#dart maggot

[finalshockdown]

Spider-Slug/Peter Pupilloidea Doodle Page!

Feat. Miles Mollusca, Gwen Slugcy, and Venom (They don’t have a pun name sorry)

Isolated Gwen and Miles below the cut

[pseudowho]

okay here’s me getting all cocky and confident because you answered my ask once (ily for that seriously i think i screamed and fainted and sobbed and climbed up the walls a little) and once again asking you for….. for crumbs………. so my horny self was sitting and thinking…………… nanami sees you reading absolute filth and porn and you end up in biig trouble.. (i.e him doing that exact thing to you 😭) or perhaps you going up to nanami after reading absolute filth and being all needy with him bcs that straight porn made you a liittle…….. yk… 🌚🌚🌚

anyways i literally love you and ur my favorite writer ever and im gonna stop now before i burst

SMUT [smuht] (noun)

In which Nanami Kento catches you reading dirty literature...and punishes you with a performative reading.

Warnings: The anon who keeps targeting me like this needs a warning label...but otherwise: roleplay, erotic literature (*laughs and laughs in Tumblr*) being read to you while you're systematically destroyed, performative Bad!Nanami, Kento fucks you wearing a mask and leather gloves, Pleasure Dom!Kento who gets lost in the sauce, reader way out of her depth, bondage, the usual spicy goodness, couple of cheeky movie references

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The one she knew only as the Man in the Mask swept over to her, delighting in her capture, having evaded him for so long.

"Ahhh..." he sighed, his breath sweeping over the swell of her breasts, and sending shivers down her spine. "Finally...the little mouse who has wreaked havoc on my dreams for too many lonely nights. How does it feel? To be trapped here with me like this?"

Her heart stalled in her chest, and she gasped, his grazing touch to her belly leaving embers in its wake. The Man in the Mask saw her nipples pebble beneath her shirt, and felt something snap inside him as he loomed over her with a whisper; "I know. I feel it too."

With little warning, he lowered his barely covered mouth to her neck, hungry against her, and--

The door opened, and you leapt out of your skin, dropping your phone to the floor. You sat bolt upright in bed, your other hand coming up guiltily from beneath the covers as Kento leaned into the bedroom to greet you. You interrupted him.

"You're home early," you said, offering an unconvincing smile. Kento looked at you, flatly. He let the statement hang for a moment. His shrewd eyes flicked, taking in the glossy subtleties he saw from you only in foreplay.

"...well I thought you'd be pleased, but I'll just go back then shall I--"

You hesitated, words caught in your throat. Your eyes flickered to your phone. So did Kento's. His eyes narrowed.

"...what are you read--"

"Nothing! It's nothing." You lied, unconvincing. You both hesitated for a moment more, before Kento darted. You cursed at him for being faster than you, and Kento's fingers closed around your phone, sitting beside you on the bed in one swift movement. You smothered a pillow over your face, screaming silently, wanting the duvet to grow great maws and swallow you whole.

Kento read silently for a moment, scrolling, before reading aloud; "...she didn't want to fight anymore, as his fingers slid between her puffy lips...goodness me...his cock strained against the fabric of his clothes, begging for attention...I bet it did..."

You had begun to crawl away down the bed, just a maggot, unworthy of the sun and all its glories.

You felt a hand clasp around your ankle, and you squeaked as Kento dragged you back up the bed, without even taking his eyes off your phone.

"I don't think so, where are you going--"

"--oh god Kento just give me something for the cringe and let me die--"

"--no no no I'm blessed to be a part of my wife's interests--"

"--I am less than human, we need a divorce, I can't look you in the eye ever again--"

Kento scoffed, dark and derisive. "As if I'd let you divorce me. As if you'd even want to...now, where did I put that..."

Kento stood, still holding your phone as he rummaged in his dresser. You laid flat to the bed, trying to wiggle away again, still embarrassingly wet, your mortification laced with undeniable arousal.

"Stay exactly where you are, or I'll damn well make you."

You stopped. You looked up at Kento, unusually meek, as he approached you. He stood by the bed, looming and powerful, a god made flesh. He unbuttoned his shirt to the navel, not bothering to remove his harness. He undid his belt with a clink-clink. He let his tie hang loose...and pulled a black balaclava down to beneath his collar. He finished off with a pair of soft, black leather gloves.

Something imploded inside you; a dial-up noise in your mind. Kento prowled over to you, looming over you and chasing you up the bed, caging you beneath him, and reading through the smut on your phone screen.

"Be honest," Kento read aloud, his honey-brown eyes swirling with something altogether darker and more dangerous, "if you'd wanted to escape me...you could have."

You panted, breathless, your pupils blown into inky black as you lay splayed beneath Kento. You couldn't help but be captivated, lost in his insidious pull. You felt your heartbeat between your legs.

"Did you stay because you dream of me, too?" Kento intoned. You bit the poisoned apple, trembling as you nodded up at him. "Did you stay...because you wondered if hatred was as erotic a passion as love?"

"--Kento, I-- let me go, I--"

"That's the spirit." Laughed Kento, his voice booming through you, the vibrations crackling across every nerve, and you whimpered. Kento grasped your hands together with his own, gloved and powerful, pinning them above your head with the whole weight of his body. He pulled his tie loose with the hand holding your phone.

"I can't let you leave...not now. Fuck...you have no idea what you do to me, do you?" Kento growled. Being the villain seemed so effortless to him. Your safe word had never been further from your mind, your attempts to leave so paltry and insincere. The way Kento looked down at you, waiting to see if you would make him stop, sent shivers down your spine. Kento released his tie, eyes skimming across your phone for confirmation.

"I'd apologise, for trapping you here like this..." Kento intoned, tying your bound wrists to the head of the bed as you squirmed, crying out in anguish, "...but I'll show you...how you've craved my touch, just as I have craved yours." You strained against the bonds, in just the silky chemise you wore for bed, and it didn't take much for your breasts to fall free of the fine little straps.

In truth, Kento had never been harder in his life. Seeing you battle against primal desire beneath him, feeling your half-hearted embarrassed squirms brushing your bare mound against his aching, thick cock...and your nipples, hard as diamonds and covered by a thin veneer of lace. His breaths were heavy, chest heaving as he continued his performative reading.

"Just one taste, and we can return to how it was before." Kento groaned, his mouth suckling at your neck, licking, tasting, biting. You cringed against the assault on your senses, afraid to lose yourself to such diabolical pleasure. Kento pinned your bucking hips down with his own, the tip of his cock trapped beneath his waistband against his belly. "Just once...and we can rest easy at night, knowing how it feels for me to spend myself inside you."

You keened, mewling as Kento rested the phone on the pillow beside your head, and took your nipple into his mouth, ragging it around beneath his tongue with a fractured growl. Your head spun with the weight of him, totally captured, so wildly out of control. The suckling pleasure he gave to your nipples, connected in a fine thread to your clit, making it pulse with vicarious bliss.

"I can't...can't take it anymore...Ken--" You moaned, squeaking as his teeth closed in barely hinged warning around your breast.

"Unless it's to tell me to fuck you, I won't have you mewl like a kitten at me any longer." Kento rumbled against your breast, wet with his spit and the marks he left behind as he took what he was owed. "I hope you can take it. I'm...no small man. If you are ruined, after, I know you will bear the scars with grace, just as you have bore your hatred of me."

You were already so steeped in the hot rush of being pleasured, you did not notice how Kento's eyes glowered, lathering down your body and darting occasionally back to your phone. He continued his pilgrimage down your body. Kento growled in frustration at the chemise blocking him, and he rucked it up, spitting curses as you squeaked, wriggling against him.

"At least fight like you mean it." Kento laughed, and you blushed, eyes squeezed shut, mortified by how obviously faked your resistance was. Kento kissed his way down your belly, settling at your mound. He hovered, silent, giving your desperate clit nought but the breath from his lips.

"Do you want my fingers...or my mouth?" You whimpered again, babbling nonsense, such a rough and ruined heroine. Kento laughed again, dark and delicious, raising his mask just enough to free his mouth. "No words? No matter. You shall have both."

With little warning, Kento sunk his tongue between your folds, ragging his mouth and nose from side to side again to bury himself in the heat of you. You cried out as he growled into your heat, hitting a high note as he sunk two thick, gloved fingers into your fluttering pussy, slamming inside all the way to his knuckles.

Kento swore against your pussy, grunting and moaning as he lapped at your clit and entrance with animalistic rage. Quite canonically to his role, his cock wept against his belly, pre-cum leaking down onto his waistband until the fabric was cloying and sticky, the friction against his tip sending him spiralling. He couldn't help but fuck against the bed as you melted beneath him, writhing against his tongue.

Panting, letting his gloved fingers fuck into you and imagining it was his cock instead, Kento chuckled against your clit, at just how easily he had snapped. He pulled his fingers out of you for a moment, wickedly obsessed by the stark contrast of your creamy white arousal on the black leather.

He could smell you on the balaclava, the fabric over his nose soaking with your essence. Kento felt lightheaded with the blooming, heady scent of you. His cock twitched, aching and neglected, and so close to spilling thick spurts of seed all over its owner.

You risked looking down for just a moment. The eyes of a villain pierced through you, as Kento licked his gloves clean, not breaking eye contact once. You whimpered. He laughed, and curled his fingers back into you, continuing his relentless attack on your poor, aching cunt. Your moans reached a fever pitch, and Kento felt the creep of his own orgasm through his belly as he rutted against the bed with total abandon.

"Sing for me." He groaned, lifting your hips off the bed as he knelt, sucking your clit into his mouth in a devastating final move. You tipped violently over the edge, bucking against his tongue and crying his name, a stream of nonsensical babbles. Kento was quite sure you came harder than the girl in the story.

By the time you came back to earth, being licked in slow, languid movements through your peak, you saw Kento kneeling between your legs, stroking his cock in long, jerking pumps.

"You've reduced me to this." Kento forced, his teeth gritted and his mask back in place over his mouth. "To this...this boy, fucking his own fist just from the taste of you." Kento cursed, his gloved fist wet with pre-cum, cracking his neck from side to side and growling through his lurid tale. You lay, fucked out, bound, a fascinated by how Kento's whiskey-rich voice could fill you with fumes, warm and drunk one minute, but cold and piercing the next. You swung, manoeuvred across his harsh dichotomy.

Kento loomed over you, trapping you beneath him again, blocking the light from your eyes, a bad moon rising. "You did this to me." He hissed, accusatory in his possession of you. "You started this sordid fight. But I'll finish it. No more fisting my cock at night just to the thought of you. No more dreaming about bending you to my will."

You felt Kento's tip press through your entrance, thick and insistent enough that you squirmed up the bed, crying out as he yanked you back, his hands closing around your waist. Kento plaited his fingers in your tied hands, the ghost of affection, and readying himself to slam into your quivering heat. He was falling apart, he could barely contain himself, overcome by the raw power of making you pliable, shaping you to his desires--

Kento whispered in your ear, his voice shaking, gravelly; "And when you submit...know that it was entirely your fault."

You felt your delicate petals forced aside, crying out to be filled to the brim by Kento in one slick thrust. Kento could barely suppress a roar beneath his mask, throwing his head back in ecstasy. His enormous hands cuffed your waist, making it squidge down against your hips every time he dragged your hips, moving your pussy around him like a cock sleeve.

Kento's strength made manhandling you look easy. You lay ruined beneath him, your head lolling against the inside of your own bound arm. The image of him unbuttoned, masked, gloved and still almost fully dressed above you, grunting and groaning as he used your pussy for his own pleasure, burned onto your retinas.

Kento barely moved his own hips, his eyes fixed feverishly on where he dragged your swollen pussy around the length of his cock, twitching and burning inside you. He couldn't contain himself. The hook behind his navel, all scorched steel and selfishness, beseeched him to drag his pleasure from you.

"Fucking-- ruin you-- never be satisfied...by another man again-- keep running from me, and I'll hunt you down...and take you like this every-- fucking-- time--"

As Kento's pleasure roared over him, he punctuated his thrusts against your belly with the written word in action. Making nothing more than jolted, pitiful moans as he fucked repeatedly against your sensitive cervix and soft-spot, you clambered for purchase, sobbing your pleasure as his gloved fingers rolled your clit between them.

Kento came with a string of curses, his thighs cramping beneath him with the force of it. Feeling his seed begin to pump and spurt into you, he dragged you aggressively to another orgasm with his leathered fingers. He had to feel you clench around him, sucking his seed deep inside you. He had just enough forethought to recall his final, toxic line as he gasped, groaning and bucking with the force of his ejaculation.

You could barely hear him through the fog of pleasure, faint in the distance; "If you have the nerve...to crawl back to me...full and swollen-- know we can be enemies in matrimony, as well as battle."

The room was hushed and dark, the gloom broken only by your mingled, heavy breaths, and the earthy smell of sex. You reached up pulling Kento's balaclava up and pressing a breathless little kiss at the corner of his mouth.

"...but...we still have to get a divorce. I just-- couldn't live with you knowing what I read--"

Kento laughed, his shoulders aching from the weight of the villain, slipping away with his gloves and mask.

[magicdustsworld]

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader; tw - Fellatio, cum swallowing, adultery; divider credits - @saradika-graphics

Imagine sucking off Yakuza boss!Sukuna while he is on a call.

Forced down to your knees, red tongue darting out to swirl over his frenulum—eliciting a lewd groan from him. Sukuna peers down at you, a corner of his lip curling up into a provocative sneer while maroon gaze scorches with an erotic desire.

"Yeah and? mhmm... what the fuck did Masume say?"

Holding the phone with his left hand, he brings up the pointer of his right to his lips—gesturing you to keep it low. (As if he really wants that?) You return his gaze with a leacherous one of your own—an invitation cum challenge he recognizes all to well. You pass a smirk and not a second later, you're eagerly accepting the glans penis inside your mouth. Lapping up at the tip, you proceed downwards, coating his entire cock with your saliva before readily sucking him off.

Sukuna's attention is allegedly on the call at hand. A blissful expression clouds over his eyes s he hums and murmurs curses under his breath while speaking to— whoever the fuck it is. However, as you go down on his cock, bopping your head in a to and fro motion, all to please him like a good girl, he just seems to not notice it. Taking it for granted, is he? Unknowingly, you scoff under your breath, trails of his musky precum settling on your tongue; you gulp them without much of a second thought.

You look up again and the same sight greets you. Yes, you know it may be an important call and you know you shouldn't do it. You still do it.

Your teeth grazes over his prepuce.

"Ngh Fuck– Huh? Nothing, just uh, don't worry. Whatcha' saying again?"

He glares at you, threading his fingers through your luscious strands; he tugs them back firmly. Mouth filled with cock, your protest only comes off as a jumbled mess. Leaning down, momentarily he retracts the phone from his ear, "Do this shit properly or this will be the last thing you'll be sucking." Said so, he is back to his call.

The threat lingers in the air—he isn't lying. You know. Countless times you have seen him snap the string of someone's life without an exchange of words. The grip of his Beretta M9 peaks out of his pocket, the looming peril and the sheer power he holds over you in this situation(and all the others) making itself stark clear. Despite the eminent danger oozing off of his body language, the thrill of it all sends a pulse to your core.

You clamp your legs tighter, the fabric of your panties brushing with your clitoris. Regardless, the warning does the job and as much of a desperate whore you can be for the man above you, you still want to watch and experience this charade play out.

Besides, you already got his attention, didn't you?

Gaze fixated on you, with both pair of teeth out in a menacing display akin to a ravenous beast being served, he watches you. You move your head back and forth, aiming to just give him a stellar fellatio while your cunt starts to drip with wanton need. You nibble on his his foreskin, forcing more of his girth inside your hot cavern, the wet muscle licking over the glans—raunchy moans escalating from you.

"Got over with– Ah shit! Where did you learn that? Wasn't speaking to you, just some maggots."

Seriously, maggots?

You deserve something more than that. However, before you can retract yourself from his cock, Sukuna’s strength comes to play. He, quite literally, forces you down on his cock till your smeared mulberry tinted lips wrap around his base. He buckles his hip, fucking your face on his own as he sets a relentless pace making tears to spring up your eyes. His cock head reaches so far and so deep that it hits your uvula. Manicured nails digging into the fabric of his pants, you try to balance yourself on your knees—task proving to be futile.

Guttural moans start to escape Sukuna as well. Struggling either to make sense of the speaker or let himself find reprieve with the way your mouth welcomes him.

The latter seems to win by a large mark.

"Heard ya' the first time, what the ahh– shit! You little minx," A smirk curves up his lips, forehead creasing as the product of erotigenic act knots in the pit of his stomach. "Fuck– wasn’t talking to you, bitch. Hang up."

No sooner he utters the last two words, the phone is discarded on the leather couch. He cages you in his grasp, lascivious noises releasing from him as the sweatbeads start to cling and drip down. The acrid smell of arousal and the squelching sound of mouth meeting flesh reverberates through the corners of his office.

His cock twitches in your mouth, your eyes have only partially widened when he is shooting thick ropes of cum down your throat. He holds you his place, tip of nose, pressing against his pubes till you swallow each and every seed he has to offer; something you find yourself doing alike second nature.

His grip loosens and you retract your mouth from his cock with a pop sound. A string of saliva connects your glistening lips with his cock. Trails of ecstasy running down your lips—Sukuna, extends his hands, gently wiping it away with his thumb. An act proving to be a stark contrast to the names he called you while he was bullying your throat.

With name calling, something flickers in your mind...

"Who was that?"

"Don't you wanna know?" He snickers, grabbing you by the bicep as he pulls you up on his lap so you're left to straddle him. "Just my dumb wife filling me on what she did today."

[daycourtofficial]

I got cursed like Eve got bitten - part VII

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand's sister!reader | WC: 400 | Warnings: none

Summary: reports of a rare powered fae popping up in Illyria send Azriel and Rhysand on a journey through the past, unraveling a truth they thought long buried

Previous part | Next part | Masterlist

The two of you sat on the edge of the river bank, watching the water flow. The moonlight reflected off the water’s surface, Azriel’s eyes catching the occasional fish breaking the surface tension. You laughed, shaking your head causing some water to flicker over Azriel. He looked at you, your wet clothes clinging to you, much like his own clung to him. Some of his wet hair got into his eyes, blocking you from his sight.

“I’ll be back.” You whispered, “I have something for you.”

The anticipation ate at Azriel as he waited, the night growing darker around him. He watched the water, the black surface looking almost like a river of shadow. He felt naked, no shadows of his own creation lingered around him. He watched as something floated downstream toward him. He watched it, the shape of a box coming into focus. He stood with urgency, running across the shallow water to get to it.

He trudged through the knee deep water, trying not to fall with his urgent movements. He pulled the box from the water, the box dripping as he walked to the other edge of the bank. It was knotted with a dark blue ribbon, and his heart swelled at your signature wrapping for his gifts.

Pulling the ribbon back, he opened the lid to find your lifeless eyes staring back at him, maggots chewing through the skin of your face.

Azriel jolted upright in bed, his body covered in sweat. His shadows kept prodding at him, bringing him back to the land of the waking. He jolted from the bed, feet landing on the floor as he rounded the bedpost. He darted through the door, stopping right outside your door across the hall after his quick strides. He stood, slowly leaning his head to the door, listening for any sound he could make out. 

He tried stilling his breathing, the erratic shuddering obscuring his hearing. He pressed his ear to the door, listening, praying to hear anything.

Thump thump.

Thump thump.

His heart calmed at the sound of your own beating, your slow breathing audible through the wood separating you. His arms begged to be wrapped around you, his wings aching to wrap around your own, the two of you forming a cocoon.

But he can’t.

He walked back to his room, feet silent and slow on the wood as he closed the door, a small attempt to shut out the past long enough to ease the ache of your presence.

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend @sarawritestories @chxosangxl

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin @magicstrengthandcourage

I got cursed series taglist: @doodlebugg16-blog @ceoofyearning @saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @willowpains @anarchiii @i-am-infinite @bsenpai @sstrohma @teenagellamaangel @allthatisbuck1917 @elsie-bells @rcarbo1 @pruvii

Thanks for reading 🥰

[blackenedsnow]

If you’re lookin’ for requests could we get a continuation of your Beetlejuice fic? Like, what sorts of things does Beej do through the house/apartment to prank you? What’s he do when/if you have to leave to go to work? I imagine he’d tag along incognito sometimes. How would that go? (I don’t send many fic requests so if this is a weird way to do it I’m sorry. But I figured if you’re asking for them I can brainstorm a little 😅)

dead guys got it made

WARNING: None

PAIRING: Beetlejuice x Reader

NOTE: No need to apologize! I love the direction you're taking with this. I'd be happy to continue the story!!

SUMMARY: Chaos ensues, of course

PART ONE: Here

The days after your reluctant agreement to let Beetlejuice stay in your home were, in a word, chaotic. He seemed to take your "don’t destroy the place" comment as more of a suggestion than an actual rule. Sure, he didn’t tear down walls or summon any maggots (yet), but there was plenty of mischief to go around.

You woke up one morning to find your living room furniture rearranged—your couch upside down on the ceiling, the TV somehow playing reruns of sitcoms from the ‘80s, and the floor covered in what looked like tiny plastic insects. You groaned, rubbing your temples as Beetlejuice appeared next to you, a wide grin plastered on his face.

"Pretty good, huh?" he asked, looking up at the couch hanging from the ceiling. "Took me all night, but I think it really adds to the ambiance."

"BJ," you muttered, staring at the mess, "how many times do I have to tell you? No messing with the furniture."

He cackled, snapping his fingers. Instantly, the room righted itself—couch back on the floor, TV back to normal. But the plastic bugs? Still there. "Alright, alright, no more redecorating. But I gotta keep things interesting, babes. Can’t have you getting bored, now can we?"

You bent down to scoop up the bugs, sighing. "I’m starting to think my life was less stressful before you showed up."

"Ah, but way more boring," Beetlejuice quipped, following you into the kitchen as you grabbed a coffee mug. "Admit it, you’d miss me if I wasn’t around to spice things up."

You ignored him, focusing instead on your workday ahead. “I’ve got to head to work soon,” you said, mostly to yourself, as you filled your mug. “You’re staying here today, right?”

“Sure, sure,” he said with a wave of his hand, leaning against the counter. “I’ll be good. Maybe I’ll watch some TV, raid your fridge, haunt your neighbors—you know, normal dead guy stuff.”

You shot him a look, trying to gauge how much of that was a joke. You were still figuring him out, trying to balance how much you could tolerate and how much you liked having him around. It was… complicated. But lately, the thought of leaving him alone in your home was almost more stressful than having him tag along. Still, you weren’t sure you could handle Beetlejuice at work, of all places.

"Alright," you said, setting your mug down, "I’ll trust you. Just… try not to haunt anyone this time, okay?"

Beetlejuice smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Cross my heart, babe,” he said, drawing a line over his chest. You didn’t trust that for a second, but you had no choice but to leave him behind and head out.

At Work

Everything seemed fine at first. You settled into your routine, the normalcy of it all providing a brief reprieve from your unusual houseguest. But then, halfway through the morning, you noticed something off.

Your pen was missing. And not just missing—floating midair, inches from your hand.

"Beetlejuice.," you hissed under your breath, scanning the room for any sign of him. Sure enough, from the corner of your eye, you saw a familiar flash of black and white dart behind a filing cabinet.

Of course he’d followed you. You should’ve known.

“Get back here,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one else saw the floating pen.

Suddenly, Beetlejuice appeared right next to you, leaning against your desk with a smug grin. He was dressed in some sort of disguise—a ridiculous pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap that didn’t hide anything. “Nice place you got here, babe. Real lively.”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “I told you to stay at home.”

“Yeah, well, I got bored,” he said with a shrug. “Thought I’d see how my favorite breather spends their day.”

“This is not going to end well,” you mumbled, already dreading the inevitable..

The At-Work Antics

Beetlejuice, to his credit, tried to behave—for all of five minutes. Then the pranks began. It started small: pens going missing, your keyboard typing random words on its own. But as the day wore on, he grew bolder.

At one point, your boss, Mr. Thompson, came by to drop off some news. You tried to stay focused, nodding along as he talked, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw Beetlejuice sneaking up behind him, his eyes full of mischief.

"Don’t," you mouthed, but it was too late.

With a flick of his hand, Beetlejuice made Mr. Thompson’s tie start dancing—literally. The fabric wriggled and twisted as though it had a life of its own, and you watched in horror as your boss froze, staring down at his tie in confusion.

“What the—” Mr. Thompson muttered, tugging at the tie, but it kept moving.

You shot Beetlejuice a death glare, mouthing “Stop it” as discreetly as possible. He just winked, looking way too pleased with himself, and finally let the tie drop limp again.

Mr. Thompson blinked, bewildered, but seemed to shake it off. “Must be static or something,” he muttered before walking off, completely unaware of the ghostly trickster behind him.

You exhaled in relief. “Beej, I swear…”

“Hey, I didn’t get caught, did I?” Beetlejuice cackled, clearly enjoying himself. “Lighten up, honey. You gotta admit, that was funny.”

“You’re going to get me fired,” you hissed, though you couldn’t completely stifle the laugh bubbling up in your chest.

For the rest of the day, Beetlejuice stayed close, pulling small pranks here and there. A co-worker’s coffee inexplicably turned neon green, another’s stapler kept vanishing from their desk. Every time you saw that flash of stripes, your heart raced in equal parts anxiety and amusement.

After Work

By the time you made it home, you were exhausted. Beetlejuice had finally vanished, likely slipping back to your home long before you could leave. When you walked through the door, he was sprawled across the couch as usual, looking far too smug.

“Fun day at work?” he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“You’re a menace,” you muttered, dropping your bag on the floor. “A complete and utter menace.”

“And yet, you didn’t banish me,” he shot back, his grin widening. “So… you really do love having me around.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t quite argue with him. As frustrating as it was having him tag along—and as much as he drove you crazy—you had to admit, life was a lot less lonely with him in it.

“Maybe,” you muttered, flopping onto the couch beside him. “Just… try not to get me fired next time, alright?”

Beetlejuice chuckled, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “No promises, toots. But I’ll try not to ruin your life.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

[heartfullofleeches]

Holiday period at the fast food reader's workplace. Do they have costumes for Halloween? Do anything special for thanksgiving? What about Christmas, do they do something like a secret Santa? Do they all celebrate Reader's birthday/anniversary of them being hired?

I'm fine if you focus on one or do any of them/something unrelated that I haven't thought of. I just want more fast food reader and the gang of nightmares that adore them 😭

(Going with Birthday because I thought of the funniest thing, but maybe Christmas Special in the future?)

Twenty minutes left on the clock.

You shoved your coat and bag beneath the counter before the start of your shift to make for an easy get away. You'd recently invested in a lanyard you keep hidden down your shirt to keep your keys secure and on you at all times. The line was moving quickly thanks to the new hire that had yet to witness the horrors of the establishment. You could probably even get away with leaving without clocking out if you sucked up to your boss enough tomorrow. There would still be consequences, but as long as you could make it through today everything would be fine. Just twenty more minutes...

"Hey..."

A gentle tap on your shoulder draws your ailing mind from the depths of dread this cursed day traps you in. The janitor stands behind you, hands tucked into their pockets. You eye the slight bulge of a square item in their left, but decide its none of your business as you raise a hand in greeting. "Hey. What's up?"

"Not much..." They rock on their heels, more fidgety than usual as their hands shift in their apron pockets. "Hope I'm not bothering you, but I was cleaning up the break room and noticed there was a mark on the calendar with your name on it... It's your birthday today, right?"

Oh no.

No. No. No.

You open your mouth to make up some ahitty excuse, but your tongue remains glued to the floor of your mouth. Your eyes dart towards the boarded doors of the party room as they speak.

"If I had known sooner, I would've gotten you something better, but this was all I could pick up during my break. Honestly, birthdays are a new concept to me, but a lot of things are. You've... helped me learn a lot about myself so I just wanted to say-"

The Janitor pulls their hand from their apron - presenting a yellow box with a bright red bow.

"Happy birthday."

A loud bang shakes the doors of the party room, rocking tower of unused tables and chairs used to keep them closed. You knew they wouldn't be enough to keep what's inside in - a distraction to keep it at bay hopefully giving you enough time to flee. You quickly grab your things and vault over the counter, shoving past customers still waiting patiently in line as another bang knocks down the top layer of defense. Bang. Bang. Bang. Your heart leaps in your chest with every crash of furniture hitting the ground. You force yourself to look ahead as the doors fly open - stale air raising the hairs on your skin. The squeaks of its shoes send chills down your spine - raspy voice crawls in your ears like maggots to a fresh carcass.

"Did I hear it was a certain someone's.. Birthday?..

Against the voices in your head screaming at you to do otherwise, you glance over your shoulders. There are still smudges in its makeup from your last encounter with it dating exactly one year back to this day. You shutter as its twin tongues, still tied in that braid it tried shoved your esophagus snakes over its painted lips.

"No?"

Its smile grows. "You don't have to lie... I have the date written right here... And here...."

The clown points its gangly fingers at its forehead and chest respectively.

"I think you might have my birthday confused with that guy over there."

You pick up your feet as the clown snaps its head in the direction your finger aims. Seeing a blank wall, and hearing your shoes slap against te, it gives chance - crouching on all fours and bounding after you. Its cold hands latch around your ankle, yanking you off balance and towards the party room doors. You scratching at the floor doors, clawing faster as you feel its eyes on you from over its shoulder.

"No! My birthday was last year - I swear!"

"Silly, silly. You have one every year, and it should be celebrated every. Single. Day.... I've got cake!"

[dancingpottedplant666]

So you know how Tf2 takes place in New Mexico? Well I’m an animal lover, and I know that there are tons of fantastic creatures there and I’m sure there are a bunch of them they would 100% be hanging around the nooks and crannies of RED team’s base. So I present to Ye:

Scenarios about our beloved mercs and an animal-loving reader handle an encounter with New Mexico’s amazing fauna. 

Part 1: Offense

Scout and the Roadrunner

It was one of those moments where it was somewhat peaceful outside the base for once(this being only a little shouting and an explosion every hour or so) and you where just sitting outside with Scout as he snacked on a bucket of chicken and talked your ear off with anything that came to his mind, all of which you pleasantly listened to. Then, a blur of brown whizzed by the both of you. You bolded up in your seat as Scout looked at you quizzically

“ey, is somethin’ wrong toots? I know my story was great n’ all but I didn’t think it was that excitin’”

You put a finger to his mouth as you pointed to where you saw the blur dashed to, and after a few seconds, a small bird patters into view.

“Holy shit Scout check it out! It’s a roadrunner!”

You whisper-shouted. He gave a puzzled look and then gave the small bird an eyebrow raise

“uh, huh, whazat s’posed ta mean?”

He tried to look like he knew what that was but he did a very terrible job of doing so. You excitedly told him about the little bird as it scampered around the dirt,

“it’s literally a badass Scout, it nests in cacti to protect it’s babies, can run up to 26 miles per hour, and it can kill and eat snakes like it’s nothing!”

He just stared at you as you in amazement as you continue on telling little facts about the tiny bird, until you both froze as it started to ease over to Scout. You told him to not freak out as he was looking a bit intimidated, until the bird plucked a chunk of chicken from his bucket and bolted.

“HEY!” Scout yelled as he jumped up and started sprinting after the roadrunner,

“Unfair! that’s my chicken ya dumb bird! Not yours!”

At this point you were clutching your stomach and laughing as you watched a grown ass man chase after a two foot bird around in circles in the dust.

Soldier and (somehow)the Porcupine

As per usual, Soldiers booming, patriotic, voice was rattling the hallways of the base, so to try and spare some of the other men some peace for a while, you offered to take one for the team, and offer to listen to his “speeches” outside so his voice could be “heard across America more efficiently”.

……….Speech number, what? 19? You couldn’t remember. It felt like you were listening to this man talking about everything striped and star spangled for hours. Until a rustling was heard in the distance. Soldier neck almost snapped in half as he turned to face you,

“WHAT WAS THAT MAGGOT?”

You could just see his eyes under his helmet as they darted every which way. “Uh, I’m not sure, maybe it’s-”

You didn’t get a chance to finish as Soldier sprinted towards the detection of the noise.

“ALRIGHT THEN! SHOW YOURSELF YOU DIRTY BLUE FRENCHIE! I KNOW YOU’RE THERE!”

You ran after him and did your best to keep up, trying to tell him that this wasn’t the best idea, but by the time you caught up to him, he was crouched, face first, in a shrub.

“Soldier! what the hell are you doing! You- oh no..”

Out of the bush came an American porcupine, chittering and squeaking as it bolted in the opposite direction. You didn’t even want to know what happened, but you asked anyway.

“uh, Soldier? You ok?”

He shot up, back facing you,

“CADET, I HAVE CONCLUDED. THAT THAT WAS SOMEHOW, NOT A SPY!”

He turned around, the bottom half of his face was covered in quills. You gasped and put your hand over your mouth.

“oh god, what did you do?”

He very vividly describes how he was fearlessly defending the base from the intruder as you dragged him down to Medic’s office. “SO YOU'RE TELLING ME THAT WASN'T A SPY?”

“No, it was an American Porcupine”

“SO THAT PORCUPINE WAS AN AMERICAN?”

“Yes, yes he was, and he was surprised that a fellow American attacked him”

“WELL HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW IF HE WASN'T A COMMUNIST PORCUPINE?”

“um,”

The conversation carried on back and forth until you reached Medic’s office, and you could say he was a tad bit shocked at Soldiers face, but then he handed you a pair of tweezers and some disinfecting ointment and pushed you two out of his office saying he was busy(most likely to do with a new supply of organs). So you spent the next two hours plucking quills from Soldier’s face as you told him more about porcupines.

“They are the largest rodents in America, and they have poor eyesight so they mostly rely on hearing and smell”

“OW, THEY DON’T SEEM VERY AMERICAN, OW, OTHER THAN THEIR OW, ADVANCED WEAPONRY, THEY OW, SEEM VERY OW, WIMPY TO ME OW,”

“yeah, they would be in more danger if they didn’t have their quills, hey, did you know the reason why it hurts so much to take out is because there’re barbed?”

When finally, all of the quills were removed, you had to forcefully smother his face in the ointment and put bandages on the nastiest cuts. Afterwards, you sent him off and flopped down on the sofa and let out a sigh. This will be quite a story for later.

Pyro and the Desert Centipede

Engineer was working in the garage one evening and you offered to come and keep Pyro company while he worked to make sure nothing was set ablaze. Safe to say you didn’t really understand how Pyro’s funny little brain worked, nor their mumbled speech, but you still treated them like the rest of the mercs and did your best to understand what they say.

You were looking up at the sky while Pyro played with matches and drew little doodles in the dust, until they got up and mumbled a few little words and crouched down near a rock. You got up to see what they were doing when they very forcefully took hold of something with their gloved hand.

“Hey buddy, what do you got there- OH HOLY FUCK”

You jumped back as he turned around and held a squirming centipede right up to your face and cocked their head.

“Hudda hu?”

They sounded as if they were asking what it was. They knew you liked animals, they saw you draw them and talk about them all the time, so if anyone knew what this was, it was you.

“Oh, y-you wanna know what that is?”

After calming yourself down, you sat next to him.

“Mph!”

They nodded a yes as the centipede did its best to try and bite the pyromaniac, but their thick gloves prevented its jaws from ever piercing skin.

“well, uh, you should probably hold it more at the back of the head then holding on to its mid-section”

They looked at their hand and repositioned it so the centipede was curling somewhat comfortably around the glove.

“yeah just like that! Good job!”

They let out a noise of pride and settled down as you bestowed upon them some epic centipede knowledge.

“These dudes are the largest centipedes in North America, and can reach up to 8 inches in the wild, they’re called centipedes because of their one hundred legs, but they actually can have less or even more than that!”

“Hrmpf Hudda Mpf!”

Pyro excitedly listens to every word you say, eagerly waiting for more.

“Not many centipedes are dangerous to humans, but that one is one of the only few that can harm humans. Their venom isn’t fatal to non allergenic people, but they can certainly give you a nasty nip if provoked”

You continued info dumping as Pyro eagerly listened on until Engie decided it was probably time for them to head back inside. Pyro let out a small mumble-complaint but eventually with enough convincing, they let the centipede scuttle back under the rock where they found it.

Now, every once in a while, you and Pyro will sit out side and look for centipedes under the night sky.

Until you needed to go back inside.

“Pyro, what’s in your pocket?”

*several centipedes fall out*

***

Let me know if you guys would like a part 2!

Update: HEY HEY! Part 2 here!

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

OKAY SO. I have a bunch of things I need to do with regard to brainrot, a bunch of posts to write, I need to record the first youtube video, make a new intro post, make a good omens ppt for no unsuspicious reasons, etc.

VOTE MAGGOTS.

[the-writing-mobster]

| T M D G | Chapter 13 is out! | 💙🔪💔 |

~ Chapter Excerpt ~

“How long has that car been behind us?” she asked when her paranoia finally got the best of her. 

The cab driver checked the rear view mirror. Pursed his bearded lips. 

“I haven’t noticed it.” 

She tisked and fell back against her seat. Craned her head to watch it weave between lanes. Speed up. Slow down. Break check the cars behind it. A true asshole… 

Her imagination ran wild. She could see his predatory grin like lightning etched on the back of her eyelids. Like some morbid caricature of evil toying with the borders of her sanity. Testing those borders. Searching for ways to crawl deep within her skin and settle like a maggot to rot and fester… 

She seized at the mental image. Convulsed in her disgust. Silently pleaded for the driver to go faster. To lose the Kia gaining ground on them. He did neither. 

“Do you live all the way out here?” 

She clenched her jaw at the question. Coming from a man it was… uncomfortable. But if she said no, did that make her seem vulnerable? She gritted her teeth. Why would he even ask? Men were so fucking oblivious. So ignorant. To everything!  

“What’s it to you?” she grunted.  

His brows raised, but he just shrugged and probed no further.

Good. Fuck your small talk. She darted another look behind them… and watched as the Kia turned off onto an exit. 

.

.

.

[jadedsingularity]

BARTYLUS!! My loves 😭

Chapter 4 sneak peak of this fic - The Death of Nineteen

“That’s it. That’s good.” The stream of little comforts they told him gave him enough time to realize that they had a different look in those red eyes. Ignoring the obvious inhuman nature of them, something else entirely swimming beneath. And it looked like captivation. They looked captivated. Captivated by him. It was made even more true by the soft thumbs that pressed themselves in the swell of his bottom lip. “Just look at you. You’re a fucking mess-That idiot’s flesh tasted that good for you, hm? Do you want more? I can get you more”, Yes. Yes, he wants more. He wants it all. All to himself. Aching and needy for that high again, he darted his tongue out to lick the blood staining his lips and teeth. The taste sent small jolts through him, but it still wasn’t enough. They both knew it. “It’s not enough, huh.” They let out a disappointed sigh, “I would tear off another chunk for you, but the body probably has maggots crawling through it already.” With one quick look back at the corpse, he knew he was right. A rush of despair spiked inside of him at the sight, but it was quickly overshadowed by what they said next “I have an idea! Give me your name and I’ll let you lick the blood off my hands.” They said in a joking tone, but Regulus didn’t find it all that funny. All he heard was an easy way to get his fix. An easy ‘Regulus’ would give him that mind-numbing ecstasy again. Normally, he wouldn’t stoop so low as to do something this humiliating and depraved. But the lingering warmth of flesh, the honeyed taste of it on his tongue, and the ghosts of violent starvation simply made all his inhibitions dissolve. He didn’t fucking care anymore.

Cannibalism, blood kinks and depravity - Perfect for a Bartylus meet-cute😁

P.S - Their will be a Rosekiller interaction too and Rosestarkiller feels all around 😌

[takeyourcyanide]

Equilibrium

AO3

Fandom: Soul Eater

Character(s): Franken Stein, Marie Mjolnir

Word Count: 1 448

Tags: hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff & angst, minor character(s), (Maka Albarn and Black🌟Star), descent into madness, madness, exhaustion, Franken Stein needs sleep, it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you, angst & feels, mental instability

Summary: Stein’s generally having a bit of a rough go of it. Marie is standing in the room with him, just watching as he interacts with his hallucinations. She assists him, he assists her. This one’s a bit difficult to summarize.

Notes: none. Here’s a composition instead.

The glacial chill of the laboratory’s floors encapsulated Stein’s still, yet jittery form, as he sat, simply staring into the abyssal darkness which shrouded his office.

A hand emerged from the sleeve of his white lab coat, of which he had thoughtlessly swung over the headrest of his desk chair, its fingers wriggling around like five little worms. He inched cautiously closer to the lone appendage, eyes darting around the room in suspicion. He observed as it gradually vanished, perhaps slinking away into the warmth and comfort of the stitched-up sleeve, concealing itself.

Stein yanked the coat down, scanning the sleeve in question, frantically fussing with it before wrapping his body in the material like a blanket.

“Where is the answer I am seeking?” He whispered slowly, almost drawling tiredly, not aware that he’d spoken aloud.

The hairs on his arms stood tall, three spider-legged eyes crawling on his arms. He stared at them for a moment, twisting his arms in circles, wondering if they’d disappear almost immediately just as they typically do.

“Where is the truth? What is the truth? What is it that I’m longing for?” He slapped his arms raw.

He rolled his shoulders, rolled his head in a circular, cracking motion. He stretched his extremities mechanically, robotically. He stood shakily.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

Marie, observing concernedly and silently from the corner of the room, offering her tenderly distant support, softly and sympathetically replied, “That was a dream, Stein. Remember?”

To remember.

To remember is to live. Memories are your proof of life, as he once heard someone say. Without them, who even are you? And how can you be sure? With all of the lapses in his memory, he wondered if he had ever once lived. Who was he supposed to be again?

“A dream?”

“Yes… a dream.”

“It didn’t snow either, then?”

“We live in Nevada, Franken.”

Nevada? Nevada.

Other places existed, geography is here for a reason. But it felt as though he lived in a dollhouse, that where he was happened to be the only place in existence, or perhaps non-existence.

Stein had his palm flush with the grey wall, his eyelids repeatedly fluttering shut, only to be forced open when he realized he’d closed them.

“Nevada?”

“Nevada.”

“Are you sure?”

“I promise I am.”

“Are there maggots underneath my skin?” He could trust her judgement... couldn’t he?

“I don’t think so, Stein… and even if there were, I could use my healing wavelength to get rid of them.”

“Could you, please?” Was it too much to ask for?

“Of course, dear.” Dear?

She moved slowly towards Stein as to not startle him, placing her pleasantly warm hands on each of his frigid arms, closing her eyes, and muttering, “Healing wavelength.”

A gentle golden glow glimmered around his body, one that carried with it a feeling of hope in a well of despair, a beacon of light in a dark tunnel. It was similar to seeing a bright and open door at the top, distant and nearly impossible to reach, but there, in a seemingly endless void. He felt the unwavering, yet fear-inducing desire to swim towards it, and to fall straight into its embrace.

And fall he did - unconsciously, that is.

“I really needed this, thank you,” she held him as though he were the most fragile, precious item made of pure porcelain, pure glass, her head resting delicately on top of his own.

“Bad day?”

“Yeah… kind of…… but I’m sure you’re too tired to hear about it.”

“Please, tell me about it. I need a distraction.”

He felt the pull of the madness drawing him back in, reeling him in, though he continued to run desperately toward the pearly gates Marie offered.

Pearly, golden gates.

“Well, all right… if that’s what you want.”

What he wanted was freedom. What he wanted was to satiate his desires. What he wanted was peace. Or perhaps he did not? It was difficult to tell anymore.

Truly, what did he want so fervently? What was he longing for? Was it the door? That embrace? It couldn’t possibly be. That would be so horridly out-of-character.

“Today’s just been really stressful - I mean, with all of the paperwork, the planning and concerns over coming missions, and not to mention the kids…”

Oh, yes. The kids. How were they doing? It feels as though he hadn’t seen them in years.

“They’re still alive?”

Marie tittered. “Yes, they’re still alive. If one of them died, I’d tell you.”

A sort of gnawing agitation left Stein frantic to escape her embrace, but the weakness and exhaustion tingling within his limbs prevented him from moving properly. Childishly whimpering and whining were still always two perfectly reasonable options. Though, to him, they were more akin to punishable offenses than anything.

Perhaps he was deserving of punishment for just how pathetic he was currently behaving.

“Why do you assume everything is just dead?”

Anything that wasn’t useful to him or a key component and feature of his life was as good as dead to him.

He shrugged his shoulders, the intermingling scents of strawberry poundcake, coffee, and daisies acting as something of a distraction from the primal and visceral urge he was experiencing to bang his head repetitiously into a stone wall, and listen to cracking of the bones, and to drink up, bask, and bathe in the consistent flow of the blood that would certainly gush from his forehead.

“Did you have a dream about them dying, too?”

He shook his head ‘no’.

“I wonder why you have so many dreams about me dying…”

‘Because you’re the last shred of hope I have, my last tether of which I can hold desperately onto, my last anchor to keep me down on what is supposedly earth, after I lost science. To lose you would be a symbol, a poetic beating. It would signify the end times. I’d know then, if you were to die, that I’d have nothing left, and would fall completely prey to the thick, dense, foggy madness. It is my worst nightmare.’

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I guess you just have a lot of nightmares in general.”

Indeed, he did.

“How are they?”

“How are who?”

One of my old tethers.

“The kids.”

“They’re doing great! They’re improving on their skills and techniques rapidly, especially Maka and Black🌟Star. But they’ve all been so worried about you…. They’ve been planning on sending get well cards and balloons and everything.”

As though he were physically ill and incapacitated.

“How… sweet.”

Sickeningly sweet.

“Where have I gone, Marie?”

You’ve lost yourself in the labyrinth.

“Nowhere. You’re right here.”

But where is ‘here’?

Nowhere.

Marie began to sway the two of them from forwards to backwards, from side to side. Despite his best and most passionate efforts, his eyes refused to stay open. Was it safe to sleep in front of her? Only time would tell. Only the static would tell.

“How long has it been since you last got any good sleep, Stein?”

He’d never gotten any restful sleep. At least not any he was able to remember.

He shrugged his slumped shoulders.

Mjolnir lowered herself to the floor, a hand on his lab coat and back as to force the article not to fall off of his taut frame, shifting the both of them in a more cozy position.

“You can sleep now… right here, if you’d like. I might just pass out myself.”

His breaths were steadying against his will, his arms wrapping around her much smaller torso.

How long had it been since he last slept? He couldn’t remember.

“This’ll all pass eventually. It always does, doesn’t it?” She reassured him with a pensive sigh.

The implications of his experiences being episodic were strong and clear as day, but he couldn’t remember a time in which there was a lull in the madness, in the noise. But he thought there were. And so did she, evidently. They’d all gawk at what was at the forefront. Perhaps they believed as such, too.

“Rest now. You’re safe with me.”

He could trust her judgement. He could trust her. He could help her just as she’d help him. She could help to stabilize him to the point of equilibrium. He could listen and hold her when she was upset. He could trust her. Their relationship was the strongest it had ever been. He could trust her. He helped her, she helped him, they both were useful to each other, they both needed one another. She frequently chose to be vulnerable with him, he frequently was forced to be vulnerable with her. He could trust her.

Couldn’t he?

[holylustration]

Aurelia x Marazhai #24

Skipping the queue a bit to answer a more recent kiss prompt for my OG Pair! List of prompts is here, list of completed prompts is in my Index of Works.

#24: ...in danger.

Every time she stumbled with the spinning of the world, Marazhai cursed at her. He dragged her by her wrist, then the ruined collar of her dress, and then finally by the dirty rope that was her braid as they darted through the underbelly of that foul and sunless place.

Her feet slipped along the streets; she was still slick with gore from the arena and light headed from stim withdrawal, for she'd been too careless in sharing it. Jae needed it and Abelard needed it, too, but if they were to get out of this place, Aurelia needed it more, and the cold truth of it was starting to worm its way into the place the mind maggot had left behind.

"Why are we running?" she asked, her throat sore from screaming.

"We are being hunted," was the clipped reply.

"Everything in this place hunts." Aurelia was on her knee again, but so close to the ground, she could see the approaching shadows. She did not even wince as a tug on her braid brought her to her feet.

"Then stop being such easy prey, my - " Marazhai hissed as the momentum sent her sprawling into him.

Blood flowed on Aurelia's clothing as her skin scraped and was pierced by the spikes on his armor. She was too numb to care.

"Kae morag!"

The sickly green light of the street faded into deep shadows as Marazhai wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing her further onto the sharp spikes, and hoisted her in the air.

Aurelia caught glimpses of their surroundings over a shoulder plate: ruined, crumbling buildings. Some figures shambled, collecting garbage from piles. Other figures were propped over barrels or pushed against walls, their bodies obscured by leering, lean forms.

The distant sound of wings, of rushed footsteps, followed, mingling with the drugged moans and cries of the lowest of the low.

Marazhai pushed Aurelia into a corner, blocking her from view. His face was cast in shadow as he loomed above her.

"It is time for another game now, my pet," he whispered. "And if you break the rules, it will not be by my hand that you suffer." He took her face between his fingers, lifting her chin up as he brought his mouth to hers.

His lips were surprisingly soft and tasted of blood. He kissed her hungrily - no, urgently - as though it might be their last time, stealing the very breath from her lungs as he nipped at her mouth and let his tongue glide against hers. There was no way, even in the dark and with her eyes closed, that she could pretend she was anywhere else or with anyone else, not when she had become the center of his entire world.

The commands of the search party drew closer, but Aurelia scarcely heard them. The poisoned chalice of his affections had likely doomed them both.

[its-julia-in-outer-space]

Our Love Eternal - Part 2

Prompt: Harry is a Viking, and invades Y/N's land.

There is a man sleeping on a hill. 

A soldier, his mouth open, his hands joined over his chest. He is laid down on the grass, blue and white wildflowers surrounding him, under the shadow of an oak tree.

The man is familiar, yet Y/N does not know his name. She tries to approach, and sees then that she has no body. No feet to carry her forward, no mouth to call out. She has only her eyes to watch.

She sees three shadows darken the sky from the north. As they get closer, she recognizes them as crows, with eyes as red as rubies. The crows land on the sleeping man, one by his feet, one on his stomach, the other above his head.

A woman screams. It is not Y/N, though she wants to as the crows start picking at the sleeping soldier. They tear into his body, feasting on his flesh, and with each mouthful they grow larger. 

The man does not wake.

The man does not wake, because as his eyelids are torn off, maggots start crawling out of the rotten sockets.

The man does not wake, because he was dead all along.

-----

Y/N swallowed a scream as she jolted awake, eyes wide open in the fading darkness of her bedroom. She ran a hand over her face, expecting to feel maggots crawling over her skin.

She had arrived in Kaldagr over a month ago, and every night, she had the same dream. The three crows, the sleeping man who was not truly sleeping, the screaming woman. Always the same.

She sat up, shivering as the furs slid from her shoulders. From the gaps in the shutters of her window, she could see the sun was only just rising, the sky a pallid pink with golden hues. People were already up and about, faint echoes of conversations between friends and neighbours reaching her ears.

Y/N did not bother trying to fall back asleep, and got herself dressed. First, she put on a simple but thick linen underdress covering her from her wrist to her ankles. Over it, she slid on a red wool dress held up by straps over her shoulders. The straps were closed by two gold brooches of fine make, rubies embedded at the centre. She tied leather boots over her feet and carefully brushed her hair, tying it at the back of her head with a bone pin.

She’d gotten used to the clothing and jewellery quickly, marvelling each day at how more freeing they were than the stifling fashion of Lothian. Even sitting had been difficult in her old corsets.

Y/N left her bedroom and walked to the main hall. The fire was low, the doors to the city beyond still shut. They would open soon, welcoming the people of Kaldagr to the halls of their lord, and the warm stew that simmered above the firepit. 

Y/N helped herself to a bowl and sat down on one of the many benches, watching the servants come and go as they prepared for the day ahead.

She was halfway through the stew when a heavy weight dropped onto the bench next to her. She tensed, biting back a curse as she glanced to her right.

Harry was sitting next to her, hair still mussed from sleep, eyes bleary and unfocused. He wore simple linen pants, a tunic that was still untied at his neck and a pillow line on his right cheek. He looked like a peasant.

“Hello,” he said, elongating each syllable like they were individual words. His gaze darted from her face to the table, a gentle smile on his lips.

A few seconds of silence passed, before Y/N bit out her own greeting. “You’re awake early,” she continued, her tone sullen. “Snemma. Early.”

“Já,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “No sleep.”

She raised an eyebrow at the lie. She might have believed him, had he not joined her for breakfast every single day since she’d first arrived at Kaldagr. Uninvited.

She’d tried waking up late, tried waking up early. She’d tried to eat elsewhere even, but no matter the time and place, he always found her. Often, he looked dishevelled and she knew that he had just woken up. He must have ordered the servants to warn him as soon as she left her room.

“Good?” he said, pointing to her half-finished bowl.

“Yes,” she answered, gritting her teeth. “It’s excellent.”

He repeated her words under his breath, a frown between his brows as he struggled with the pronunciation.

“Not like that,” she said, cutting him off. “EX-cellent. X.”

“Excellent,” he tried and she nodded. He smiled, his green eyes shining with pride. He looked years younger then, like a boy who’d never known any struggles.

Those language lessons, if one could call them that, happened every breakfast as well. He was always the one who engaged with her first, asking about the weather, commenting on her clothing or telling her about his plans for the day. The conversations were stilted, partly due to Y/N’s own reluctance, partly due to the language barrier.

He seemed intent on tearing that last obstacle down. From the very first day, he’d asked for translations, butchering countless words until she lost patience and corrected him. And he was always so happy when he got it right.

“Do you,” Harry began, then hesitated. “Dream? Good?”

“That’s the word,” she replied. He asked often, whether she’d slept well, when she’d woken up. If she’d had good dreams.

She hadn’t told him about her nightmare. It was a weakness, one she wasn’t ready to show him. Not when she still did not know what her purpose was in Kaldagr.

She was not a good enough liar to pretend her dreams had been pleasant, so she swallowed the last mouthfuls of her stew and stood, stepping over the bench.

“Thank you for the meal,” she said and turned before he could reply. She felt the weight of his eyes on her back all the way to the doors, and breathed only when she had stepped through and she was out of his sight.

As she walked onto the street, the wind bit at her skin and she cursed her lack of foresight. Her cloak, or rather Harry’s, was neatly hung in her bedroom.

She would rather crawl on broken glass than go back to get it when he would inevitably see her, so she soldiered on and kept walking. She passed Erp Ketilbiornsson, the woodworker and his son Ulfar the Bold. She walked by Runa Ospakdottir, the seamstress, selling coats in front of her shop. Little Arnora Torfidottir ran by her, chased by her mother Hildirid.

She’d been introduced to them all in the past four weeks. Often by Harry, who seemed to take heart in making sure every single one of his subjects knew who she was. Sometimes, it was Robben who liked to take walks while he taught her the northerners’ language. Or Saga, who had turned out to be a better friend than she’d expected.

Y/N nodded at Erp and his son, smiled at Runa and Arnora and Hildirid. They nodded and smiled back. Then promptly turned their eyes away. She could hardly blame them for their lack of trust. She certainly didn’t trust any of them.

Y/N kept walking, until she reached the market at last. Every morning, fishermen holed out the night’s haul onto stalls until the smell of fish reached the farthest corner of the city. They were joined by farmers who’d travelled for days to sell their harvest, by foreign merchants with bags full of colourful spices and strange trinkets, by women who sold nothing but their bodies, by missionaries, musicians, artists!

Robben was teaching her the vikings’ language from books and lessons, but the market was where she learned the most.

It was perhaps the only place where she did not draw glances. The only place where she was just another body in the crowd, utterly unremarkable.

Except for those who knew to look for her.

“I should have guessed I’d find you here.”

Saga seemed to appear out of nowhere, which was a wonder considering she towered over everyone else. She wore her fighting leathers, as always, the handle of her axe peaking over her left shoulder.

Y/N smiled, pushing through the crowd until she stood in front of the warrior.

Befriending Saga had been a surprise. But from the very first day of Y/N’s new life at Kaldagr, Saga had made it a point to seek her out. Y/N had welcomed it: just to know someone who spoke her language was a gift of immeasurable measure. Robben was kind, helpful, but always maintained a distance. Saga did not. Saga sat with her at meals, took her out to the city, helped Y/N do her hair when the complicated viking braids proved too much for her. Despite what her appearance might suggest, Saga was kind. Gentle, even. And Y/N loved her for it.

“Good morning,” Y/N said. “I thought you would be at the training grounds today.”

“The men deserve a break after the beating I gave them yesterday.”

Y/N laughed, linking her arm through Saga’s. “If only we’d had warriors like you in Lothian! Harry would have run back to his ships with his tail between his legs.”

“Don’t go saying that to him,” warned Saga, her tone stern. “Men have fragile egos, and to insult a jarl’s skills in battle is a good way to get executed.”

“He wouldn’t,” Y/N shrugged. “He needs me alive, though I still don’t know what for.”

“He hasn’t told you?”

Y/N shook her head.

“I’ve tried to ask, but we can barely understand each other.”

Saga scoffed. “That’s an excuse if I’ve ever heard one. Your Norse is better than you believe.”

“It’s not! I’ve been here for four weeks. That’s hardly long enough to master any language, let alone the monstrous complexity that is yours.”

“Robben says you’re a natural. You’re picking it up faster than any scholar. It’s not skill you’re lacking, it’s confidence.”

Y/N’s cheeks burned as she avoided Saga’s cold blue eyes. “Perhaps,” she admitted.

Saga was kind enough to drop the subject. She guided them through the market, stopping at a stall here and there until they reached the blacksmith’s stand. Weapons were laid on the wooden table, swords, axes, spears and daggers. Torsten Øpirsson stood behind the stand, his arms crossed over his chest.

Saga switched to Norse as she began talking to him, something about her axe needing sharpening, and Y/N took a closer look at the blades until one caught her eye. It was small and thin, looking more like a letter opener than a dagger. The handle was wrapped in black leather, the brass pommel engraved with delicate runes. The blade itself had been carefully polished, and it shone in the light of the morning sun.

Y/N reached a hand out, her fingers brushing the metal.

“Nei!” shouted Torsten, his eyes darkening with rage.

Y/N startled, drawing her arm back as Saga instantly stepped in front of her and snapped at the blacksmith. They spoke too fast for Y/N to understand much beyond the words ‘foreigner’ and ‘shame’.

“What is it?” asked Y/N. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” scowled Saga. “You’ve done no wrong. Torsten is just being a fool.”

Saga took her arm and pushed her away from the stall, through the crowd. Y/N glanced back, only to see the blacksmith look at her with pure hatred.

“I don’t understand.”

Saga sighed. “His brother died in Lothian.”

A weight sunk in Y/N’s stomach. She stopped, ignoring the complaints of the people who had to divert their paths.

“Northerners died in Lothian?”

“Three,” Saga answered. “Svala and Bera died in battle honourably. They are now in Valhalla, feasting with the gods. But Torsten’s brother Gunnar…”

“What?”

“Harry wouldn’t want you to know this, Y/N.”

“I don’t care what Harry wants. What happened to Gunnar?”

“He tried to rape a Saxxon woman. Harry killed him.”

The world shifted on its axis. The idea of Harry killing one of his own to save a woman he didn’t know, one from an enemy land, was hard to fathom.

“Gunnar should have known better,” Saga continued. “Harry has always made the rules clear. We do not kill unless threatened. We do not steal from the needy. We do not rape, we do not burn homes, we do no violence that is not necessary.”

“Why? Northerners have invaded other kingdoms before Lothian, and they had no such rules.”

“Kaldagr has always been different. Those rules were set in place long before Harry took the throne, but he enforces them because he believes in them.”

“And what about Skolstrond?” Y/N asked.

Saga’s features hardened. “My father has no such morals.”

Y/N did not pry for details. She looked back through the crowd, and shivered when she saw that Torsten’s wrathful gaze was still on her.

“I didn’t kill Gunnar,” she said. “Why is he so angry at me, and not Harry?”

Saga hesitated. “When Harry told the men they would go to Lothian, they all thought it was to raid. They were promised gold, lots of it.”

“They got it,” said Y/N. “I saw it on the ships.”

“No. What you saw is a fraction of what we usually take on raids. Do you know how many of your temples were plundered? Two. That’s nothing.”

“Say that to the monks.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Saga hissed, her grip tightening on Y/N’s arm. “Men fought, some lost their lives, because they believed it would make them rich. But when they got to Lothian, Harry held them back. He prevented them from fighting as much as he could, without telling them why and he has never done that before. The people of Kaldagr are so loyal to Harry because he has always been honest and fair to them, but in Lothian, he lied.”

Saga leaned towards Y/N, her ice blue eyes boring into her own.

“The only reason he came to Lothian was you. He did not raid your town and villages, for you. He took next to nothing of your gold, for you. His men died, for you.”

“Why?” Y/N cried. “He doesn’t know me!” She tried to draw her arm back, but Saga’s grip was unshakeable. For the very first time, she was afraid of the warrior. 

“I don’t know. None of us know. But the people are angry, Y/N. They hide it because Harry has made it clear you are to be respected and protected, but they don’t understand why you are here and it’s only a matter of time before they start looking for answers. Harry is their lord. But you are nothing to them.”

Saga exhaled, her shoulders dropping. Her grip loosened and Y/N pulled her arm to her side. Her wrist ached.

“Be wary of Torsten,” Saga said. “He is a prideful man, who has now lost both his brother and his promised gold, because Harry wanted you in Kaldagr. There is no telling what he’ll do if his emotions get the best of him.”

-----

Y/N spent the next five days in a daze.

She erred in the halls of the longhouse, watching every one that passed her as if they would run her through with a sword. Saga’s words were a song in her head that never ended.

You are nothing to them.

And wasn’t that the truth? She was something to Harry, his actions had made that clear. But to his people? What was she but a reminder of what they had lost?

Gunnar may have been a monster, but Svala and Bera had been loved. Saga had said so, had shown Y/N the house they shared. Used to share. She’d pointed out Svala’s mother in the crowd, and Bera’s brother, who’d been so young it had broken her heart. 

Y/N knew she was not to blame. The northerners had been the invaders, they had chosen to come to Lothian and they had expected resistance. But her heart ached. Harry had come for her. He had brought his warriors with him, for her. If she had not existed, Svala and Bera would still be alive.

She snapped on the fifth day, out of nowhere. She had gone to bed, feeling hollow and ashamed. She’d woken up angry.

She didn’t bother getting dressed. She threw on a shawl and marched out of her bedroom, the door slamming against the wall. A redheaded maid was in the hallway, and startled badly enough to drop the pile of sheets she’d been holding. Y/N did not stop to help her pick everything up.

She marched straight to Harry’s bedroom. In her head, a tiny part of her was begging her to reconsider, but the rage made her blind.

A man was standing guard by Harry’s door, but he made no move to stop her as she got near. She thought about knocking for half a second. Then threw open the door.

Harry was in bed still, his chest bare. Curls fell in front of his closed eyes, his mouth open slightly as he slept. He looked innocent. Vulnerable.

What a lie.

“Get up,” Y/N growled.

His eyes snapped open, settling on her figure at once. With a snarl, he jumped up and reached an arm under his pillow. He pulled out a dagger and held it in front of him, his teeth bared as if he would tear out her throat if she came any closer.

Then, he seemed to recognize her. The ruthlessness in his green eyes faded, replaced with worry. His curled up lips softened. The dagger fell from his slackened grip, and disappeared in the covers.

“Y/N?” he asked. God, she hated how gently he said her name.

“Tell me why I’m here,” she ordered. 

He froze.

“Why? Hví?” she repeated, her pronunciation hardly perfect but understandable, if the sudden panic in Harry’s eyes was any indication. “You brought me here, to Kaldagr. What for?”

Harry slowly slid his feet to the floor and stood, keeping his gaze on her always, like he expected her to attack. Like she was an animal, crazed and dangerous.

How right he was. She wanted to tear his lungs out.

“It’s been a month,” she hissed. “Einn mánaðr. One month, and no one has touched me, no one has locked me up, hurt me or demanded anything of me.”

“No hurt,” he said, cutting her off.

“I know!” she raged. “You’ve proved it! I don’t need reassurances from you, I need answers!”

He looked at her, his brows furrowed. Confused. He didn’t understand her. She could scream all she wanted, there was no point if he couldn’t grasp her words. 

To her horror, she felt the telltale pinpricks of incoming tears behind her eyes and her throat tightened. She ached for home, in a way she hadn’t before. She ached for her father, cold and cruel as he was. She missed the stone walls of her room, the too-tight corsets in her wardrobe. She missed the stags she would see on the edge of the forest from her window, the foxes in their burrows. She missed the sound of her language from strangers’ lips.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, her tone defeated. A sob ripped out of her throat before she could stop it and her vision blurred from unshed tears.

She dropped her head, pressing her hands to her face. For a moment that felt like a century, she stood there as the rage seeped out of her and left behind a raw, empty void.

Then, a hand touched her shoulder tentatively. Another reached for her arm. She got pulled in, gently, into the agonising warmth of Harry’s embrace.

She wanted to push him away. She wanted to pull him closer. She hated him. She trusted him. He had not hurt her. He had hurt her more than everyone else in her life.

“Sorry,” he said roughly into her hair. “Sorry. I am sorry.”

She sobbed, dropping her head to his shoulder. His arms closed over her back, pulling her close enough that her sobs made his whole body shake. He spoke softly in her ear, words she did not understand but felt comforting all the same. His hand stroked slow circles over the thin material of her shawl.

“I want to go home,” she said.

She felt him shake his head, a hand going to the back of her head to push her closer.

“You are home,” he said. 

He sounded almost saddened by it.

-----

A truce of sorts settled between Y/N and Harry after that day.

She had not gotten any answers as to why he had brought her to Kaldagr, and it was unlikely he ever would. But Y/N reasoned that agonising over it would not help the situation.

The fact was, she was to remain in Kaldagr. It was her home. It didn’t feel like one, but she was the only one able to change that.

She threw herself into her language lessons with Robben, insisted on speaking to Saga in Norse as much as she could. She drove the breakfast conversations with Harry, to his delight.

When she walked the city, she now recognized the hidden hostility of the people around her. She kept her head high, smiled and forced herself to exchange pleasantries with those too polite to turn her away. When she passed by Torsten’s stall, she made it a point to greet him.

It took her six weeks to master the northerners’ language, enough to understand and hold her own in most conversations. But the northerners’ culture? That was a different beast entirely.

“How can a man have a horse for a son?” she asked Harry as they sat in the great hall, a book spread out before them. The Nordic language flowed from her mouth, her pronunciation still awkward, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

Harry leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he pointed his chin to the book with an amused smile.

“Read it,” he said.

“I have read it, thank you,” Y/N huffed. “But it doesn't make sense. Loki is a man-”

“A god.”

“A man-like god. Sleipnir is a horse. How does that happen?”

“How did your Mary have a child, if she is a virgin?”

“That’s different!”

He laughed, and she could not hold back a smile at the sound. They’d been sitting in the great hall since lunch, going through all the books Harry had found that spoke of their religion.

“It’s so complicated,” she said, gesturing at the dozens of volumes stacked on the table. “You have so many gods, so many stories. It’ll take me years to learn them all.”

“You don’t need to learn them all. Just this one,” he replied, riffling through the book until he found the chapter he wanted. “This is the story of Freyr. We will celebrate him tonight at the feast.”

“Why?”

“He is our god of harvest, among other things. We have had good weather this year, and the crops were plentiful. It is right to thank him.”

He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. She sucked in a breath, face heating up at the shivers that ran down from her neck to her toes. Thankfully, he seemed to take no notice of her reaction.

“Look here,” he said. He gently took her hand in his, guiding her fingers to a specific paragraph. Her skin burned. “This part tells the story of how Freyr fell in love with Gerðr. He saw her across a field and was starstruck at once by her beauty. So he sent his servant Skírnir to her home, to ask for her hand in marriage.”

“His servant? He didn’t go himself?”

“Perhaps Freyr was shy. Either way, Gerðr refused the proposal.”

Y/N scoffed. “Of course she did! I would have said no as well.”

Harry smiled, his green eyes bright with amusement as he looked at her. His hand was still on hers, warm and rough from calluses.

“You would have refused a god?”

“I would refuse any man who does not have the decency to propose himself.”

He hummed. “That’s good to know.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat as her harried mind considered the possible meaning of his words. Was that intent in his eyes? Or was it just her imagination? 

Lately, she’d been reading too much into each one of Harry’s words and gestures. His hand on her back, when he guided her through a door. The smile on his face when he saw her in the morning. How his voice softened when he spoke to her in the evening.

“What would you have done?” she asked. “If you were Freyr?”

He thought about it for a moment, his eyes never leaving her own. “I do not know. The only time I was ever in this situation, I handled it poorly. I’m afraid she’ll never see me the way I want her to.”

A weight dropped in Y/N’s stomach, and she cursed herself for being disappointed. Perhaps his attentions towards her had never meant anything, or he was flighty with his affections. Either way, she was happy to know before she made too much of a fool out of herself.

“So you see her still?” she asked. “This woman?”

“Every day,” he said with a sad smile.

Y/N frowned, quickly sifting through the options.

“Is it Saga?” she gasped.

Harry’s eyes widened, his mouth dropping open. Then, he reared his head back and laughed, holding a hand to his chest.

“No! What gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know! You’re never with any women except for her and your mother and sister!”

He laughed even harder, if that was even possible. Miffed, Y/N rose to her feet and stepped over the bench. “Mock me all you want,” she said. “I’m leaving.”

His laughter followed her all the way to the door.

-----

When Harry had told Y/N they would be honouring the god Freyr at the evening’s feast, she had imagined there would be good food, some prayers and maybe a bard, if she was lucky. A couple of animal sacrifices, maybe, a tradition she still found hard to get used to.

Her imagination, she now realised, was somewhat lacking.

The longhouse was filled to the brim, and it seemed as if every citizen of Kaldagr was under its roof. There was scarcely enough room to stand, let alone sit. 

They had sacrificed three pigs and a lamb, and the priests drew runes on their faces from the animals’ blood. All very barbaric and fascinating. Harry had then given a long speech, thanking Freyr for his generosity and thanking his people for their hard work. Hedda and Astrid had sang a haunting hymn, their hands on Harry’s shoulder as he’d closed his eyes in prayer. So far, the events of the night had followed what Y/N had expected. A solemn, reverent night.

And then, the chaos had started.

Drums had been carried into the longhouse, the tables had been pushed back against the walls and the casks of ale had been split open. Y/N had quickly hidden in a corner as the celebrations started.

She was still in that corner, watching the pandemonium in the great hall like one would a play. There was Astrid, whirling in the middle of the room with her mother, their skirts pulled up to their knees so they wouldn’t trip. Near the doors, Robben was engaged in a poetry contest with Runa Ospakdottir, and seemed to be losing if the way his face reddened was to be believed. Saga was juggling her axe by the firepit, watched with rapture by a group of young children.

“Not in the mood to dance?” asked Harry.

Y/N was so used to his presence that she did not even startle at his sudden appearance. She grinned, stepping closer so she could be heard over the ruckus.

“I wouldn’t want to be trampled.”

“Come,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe.”

She shook her head.

“Wouldn’t you rather be with your mystery woman? Dancing is a wonderful way to make amends.”

“I know!” he laughed, and pulled her through the crowd. She stumbled after him, clutching his hand like a lifeline as he took hold of her waist with the other.

There was no steps, no choreography. She followed the beat of the drums as best she could, apologising between peals of laughter as she bumped into the crowd. She stepped on Harry’s feet so many times she was sure he would have a hard time walking the next day, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Harry gave her a curved horn filled with ale, which she swallowed down with a grimace. She asked for a second three songs later, then a third when Harry begged for a break at last. She danced with Saga as he watched from a bench, the warrior twirling her around the room with so much vigour Y/N felt like she was flying. She was passed from arms to arms, Robben’s, Astrid’s, men she did not know, then Harry’s again.

It was pure joy. The kind she’d never felt before, not even as a child. She forgot about Lothian, forgot about Torsten, forgot about everything except how good she felt, how happy she was.

Hours later, the alcohol caught up to her and a wave of fatigue crashed onto her. She sat by Harry’s side, listening to him as he spoke and laughed with his men. They were close enough that their shoulders touched, and she was too drunk to care about propriety as she leaned against him.

“Go to bed,” he told her when most of the crowd had left the hall.

“I don’t want to,” she hummed, blinking slowly at him. His eyes seemed even more green than usual, like the most precious of emeralds.

He gently bumped her side with his arm, gesturing to the hallway with his chin. “Go, Y/N. You’ve had a lot to drink, and you’ll be suffering for it in the morning. Sleep will help.”

She groaned, her head dropping. He helped her stand, then passed her to a servant girl who accompanied her to her bedroom. By the time they reached her door, Y/N was barely awake enough to thank the girl.

She tiredly slipped on her nightgown and dragged her feet to the bed, falling face first onto the covers. Her entire body ached and she could not find the strength to slide underneath the furs. Her eyes closed, her breathing slowed. Sleep, blessed sleep, was only a few heartbeats away.

And then, she felt it.

Something cold and leathery touched her foot. It rose to her ankle, curled around her calf. From the haze of her mind, alarm rose. She forced her eyes open, blinked away the fatigue.

Her heart stopped.

There, around the vulnerable skin of her leg, was a viper.

-----

Here is the second part, I hope you liked it!

Masterlist

[terushimooo]

BREATHER

A composition on the decomposition of mind, body, and soul 

vampire!Jean x human!reader

t/w: lots of blood, open sores, vague allusion to self-harm and domestic abuse, implied tortured and depressed reader, activation of potential trypophobia, one bug eaten, eating/drinking of blood, noncon vampire bite, implied abduction. Please let me know if I missed anything!!!! 

a/n: thank you to both @iwaasfairy and @seijorhi for inviting me into your collab! I’m super excited to be back for my yearly contribution! I dedicate this piece to Rhi, my wife, and the eternal victim to my fics. I swear this is one of my most normal drabbles!! Happy supper early birthday my love!!!

And, of course, thank you to @bontenten for being my ride or die beta for life!!

w/c: 1.3k

Check out the events masterlist HERE and the corresponding art piece HERE 

Stagnant, lifeless, putrid decomposition.

None are words that should be associated with someone entering their so-called “prime”. 

And yet, here you are. 

Every morning slowly becomes harder than the last, every day more painful. 

Unseen to others, sores wrack your body, oozing and scabbing over in an almost religious fashion. 

And yet, unlike religion, or maybe more like it than anyone else would care to admit, no matter how hard you pray, scrubbing and disinfecting the lifeless skin of weakened limbs, your body refuses to heal. 

But that’s just the way Jean likes it.

On dark days when the clouds block out the sun, when the cool drizzle of rain thumps heavily onto his sun kissed skin, Jean can’t help but catch a glimpse of an unspoken truth. 

You’re just so fragile… so weak… so…

So painfully human…

But, that’s precisely the way Jean likes you.

It’s on days like today, with goosebumps prickling your skin and teeth chattering violently from miles away, that a gnawing voice burrows its way deep into the crevices of Jean’s mind. It’s like he can’t control it, can’t stop the compulsion that has him seeking you out in your only time of freedom, the only time he lets you out of your confinement.

Even a moment without you is too long. 

The strong breeze carries the smell of rain, renewal, rejuvenation, but most importantly, reward. It carries the scent of you, his dearest companion… his favourite, most precious pet. 

Although your lips never truly part, never except to cry out and whimper in pathetic attempts for mercy, you call to Jean. Like a siren’s song, the soft trickle of blood from wounds beaten open by the rain’s percussion lures him in. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. Jean pushes his way through chest-high blades of grass, wet stalks brushing up against haphazardly buttoned flannel and his best denim. An odd combination, but you weren’t there to help him dress in the morning. Clearly, Jean thinks with a scoff, a scoff soon replaced with a smirk and throaty chuckle, clearly you wanted a head start in the game he likes to call life. Or rather, your battle for it.

As Jean stares down the traces of limp foliage, grass and branches disturbed by previous passage, he can’t help but wonder just how far you’ve gotten this time. His eyes light up with his first trace of reward, with a gentle puddle of blood cradled perfectly in the cracks and crevices of the abrasive bark of a towering oak. 

He knows he shouldn’t, but how can he stop? How can he stop his tongue from darting out, from finding its place upon the crimson stained wood. A soft groan slips past his lips as Jean laps at your taste, as he furiously seeks out every last drop of your blood.

He can’t stand to waste it. Can’t stand for anyone else to have it, not even the earth or the trees that in turn, give you life, give you something crucial—breath and oxygen.

Pure ecstasy flashes behind Jean’s eyes with every drop. It’s almost enough to have him forget about the scrambling bugs and maggots, the beatles and bark shavings he crunches between his teeth in an attempt not to waste your treasure.

If he had a working heart, it would beat only for you. If he had a soul, it would be tied only to you. And if he had any sense of compassion, of a true fondness and love for you and your wellbeing, he would let you die. 

But Jean doesn’t have a heart. He doesn’t have a soul. But most importantly, he doesn’t have compassion—not enough to grant you mercy.

His love is selfish. His love is unstable. And his love is everlasting. That much is made clear by the quickly hardening shaft of his cock, stimulated only by the quickly passing taste of your blood.

Jean loves the chase, the little game you two play. 

It’s one you’re not even aware of. 

Taking off through the woods, bare feet rubbed raw against the rough floors of the forest, nightgown torn to tatters, sores opened and oozing down your trembling body, rain chilling you down to your bones—this is no game. To you, this is real. This is a battle for life, at least, what you have left of it… 

But this time, this time you’ve gone too far. This time, there's no coming back.

In his mind, Jean would find you thrashing through the thicket, eyes wide and heart racing, blood leaking steadily from unsealed and revisited wounds.

In his mind, you’d scream. Cry out. Beg on your hands and knees for mercy, for his love. 

But never could he imagine the scene in front of him. 

When he finds you, when he sees your wounds ripped open, and wrists torn ragged by a branch, he can only imagine you used to try and find freedom. 

When he finds you, Jean’s not mad. He thinks nothing but how childish you are. How foolish you are for trying this. How much you’re going to regret this.

It’s clear now that he can’t trust you, that he can’t leave you alone for even a second. Not while you’re like this. Not while you’re still human.

Heavy lidded eyes begging to rest for eternity shoot open as you're made aware of Jean’s presence. He calls to you with soft coddling and reassurance, but all you hear is nails against slate, an agitating and grating sensation and you’re wrought from your slumber. 

“P-please,” you beg, voice soft and inaudible to even your own ears. “Don’t.”

But Jean doesn’t negotiate with incoherency. Even if he claims to care, your pleas fall on entire deaf ears. Instead of evoking a sense of pity, they just serve to drive his cause, to stake his claim. 

It’s all a flurry of limbs. 

Wild, desperate, bleeding hands. Bare feet swinging in abandon. Mouth left open in mid scream. Fists covered in open wounds and split knuckles claw desperately at their captors embrace. Sharpened fangs piece through bleeding gums, only seconds before they find their way into the crook of your neck.

For Jean, it’s euphoria. It’s everything he’s always wanted, maybe even more. But for you, for the poor, weak, and battered body coddled tightly in your captors embrace, for you its torture.

Fire runs through your veins as your eyes roll back into your skull. Gritted teeth are cracked open in an attempt to rob Jean of what little pleasure you can, to rob him the pleasure of seeing your pain.

But inevitably, all your actions were in vain.

As you lay shaking on his chest, gentle convulsions wracking your already worn out limbs, blood continuing to flow freely from the numerous sores and wounds littering your paleing form, Jean can't help but smile in content.

This day, this hour, this moment, this second, on February fourteenth… It’s at times like this where he thanks the gods, the gods who cursed him to an eternal life of indentured sorrow and suffering. 

The only sounds coming from your cracked lips are gargled groans of pain and distress. Tears stream readily down your face as Jean sucks from his own wrist to provide to you his one gift—the gift of life. Eternal life. 

Forever by his side. 

Cold, dead lips press against yours in anything but reverence. It’s hard, aggressive, and mixed with passion. But to Jean, to Jean it’s perfect. In fact, he could almost swear that your pain is really just pleasure. Your lips aren’t moving out of spite, but finally requited love.

As Jean continues to watch the seconds pass, to watch the life slowly drain from your quivering, whimpering lips, Jean thinks to himself that this must be the first time in the hundreds, maybe thousands of years in his pathetic existence that finally, with you turned and bound to him for all of eternity, finally, Jean can take a breather.

[uwukeres]

Re: Writing a massive CoD tea post

Disclaimer: I don't often write long posts on tumblr so my formatting may be way off here, so bare with me while I get my footing a bit. The original thread by @jazzybot4 that is (as of 24/7/23), on-going can be found here. This thread will be in response to all three parts, as I'm tired I've watching someone swing behind the genuine belief of misinformation. This post will primarily be in defense of @zyomih, as OP has made several claims against them that are backed up by little more than smoke and mirrors. jazzybot4 makes some points, such as the previous mod team mishandling some aspects of moderation, I won't argue with that; we were a small team that was fit to moderate a smaller server and not one that had over 1k members. However, where they lose me, and a lot of other folks is when they begin pointing the finger at @zyomih and saying that they are a "Generally unpleasant person, howling screaming tantrum throwing anti." who has apparently abused Leech (formerly known as Maggot-- I will more than likely alternate in between their names, as I knew them primarily as Maggot) and is heavily implied to have sent death threats, used a sock puppet to bypass blocks etc, etc. Lets start at the beginning, if you want to see the same handful of screenshots from the original twitter thread that OP reposts in every single part, use the link above. I'm tired of them rehashing the same two-three screenshots for their argument. Zyo's original posts can be found here (1) (2) and I encourage you to give them a thorough read through, and not just a light skim. (2) is where they first mention Leechknot, as can be seen below:

This is, and continues to be their only mention of Leech in the context of this drama. But, still the comments persist that Zyo is apparently disparaging Leech:

(Taken from the first posts comment section-- sort by oldest, and its the second or third response. This was in response to me asking when exactly in the first post they went word-for-word and proved-- anything really.) So lets take a look at their dm list on their main account:

This screenshot is their last interaction, which is dated June 27, 2023 which was the day of the server hand-over. They have exchanged no messages since-- and there are no deleted messages, as then there would be long-stretches where Leech was seemingly talking to themselves. Note: Leeches messages have been blacked out in order to not leak their private dm's. This screenshot was taken 2024/07/23 (Today) and is current with Leech's current profile picture. While I appreciate the faith you have in my friend to juggle several sock accounts to block evade/send death threats, its simply not true. Zyo has always been the type of person to say them directly. Lets make something clear, I'm not saying that Leech isn't receiving death threats at all; but I know for a fact that they aren't coming from Zyo. Yet still, Since you insist on being a pariah of truth and receipts (of which you don't provide yourself the majority of the time) here is their entire dm list from their only alt discord account (The 'Dart' dummy account):

This screenshot is, again, taken from 2024/07/23. The user on the top of the friends list is NOT another alt account, but a mutual friend. Their name has been blacked out for privacy. Something I wanted to highlight is the fact that NEITHER of these screenshots show any evidence of Zyo sending threats or any type of abuse towards Maggot. Moving on to the allegations that Zyo made and the latter half of comments which you ignore. You incorrectly identified what their main issues with the server are, and I'm assuming this is so you could strengthen your stance that Zyo is, for lack of a better term, full of shit.

Screenshot from the third post, and lets actually go line by line since you seem incapable of following the structure of your own posts. 1. "Hosting Illegal Content."-- This claim is made because the server hosts threads that talk, in detail about Rape and Sexual assault. These are not support threads, as it clearly states in the rules that there is no venting channels. There is no sexual assault depicted with these characters in the screenshot below, nor is there within Modern Warfare games with the exception of Ghosts comic backstory.

And, an accompanying list of those who were active within the top thread (Important note: Mod roles are defined by [Sgt.], [Lt.], [Cpt.] and [Cpl.]):

Which shows that mods were active within these threads. You are right, their unacceptable content list is well within the recommended list that Discord provides. However, underage nsfw has been shared there before:

--and that has a mod engaging positively with it. They are lenient when they come to their mod staff and their more well-respected members (AKA, those with a significant following.) An example of this is here, when a member is asked by a mod to not stream a game that may or may not have some SA undertones in it:

Which does imply a bias, which I don't think is fair to ignore. If you're going to base your entire arguement over accusing Zyo of acting in bad faith, its really pertinent to include the whole context, and not just cherry picking what does and doesn't work for your argument. I noticed in all of your posts, you've always neglected to approach the Underage aspect of the accusations. Which are, by the way, prohibited by Discord TOS:

I can hear the argument already, that members of the server are not trying to 'Normalize' child abuse. However, as the definition goes on to state-- "Do not post content or engage in conduct that in any way sexualizes children.... [in] any type of digital creation." Fanfiction, by law does count under digital creation. As well, if you look at the top of the screenshot from Discord, you can see the searching the phrase "Underage" yields about 55 results; if we assume that at least 5 of them are from mods asking for the content not to be there and at least one of them is dedicated to their unacceptable list, then that still leaves 49 instances of where the content was discussed in the server. 2. "Engaging in Censorship and Silencing pro-Palestine Activism."-- Once again, no, Zyo was not commenting on them silencing Pro-Palestine Activism. They stated (And their thread has been unrolled for a neater screenshot, the original can be found here):

Which is referencing this tweet where the mod-team asks @/aquasuperbat to remove their comment that Elliot Knight is a Zionist. Jazzy, you say in your first part that you will get back to these allegations later but you never do-- so for the record, Elliot Knight (Who plays Gaz) actively follows and has liked several pro-Israel posts on his twitter. A source is included above. Considering how exceptionally online most folks who are in fandom spaces are, Jellycakes more than likely went into it with the assumption that the original poster knew this, and still wanted to gush over him anyway. How does this relate back to Zyo though? From an outside perspective, the deletion of the comment made by @/aquasuperbat and the immediate deletion of the comment made by @/recentlydeceased implies that the mods are, in some aspects, uncomfortable talking about these topics. This is well within their right, however I'm not sure how they can adhere to the no-politics rule when they have allowed charity fundraisers for Palestine in their server. Is that not also inherently political? Or is it only against the rules when it goes against someone's favorite character? Musings aside, you also claim that 'Real' Silencing would have been mods outright deleting the comment without asking first. While not completely wrong, this also doesn't actually reflect what social silencing is; Silence Theory suggests that those who think that they hold the majority opinion are more comfortable expressing their thoughts and opinions. The mod team is comfortable with expressing that they don't want individuals discussing a current war in their server; their opinion holds the most weight since they are in a position of power; therefore their opinion is the majority. THAT is why the server comes off as being a bunch of Zionists, and why Zyo et al. took issue with the screenshots that were raised. So far, you have done nothing to disprove this fact. Rather your more comfortable with insulting them, calling them names and making baseless threats (ex. Threatening to go to the FBI for death threats Zyo has not made.). You've turned them into the architecture of a villain that you need to have in order to excuse the fact that Leech, for as good as a person as they seemed, still allowed Sexual Assault, Underage and suppressed folks who were Pro-Palestine. You attack their moderation style, for their organizing of a server that they passed along over a year ago. You call them an abuser based on what? Vibes? Because it sure as hell isn't evidence that you've shown-- and if it was as damning as your hyping it up to be, why wouldn't you show the evidence? You have constantly said that these accusations have no weight to them, when in reality it's just showing your lack of reading comprehension when it comes to anything over 100 words. Moreover, your moral posturing is laughable, embarrassing and screams of someone who wants to be the main character of a story that they were on the outskirts for. Take a step back, experience some whimsy in your life and accept the fact that you exist solely in a echo-chamber of people who are confirming your bias. I know you want to defend your friend, I get it, I really do-- I wouldn't be writing out this whole damn post if i didn't, but completing a character assassination on someone whose been mostly inactive in the cod fandom for the last year? Maybe I just don't get it because I haven't been active in the Cod Fandom for a while either, but I don't understand where you get off putting Zyo on blast for every small thing that they have ever done to apparently wrong both you and Leech. Just to reiterate: Zyo hasn't had any contact with Leech for almost a full year. If they wanted to get hateful on main, they would do it from main. They're not going to ban evade and hide behind a dozen different sock puppet accounts just to terrorize the lot of you. That's a significant effort for a dying server with a mod team whose views don't, and will probably never align with ours.

[gumballavocadoharry]

First lesson; wit:

*This is Yn's POV*

The tall stone building seemed to collapse around me. I was standing in front of the castle like university in front of me, my legs trembling in discomfort, heart pounding out of my chest and stomach turning like I saw a billion maggots sliter under my shoes. My backpack was slung around me, and my suitcase full of my clothes and other things were tightly gripped into my hand. Any minute, I could tumble over and it would be the first embarrassment of my new school as luck would have all my classmates see the clumsy schmuck fall onto the hard pavement of concrete mixed in stone.

This was my first choice. I never had to face the despair of not being accepted into the school of my dreams, considering how much work I would have to put in to be a exceptional author. This was one of the best schools that was a recommendation from high school once I graduated. A chill crept down my spine before I carefully opened the large green tinted doors and walked into something so futuristic, that it shouldn't be exposed to the public now. Like Black Panther type technology. I swallowed my breath and managed to make it into the main office where I was given a number to my dorm room and and passes to the cafeteria, the library, gym, special classes and of course my main class. I was also handed three sheets of paper; one with the list of classes I had, the second was the classes I took and the third was a mini map of the entire school.

"I'm Mrs. Beachem, just let me know if you need anything." The older lady flashed a kind smile, which I courteously reciprocated. "Thank you very much." I gasped before darting off the elevators and taking the bridge to the dorms. 825, My room. A solo room; no roommates or anyone, just me. I laid out some cheap lavender sheets with a plum quilt over the mattress and started adding pictures on my walls. The frames complimented the room decor I was going for and the aesthetic. Lavender, plum purple, blue and gray were all the colors that took my plain white dorm to the next level. Classes didn't start until tomorrow, so that left me plenty of time to scan the different classrooms and shortcuts on how to get to them.  

I sat on my bed and looked at the first paper that was stapled to the other two of my classes. My homeroom teacher- main class I took- was directed by Mr. Styles. He was one of the new professors on campus, only starting here three years before I did. I had heard about him from other students who went here and said he was one of the best teachers and that he was very resourceful in his knowledge of writing. The other two classes were taught by Mrs. Campbell and Mrs. Vincent. I grew nervous just thinking about the morning ahead of me tomorrow. The thick river of vile held me at knife-point to spill up from my stomach in complete fussiness.

Maybe it was just my stomach gurgling in hunger. I checked the map again and practically uprooted myself from the soft mattress and walked to the cafeteria. 

After filling my belly with banana pudding, a chicken burrito, diet coke and a bag of fritos, I promptly started walking through corridors to find the complex classes I was destined to take. I found Mrs. Vincent's class first. It had this cozy, quell aroma to it. The room was a piece of Mrs. Vincent, making the class as relaxing and educational as possible. Next was Mrs. Campbell's room which looked like any classroom. But with elfin traces of friendliness. Last was Mr. Styles's class. Entering it was like entering a lecture hall from a movie. This was nothing like some little kiddie high school classroom, but something from a movie. The class was the size of an auditorium with seats that has tables attached to them in rows. It wasn't stadium huge, but big enough to feel overwhelmed by it all. 

I ventured back to my dorm across the bridge and settled into bed for the night as the sky was turning it's dark navy blue color with faint glint twinkles spotting around in the background. I took one last look around the room, darting my eyes all over the walls of my brand new shelter for the next year or so. I crawled into bed and rubbed my eyes hard enough to fall asleep.

I awoke to the sound of my blaring alarm and the morning birds chirping their usual matinal melodies. My first class, Mrs. Campbell's, started around 9:30. It was 8:30 now, so I didn't hesitate to rush into the shower, change clothes and run across the bridge to the cafeteria for a small bowl of cereal. I scanned my pass, grabbed a tray and plopped a bowl, a carton of milk and a small buffet box of cereal onto my tray and picked a random table by the window. I consumed my breakfast before grabbing a small cup of coffee and leaving straight after for class. Upon entering the first classroom of the day, I was greeted with cheerful smiles and the smell of cake.

My eyebrows pinched themselves together wondering where that smell was coming from until I realized it was a lit candle that was blooming on Mrs. Campbell's desk. I took my seat towards the back and unpacked my yellow notebook with a pattern of daisies and hearts. I assigned this particular one to the English class because it had a springtime theme to it, while my teddy bear one was assigned to Mrs. Vincent and a stone royal blue was to Mr. Styles. "Hello class." She walked in; floral print dress, beige cardigan and black flats with the most cheerful smile and professional demeanor. She took her stance at her chalkboard, writing her name and introducing herself to everyone.

"I'm Mrs. Ann Campbell, but you can all call me Mrs. Campbell." She sat perfectly ladylike at her desk, shining off the top layer of it for any dust particles that may have collected. Her perky tone in describing the basics of English literature made it seem anything but a dull pointless subject. At least, not to the credits who predicted that English was a key point in writing......which was correct. I jotted down as many notes as I possibly could before the bell rung and the class was dismissed. I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed the stream of students pouring out of the door. My next was Mr. Styles.

I entered the classroom-styled lecture hall- and took my seat towards the middle. A slew of students crammed themselves into the large hall, taking their seats just as the young teacher entered the class. He wore this white dress shirt tucked into some black slacks with a thick black watch almost riveting up his entire wrist. "Hello, I'm Mr. Styles," He wrote his name slickly across the chalkboard in a tight pinched manner. "And this is creative writing." His voice almost had this monotone echo that snapped all eyes in his direction. He was nothing like Mrs. Campbell, and her warm cheerful smile and cake scented classroom. No, this was a rigid college class that expected...demanded full attention and the best of your intelligence. And Mr. Styles fit that description perfectly.

The man's chalk sketched across the green board with speed; not stopping to take a breather in for even a slight pause for the sake of his wrist. "Mark Twain was a famous author; famous for writing short humoristic stories about his character's misadven-" Mr. Styles paused to see a boy in his front row giggling from a note he passed. He didn't hesitate to snatch the note, rip it up and slam the pieces of it back on the boy's desk. 

"Young man, your first day of kindergarten is over. This is a complex class that details writing, its history of it and knowledge to be a writer," He leaned in closer, eyes squinting only a little, "You can come to this class fully prepared or not at all to this class, this school, this university. But don't think for a minute I'll tolerate anything in between!" He sneered spitefully, before gathering back over to the chalkboard and continuing the lesson. 

He cleared his throat and continued his Mark Twain lesson, despite leaving the boy in such engrossed humiliation that tears torrent over. But no one was watching him....they were all focused on Mr. Styles and his very comprehensive speech of how Mark Twain's writing influenced how much nuance writers used to this day. The class was of a quiet echo; only Mr. Styles's voice was heard throughout the class. I looked down at the royal blue notebook on my desk.....Yep. The notebook matched the class's theme perfectly; straight to the point, no nonsense, and solid. If there were any mistakes, there would be a whip across the back....if not a flat out execution.

The bell had rung, stripping everyone's cast iron focus on Mr. Styles to their bags and books. I scampered out with everyone else, only glancing back to see Mr. Styles looking upon his pupils in a now deserted lecture hall.

I took a breath in, trying hard to release the pent up tension from the suffocating walls of Mr. Styles class. I've had strict and unruly teachers before....but this was something singular. With the snap of his fingers, Mr. Styles could make the universe look into his aloof, stolid eyes. A chill quivered through my body like a snake slithering against its tree. It was lunch time, and then next would be Mrs. Vincent's class. 

I managed to make it to the cafeteria where it seemed like everyone was on the dot. I grabbed a tray and plopped a couple sandwiches, a bottle of gatorade, doritos and blueberry yogurt onto my tray before snatching a table by the back windows. My neighbor was no other than the boy who had his handed to him by Mr. Styles. We were both diffident, reserving our eyes to our plates that we somehow had a hard time manipulating into moving the food into our mouths untouched.

"That's some class?" I finally broke the ice, showing the boy that I wasn't a snoot who blindly agreed with Mr. Styles harsh correction. "Yeah," He gave a soft chuckle, still in shame from the latter incident, "The guy seems to be fond of Mark Twain right?"

I giggled, "Yeah. He described him so vividly and passionately, that I was beginning to wonder if he was there with him in person and had a personal conversation with him." The boy laughed, "Yeah....." He was still unsure of my interaction, so I had to let my cards fall onto his lap. "Look, what happened in class....I didn't agree with. Mr. Styles seems like one of those teachers and you seem really nice. I'm Yn by the way." The boy finally gave a full beam. "I'm Lucus." I returned the smile and suddenly stuffed my sandwich into my mouth, finally enjoying the savoring flavor of a mitigate stomach. And I think Lucus did too.

I remembered my shortcut across the way to Mrs. Vincent's class. The motherly like class that had the aura of protection, yet didn't slack in education. But I knew this would be the easiest class. It was nice break from the parky dry institution that was to be Mr. Styles class. Speaking of the devil, on my way to Mrs. Vincent's class, Mr. Styles walked past me; skimming a tight lipped smile with quiescent intractable eyes. But even his polite expression was dry. There was no real passion inside of it. But yet, the very presence of this man demanded obedience and austere behaviour. The aura of his presence still haunted me as I took shattered steps into Mrs. Vincent's cozy haven. "Good afternoon class!" She squealed with such warm sugary vocals.

"I'm Mrs. Vincent. And this is American literature," She wrote it on her whiteboard, easing the eardrums of the brash blackboard sounds of the chalk against a chalkboard. "Before we start, does anyone have any questions?" I held back from anything as I just wanted to get this class over with so I could squirm back into my dorm and bury my head in my studies. Mrs. Vincent started the class and from I learned so far- her class was the easiest. Not too much homework, nor too much fast talking and just an overall laxed mien in the environment. I took notes and once I finished my last page, class was over. The bell rang and we were dismissed. 

I followed the wave of students out of Mrs. Vincent's classroom before breaking off independently onto the bridge. It was like a glass tunnel where you could see everyone on campus walking around with their schoolbags and their schedules. I made it back to my dorm where solitude surrounded me. There was no chatting or yelling among students, teachers, or staff members....just peace. In exhaustion, I flopped onto my bed after dropping my bag on the floor. I circled face up and stared at the ceiling. Can I do this? Is this worth it? Two classes are amazing and the other....no....I took his class to challenge myself. He's one of the best professors on campus....give it a chance. Besides....you didn't screw up with him...yet. 

Those thoughts raced through my head like a hamster on a wheel. But my mind couldn't help but ruminate over Mr. Styles. He's a demanding to please....but what about everyone else? Was he married? Did he have kids? I bet he's a total sweetheart to them; giving them big hugs and using a more soothing reserved tone, never daring to speak one harsh critical word to them.  I uprooted myself from the bed and glued myself to the cotton swivel chair at my desk and took out my first book of creative writing. After all, Mr. Styles said either "come to the class prepared or not all" but he will refuse to "tolerate anything in between." Out of sheer fear, I swallowed as much information about Mark Twain that I could cram into my brain.

I almost missed dinner. I sped down to the cafeteria and grabbed leftover lasagna with a glass of lemonade and salad. I figured I needed the brain food. The cafeteria was mostly empty except for the last few people trying to gather in the last traces of their meal. I ate quickly before taking my tray up to the counter and returning to my dorm. "Yn!" I turned to see Lucus heading towards me on the bridge. "Hey," He caught his breath a little, "I just wanted to say thank you again for being so nice to me. It was a rough day but.....I appreciate your kindness," I smiled, "You're welcome Lucas....I know....I took Mr. Styles class for the challenge. I knew he was an excellent teacher and very detailed in teaching creative writing....if you can ignore his style of teaching that is....you'll make it."

Lucas swallowed hard, "You're right. I shouldn't have passed that note in class," "That doesn't excuse Mr. Styles of course, but.....you seem really smart. My point is- don't let that get to you or ruin the class. Give yourself a chance to rise up to the challenge and make it worth your while."

Lucas looked at me like I was some all knowing elder. "Thank you again Yn...you're so wise." I knew it. I smiled and gave Lucas a pat on the shoulder. I watched as he walked away to the left side of the dorm area. I turned right to mine and locked myself in for the night. My studies continued until I fell asleep after barely taking off my clothes.

I arose to the freckled spots of sun hitting my face. I rung into the shower, got dressed, grabbed my backpack and headed to the cafeteria. Everyone seemed to be celebrating Friday. I guess me and Lucas weren't the only ones who had a grueling first day. Tomorrow would be the weekend and that meant I was free to visit friends, family go to the movies or even just study. I know how it sounded. I didn't want to be one of those book dependent people where you only ever just studied and totally shut out life itself. But it was just creative writing. The thought of it made my heart beat faster and my stomach twist itself into my throat. Even if I wasn't the one getting scolded, just the thought of some clown deliberately testing the waters with Mr. Styles made my legs ping.

That man could stare Satan in the eyes and make the devil himself shudder in terror. The hand-me-down feeling of watching someone get punished by him was different than some uptight high school teacher letting one of her students have it. They usually deserved it. But the slightest offense in Mr. Styles class would be a lesson that one would learn very quickly: Your second chance is sitting in that chair and still being able to finish the class. Not taps on the wrist, no timeouts. Nothing. Either you sink or swim.

This chapter is sooooo long that I figured I'd make a part two...