty quickly.

Agility: 2

     -  Vao’valis’ overall dexterity is well honed and competent. She has good balance and has practiced defensive martial arts sufficiently to be proficient at using her overall agility well in combat situations.  At her best, her agility is comparable to professional athletes, but not Olympic-class athletes.

Endurance: (4) -> 7

      - Vao’valis can take a staggering amount of physical punishment before her injuries will overwhelm her. Pain and physical torment will not be effective deterrents or methods of torture if used against her, and the kind of beating she can take, as well as degree of compromising injuries she can sustain and still function, is definitively superhuman. Having learned how to harness her powers in expanding ways, Vao’valis’ durability in battle is equal to that of some of the more powerful Bricks in the world, though her passive durability when she is not focusing her powers and actively expecting to engage in battle is still 4.  

Intellectualism: 2

        - Smart as any normal human could typically wish to be. With the proper education in any given subject, Vao’valis could fit right in with any well-educated human in common circulation.  Her intellectual abilities are not Superhuman, however.   She forgets things, fails to retain information, falsely recall/misremembers things and fails at rational consistency just like any other highly intelligent but normal human can, does and often will.

Comprehension: 7

        - Vao’valis’ capacities to interpret information, intuitively arrive at useful (not always correct) conclusions, perceive the obscure and reframe/internalize information in a manner that is useful to her is extraordinarily potent.  

She is frequently seeing angles and perceiving possibilities that others would never imagine and would likely think insane for their own inability to comprehend as she may, and in terms of creatively applying the knowledge she is capable of acquiring and retaining in the first place, she has the potential to rival the most cunning, insightful and creatively intuitive Super-powered minds on Earth.

**Powers and Abilities (Arcane) Primal Fire Control: 10         -- At this level of power over the concept of Fire, Vao’valis may create or instigate both literal and conceptual Flame in any environment and under any atmospheric circumstances, including total absence of atmosphere.   Her Fire damage inflicted on objects and creatures may bypass mortal-tier resistances to normal Fire unless the target has equal or greater resistances to Fire comparable to her Fire Control score. 

Additionally, her Fire may burn or otherwise damage Conceptual/Immaterial objects and creatures. ** Power Inversion: Vao has learned to invert her Cosmic Fire into equal and comparable expressions of Darkness and negative energies.  She must meditate and focus for several minutes to realign herself from one to the other, and while attuned in one aspect, she cannot use powers sourced in the other. 

-- Thermogenesis: (4) -> 5

     -- Vao’valis has learned how to transmute molecular substances into other molecular substances with a 100% success rate. Maximum mass: ~10lbs.  Additionally, she may fully create new matter and material states conforming to the same parameters as an act of true ‘Ex Nihilo’ creation.  Ex Nihilo creation requires her to focus and concentrate for 4d4 hours.  She may perform no other tasks during this time, and any distraction substantial enough to break her exclusive focus disrupts the effort completely.

She cannot transfigure or create radioactively unstable materials, but may transmute virtually any form of matter into other forms of complex organic matter, or replicate a complex object she has studied in detail that conforms to these parameters.  The effect is permanent and never ‘wears off’.

Arcane Rejuvenation (Self Only) - -- Self Healing: (3) -> 7     -- Passive regeneration renders Vao’valis immune to normal diseases, infections and non-magical toxins.  She will regrow lost soft tissue over the course of moments and bone over the course of minutes. Through trial, error and practice, Vao has learned how to turn aggression and indignation into extraordinary self healing.  When attuned to Darkness, her capacity for self-healing is even greater if she rips life and essence away from other things and consumes it. By harnessing her indignation and willful rejection of injury, Vao is able to brutally mend her own physical wounds with or without consuming the energy of anything else.   In both cases, the process is swift, brutal, painful for her and often gruesome for others to observe. She cannot heal others by these means.

-- Life Support: (3) -> 7     -- Vao’valis can hold her breath and function normally for indefinite intervals. Additionally, she is capable of withstanding the crushing depths of oceanic depths to any depth, the void of space/vacuum for any length of time and even a certain degree of direct exposure to cosmic forces such as solar winds and spatial anomalies. 

-- Tireless: 8       --Vao’valis does not require sleep or downtime for restive purposes. Additionally, at this level, she is completely immune to conventional forms of fatigue/exhaustion and can only be forcibly made weary or tired by Powers from a source of superior rank to her Tireless score.  Only under extraordinary and highly unusual (probably very otherworldly/magical/divinely instigated) circumstances will any degree of exertion result in Vao’valis experiencing physical fatigue in even superficial fashions.

-- Ageless: 8      -- Vao’valis ceased physically aging after reaching the peak of physical development.  Her natural lifespan is indefinite unless slain (Caveat: see Automatic Self-Resurrection below), and she is both immune to sub-divine powers that would physically accelerate her aging as well as noteworthily resistant to even divine-grade powers that would modify her physical age in any way.

-- Automatic Self-Resurrection: 12      --Vao’valis was born with this inherent power. It is not acquired through normal means and the character may not bypass, prohibit or modify the automatic effect of this power.    If slain, Vao’valis’ body will swiftly erupt into superheated magical energy that will obliterate most things/beings within ~30′ of the meltdown.  From the ashes of her remains, Vao’valis will reform complete and whole, and likely extremely irate.   Though this power is extraordinary to extreme degrees in its potency and its certitude, anything she was wearing, holding or carrying will almost certainly be obliterated unless it can withstand this degree of an eldritch pyroclasm. Nothing short of truly unusual means beyond standard conventions altogether can keep her dead or prohibit her near-immediate, violently explosive resurrection in the event of her momentary demise.  Most forms of magic and even divine intervention will be of no use in preventing, mitigating or meaningfully interfering with this process, though this will not be known to assailants unless they work this fact out for themselves somehow. If she has not self-resurrected within the past 1-3 minutes, she will immediately sef-resurrect when slain.   If she is slain again within that 1-3 minute window after self-resurrecting, it will typically take the rest of the 1-3 minutes for her to do so. There is no limit to the number of times she may self-resurrect in this manner, and she does not experience her resurrection as a traumatic event.  Lingering curses, magical effects and physical afflictions that were in effect when she died are wiped out when she self-resurrects. Chronospatial Anchor: 5 -- Is unusually resistant to the negative effects of temporal and spatial anomalies, effects and conventional hazards.  She is unusually resistant to hostile teleportation/summoning effects, but not immune. Additionally, as a passive effect, attacks made against the character will automatically miss or result in a failure state 5% of the time.   Powers over Time/Space from superior sources may override or ignore any/all of these benefits. Arcane Telekinesis - Limited (Flight Only):  7 -- Can Fly in and out of any atmosphere at up to ~500 meters/sec (~1120mph); is not affected by wind shear. Is minimally affected by atmospheric hazards, such as high winds, storms, etc.  Can carry as much as her Strength allows while flying at no loss to her otherwise perfect maneuverability. *********************

Other Skills/Aptitudes - 

Crystal Forging: 8   -- Vao’valis has spent many decades of her life honing her mundane and magically broadened abilities with cutting, shaping and creating crystals and crystal-wrought objects.  While she has persistently focused her abilities on making jewelry and small decorative/wearable items, there is no reason she could not apply her skills and knowledge to other pursuits involving the making and shaping of crystalline structures. Enchantment/Imbuement:  8 -- Vao’valis’ capacities to enchant and imbue an object, typically of her own creation, with magical energies sculpted to various purposes is tremendous and blurs the lines between peak mortal ability and divine-tier ability in several ways.    She rarely requires the exhaustive time, rigorous preparation or painstaking labor conventionally involved in the making of magical items, and her creations are remarkably stable and difficult to disenchant.   With the degree of labor, sacrifice and effort that mere mortals often require for making standard magical items, Vao’valis can create Artifact-level objects.

Metalsmithing: 3 -- Vao’valis has cultivated and developed sufficient skill in the processing and shaping of metals and alloys for her purposes of making jewelry. Her metallurgical knowledge is primitive, intuitive and experientially acquired, and not in line with modern Primal Earth metallurgy.  For a primitive metalsmith, her ability is remarkable, but irrelevant compared to standard metallurgical practices of Primal Earth. Krav Maga:  3 -- Having progressed rapidly into core proficiency with this martial art, Vao has arrived at an astonishing degree of basic competence with the brutal techniques. She continues to develop her skills and pursues mastery with both the basics as well as situational modifications of the style.

Quirks, Caveats and Drawbacks -

The vast majority of Vao’valis’ powers and abilities are Magical in nature.  With the sole exception of her automatic self-resurrection power, sufficiently powerful Anti-Magic zones and protections may prove greatly effective against her powers, or allow for her to be contained, bound or otherwise suppressed. While Vao’valis has no intrinsic vulnerability to elements or concepts contradictory to Fire (Cold/Ice for example), she has a moderate psychological aversion to experiencing them for prolonged periods.  This goes well beyond merely not liking being cold and, if she is made to feel cold for more than about an hour, her abilities to focus, to remain on task or to accept a priority that is not directly related to getting warmed up will be seriously compromised. Vao’valis grew up and spent most of her life on a world where technology was sporadic and minimal. Her fundamental trust and comfort with various forms of technology is touchy at best, and so she is considered to have a Mild Phobia of any technology she feels she doesn’t understand in at least a basic, relatable manner. She may use forms of technology that others have helped her feel comfortable with, or that she somehow brings herself to feeling comfortable with, though this hurdle must be overcome in an occasionally case by case basis with this type of technology or that.    When faced with technology she has not acclimated to, she will default to regarding it with suspicion, mistrust and potentially even presumption of hostile purpose. Vao’valis’ nature would be very ADHD, Autistic and spontaneously Manic in human terms if she were ever properly evaluated for such conditions.   These characteristics are so fundamental to her that they must be considered load-bearing pillars of her identity.  They cannot be cured, curbed or mitigated without intrinsically asking or forcing her to suppress her basic identity. Vao’valis grew up and lived most of her life in a post-apocalyptic variant of Earth. She is frequently enchanted by common sights on Primal Earth featuring pristine wilderness, abundances of clean and available water, rain and storms that nobody has to hide from and similar.    The emotional and psychological impact of such an environment on her is likely to be Mild to Moderate given that she’s now been on Primal Earth for a while, but she will always have to work through reactionary feelings when confronted with something that catches her off-guard in these fashions.   Sometimes, this may prove completely prohibitive of her being able to engage in rational activities while she gawks or stares in wonder at something. Vao’valis is extremely Demi-sexual, so much so that she believes herself to simply be Asexual altogether.  She does not feel physical attraction to others irrespective of their appearances, and she has no tactile understanding of sex as a motivating force because it simply isn’t one at all for her.   As a result, she can be relied upon to be largely incapable of relating to others with normal to strong sexual motives, and she will frequently fail to recognize any attempt made by others to flirt or engage with her in a manner that is meant to provoke a sexual interest or response.   

 She is not young or inexperienced with her own patterns and deficits - she will often enough recognize only in retrospect when someone was trying to flirt or ‘be sexy’, though she will still feel such behaviors to be bizarre, weird and perhaps amusing.

Vao’valis has a filter, and a very good one, but at times the wrong one.  She has a strong tendency to be extremely honest and to show no reluctance to tell even a stranger exactly how she feels or what she thinks.   She does not perceive these acts as revealing of vulnerabilities, and does not fear others knowing things about how she really feels or what she really thinks.  Vao’valis has an extremely distinct and aggressive sense of justice and injustice. When faced with what she perceives as being evidence of slavery and oppression by greedy and/or vain tyrants, she has an overwhelmingly strong drive to protect the perceived victim and lash out at the perceived oppressor.

[levibecker]

“Already fast and observant. You’ve got a talented kid on your hands.” Levi shot a grin while the little girl halted from enthusiastically racing around, instead glancing up at him wide-eyed, entirely engrossed by his towering height. It didn’t take the girl long to catch up to him either, which had been equally notable. In a blink, a figure had crossed his path. As Farrah’s attention averted to the teeming crowd in the near distance where he’d apparently guessed correctly that she’d emerged from minutes before, the number of interested people seemingly even increased since. His surprise company clearly had a significant presence. The exasperation on the woman’s expression was entirely understandable, and honestly, Levi couldn’t imagine how she was able to constantly live in that way, to be constantly followed and strangers wanting attention from her as some prominent celebrity on a regular basis. Not to mention everyone prying and wanting ceaseless information about your life, which seemed like the worst part of it all to him. He’d certainly react in the same way. How uncomfortable. She deserved a ton of credit, that was for sure. Yet, when she hands over her young child to him, Levi’s deep blues widened. “Oh I —“ He quickly began, though the woman had already stepped off with a purpose again towards the raving, anxious fans waiting. Shit. He was doing this properly, right? 

She clearly knew exactly how the horde needed handled, well accustomed to the routine. While the girl’s mother remained occupied with entertaining, Levi just kept glancing back and forth to the child’s expression, ensuing there wouldn’t be indication that she’d become upset her mother wasn’t around currently and had been dropped off with him instead. “She’ll be back soon.” Levi kept assuring on and off in a whispered tone, clearing his throat. The height fascination of the mini runner might have worked in favor, potentially creating a sense of comfort. Thankfully. Regardless, the little girl’s gaze didn’t shift from where her mom went. 

Witnessing the star of the hour head back over to them as the mass looked satisfied, he gave her a nod, carefully handing back Emmy to her mother. “She was really good.” Levi reported back, glancing back in the distance momentarily. “You have quite the fan club. I definitely lost count of all those photos and autographs you were doing.” 

the  fact  that  farrah  is  a  top  athlete  is  both  impressive  and  telling,  especially  when  you  consider  that  she  can’t  even  keep  pace  with  her  daughter  who  seems  to  have  boundless  energy.  it’s  astounding,  really.  farrah  reflects  for  a  moment,  chuckling  softly  to  herself  as  she  thinks  about  the  genetics  at  play.  ❛ her  father  is  tall,  i’m  tall,  my  parents  got  some  height  as  well.  it’s  no  surprise  she’s  starting  to  look  up  at  the  world  and  equating  tall  with  family, ❜  she  says  playfully,  her  voice  filled  with  warmth  and  pride.  as  she  gently  pushes  back  the  curls  framing  emmy’s  face,  farrah’s  eyes  light  up,  allowing  her  to  appreciate  the  sparkle  in  her  daughter's  bright,  inquisitive  eyes.  ❛ hmm ? ❜  farrah  hums,  her  voice  tinged  with  curiosity.  as  she looks over her shoulder, she  see  that the  crowd  had not dissipated, but instead was growing and  begun  to  form   nearer to trio.  farrah  turns  back  towards  levi,  irritation  flaring  up  as  she  swears  under  her  breath  at  the  situation.  a  deep  sigh  escapes  her  lips  as  she  tries  to  compose  herself.  ❛ yeah,  ugh.  okay.  can  you  hold  her  for  a  moment  while  i  take  care  of  this  ? ❜  she  asks  the  unfamiliar  face.  before  the  stranger  can  even  process  the  question  or  offer  a  response,  farrah  is  already  transferring  the  little  girl  into  their  arms,  her  movements  swift  and  efficient.

as  she  pivots  away,  she  instinctively  shifts  into  "celebrity  mode,"  throwing  on  a  radiant  smile  that  emanates  warmth  and  friendliness  — an  image  she  knows  is  crucial  to  maintain.  to  an  outsider,  her  demeanour  appears  effortlessly  charming,  with  bright  waves  and  enthusiastic  hellos  as  she  engages  with  her  fans.  however,  those  who  really  know  farrah  can  easily  pick  up  on  the  subtle  tension  underlying  her  smile  —  it  feels  just  a  bit  too  tight  as  she  navigates  through  the  throng  of  admirers.  she  dutifully  signs  autographs  and  poses  for  photos,  knowing  all  too  well  that  if  she  doesn’t  seize  this  opportunity  to  engage  with  the  public  now,  she,  her  child,  and  the  stranger  would  be  subjected  to  unwanted  attention  and  scrutiny,  plastered  all  over  social  media  and  tabloid  headlines  before  the  day  was  through.  it’s  a  dance  she  knows  all  too  well  —  balancing  her  professional  obligations  and  her  desire  to  protect  her  family's  privacy  all  in  one  fell  swoop.

once. the crowd has officially dispersed after a few minutes, farrah comes back once more with her arms open for emmy, plucking her out of the strangers arms. ❛ god damn. ❜ she huffs out, relaxing her shoulders.

[stillsimpinforfanfiction]

Sub!Edward Nashton x Dom!Reader

18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: 2029

Warnings: Mommy petname (no mdlb though), pegging, light bondage, handjob, making out

Summary: After Eddie mentions wanting to be pegged in passing, reader decides to take the initiative and...provide that for him ;)

You and Eddie had been dating for a while, and already lived together. You had done some kinky stuff together, quickly figuring out that Eddie liked to be dominated. Today, however, you were going to kick it up a notch.

A few weeks ago, Eddie had joked about how work had been "fucking him in the ass" lately and you joked about how that should be your job. You didn't mean anything serious by it but he had gone quiet, looking up at you to say "Would you?"

"Huh?"

"Would you um...be into that, I mean. Like...fucking my ass" He cringed at how lewd the end of the sentence was, but you could clearly see his cheeks tinted red. Wow, he was serious.

"I would definitely be into that. We should try it sometime." You responded with a wink. Later that night, ordering a strapon.

Well, it finally came and after trying it on and seeing that it all fit right, you made a plan.

The second you heard the key turning in the lock, indicating that your boyfriend was home, you ran over.

"Hi honey, I-"

You slammed your lips into his, cutting his sentence off as you cradled his face. Instantly, he started kissing back, pent up from the stress work had given him today.

You hummed in response to his immediate submission, sucking his bottom lip between your own, bringing out a whimper from the taller man. Your hand snaked around the back of his head, lightly tugging on his hair until his head was pulled back to give you access to his jaw, which you quickly started sucking on.

"F-fuck! Y/n...oh GOD" he was so responsive, already bucking his hips into yours where you could feel him already starting to get hard. God, he was adorable. As you moved down to his neck, you slowly pushed his jacket off of his shoulders and down his arms, intertwining your fingers with his as it fell to the floor. His chest was pushing against yours over and over from his heavy breathing as you pinned his wrists to the door, licking up his Adam's apple at the same time.

"Baby...oh my god...I can't..." He moaned out, his glasses quickly getting fogged up from his quick panting.

"Can't what, sweetheart?" You drew back, pulling him down to your height by his tie.

"I can't fucking think. You're so...god I don't think I can last long" he admitted, his hands shaking as he brought them to your chest.

"Okay, well let's take a break and go to our room then, yeah?" You smirked, picking up his coat and other things he brought home and headed to your bedroom; him following you like a puppy.

Once you set everything down, you backed Eddie into the bed, pushing him down by his shoulder so he was sitting on the edge. While kissing his forehead, you started unbuttoning his shirt, taking notice of how much he was bulging through his pants.

"Can I...take this off?" he whispered, his fingertips grazing your skin from underneath your tanktop.

"Of course, sweetie" You smiled, letting him lift it up nervously. It was so cute how he always acted so timid despite you both having had sex and seen each other naked dozens of times by now. You couldn't get enough of him.

His eyes went wide once he lifted it higher at the sight of your nipples. You weren't wearing a bra cause...well...you'd been home for a few hours and who the fuck where's a bra at home.

Helping him take it off the rest of the way, you leaned back into him and his arms immediately went around your waist. His eyes not leaving your tits, you giggled.

"You can touch them, Eddie" his eyes lit up, removing one of his arms from around you to lift your tit to his mouth, sucking on the nipple and swirling his tongue around it. You moaned at the contact, looking down and realizing his glasses were still on and very much fogged up.

"Can I take your glasses off?" You asked softly, knowing how much he cared about them and not wanting to trigger anything.

Without stopping his sucking, he hummed 'mhm' which sent vibrations through your already sensitive nipple. You carefully took them off his face and set them down on the desk behind you, choosing to work on taking his belt off next.

"Good boy" you whispered, unbuckling his belt and pulling it from his pants as he whined in response to the pet name. You felt his hand hugged around you start pulling on the back of your skirt, clearly wanting it off. Understanding the signal, you turned around, noticing his whine at your tit leaving his mouth, and bent over as you slowly pulled the skirt down.

Once it was past your ass, you felt Eddie lick from your cunt to your ass over your panties. Whipping around, you lightly smacked his cheek (something he said he was into and you've done before), and pushed his chest so he was lying back on the bed.

"Did I give you permission to do that!?" you feigned anger, knowing he knew that as well but liked the roleplay.

"Mmmm... 'm sorry....I couldn't help it, you just looked so delicious" He whimpered out, his eyes glazed over with lust and essentially making the "🥺" face he knew you always gave in to.

"Alright. Well I don't believe you're gonna keep your hands to yourself because of how naughty you are. So I'll just make sure you do this time" Crawling up onto the bed, you pinned his hands up to the headrest, using the discarded belt to wrap between his wrists around one of the bars of the bedframe.

"Awww....Y/n pleaseeeee...I want to touch you!" he begged, his hands desperately to pull out of the restraint.

"Well, you should've thought about that before misbehaving, huh? Guess you'll just have to watch tonight." You grinned at him sadistically, following it up by licking from his abdomen, chest, neck, and up to his lips.

"FUCK...please...oh my god please!" He thrusted up involuntarily with need. Looking down, his bulge almost looked painful with how much it was straining against his pants.

Silently, you leant down, giving him hickeys all along his abdomen as you started to undo his pants, slowly pulling them off of him, leaving him in his underwear. The whole time, tears started rolling down his bright red cheeks, his mouth hanging agape with an attempt at a desperate plea for more that only came out as groans.

He looked so picturesque like this, you couldn't give in just yet. You wanted him completely at your mercy. So, you watched his reaction as you slowly licked up the underside of his cock through his underwear, pushing his legs up at the same time so you could wrap your arms around his thighs.

"AHHHH! PLEASE! Y/n please I'll do anything! Please!" His speech was starting to falter, clearly getting close despite you not even directly touching him yet. You had to stop to make sure he wouldn't cum too early. So, after pulling his underwear off, you walked over to the nightstand.

"Wh...what are you doing?" He tried peering over his arm at you, even though you could guess that he couldn't see anything at all without his glasses from that far.

"Eddie...remember a few weeks ago you said you'd like to try pegging? Well, I got a strapon now, would tonight be a good night? We don't have to tonight, or ever for that matter, we can continue what we were doing either way." You sauntered over to him with the harness in place, close enough til he could see it.

His cheeks somehow seemed to get even more red as he drew his bottom lip into his mouth before nodding his head.

"I need to hear you say it, sweetheart. We aren't doing this otherwise."

"Ye...yeah. I want it. Please fuck me already, pleaseeeee!" He whined out, bucking into the air for good measure.

Laughing at his urgency, you picked up a bottle of lube and grabbed a pillow from the side of the bed, making your way back around. You had already fingered his ass before and he was good at communicating when to stop or slow down and you had a safeword, so you weren't worried.

Crawling up the bed, you lifted his hips up and put the pillow underneath him to prop up his ass for you. Deciding to tease him a bit, you poured a line of lube down his cock, some of it dripping from his tip onto his stomach which made him whine again. Kissing his leg, you pulled both of them up onto your shoulders as you wrapped your hand around his cock to spread the lube around, making him moan even harder.

The lube still on your fingers, you slowly pushed one of them into his ass, letting his leg fall from your shoulder. Once the second one was in, he threw his head back and groaned in a way that sent tingles right down to your core. His groaning only grew louder as you pushed a third one in, curling them up to push against his gspot and seeing him tense up. Pulling them out quickly, he reacted almost instantly.

"NO! PLEASE I NEED YOU! I'M SO CLOSE Y/N"

Leaning your head against the knee still propped on your shoulder, you just smiled. "I know baby, that's why I pulled out. You don't get to cum quite yet."

Listening to his continuous pleading as background noise, you worked on lubing up the strap and surprised him by teasing his hole with it. That finally shut him right up. Not that his pleading wasn't angelic of course.

"Are you ready, baby?" You kept still, taking in the disheveled mess he was for you.

"Yes, please, I can't take it anymore jus- AHH" he moaned so loudly you were almost worried you hurt him. But no, he was thrusting helplessly against you, trying to get you to go deeper, so you did.

Pushing in all the way to the base, you listened to his array of pleads and started slowly fucking him, taking his cock in your hand to start pumping at the same time.

"OH GOD MOMMY! PLEASE GIVE ME MORE!"

"What? What did you just call me?" You stopped fucking him, shocked at the new pet name, but quite delighted.

"I'm...I'm sorry! I said mommy...is that okay?" He looked down at you, barely even registering his own words through his lust.

"Of course, baby, of course. What would you like mommy to do?" You smirked, loving how submissive he was now.

"Just keep fucking me, please, I need it so bad mommy"

You went back to jacking him and pushing into him, albeit slowly since you wanted to edge him a bit.

"PLEASE! MOMMY GO FASTER. HARDER. ANYTHING!" He almost shouted at you.

Finally giving in, you did just that, pressing your thumb over the top of his dick as your hand slid up and down it, and turning on the vibration button on your strap with the other hand, a surprise you hadn't told him about, you fucked up into his gspot.

Within seconds, he came harder than you think you've ever seen him do all over his stomach. Him calling out mommy and moaning so loud you were sure the neighbors were going to complain, you slowly stopped your movement, pulling out and taking the strap off.

He was panting hard, trying to catch his breath coming back down from his high as you leaned up to kiss his lips deeply. You would clean up and get food and water for him soon, but first you just held him in your arms since you knew he loved that most.

"I love you, Y/n" his gaze was akin to a painting made my aphrodite herself, his eyelashes lidded with his pupils blown wide still.

"I love you too, Edward" You leaned into him, brushing the hair from his forehead to press a long kiss there.

[hedgiwithapen]

Wait, you believe me? Ezekiel and Cisco

The  guy standing at the gate had a really  great accent, Cisco had to admit. “I’m the Librarian,” he said, like that explained  everything, when Cisco had spotted him on the cameras, very obviously looking for a place to climb the somewhat rickety chain link fence that surrounded STAR Labs. “This is a restricted area,” Cisco said, nodding at the signs while folding his arms in his best impression of Joe. He knew he wasn’t exactly the most intimidating as a civilian, but this guy was kinda scrawny too, so it was worth a shot. “Sorry, Mate,” the guy beamed, holding up a black ID wallet for a heartbeat. “I’m here to pick up an item on loan.” “Don’t you usually just send out a letter with a fine?” “Oh, Ezekiel Jo-Johns, Special collections!” he said brightly. Well, it’s certainly a unique way to try and rob us. Cisco thought, Better than bribing a janitor, anyways. He knew he should call Barry in, since he was in civvies and he couldn’t count on just blasting the guy and hope that the resulting concussion would give him a little memory loss but not actually hurt him much. But it was a fairly boring thursday, and Cisco  wanted to know what the guy thought was here that was both so special and also remotely portable. “Special collections, huh? I thought that was just old books they didn’t let anyone touch without those acid free gloves.” Ezekiel gave an almost affronted look, casually checking the gate. “Nah. I mean, yes, some of it, but this isn’t the 16th century. Clearly. Because Time traveling is wrong. I mean, uh,  impossible.” The way he said it before correcting himself sounded like he was quoting a lecture. Internally, Cisco wondered if whoever gave that kind of scolding might come pay them a visit here. “ Pretty much all libraries lend audiobooks, ebooks, movies, some special collections have, like, powertools, or 3D printers… video games, which is pretty sick, right?” Cisco nodded in agreement before the little voice that sounded like Caitlin in his mind hissed, do not agree with the thief.

  “Yeah, well, that’s a good pitch for our tax dollars at work, but we didn’t borrow anything from CCPL.” “Oh, not that library,” Ezekiel smiled again. “Maybe it was your boss? I have the paperwork…” he rummaged in his shoulderbag. Cisco stopped him “How do you know I’m not the boss?” “Well when I hac--looked it up in our records it said Harrison Wells, and you sure don’t look like a paraplegic old white guy, so…” “Dude, he died like a year and a half ago.” “Oh. You should really update your website, then. And we should update our files.  Still using the card catalog system, it’s a bit of an issue. Anyways, he borrowed a thing, we need the thing back, so if you wanna just unlock that gate--” “Sure,” Cisco said easily. More than ever he really wanted to know what this dude’s plan even was. He wasn’t a metahuman, his prop badge just said “ the Library” on it, and he sure didn’t have a getaway car idling nearby. “I’ll help you find it. What is it, exactly?” “Oh-- yes, good idea, you want to make sure I’m not here to steal all of your, uh… particles.  Uh, wood box, about so big--” he indicated  nearly his own height. “Got a stick in it. Pointy.” Cisco had a flash of memory--just regular recollection, no blue strobe. Sara had brought them a box like that, something that needed to be destroyed. Something they’d tried desperately to destroy. Something that couldn’t be destroyed, and so needed to be locked down with people she trusted, but where even she couldn’t get at it. Not Argus. She’d warned him not to open it, so of course he had. The Spear of Destiny had promised him power, had promised him his brother, had promised him a thousand things he had seen himself with in vibes. He had locked it back into darkness. Anxiety crept up the back of his neck. “Of course. I think I know where Dr. Wells put it. Follow me.” This was no longer a case of turn the thief away and laugh about it later. This was A Problem. Cisco mentally calculated the days since the last massive teamup and came out with well under a year, so hopefully whatever calamity this was, it wouldn’t require a full crossover. Ezekiel followed him, his footsteps almost silent as they went down one curving hall, past the cortex and further. Cisco smacked a scanner, opening one of the storage rooms that was eighty percent boxes of STAR Labs sweatshirts and the remaining twenty star labs mugs.  “Right here,” he said with a gesture. The “librarian”  grinned, looking a bit apprehensive for the first time. “Great. I appreciate it, really.  Some people--all kinds of judgements, you know? That I’m too young or handsome to be a Librarian. So thanks for not making me call my boss and pull up my MyFace account and all that, you just believed me.” “Oh, I super did not,” Cisco said, pushing him in and closing the door hard and fast. It chirped as it locked. “You should have picked a better cover. FBI, MI6, literally anything else.” He heard some of the best cursing of his life from the other side of the door as he pulled out his phone, sending the trouble alert.  No one was stealing the Spear of Destiny on his watch. Just ahead, the elevator doors glimmered with blue.

[sennsational]

pairing : itadori yūji x gn!reader

genre : fluff

word count : 1.3k

tw : none

affiliated with : @hanayanetwork

[a/n] : thank u bb @fairyfuyu for letting me join ur across the universe collab ! this was my first time writing for sweet baby boy itadori and my gosh i fell in love with him all over again 🥰🥺💕 big thank u to my wifey @ara-mitsue for helping me out and beta reading this, much love 🤍

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It’s a regular day. The all too familiar sound of the alarm goes off at 6.30 AM, making you reach out for your phone to click the snooze button. After silencing your alarm for the fifth time, you begrudgingly get out of bed and drag yourself to the bathroom, where you do your morning routine.

You look back at the time; it’s almost 8.00 AM already. You let out a big sigh followed by a yawn.

So much for waking up early.

You decided yesterday that you would take today to focus on studying the material for your next exam. However, getting your lazy ass out of your dorm proved to be a difficult task on its own. You wouldn’t have to wake up this early if you hadn’t decided to procrastinate on your school responsibilities. But to be fair, it seems like there's no end to the accumulating pile of exams you have to study for.

You make your way over to the campus library with a backpack full of books you have to memorize and no motivation to be found. Honestly, nothing seems out of the ordinary today.

Nothing, except for the fact that a certain pink haired boy is currently screaming at the printer in the library.

‘’Dammit, you have one job, and even that you can’t manage to do! Fuck! I’m so screwed,’’

Confused, you walk up to him to see what’s the matter.

He reaches for his phone and begins to type something at a frenzied pace, not noticing your presence. ‘’Why do these things always happen to me?!’’ he grumbles unhappily, making you pity him a little.

You wordlessly stand next to him as you check the machine for anything that seems to be out of the ordinary. The drawer for the paper is filled to its maximum capacity. There is no indication that the printer is out of ink, but what you do notice is the black touch-screen and the fact that no lights are on.

You bend down to look behind the device, and that's when you discover what the problem is with the printer.

It’s unplugged.

You try to hold back your laughter when you stand back on your feet. The pink haired boy is still frantically typing on his phone, while loudly muttering to himself, clearly not focussed on his surroundings. He stops however when he feels you tap him on the shoulder.

The guy directs his gaze from his phone to you and looks at you with widened eyes. He then turns around, finally taking a look at his surroundings, as he sees the other students as well as the head of the library frowning at him with clear annoyance.

He hastily apologizes.

‘’Euhm, the printer isn’t plugged in,’’ you try to helpfully supply as you point to the plug on the floor.

You watch his expression change from shock to disbelief and then morph into embarrassment as his cheeks get slightly more pink. The guy laughs awkwardly at you, before he too looks at the back of the device, and sees the plug on the ground instead of in the power outlet.

He bends down and plugs it into the power socket before standing to his full height again and pressing the green button. The sound of the printer coming back to life echoes through the quiet library, and you can see him stare incredulously at the machine.

You giggle and pat him on his shoulder. ‘’Friendly advice. Next time, check and see if the printer is still plugged in,’’ you say cheekily as you make your way over to one of the empty tables, taking out your books and notes to start your agonizing task of studying.

You haven’t even read one sentence, before you get distracted by someone taking the seat opposite to yours. It’s the same guy you helped earlier. You tilt your head to the side and cast him a questioning gaze. The pink haired guy scratches behind his neck before he speaks.

‘’Thank you for helping me earlier! You really saved my ass from getting scolded by Nanami-sensei,’’ he picks up his backpack and rummages through his stuff. ‘’I want to thank you, but the only thing I have is a piece of chewing gum. Will that be enough to suffice?’’

You stare at him, completely at a loss for words. The guy mistakes your silence as a sign of discomfort, making him gulp. ‘’Sorry, I should probably introduce myself first. My name is Itadori Yūji,’’ he reaches out his hand for you to shake and to his giddiness you take it, while giving him a gentle smile.

‘’Nice to meet you, Itadori. I’m Y/n.’’

It feels as if time completely froze, when you both keep staring at each other, hands still intertwined. After a few more seconds, you seem to be the first one to come out of your daze as you giggle and let go of his hand, opting to push a few stray hairs behind your ear.

Itadori lets out a small cough as he drags his hand through his hair, dishevelling the pink locks even more. ‘’So, euhm, you still want the gum as a sign of my gratitude?’’ he asks sheepishly. You nod and take the gum from his hand, thanking him as you unpack the wrapper and pop it in your mouth.

It tastes like strawberries. Very fitting.

‘’You know, I’ve never seen you before. I mean, if we were from the same class, I’m sure I would’ve remembered a pretty face like yours,’’ he muses absent-mindedly. You, however, are taken aback by his words, feeling your cheeks heat up at being called ‘pretty’.

Itadori directs his gaze to you and notices how your face has turned way more red than before. Concerned, he reaches out and places his palm flat against your forehead. ‘’Are you feeling okay, Y/n? You’re burning up,’’ he looks at you with worry pooling in his brown orbs.

His sudden action makes you let out a quiet shriek as you desperately try to get a hold of yourself. ‘’I-I’m fine! It’s quite h-hot in here d-don’t you think?’’ you stutter out, mentally slapping yourself for stuttering in the first place.

Itadori laughs, making the other students shush him for being loud again. He apologizes and lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘’You’re cute. I think it might be you, because I’m freezing over here. Well not freezing, but you get what I mean,’’ he rambles, making you snicker.

‘’Say what, how about we study together at the local café off campus? Change of scenery and nobody who keeps shushing us–’’

‘’You mean, you,’’ you interject, making him playfully roll his eyes.

‘’Okay, me. Are you in though?’’

He smiles brightly at you when you nod, taking a hold of your hand and dragging you out of the library. You make a mental note of how much larger and warmer his hand is in comparison to yours.

‘’I know the perfect café we can go to! They have the most delicious beverages and a wide variety of pastries!’’ he rambles on, making you chuckle at his cuteness. Something about Itadori’s care-free personality brings you a sense of freedom and happiness that you haven’t felt for quite some time now.

One thing is for sure, though. You won’t be studying today.

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reblogs and comments are appreciated !

taglist : @ara-mitsue @justanawolf @beautifulblhell @tunamiya 🖤 — if u would like to be tagged in my future fics, then kindly sent me an ask 🥰 i’m still contemplating if i should make an google form for it

© sennsational 2021 - all rights reserved. please do not copy, modify, or repost my works and claim it as yours.

[arc-gx]

thank u @therussiancat​ @noyin​ and of course Logan for tagging me (damn i’ve never been tagged so many times in a post lol) (hey this is only like a few days old ya know)

Name/Nickname: well. Quinn, Leaf, Oak, Aris, Enarchy, and i'm undoubtedly gonna come up with more sooner or later—

Gender: nonbinary but also very confused about like what more specifically

Star Sign: Leo :/

Height: 5′ 9″ ish

Time: 3:02

Birthday: 20 August

Favorite Band/Groups: My Chemical Romance, CAKE, Imagine Dragons

Favorite Solo Artist: Dodie, DAOKO, NF, Stromae, Louie Zong, Insaneintherainmusic, no you can’t make me choose one

Song Stuck in my Head: uhhh it's something we're playing in band blue ridge saga and i really don't know why it's stuck there. also spring and a storm by tally hall

Last Movie: It’s a Wonderful Life

Last Show: Into the Badlands

When Did I Create This Blog: March 1, 2018 (we almost at 3 years damn)

What Do I Post: a fuck ton of reblogs, some art (usually Sanders Sides but I think it’s time to start some new stuff... mcyt??? and other stuff probably too), and of course cryptic shit. oh and music! there’s three musics rn.

The Last Thing I Googled: postlimit.com (to check the year i made the blog lol)

Other Blogs: @art-gx​ (it’s for art whoa), @legless-lizard-love (it’s only there for a joke because someone made a blog to hate on legless lizards and I’m a contrary asshole)

and then that @chef-knight-exogenesis one... the only thing that happens there rn is i make random drafts and leave them for dante to one day find lol

Do I Get Asks: when i reblog ask games yeah. and the occasional random ask

When Did I Choose my URL: technically it started as arcgx7 and then i changed it because it was supposed to have no number idk when i fixed it though

oh wait when like why it's that? uh it was my username on amino and since i was into pokémon and GX cards had just been announced i was just like arceus GX haha arc-gx okay then

Following: 253 blogs

Followers: 286... dang

Average Hours of Sleep: like 5-7 usually

Lucky Number: 7, 17, any number i’d like when it’s convenient for me thanks–

Instruments: flute is the only one I can really play proficiently, but also i can technically play piano, sax, harmonica, guitar, ukulele, drums and stuff, and I’m getting an EWI for christmas soon (they’re out of stock rn :( )

What am I Wearing: grey sweater.

Dream Job: video game composer

Dream Trip: a road trip with friends either to New York or across Europe or Britain. I wanna sing songs driving down a highway in a convertible, okay

Favorite Food: pepperoni pizza... delicious shit

Nationality: a marry kin. from a marry caw. :/

Top 3 Universes I’d Like to Live in: Pokémon, the Owl House, Breath of the Wild

taggities~

@logan-sanders-enthusiast @mallowmocha @that-peach-anon @vann-cat @maddyknight28 @musicalmaniac @solicitous-lyo @wegosplash @moxysanders101 @dantedeletes okay uh 20 is like a lot and like dante tagged the same people damnit why are we cursed with being mutuals with the same people :/ so here's 10. hope i didn't tag people who've already done it.

Thanks for tagging me @depressionwithacapitald !!

Rules: answer 28 questions and tag 20 blogs you are contractually obligated to know better.

Name/Nickname: Danie

Gender: I’m quite simply a lady

Star sign: Pisces

Height: 5’4

Time: 10:41 pm

Birthday: February 2003

Favorite band/groups: that’s a hard one. Glass Animals for now 🤷🏻‍♀️

Favorite solo artist: currently girl in red ,, her singles really b hitting lately

Song stuck in my head - Love Taste by Moe Shop 😔 I’ve had it on repeat all day,,,, kinda obsessed with Shiki’s rap in it hhhgggg

Last movie: Shrek 4

Last show: the Promised Neverland,,, can’t wait for Thursday

When did I create this blog: august of last year hhh

What do I post: sander sides fan art and in rare cases my characters 🧍🏻‍♀️

The last thing I googled: signs a cat is getting closer to you 🥺 her name is Voopoo and she’s very sweet

Other blogs: I made an infinity train side blog but I did nothing with it

Do I get asks: yes!!!! and I’m really bad at answering them

When did I chose my URL: when I was messing around,,, turned out no one else was named deodorant stick so I got kinda lucky on that end.

Following: 163

Followers: bro at LEAST ten

Average hours of sleep: imma say a solid 7 probably

Lucky number: 6

Instruments: piano and that’s it

What am I wearing: pink sweater with cute clouds and some stretchy pants

Dream job: Animation head director, show creator

Dream trip: I have no clue. Ireland ?

Favorite food: homemade tostadas

Nationality: American 😳

Top 3 universes I’d like to live in: Breath of the Wild, Breath of the Wild, and Breath of the Wild

Imma tag uhhhhh

@queer-and-longing @therussiancat @anxious-chaos-art @weareallfandomtrash @microwavedsaladisevil @hteragram-x @briandthemoon @foursideharmony @envarchy @falsemood @introvert-stage @romanapologist

and anyone else who wants to do it ! Hope I’m not bothering y’all by tagging :,D

[kaiqarker]

the watchtower’s lighthouse | stan vogel

pairing: stan vogel x reader

warnings: smut, swearing

summary: months after a disasterous first date with stan vogel, your paths cross once more when you’re lost within the depths of kern canyon national park during a thunderstorm and stan happens to have inherited a shift patrolling from the watchtower.

a/n: back from the dead because of this man. hope y’all enjoy :)

THE SKY EMULATED STAN VOGEL'S morals, consisting of gray unpredictability. If he was within the familiar walls of his assigned cabin, located along the grounds of Kern Canyon National Park, it would be an indication he wouldn't have to do much patrolling. Campers usually stayed put if there was rainfall, sticking to their own site and not off doing God knows what to the land Stan takes pride in preserving. Cascading a thick husk of superiority and knowledge was his favorite thing about the job, which is why he was disappointed he was stuck maintaining the watchtower for tonight.

The surveillance for the watchtower was run by a tight knit schedule of volunteers and the occasional firefighter that needed a change of scenery for a couple days. Needless to say with all the strange occurrences and sightings, there have been less and less people willing to take on the task. And now the duty was bestowed upon the park ranger— at least for tonight. He swore to himself that at sunrise he would be out of there and back to being the persistent, vexing gum stuck to the bottom of everyone's shoe.

Stan now sat in a wobbly chair, feet propped up on the desk and his trusty binoculars in hand. His surroundings were darkening, quicker than they would at his cabin because of the parade of trees towering over the area. He could mostly only see shadows and the outlines of the forest. His paranoia kept him on the lookout, knowing all too well what kind of perilous entities the park harbored, dark secrets he was trusted in keeping.

It was why his body jolted and he nearly fell out of his seat at a sign of movement. His hands itched to drop the binoculars and reunite with the shotgun propped up in the corner. His burst of anxiety was halted, however, once the lenses revealed a person. A wandering, soaked person clearly becoming victim to the thunderstorm that had been periodically easing and worsening for the past two hours.

Stan stood, walking over to the window with his binoculars hanging from the strap around his neck. He easily pried it open and stuck out his head. The drizzle of rain didn't reach him because of the roof stretching out along the perimeter of the watchtower, but he still felt the dip in the temperature. He estimated that it had dropped at least fifteen degrees since the start of the storm, the disappearance of the sun only escalating the drafty change.

He was about to shout down at what is most certainly a woman who had strayed too far from her campsite but then she twisted around, finally noticing the light emitting from up above. Recognization crumbles both of their attentive expressions. She becomes more than a drenched, carmine tank top, huddled body, and ropes of wet hair. He transforms into the exact opposite of a saving grace when his beige uniform and ironically angelic face are perceived.

"Well, well, well. Look who it is. Stalking your ex, eh?" Stan called down to her. The pattern of swift and drawned out words, swirled into a provoking and often mocking Australian accent, reached her ears over the light patter of rainfall.

She sighed, dramatically enough for Stan to see the rise and fall of her diaphragm. She considered turning around and braving the unknown of the wilderness again. If it wasn't for her sore feet and her prediction that she would develop some sort of hyperthermia if she stayed out in the cold, then she would've already been on her way.

"We went out on one date. You don't count as an ex," she clarified, craning her neck up at him. His smirk from knowing she was in a miserable condition and that he was the only one that could do anything about it ignited the first sense of heat she had felt in awhile. Her fists clenched against her crossed arms. "And you're the one with the pervy binoculars. On the prowel for half-naked campers, are you?"

He scoffed, winding his head to the side for a moment. "Enough with the bullshit. Are you coming up or not?"

In any other situation, he probably would've dragged their reunion out, teased her for being so helpless and naive. But she was shivering and looked so small curling into herself; it was a sight that played his heartstrings like a mystical harp. Even after a date gone wrong and the resentment that followed, he couldn't bare to see her like this.

She, on the other hand, still clung to some hesitation. Cozying up in a small, confined space with Stan where there were no other people around to ground her into the realms of sanity wasn't a compelling option. The both of them simply didn't get along. The nightmare of their date was very vivid in her mind, too, and she didn't want tonight to be a repeat of that.

Almost like nature could sense her doubts, thunder crackled and reverberated around the forest. Lightning flashed, incandescent and forbiding. The rain intensified, hitting her bare skin with a harsh force. Muddy shoes stumble forward a few steps but still don't gravitate towards the ladder.

"Better move your ass, sweetheart! Unless you'd prefer to get struck by lightning? Not to mention all the dangerous things lurking around that you haven't the slightest idea about."

Undeniable complacency was weaved into his taunt. However, it did get her moving. If she would've bothered to look up or if there wasn't such vast distance between them from their differing heights, she might've seen the concern nestled into glimmering, cobalt eyes.

Suffering through a climb where her wobbly legs and white knuckles were put the use, she eventually made it to top. Stan already had the latch swung open, bent down in the center of the room and waiting for her with an outstretched arm. Reluctantly, she took his offered hand and allowed him to pull her inside the watchtower.

"Crickey, you're freezing," he murmured. There was a softness to his features and the low timber of his voice. He'd even began rubbing over her fingers with his own, attempting to summon some warmth back into him, before he realized what he was doing and backed away.

"That's what happens when you get lost and separated from your friends and then get caught up in a storm," she summed up, monotonous.

"Your friends are idiots," Stan muttered.

She was about to deter the insults back his way until she suddenly felt a subtle weight on her shoulders. The scent combination of spearmint gum and lingering campfire smoke was sensed with a mere sniffle, and soon her hands were reaching up to pull on the sage green trim of his coat.

"You don't even know them," she settled for saying.

"They let you get lost, didn't they?" Stan's eyes found her wide ones, squinting slightly in familiar anger, but she could tell—this time at least—it wasn't directed towards her. "Yeah, bunch of mates, they are."

It was her turn to break the intimacy blossoming between them. She disconnects their stare that was inevitably going to convey all the unspoken feelings that still flourished inside of her to spare a glance over his shoulder. The furnace filled with a burning stack of dry wood lures her away from Stan, and she kneels down in front of it.

His hands go to his belt, elbows bent outward like he was posing as a chicken. He was unsettled by how consumed he was by his emotions. He wanted to give her space but then he finds himself reaching for her. He wanted to remain civil but the distaste in her tone and her infuriating, unreasonable glare casted towards him causes him to delve into his own hostile urges. The confusion of what to do and how to deal with her presence was boardering on insufferable.

But facing her, watching her beneath the firelight, the strain of his internal compass ebbed. He was no longer directionless or purposeless. The orange glare enducing a riveting shine to her hair and her tranquil countenance she upheld gazing into the flames had him feeling certain in just about every single thing that made the universe, the universe.

"You're staring," she whispers, a tremble in her reply she blames on recovering from the weather.

"And you won't even look over at me for a second." His observation coaxes her into peering at him, finding that he enclosed the distance between them by a few steps. A playful smile twitches across his lips. "What? Don't like a man in uniform?"

"I wouldn't be bragging about your outfit, Stan. You're a glorified Boy Scout," she remarks, rising from her position on her knees. Her thumb and pointer finger pinch the small, golden slate pinned to his shirt. "Even have badges and everything,"

"Get your grubby little hands away from my name tag. You're gonna smudge it," he grumbles, smacking her hand away; she lets out a humorless, short-lived laugh at his overreaction.

"Still an uptight asshole, I see."

"Still a mouthy brat, then?"

His retort makes her face harden. "Being honest doesn't make me a mouthy brat."

"Just inconsiderate?"

"You're preaching to me about being inconsiderate? You live off of ridiculing people. On our date, you insulted and humiliated our waiter because he didn't know the exact species of deer mounted to the wall."

"I was just taking a moment to educate him!"

"You called him a fumbling idiot who didn't know the basic fundamentals of biology!"

"Oh, like you were any better! Shoving your tits into the bartender's face to get free drinks!" He throws his hands up, easily overtaken by frustration and unresolved jealously.

"I know how much you make, Stan. You should be thanking me for that," she says slowly, deliberately, bringing up the one thing she knows will push him over the edge. He takes the bait, but she doesn't expect what he throws back at her.

"You're right. Thank you, sweetheart, for acting like such a slut on our first date that all anyone had to do for dessert was crouch down between your open legs."

Her mouth dropped at his statement. His exasperation dissolves to shock at processing his own harsh comment. He isn't able to focus on it for long, though, because she properly acts by allowing her palm to connect to his cheek.

Head snapped to the side, he can begin to taste a droplet of blood on his tongue, emitting from where his incisor pinched his bottom lip. He licks over the minor wound thoughtfully, heaving out a breath of false amusement. When he looks at her again, his face is dark and full of cruel intentions of revenge.

Stan surges forward and doesn't stop until her body crashes against the wall like she was just a bag of dismantled bones. His coat falls from her shoulders and slumps against the hardwood floor during the journey. His towering height and weight pin her in place, leaving her at the mercy of splayed hands and the relentless motions of his mouth against hers.

The awakening, leftover flavor of gum he must've chewed eariler just sinks in when he bites down hard on her lip. A whimper, the first sound she makes besides the ejection of a surprised gasp, is forced out her from the harsh gesture. A metallic taste replaces the one prior, one eager swipe of his tongue rolling past her parted lips.

The instinct to shoot her hands up and enmesh them in the soft, chestnut strands of his cropped hair is interrupted by an action of his own. He eases the intensity of the kiss, allowing her to breathe through languid, desperate puckers she reciprocates, but his fingers hook around both her bra and tank top straps, yanking them down her arms. She lifts herself out of them only to have him grasp the collar of her shirt and pull it down, her bra in tow, until they were just bundled material around her midriff.

Calloused hands fondled her breasts while his mouth diverts to her neck, sucking and nipping until her skin resembled the colorful patches of a quilt. She throws her head back against the wall, leaning into his touch and letting out the most delicate moans that had all of his blood gushing to the apex of his legs; she felt proof of it when he rutted himself against her.

Her forearms are squeezed between their bodies so she can reach the buttons of his shirt, manicured fingers working hastily and with not as much care she knew Stan would've liked, but he seemed to be too preoccupied by kissing her all over. Soon her hands were tugging up the white t-shirt he always wore underneath his uniform, and he helped her out by shifting it over his head and discarding it to the growing pile of clothes.

His chest was warm and inviting compared to hers. Her skin felt like cool marble underneath his fingertips, keeping her nipples pebbled and sweat from the heated exchange at bay. It was quite a contrast as their bodies continued to press together, her hands sliding along the expanse of his taut back while he concentrated on undoing her shorts.

"All mine," he mumbled against her jaw; it was certainly hard to disagree with him and all his handsy clutches and kisses that left her craving more.

"All yours," she confirmed softly.

The words barely left her mouth before she felt the heart-jolting sensation that was his hand sliding past her unzipped shorts and underwear. His fingers ran up and down down her folds, taking his time, ever the explorer. He often grazed her clit, encouraging her hips to arch into him for more direct contact, but he was careful to only give her a slight, fleeting amount.

"Stan." His name parted from her in a low whine—somewhat shamefully because she never thought she'd be in this circumstance, begging a hardass park ranger with a major superiority complex for a release.

"So wet for me. Awful naughty of you to get this soaked from one arguement with me, don't you think?"

She nuzzled her face into the side of his, nose brushing along his chiseled cheekbone. "Please."

"Aw, look at you. So sweet. You'd never think that you live to slander me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I am nothing but nice to you."

"Oh?" He inserts his middle finger into her, curling it precisely, while the heel of his hand grinds against her clit with every deliberate pump.

"Yes," she gasps.

Shallow pants gradually rack through her torso, and the ache of his throbbing cock becomes unbearable at the sight of her defenseless against his advances. He adds another finger, the grip and warmth of her slick walls causing him to shudder in anticipation.

"Such a little liar," he groans out after a particularly provocative contraction around his digits, one that rids him of whatever patience he had left.

He abruptly removes his hand from her shorts, something that makes her closed eyes flicker open. Her mouth immediately morphs into a pout and she squeezes his biceps in protest.

She isn't left waiting for long, hands on her hips guiding her away from the wall until the underside of her knees hit the edge of a cot. His mouth parts from hers once more, a sweet dragging of overlapped lips exchanged during the slow steps, so he can pull back the blanket. She looks over her shoulder at the neatly presented cot, which Stan must've brought with him along with his own fitted bedspread. She was now appreciative that he always came prepared.

Without having to be told, she crawled underneath the covers after ridding herself of the remainder of her clothing. Stan did the same once she was settled, becoming the final layer that draped over her body. The blanket and the crisp white of a top sheet stopped at the dimples of his back, and she was trapped in warmth, intensified by the glorious weight of his bare body on hers. Arms on either side of her head latch the cage as he leans down for another kiss.

"Don't mistake me keeping you warm as forgiveness. I'm still very mad at you. You drive me crazy," he sighs against her jaw, his eyelashes fluttering against the apple of her cheek.

"Don't mistake me moaning for you as an apology. You don't deserve one." Her strokes at the nape of his neck never faltered. Her thighs spread, legs winding around his, desperate for him to do something with his cock that laid twitching and swollen on her navel. "Well, you might if you fuck me hard enough."

"Shut up already."

Long fingers brick over her parted mouth in time with the repositioning of his hips, muffling the cries of consumption that came from him sinking inside of her. Eyes roll to the back of her head, almost completely sated by just the feeling of being filled. The head of his shaft glided against her most sensitive spot like a brush of shoulders, and her thighs tightening around his waist was her turning around, ready to chase shattering gratification.

Although slow, his thrusts into her were brutal. They held onto to each other like you would to ropes of a ruinous bridge connecting two cliffs, like they would be faced with a plummeting death if they were to let go. And yet, they were fighting along the wobbly planks, the semicircles of hip bones clashing together like medieval swords. It was all extremes, but neither of them would have it any other way.

He was making the most beautiful sounds above her. Through his ruthless motions, were breathy moans and whines of her name, the occasional praise intertwined into his enticing responses. Eventually, he allowed his hand to stop sealing her lips, sliding it down to clutch the flesh of her thigh with the promise of bruises. Her soft pleas and moans of euphoria joined his to create a symphony worthy of a ballet orchestra.

Strings of saliva conntected rouge lips to the marked skin of his neck, where she continued to suckle and playfully nip. The roll of their bodies picked up speed, both becoming impatient by the delicious ache they kept provoking, daring one another to spasm out of control. They craved for their muscles to become a tightrope and for the most intimate parts of them to pulsate from the finality of release.

"You've never looked prettier than you do right now. Your cunt squeezing me so tight, your mouth only able to form breathless whispers... completely wrecked. I love it."

"Please," she cannot help but beg, flickering eyes undecided on whether to shut her continue their hazy, half-lidded stare into his own.

"You want to come?" The inward pull of his eyebrows and the slight curl of his parted mouth way as well have been a mocking pout. "I know you do. I shouldn't even let you, though. You've been intolerable. I should just come all over your writhing body and leave you here without any satisfaction. Even if you were to finish yourself off, it wouldn't be enough. It would only feel subpar, and you know that, don't you?" His breath fans her face like the furnace had moments ago, and she can only whimper in reply. "Only I can sate you, sweetheart."

Her hands, whose nails had already inflicted damage to the freckled canvas of his back, sweep over his shoulders to cup his jaw. Her thumb strokes his jawline while the other ventures down the column of his throat, feeling the bob of his adam's apple with every constristing swallow he took. She could tell he was close, too, and decided to nod her head gently in agreement to his words, to wave her white flag.

Her surrender is reassured by fingertips dragging down her torso to her enlarged clit, granting bone-vanishing swipes that causes stuttered gasps and limbs going slack. It only takes a few seconds of coaxing rubbing for her release to erupt, the molten lava bursting from the pit of her stomach to electrify just about every nerve in her body. Her encompassing walls clutch around him so tightly that it summons a delirious climax from him.

His strenuous pace wavers, his hold on the cot becoming prudent, as if it was a buoy keeping him afloat through the thrashing waves of pleasure. White, sticky ribbons coat the inside of her thighs, and it's only when his heartbeat ebbs from his eardrums that he cracks his eyes open and collaspes into the small remaining space between her and the wall.

Stan speaks after catching his breath, remaining pants interwoven into his declaration. "This should've happened sooner."

"It would've if you weren't such a prick," she noted, sparing him a quick glance.

"Okay, maybe... I wasn't on my best behavior. But I was nervous. I liked you a lot. I wanted to impress you."

"And you thought bragging about how you're a know-it-all when it comes to plants and wildlife and the park's terrain was going to the trick?"She questioned, snorting at his logic. His nose twitch, an indicator of embarrassment, and she grabs his arm and tucks herself into his side. "You're such a dork."

He smiled at the gesture before she continued, "I'm sorry that I flirted with the bartender. I didn't mean to make you feel like you were second best or anything. Honest to God, I just wanted free stuff."

"Well, the cream puffs you got out of it were actually delicious," Stan admitted, tilting his head in her direction.

She smiled back at him. "I know, right?"

Stan may not be a prime example of a good guy but he had always took glory in being good at his job. That's what kept him going, that's what fueled him all these years. Now, he was considering what life entailed outside of that. Outside of the stressful responsibilities and government conspiracies and the never-ending studious tendencies. She came to him for refuge tonight, but, the truth is, he had been relying on her for a long time. To fascinate him, to stand up to him, to guide him back to where he belonged.

He felt like he was finally pursuing something that was more important than his duties here, than anything else he's ever experienced. He was an off-bound ship, cruising blind into the dead of the night, and she was a lighthouse, promising purpose and salvation from every bad thing that ever tried to sink him.

// idk who to tag but i think @sojournmichael @fckinsupreme & @instinctsxbaby might be interested (you’re all so talented)!

[svchengss]

two halves | l.mh

PAIRING. mark lee x reader

GENRE. fluff, heavy angst

WARNINGS. major character death, grief

WORD COUNT. 2.4k

SUMMARY. right after his death, mark watches how you cope with the loss

A/N. i saw this one tiktok and it kinda inspired me to write this

// just to let you guys know, reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated !! thank you for reading :D

white walls, white room.

mark scrunched his face, his eyelashes slowly fluttering open, the dark brown iris adjusting the size of the pupils due to the brightness of the walls reflected upon it. a soft groan vibrating from his throat, he assessed his surroundings where nobody or nothing else is present. he looked down to inspect his clothing, hoping that it would give him any clue of this room or space he’s in - an all white outfit. this scene looks exactly like the one in the movies where the characters realize they are dead. except this time, he really is.

THE REALIZATION.

the muffled sounds of cries and sobs rang through his eardrums, triggering a reflex to wake up from the state that he thought was a slumber. he is lying on the hospital bed with the light blue clothing piece, faint light illuminating the space where people are huddled up around him. he waved his right hand in the air to let them - who he later remembered as his family members and friends, know that his eyes are already open. nobody moved even the slightest, the atmosphere being very much dead, scent of medicine intoxicating his mind.

then he saw someone who he holds very dear to his heart - you, enter the hospital room, dropping onto her knees as soon as she saw his state of condition. in an instant, he shot up from his lying position and ran over towards the crying you, shoulders shaking and all. bringing his hands to hold you in his embrace, not even a glance spared by you brought a hundred and one questions to him. why didn’t anybody acknowledge him when he woke up? why can’t you feel his touch?

“mark lee. time of death, 10:23 pm,” the tall doctor with glasses rested on the bridge of his nose announced before leaving the room, holding the clipboard close to his chest. mark gauged the monitor screen next to the bed, the line indicating his heartbeat is no longer showing spikes going up and down - instead becoming a flat line, deafening beep present with it. then he sees himself still laying on the white sheets, eyes still closed and no signs of breathing evident. a surge of panic rushed through his veins.

this can’t be real.

mark rushed into the bathroom, a surprised gasp leaving his lips. his body is semi-transparent, the shape of the toilet bowl can be seen through his left shoulder. his body shakes with terror, slapping himself in the cheeks multiple times just to make sure that this whole fiasco is just a nightmare.

oh my god. no, this is real.

mark stood in the back of the crowd, witnessing the funeral of someone and that someone being him. of course, he’s never expected to get the sight of his own service. his mother is standing beside you, her hands rubbing circles onto your back in an attempt to calm your mourning state. you’re still looking ever so pretty, a black chiffon dress on your body with white pearl necklace on your collarbones and your wavy black hair hanging down your shoulders. not that anybody else would notice, it’s someone’s death after all.

“stay strong, y/n. he will always be in our hearts,” the same rhythm of sentence in tones full of pity being directed towards you. mark’s sister enveloped you into a warm hug despite the chilly atmosphere, whispering comforting words into your ears before getting into the family’s car. you’re not going back home, not yet when you still feel reluctant to let him go.

“why did you leave me?” the only coherent words from your hoarse voice can be heard. mark, who is crouching next to you, is holding his tears back. instead, he sends a sorrowful smile - not that you can see him anyway. is there any way to let you know of his presence?

“goodbye, love. i’ll see you tomorrow. i promise,” you dusted the back of your dress from any dirt or debris, leaving a rose on his tombstone. the thing is, he doesn’t want to part from you. and that’s why his figure is seated beside you in the cab. he grazed his thumb on your knuckles, making you feel tingles rushing through. you pushed the slight thought away, you must be tired to be feeling things.

you slowly opened the door to your apartment, you and mark’s to be exact. the whole house is making those memories make their presence in the back of your head again. the kitchen where you two baked cookies for christmas last year. the bedroom where you snuggled upon his chest, not wanting to start your day just yet. the piano where he sang those cheesy songs for you. the living room where you slow danced at 3 in the morning. his favourite mug resting on the countertop, probably will not be used again. this whole situation is too overwhelming for you. you feel weak.

with each day passing by, you didn’t even miss one without a visit to his resting lot. you would tell him stories of how your day went or something that you read which would made him ponder. the words carved on it are already etched onto your brain.

mark lee. a son, a brother and a loving partner.

the clock hanging on the grey wall has it’s arms stretched out to display the time - two in the morning. you can’t sleep just yet, not having any for the past few days even. dark circles are appearing around your eyes, not yet recovered from the puffiness from all the crying. mark’s heart aches everytime he takes upon your state. he feels very guilty, not that death was his choice after all. it’s simply fate, a cycle of life, a destiny that every single creature on this planet will end up with.

you’ve taken the whole month off work, still feeling ever so helpless. in fact, you can’t even remember the last time you’ve stepped out of the apartment, the night before his passing perhaps? you’ve completely shut yourself out from any interactions - deactivating your social media, not accepting any calls. you just need time to heal.

as if you’re being controlled by some type of mastermind, you shoot up on the balls of your feet, pulling away from the couch. those images of you slow dancing with mark, hands in each other’s holds, your chin rested in the crook of his neck and being ever so engrossed in love are coming back more often now. you trudged to the vinyls arranged neatly on the shelf, picking one before placing it on the turntable - frank sinatra, one of his all time favourites.

holding your hands up at about his usual height, you start twirling around. you can almost see the outline of his smile, his features right in front of you. except, he is. he’s been observing your moves the whole night. mirroring your current position, as if you can really see him, it’s a miracle for him. overjoyed actually, he doesn’t realize the salty tears streaming down his cheekbones and so are yours.

“thank you for coming, dear. it’s a pleasure seeing you in what, weeks?” a laugh escaped the woman’s lips. you reciprocated her hug before stepping into the living room. it’s been a long time since you’ve been here, was it in january? mrs. lee had invited you over for a simple dinner, checking up on how you’ve been. you can see that the family is still struggling over his passing, the way his sister’s eyes are not twinkling as usual makes it hard to cover up the lie.

“you see, this was on his high school graduation day. he was very happy that day, doing all sorts of dances and stuff. finally escaping from hell as he said,” she giggled. she’s been displaying all sorts of memoirs to you, photo albums and photographs scattered on the wooden floor. to be honest, you’ve never seen these before. all smiles mark lee, easy to notice among the crowd. not that he’s changed, he’s still that boy now. mark just sat on the couch - his favourite spot, observing the throwback session going on. if he’s still here, his sister for sure is going to tease the hell out of him.

“he told us so much about you, you know? as if everything reminds him of you, that boy is lovestruck. really,” that sudden confession made your tongue dry, unable to find a perfect response. you were really that special to him.

“drive safe honey, you can come over whenever you want. you know you’re always welcome here, right?” mrs. lee handed you the small box filled with some things you’re going to keep. she kissed both of your cheeks, mr. lee standing behind her giving you a small wave. a small smile crept up onto your face before igniting the engine, turning your wheels out of the housing area.

the netflix show is playing on the television, the faint voices of the characters playing in the background. you’re sitting on the floor, flipping through the photo journal you two decorated throughout your one year of relationship. you can see his little scribbles and doodles, often a little dinosaur symbolising your always grumpy personality.

in one photo, a golden birthday hat is nicely placed on your head with him kissing your right cheek. you remember clearly, a surprise party for you last year. in the following ones, they are mostly candid shots - you blowing out the candles while he looks at you full of love, him eating a portion of your dish while you pout your lips. you would say it was the night of your life, spending it with the guy who stole your heart.

the next page of the journal is a shot of mark taking a photo of you in the park. you suppose it was taken by donghyuck? that one picture of you was stuck as his lock screen wallpaper for a while, you remembered getting so embarrassed over it. mark would give you the same excuse every time you questioned him about it, implying that the sight of you would light up his whole day. cheesy really, but that was what remained as memories of the past, tied neatly in your heart.

the rain trickling against your window eventually made you doze off to wonderland, creating the perfect chance for mark to browse through the journal in your hands. carefully lifting it from yours so that you won’t be stirred from your sleep, he settled down in the space beside your sleeping figure. slowly turning the pages, he smiled fondly at each photo holding a thousand moments that can’t be recreated ever again. some of them would make him giggle. he kneeled down slightly to place a soft kiss on your forehead, making you squirm a little due to the faint touch.

“give him a chance. i’m not saying that you should forget mark but it’s been months, you should live up a little,” yerim’s voice sounding concerned from the other end of the line. perhaps she’s right but you just need more time. but how much longer? you’re afraid you yourself have no specific answer for that enquiry.

you’ve been feeling better by now, welcoming people back into your life and carrying out the same daily routine of yours. going to work, buying groceries, going to the drive-thru and whatnot. of course, the void is still obvious - coming back home to an empty atmosphere instead of him waiting for you on the couch, sometimes dozing off, no more weekend cafe runs. but at least you’re trying your best. you bid your goodbyes before tapping the red button, ending the call. plopping the device onto the mattress, you stared at the white ceiling, deep in your own thoughts.

you should give him a chance. live up a little.

yes, you should.

getting hold of the phone and immediately opening the messages app, you searched for jungwoo’s number. he’s been trying to take you out for dinner for a while now. you still remember his exact words, whenever you’re ready he’s always there, waiting for you. you’re not really sure about that particular question but it wouldn't hurt to give it a try, right?

typing in the words ‘okay, sure’ is already a pressure for you but you still proceeded to press the send button. glancing at the clock showing the time, the notification ping redirected your focus onto the screen.

jungwoo: cool, is tomorrow night okay with you? i’ll drive, of course :)

tomorrow night. okay, tomorrow night.

an elegant red gown is wrapping your curves perfectly, a thin necklace with the seashell charm around your neck while your lips is decorated with the dark red tone, highlighting your poise appearance. hearing the doorbell ring, you tidied up the dresser as your eyes landed onto the picture frame holding a photo of you and mark. a sad feeling crept into your heart but you pushed it away, opening the door to reveal jungwoo in a black and white tuxedo.

you would say that the dinner went well, none of his questions or chatters crossing any borderline. he’s just so polite, even you are amused. feeling comfortable with his presence, the small gap in between is eventually closing down since you’ve learned so much about each other during the other few dates. one night completely changed it for you, him offering you a dance at some event he’s bringing you with.

you observed that his moves are slightly similar to mark’s - not completely of course, mark’s is very unique and very…mark-ish. for the first time ever in the recent turn of events, you flashed a genuine smile. one that is not just for show, one that only comes out when you’re truly elated, one that you only manage to give to certain. mark just observed the scene from a distance, admiring how you’ve managed to find the spark of happiness you once lost.

alas, mark saw his other half become full again with another, her eyes twinkling with the same joy but this time, it’s not him in the reflection.

[doveypink]

come and find me [technoblade imagine]

summary: techno faces the consequences of your death. word count: 5.4k warnings: mentions of death, violence. a/n: this is a sequel to the one i left behind; read that first![ tag list: @shu5h @sylum @zefrenchturtle ]

Time is a tricky thing. It is insistent, always rushing forward without fail and unforgiving to those swept away in its tide. On occasion, though, time is a gentle monster; it takes you in its arms and kisses your head, lays you gently in the waves, and carries you to shore.

Time was not so kind to Technoblade. 

Following the death of his friend, the archer, time became his enemy. Each day thereafter was a living hell full of tsunamis and stormy seas that bellowed within. The voices in his head used to sound like a low hum, the soft slap of waves in the back of his mind. Now, they were as loud as ever; if he didn’t catch himself in time, Techno would be overcome by the crashing waves and the tumultuous ocean inside his head.

“You have that look again,” Phil said softly from across the room. Techno’s eyes jumped to meet Phil’s, no longer burning holes into the wooden planks of the floor. 

“You keep saying that like I know what it means,” Techno griped, instantly feeling sorry at the sight of Phil’s frown. The older man sighed and stepped towards his friend, taking a seat next to him.

“I know it’s difficult right now. That’s an understatement, clearly, but you saw what happened with Wilbur and I,” Phil explained, a cloudy look in his eyes. “It’s not easy to be asked to do something like that. All we can do is hope that it was for the best and carry on.”

The voices swarmed more powerfully in Techno’s head. He knew it was wrong to feel so angry at Phil for trying to comfort him, but it didn’t seem fair. Wilbur was Phil’s son, yes, but their bond was nothing like the one Techno had with his friend. The rage, the emptiness, the carelessness that Technoblade was experiencing reached heights that no person could begin to understand. The pain was his alone to carry.

Phil took note of Techno’s silence and gave his arm a gentle pat. “I’m here if you ever need anything,” he said. The man stood and padded out of the room to leave Techno on his own, his gaze turned back to the wooden planks. 

Techno often wondered about you at times like this, when he found himself boiling in his own rage without someone to level him. Funnily enough, you weren’t much different from him in your anger; you would grit your teeth and quietly stare at some spot in the corner or keep your hands busy with anything you could find until you would tire yourself out. He wished he could see you now or hear your voice to remind him to calm down. He knew you were still around as a ghost, but your presence didn’t ease him as it once did. Nowadays, the thought of you only filled him with guilt, and his heart felt hollow without you around. It was hard to even look you in the eyes anymore.

“Techno?”

As if summoned by his own thoughts, you appeared in the window of the cabin. Your hands were cupped against the glass as you peered in comically, your eyes squinted as you struggled to see through the foggy glass. Techno glanced at you and sighed, rising from his chair to let you in; he tried ignoring you once, but it resulted in you attempting to climb through his window, so he always welcomed you in. Technoblade swung the door open and you jumped into view, cheerful as ever. 

“Techno! I’ve been looking for you!”

“Looking for me?” the man wondered, crossing his arms. “I’m always here.”

“I know, I just got a little lost again,” you said sheepishly, wringing your hands. Techno stepped aside to let you in, foolishly wondering for a moment if he should let you borrow his cloak to keep warm. It would change nothing, of course; you were a ghost, the cold didn’t bother you. It was funny in some awful, convoluted way how often Techno forgot that you were dead. As a ghost, you would come and go at random, yet your presence hung over him like storm clouds. You were everywhere, bouncing around behind his eyes and throughout the cabin: all the books on the shelves you never read, the letters with your handwriting strewn across the desk, the scratches in the floorboards from when you dragged your chair. They were reminders of you, as if he could possibly forget. 

“Don’t you have the compass Phil gave you?” Techno asked, referring to an enchanted compass which directed you to the cabin. Phil had given it to you during your last visit, much to Techno’s disapproval; he hated seeing you like this. It’s like you were a new person entirely, a stranger that wore your skin, but your soul had been exchanged for something else. He wasn’t sure who you were anymore, and every voice in his head argued that this was his own fault.

“I gave it to Ranboo,” you replied, fiddling with your sleeve. “He needs it more than I do, doesn’t he?”

“It was a gift for you,” Techno griped. “You can’t just give it away. Who knows what people could do if they had a direct line to us? Too many know where we are as it is.”

“I thought you wouldn’t mind. Ranboo basically lives here now.”

“Well, you were wrong.” Despite the warmth of the cabin, a chill seemed to run through the room as Techno stared coldly at his friend. He wasn’t sure why this angered him so much; realistically, he knew that what you had done was a smart idea. Ranboo lived just nearby Techno and Phil’s cabin, and with his memory issues, it wasn’t safe for him to wander aimlessly through the cold. Still, something about the way you could give such a tool away hurt him more than he cared to admit. He didn’t even want you around—he could hardly stand having to look at your ashen skin, and hearing your voice made his heart shake with grief—so why did he care?

You frowned, taking a small step forward to place a hand on your friend’s shoulder. Techno flinched at the contact, alarmed by the deadly cold that seeped through his cape. Up close, you could feel it: Techno was alive, yet the dark chill of death seemed to bound itself to him like a shadow. This was your influence; the bitterness that you rarely saw in him during your living days was an arrow, and you were its target. 

“I know you don’t want me here. I can see it,” you said. Techno’s eyes widened slightly as you continued. “You look at me like—like I’m a stranger, but you’re searching for someone else. I know you can’t help it and neither can I, but I want to be that person so bad. I want to be what I’m supposed to be, but I don’t know how. I just miss feeling normal. I miss you.”

Techno swallowed thickly, averting his eyes. “I don’t think I can help you,” he admitted, taking a step towards the cabin door. He felt the cold air press against the wood and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “Whatever reassurance you need, I can’t give that to you. And you can’t come here haunting the place until I do, either. I don’t need ghosts.”

“But you… You’ll still let me visit, won’t you?” You asked quietly.

The man seemed taken aback by your question. He seemed to consider it for a moment before responding, his voice not quite as frostbitten as moments earlier: “You can always visit.”

It was strange how suddenly Techno seemed like himself again. The winter froze him over, encasing all the warmth you could recall from when you were alive, but now the ice shuddered and cracked. The guilt that he had grown accustomed to merged with a longing he had been afraid to feel; he missed you, he missed every second that you weren’t around, and he hated himself for it. It was a selfish thought to want you here when he was the one who tore you away from the life you once clung to. It was selfish to want something good when all he seemed to do was snuff out any glimpse of light that came his way.

You smiled, albeit dolefully, and glanced around the room. You noticed a sheen of silver hanging on the wall and, propped against the wall, was a quiver of arrows—the same weapon you had found in the rubble of L’Manburg. The item you had once cherished no longer served a purpose to you, so you gifted them to Technoblade on your first visit postmortem. It surprised you that he accepted the gift in the first place, given that he seemed completely unnerved with your presence, so it was odd to see it displayed on the wall where all could see. It reminded you of an urn, a tangible indication of someone lost. 

You weren’t sure how you felt by the sight of the item; were you meant to be flattered? Offended? The experiences that followed your death were far more puzzling than the ones you had in your life. When you were alive, you developed how to think and feel through socializing—your life was nurtured, guided along by those you met. In death, however, you were isolated. Techno already said it: he didn’t need ghosts, no one did. No living person wanted to face the dead because they were busy with the troubles of their lives, and rightfully so. Still, it was lonely to be dead. There was nothing that could teach you how to live in shadow, nobody to hold your hand and tell you that you would be alright. Death stole you right when you thought you would have survived to see the day, made a fool by hope, and your only friend was left to see the sun rise without you. This was it, this was the cruel joke nature played on the wanderers of the earth: to live and watch those you love die, or to die and watch those you love live. 

Your gaze was pulled from the sharp curve of steel and you headed to the door. “I should leave you, now. I didn’t mean to…” Uncertainty crossed your features and you gestured your hands through the air to fill in the blank. 

Techno seemed to understand, nodding as he reached to open the door for you. It was a quiet goodbye as you slipped into the snow, only turning back to wave at your friend as his cabin shrank in your view. The man stood in the doorway until you were a speck in the distance, a stir in his heart which rushed through him like a cold breeze. You would return.

* * * * *

“What do you know about necromancy, Phil?”

The older man looked up from his book. His eyes narrowed at his pink friend and held a look of disapproval. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

Techno frowned, crossing his arms. “What? I barely said anything.”

“You don’t have to,” Phil sighed, snapping his book shut. “It’s not a good idea to bring them back, especially if they haven’t told you that they want to come back. You don’t know what it could do.”

“But you do. You can help.”

“I don’t want to help. And besides, the methods I’ve tried haven’t been successful, I know from the attempts with Wilbur. It didn’t change anything. You have to give this a rest, it's been weeks since you slept.”

“Well you’ve done more research, haven’t you?” Techno took a seat across from Phil and leaned in. “There’s gotta be something you didn’t try or somebody who knows enough.”

Phil hesitated and looked down at his hands. “I don’t want you to do this, but… You could speak with Dream.”

The younger man stiffened, trying to mask his displeasure. “What for?”

“I heard that he was doing research of his own. I don’t know what his method is or if it even works, but I don’t trust it. He wants to make himself a god, so it can’t be without its consequences.”

“Godship always comes with consequences. I’ll take my chances.”

“Are you really prepared for that?” Phil looked his friend in the eyes. “It’s too much of a risk to try—”

“I know that,” Techno snapped, rising from his chair. “And I know what I want. I want them back. I want Dream to be sorry that he ever hurt them. I want to—” Techno stopped himself from continuing his enraged rant. He wanted to feel whole again, he thought. He wanted to wake up and feel safe knowing you were in the next room over. He wanted to argue with you over nothing and know that you would forgive him nonetheless. He wanted to wake up early after a long day of travel and watch the sunrise with you, to see the whole world light up in your eyes. The emptiness he was stranded with was from your absence, he knew this now. You were the sun to his moon, but you were forever hidden under the horizon, casting him into the shade. 

Phil’s frown deepened. He spoke softly, carefully. “I know you’re hurting, but you need to think this through. Is this really what you want?”

Techno refused to meet the older man’s gaze. You were gone because of him, and you would come back for him. He wasn’t going to let this go quietly. “Yes,” he said finally. The icy air whipped through the house as he opened the cabin door and slammed it shut, a mission in his mind.

* * * * *

The journey to the prison was an expectedly silent one. Few people were to be seen as Technoblade wandered through the country—whether out of fear for the man or some other reason, he couldn’t be sure. Regardless, he trudged down the paths he used to know, eventually coming upon the evil-looking building. The massive walls loomed over him, the shadows stretching across the grass in sharp lines. After taking a quick glance of the perimeter, Techno proceeded to the entrance of the prison.

Upon entering, he was faced with a portal and a switch off to his right. The man glanced around once before slapping the button, waiting for a guard to come by. There was a brief period of silence, then a disembodied voice: “Hello?”

“Hello,” Techno echoed, unsure of where to look. “How do I, uh, get in?”

“Just step through the portal and I’ll get to you in a second,” the guard replied. Techno followed his instructions and stepped in the portal, a feeling like water rippling against his skin. Techno emerged from the other side to see a desk and a podium in front of it with a large book sat upon it. Behind the counter of the desk was the prison guard, Sam.

“Hello, Technoblade. Step up to the podium, I’ll need you to read that book aloud to me and sign, then I have to ask you a few questions.” 

The piglin stood directly in front of the podium, peering down at the book. He read out the protocols, frowning at the mention of being locked in the prison should the security be threatened. Techno signed his name on the book anyway, handing it to the guard.

“Thank you. Can I ask when you last visited the prison?”

“Never,” Techno replied. “Shouldn’t that be obvious?”

“It’s just an extra security measure,” Sam explained. “Some of our visitors may have a lapse in memory. Now, what’s your relationship with the prisoner?”

The other man considered the question for a moment until he settled on a suitable answer. “Ex-colleague.”

“Alright, and where is your place of residence?”

“Up north, in the arctic.”

“Good, good. Follow me to your locker, I’ll need you to place everything inside the chest. Once you’re done, press that button on the side to get the key.”

Techno followed the guard’s instructions, feeling slightly uneasy with the lack of protection in his inventory. He retrieved the key, feeling the weight of the metal in his palm, then deposited it into an ender chest. The guard was waiting patiently outside the locker room. “Follow me and do exactly as I say,” he ordered, leading Techno through the prison. 

Sam guided Techno through a series of security checks and exercises to minimize his strength through potions. The piglin felt slightly lightheaded from the various trials and journeys through halls full of water and lava. Eventually, the pair of men reached the entrance of the maximum security cell, which looked empty save for the switches on the far wall. 

“Stand on that platform right there,” Sam instructed, gesturing towards a number of tiles placed before a large screen of lava. Techno stepped onto the tiles, glancing over his shoulder to watch the guard fiddle with the controls. “The lava will stop in a minute or two. Just stay where you are and be careful when the platform moves,” Sam warned, keeping a firm gaze on the piglin.

Techno grunted a reply, waiting patiently until the barrier of lava parted like a curtain before a play. Between the bright orange drapery, he saw Dream come into view. The prisoner stood silently in the corner of his cell, his dull green eyes bearing a blank expression. There was a pink scar across the bridge of his nose, one Techno realized he received from you. His blond hair was long and unkept, a shadow of stubble on his chin—a blatant difference from the composed appearance he once possessed.

The platform shifted forward, rolling Techno straight towards the cell. A barricade stretched between the walls and the visitor crossed his arms in waiting. Finally, the space between the men opened, and the piglin took a step into the cell. Behind him, the wall of lava fell again, trapping the pair within the confines of the obsidian.

The prisoner inched forward from the corner. “I was beginning to think you’d never visit,” Dream said. 

“I hadn’t planned on it,” the pig-man replied, glancing around at the mostly-bare walls of the cell. There was a clock on the wall set to the wrong time, a cauldron of water, and a desk with writing utensils in the corner. No other possessions decorated the cell.

“Hm. What made you change your mind?”

Techno’s eyes met the prisoner. “I need your help.”

Dream chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “The blood god needs my help? With what, may I ask?”

“I know what you can do,” Techno stated, drawing closer to the prisoner. “I know you can raise people from the dead.”

The blond man scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “So that’s what you want? You need me to bring back your friend?”

“Exactly. And you’ll do it.”

Dream hummed, considering the other man’s words before he finally responded. “No, I don’t think I will.” Dream leaned against the wall, looking bored. “You have nothing for me. And besides, I’m not sure you’re prepared to bring back the archer. It’d be pointless.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Techno growled, annoyed with the prisoner’s lack of cooperation. “You know I’m a dedicated man.”

“And that’s exactly why you can’t bring them back. You don’t have the guts to do it.”

Techno rushed forward and grabbed Dream by the collar, teeth bared as he glared at the man. “Careful there, Dream. You don’t want to provoke your ticket out of here.”

Dream laughed unflinchingly in the god’s face. “Right, and what can you do? Kill me and lose your only chance to have them back? You’re not an idiot, and neither am I. We both know exactly how this would go down if you set me free.”

“I wouldn’t kill you, but I can easily make you regret living,” Techno spat, gritting his teeth. “You’re going to bring them back.”

“No,” Dream scoffed, seemingly unfazed by the other man’s threats. “You think you know exactly what you want, don’t you? I’m not sure you understand how traumatic it would be for them to come back, Techno. Don’t you get it? They’d wake up and feel disgusted by you. You killed them. You could have saved them, but you were too weak to even try. Besides,” he continued, lowering his voice, “I think they look much better rotting in the dirt.”

Techno shoves the prisoner against the wall, chest heaving with anger and guilt. The voices were like white noise in his mind, screeching for blood as his heart pounded. Dream slid to the floor and laughed maniacally; the sound made Techno’s head pound with the dull pain of an oncoming headache. There was no mask to hide the deranged look in the prisoner’s eyes as he held his stomach and howled with cruel pleasure. “They’re dead,” Dream gasped between laughter. “They’re dead and it’s all your fault!”

It was a mistake to have gone to the prison for answers, and Techno felt foolish for his actions as he called for Sam to let him out. Dream remained slumped against the wall, his shoulders shaking with an awful cackle that faded as Techno disappeared from the cell.

Technoblade could hardly recall the journey back to his cabin. Once he was out of the prison, he bounded through the war torn country, red hot fury searing in his veins. The voices wanted blood; they screeched and clamored inside the cage of his skull, raging into white noise that struck Techno like an arrow to the heart. Flashes of memories he had tried to suppress came rushing back—the crack of fireworks resounding in his ears. The smell of burnt flesh. Blood staining him from head to toe. He stumbled through the hills and snow, clamoring up the short set of stairs and through the cabin door. His head was pounding so awfully that the man became nauseous, collapsing to his knees as he dug his fingers into his scalp. It wasn’t until a hand came to rest on his shoulder that Techno finally managed to look up. His eyes burned and, with a start, he realized that he had been crying.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, mate. I’ve got you. You’re okay, take a deep breath,” Phil assured him, a firm grip stabilizing his piglin friend. Technoblade took in short, stuttering breaths, before Phil patted his shoulder and told him to take it easy. He made another attempt, inhaling slowly, then exhaling, repeating the motion until he was calm enough to speak.

“He won’t do it. He doesn’t want me to—He won’t.” Despite how hard he tried, Techno couldn’t stop the tremor in his voice. He hated this, he hated the vulnerability of it all. There was no space in his heart for the amount of pain he had been suppressing, and it was finally overflowing. He wished you were here. He wished so badly that he wasn’t such a fool.

Phil, conscious of his friend’s needs, pulled his hand away. “You know, someone was hoping to see you today.”

Techno looked up, watching Phil move aside to bring you into his line of sight. He hadn’t even noticed you were there in the midst of his agony, but the cold followed you as you drew closer. You were silent until you knelt down, reaching a hand out to your friend. “Come with me?” You asked gently, giving him a chance to refuse.

Techno looked down at your outstretched hand, examining the creases in your ashen skin. After a moment of consideration, he took it, hyper aware of your freezing touch. You led your friend out of the cabin, carefully guiding him to a destination you had yet to announce. Techno was curious as to what you were up to, but he didn’t have the energy to speak, especially not to you. There was so much he wanted to say, but the words were stuck in his throat. He wanted to apologize to you, to tell you how sorry he was for what he did to you, for the eternity you had been stranded with. There weren’t enough words in the world to admit how sorry he really was.

The pair of you traveled away from the cabin, through a forest of evergreens blanketed in snow; you walked past white foxes scurrying between bushes and birds fluttering overhead; you hopped over fallen trees and climbed a hill, finally stopping once you reached its peak. “We’re here,” you announced. 

Techno stood at your side and admired the view: the sun was beginning to fall, clinging to the horizon. The entire land was bathed in golden hues, causing the snow to sparkle in the warm glow. With this light, your skin seemed to regain its warmth, a refreshing contrast to the ashen look of death which Techno had grown used to. He watched you gaze wordlessly at the sky before breaking the silence. “Why are we here?”

You admired the sight for a moment longer, then, gesturing for Techno to copy your motions, you took a seat in the snow. “Do you remember how we met?” you began.

Techno was surprised by your question, answering quietly. “Of course. I, uh, kidnapped you. Sorry for that,” he mumbled.

Letting out a soft laugh, you continued. “Right. But I’ve been remembering more, actually. It used to be fuzzy—it still is, sometimes, the details—but it’s easier to recall. I mainly remember the good things, but the gaps are starting to fill in.”

The man swallowed nervously. “So… Where are you going with this?”

Your eyes became downcast. “I’ve realized a lot of things. I can sort through my emotions now and it’s been weighing on me just how much you meant to me, how much you still mean to me—and I know you must feel the same way.

“I can remember so much of my life now. I remember feeling some bit of relief when you captured me because I didn’t have to be with Dream—I was free for the first time in my life, and I didn’t even know it. I remember the training, the battles, the betrayals, the exile, but more than anything, I remember you. It’s like a part of me was missing for so long before I met you, and I had grown used to it. I tried to fill it with other things, with other people, but that space was made for you. Once I had you, I was balanced—I had spent the first half of my life trying to find you, so I couldn’t stand to be away from you. I had to have you, always, filling the gap. It seemed wrong to live any other way.

“I can see now where the fault was in my logic. You told me the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, right? A pair of lovers are separated when Eurydice dies, stranded to the Underworld. Orpheus travels to her and all he has to do to bring her back to the living realm is to walk the path to earth without looking behind him to see her. They reach the end, and at the last second, Orpheus looks back. His love is fated to death, and he must live on without her, singing a sorrowful tune to the earth. When I first heard that story, I couldn’t understand why he would do such a thing. I thought it was from a sense of doubt, or maybe he was just a fool, but now I know better. Orpheus wasn’t looking back because he was doubtful—he knew exactly what the consequences were. He looked back because he couldn’t accept her death once, but this time, he could do it. That’s the hidden truth that no one ever tells you: love is letting go.”

You turned your head to look Techno in the eyes. “Do you remember what I told you before I tried to kill Dream?”

The man nodded slowly. “You told me not to look back,” he breathed.

Nodding, you spoke again. “Exactly. Now, I need you to listen to me again,” you asked. “I need you to look back.”

Techno’s eyes became misty. “I don’t—I don’t think I know how,” he admitted. 

“Neither did Orpheus,” you explained, taking the larger man’s hands in yours. “He lived the rest of his life mourning Eurydice through his music, but look at the world now. Don’t you see how beautiful it is? He sacrificed everything to see this. Orpheus did the hardest thing he could possibly do because it was the right thing.”

“What about the gaps?” Techno wondered. “How am I supposed to fill the gap without you?”

Looking down at the calloused hands in yours, you shook your head. “There’s always going to be pieces of you that can never be replaced—they’re not meant to be filled with something else. But there will be other things to love, other things to care about, and that’s how you move on. You pick up what’s left of your heart and put it back together as you go.”

The man looked at you, sorrow and adoration pooling in his eyes. “Will you stay? Will you be there when I carry myself back?” He asked, his voice small and trembling with apprehension.

Your cold hands were firm in his. “Always.”

In the west, the sun sank lower over the edge of the earth. The light grew fainter as orange, magenta, and hints of violet eased their way into the sky above. Clouds stretched on lazily, dragging against the atmosphere like heavy brush strokes on a canvas. Techno tugged on your hand when you got lost in the view. “We should head back before it gets too dark,” he said. You nodded and followed him through the snow, guided by the tracks you left from earlier. It would take him time, you were sure of that, and he would struggle as he always did when it came to his feelings. And you would be by his side, even then.

* * * * *

“I’m thinking of making it bigger, maybe add some glass panes to the top. What do you think?” Ranboo wondered, showing you the plans for his new house.

“Hm… No glass, just the stone here and there,” you replied, pointing at the drawings he laid out in front of you. 

Ranboo was still living near Techno, sprucing up his old shed of a house into something more permanent. The tall boy stood proudly in front of his land, tugging at his coat. “Yeah, actually, that does sound nice.”

You knelt down behind Ranboo, scooping a handful of snow into your palm and carefully shaping it into a ball. “You know what else is nice?” You wondered innocently.

Ranboo responded absentmindedly with “Huh?”

With an evil grin, you shouted, “This!” 

The snowball launched out of your hand as you threw it directly at the back of the half-enderman’s head. Ranboo jumped, shrieking in surprise as he wiped the back of his head. Spinning on his heel, he gave you a mischievous look before gathering snow in his own hands. “Oh, you’ve done it now,” he drawled, narrowly missing you as the snowball flew past your head. You took off into a run, laughing with your tall friend chasing behind you, snow flying left and right as you battled.

From his porch, Techno stood and watched the pair of you playing around, a faint smile on his face. He could see it now, more clearly than ever before: life, all around you, even in death. It was a strange irony, but an honest one. You were different than the person he once knew, but despite everything, your laugh never changed. Every version of you was real and true—you had simply taken a different shape.

The piglin turned to head back inside, but not before pausing as a spark of red caught his sight. There, standing alone at the corner of the stairs, was a bright red carnation. How it managed to grow in the cold, and so close to the cabin, was a mystery. Still, it was a rare beauty, strong in spite of the world it was born into. Techno looked from the flower back to you, an echo in his heart. You would be there—always.

The cabin door shut behind him, and there was no cold to follow.