#flame resistance tape

[fulflexrubberproducts]

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Selecting the appropriate flame resistant tape depends on your specific needs and application. Consider factors like:

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Certifications: Opt for tapes that comply with relevant industry standards and safety regulations.

Invest in Peace of Mind with Flame Resistant Tapes:

By incorporating flame resistant tapes into your safety measures, you gain invaluable peace of mind. These tapes offer a simple yet effective way to minimize fire risks and safeguard your electrical components, people, and property. Explore the wide range of flame resistant tapes available from Fulflex and find the perfect solution for your specific needs. Remember, fire safety is not an option – it's a necessity.

[lunarw0rks]

can we get a little more of firefighter soap-

firefighter!soap not having a date to one of the fundraisers at the firehouse, so he invites you!!

definitely didn't sneak into his captain's files to find your contact information — that would be silly. but luckily, you find it amusing, and sitting in that hospital bed for days was agonizing.

you'd be daft to pass this up.

showing up to the firehouse, seeing families of the other firefighters, civilians and their children, tables of food, and prizes for the raffles. it's not packed full of people, however a higher turnout than you expected.

and then, most importantly, soap.

wearing his uniform; black slacks that hugged his thighs tight, and polished black boots that gave him a clean-cut look. a fresh shave on his face, still emanating aftershave. and his shirt with the sleeves rolled, to expose his biceps. and over his heart, displaying his badge and the three digits on the outside of the firehouse.

"look at ye, up and walking." he'd say, giving you a friendly side hug while clasping one of your hands. twirls you around slightly, as if to examine how well you've healed.

still, there are small bandages on your body, bruises that finally started to fade, and the soft cast on your wrist. but none of it diminished your beauty.

spending the entire fundraiser at his side, introduced to everyone on his team, and their families. you were out of your element but buzzing with nerves — and as cliché as it was, butterflies. every time you look at him, you remember the relief of seeing his face for the first time; how he cradled you in his arms and pulled you from the flames.

by nightfall, it was mainly the younger crowd left or the older couples without children needing to sleep. through the speaker, top hits played faintly, echoing off the tall walls of the firehouse. there were string lights lining the industrial staircase, attempting and succeeding to give the space an inviting feeling.

each time you looked at the banners and homemade signs, you imagined which ones johnny worked on. picturing him up on one of the ladders, making sure his strips of tape were straight. most of the raffle prizes had been claimed already, leaving miscellaneous home items, or overpriced bath kits.

"are they supposed to be drinking? aren't they on duty?" you chuckled, pointing a finger at two of his fellows, trying their best to hide the beer they smuggled into the party.

johhny shook his head, flashing the whites of his teeth warmly, "aye, they're in for it once all the guests leave."

"oh, is that what i am? just a guest?" you cocked a brow, taking another sip of the punch. he shakes his head, refusing to take his eyes off of you as you walk side by side through the firehouse as if giving you a silent tour of the place. as if he wanted you to show up more, which you wouldn't mind.

"don't do tha' sad face," he finished off his own red cup, tossing it into one of the trash bins. of course, you couldn't resist exaggerating your frown, just to prove your point.

you both made your rounds again, reaching the nearly cleared raffle table. "you know what, i'll get you a prize. how about that?"

intrigued, you tilted your head and nodded, waiting to witness his offer. "lay it on me then."

"let's see..." his fingers roamed along the slim pickings. beer-themed socks? you weren't in a frat. a fuzzy throw blanket? hm, slightly better.

he picked up one of the promising prizes. "oh, what about this? something to add to your beauty routine, eh?" he held up one of the cheap sample kits, sure to irritate your skin more than help it, so you scoffed and acted more unimpressed than you actually felt.

his effort was endearing, and frankly, it was entertaining to watch a tough guy scramble to appease you.

he mumbled a hm, extending out another box to you, which only resulted in more faux disappointment.

"a pressure cooker?" you chuckled. "a fundraiser at a firehouse, and they're giving away pressure cookers..."

he contemplates, clicking his tongue in agreement. he hadn't thought of how hypocritical that was until now. "it's good business, besides, putting out fires is good for the ego." he set the box back down, meeting your gaze for a few seconds.

a small grin appears on his face, "especially if something beautiful comes from the flames." he adds, waiting for the inevitable hitch in your breathing that you try to hard to conceal.

you do just that but end up giving his toned arm a light smack, reminding yourself that there are indeed still people around. and that flirt was as cheesy as the dip bowl you were standing next to.

"what? too soon for that joke, love?"

[zoroara]

Okay here's probably a surprise from someone who like Squalo so fucking much. I actually believe Squalo should lose the rain battle as he does(or if one goes about changing it that he should still lose in the end due to how he is). I will go into it below but it is going to be so fucking long. This is both breaking down the "realism" argument and the "Narrative" argument(though, this battle should honestly only be looked through the latter lens due to that being the purpose of it.) Anyway, let's break it down.

First and for most I'm going to attack the idea that because Squalo is more skilled he should not have lost "realistically", important thing to know, in any realistic scenario Squalo almost definitely would not win.

He is only a threat because of the fact that Yamamoto is new, Squalo's sword is literally without a doubt, shit. I have to be level about this because I hate this fucking thing with a passion because from a sword fighting perspective he has done literally everything wrong with this damn thing.

The only type of blade like this that had been intended to be fought with is a Calvary weapon, it isn't made for melee and genuinely just. Sucks when you use it like he is. It severely limits his options, trapping him to only using the exact same arm with the exact same maximum strength behind each swing, with the exact same maximum length. The ability to switch between one handed and two handed is a massively important thing with swords which is why smaller swords that you can do both with were the most common type. It keeps pressure on your opponent and gives you a much bigger variety of options. Not to mention with how it's attached to his hand in the past and future with what is only bandages in the present, and only a few red straps in the future.

This shit is so god damn unstable it's impressive his sword didn't just fly off when he blocked a hit. Do the same thing with some tape and a ruler and you'll know exactly how quick that blade will shift at the smallest amount of resistance that any strike with it would have landed lighter than intended, and I don't mean lighter in terms of strength behind it(though it would be partially). I mean all his cuts would end up shallow, he'd be incredibly ineffective. This is literally the second worst blade of khr and this one unlike that one isn't made of flame so it has no excuse(apologies this sword pisses me off to no end). You have to fundamentally change how this fucking sword is built for it to be even fucking slightly good, this ain't it chief.

Next, here's a major things, there is a reason there is a saying "The first best swordsman doesn't have to to fear the second best, he has to fear the beginner" because it's fundamentally true. Squalo would never fear fighting another master because masters have all become set in their ways, their techniques, you can read them and break into their weaknesses. But, Yamamoto isn't a master, and throughout the battle, he is evolving rapidly. Squalo by the end of the battle relies incredibly on the things that he had seen before, he threw out his caution because he "seen it before" by the point of Yamamoto throwing out the eighth move.

Squalo had grown too used to being able to read his opponent that when he saw Yamamoto going for something new, he instead relied on things he's seen before, things he expected, a surprise attack, which was his downfall, he had stopped taking Yamamoto seriously after the 8th form.

He had prosthetic, to snap backwards in case of sneak attacks, because he expected this move so much. When something wasn't as he expected he defaulted to this and the reflection on the water convinced him of it.

You can't read a newbie and that's what's the most terrifying thing for a master to fight. In fact, it's implied that Squalo beat Tyr the very same way as Yamamoto defeated him. It's stated that in the same battle as Tyr that he perfected his current style, meaning all of his techniques, but notably they say scontro di squalo is in fact what was used to defeat Tyr. It implies the sense that he created it during this battle, but what I find interesting about scontro di squalo, is that it's just flailing his sword around as he runs forward. This would be a move, only someone new and desperate would have come up with in reality.

It would throw off any master because of it's sheer recklessness. But once again, Yamamoto isn't a master and thus it's major advantage, is lost. Regardless, Squalo used to do the same as Yamamoto did and that's how he won there, but he made the mistake of believing his move set as perfect thus stagnating afterwards. His pride in his success and abilities, were his downfall in this match. Additionally Squalo's pride affecting his fighting was evident, in sword fighting you never dodge if possible it's really bad to because typically, you will not fucking succeed. Your legs are last in the orders of operations it's generally better and safer to block, parry and counter your enemy than it is to dodge. The fact that Squalo dodged a strike he knew was coming shows that he was over-estimating his own abilities and understanding of this style.

Finally the argument that Yamamoto would not be as strong as squalo is. Incorrect. In fact baseball actually engages the same muscle as sword fighting, and terrifyingly, there's one difference people do not typically account for when cross examining weapons. Which is, blunt objects naturally need more force behind them to do their work, while blades will typically have less resistance against the body. This means Yamamoto likely has a much higher swing strength than Squalo does with how violently he plays it, Yamamoto is like on, 'exploding a bird with a baseball pitch' level of play, and that WILL go into his swings.

If we were being realistic, should have broken Squalo's bones several times over with his back of the sword hits. It should be noted, the back of the sword while an anime trope of not being as dangerous, is actually just as dangerous or more so especially in the hands of someone used to using a blunt type of weaponry(in this case a baseball bat) the thin metal is heavy and powerful enough that the pressure on it would instead focus all the energy there, causing heavy bruising in the best of cases and something to break in the worst. Yamamoto's final move against Squalo, should it have hit his neck could have completely paralyzed the man from the neck down, or if it hit his skull, could have easily cracked and caved it in, and that's not bringing the additional momentum from it being a a strike with power added to it in the air. It is that bad. Notably, in the manga it appears Yamamoto switches the blade to the flat(not the back, this is the wide part of the blade) halfway through the strike so that it hits like that on the impact.

While this does typically lessen damage, it's mostly because striking like this creates more air resistance and slows down the blade before impact. However switching like Yamamoto does cuts down the slow and it would in fact do a lot of a damage. As even when it has more air resistance, a strike on the head like this is typically at minimum hard enough to stun a person. Which does explain why Squalo wakes up a few seconds after. But regardless, Yamamoto is perfectly capable of wrecking Squalo's shit even without physically training for the sword(which he did in fact do before this too but you know) in fact the fact he didn't kill Squalo in this match is impressive.

I want to additionally note the above, that Yamamoto's sword in the manga after is warping up and down like a door stop with so much energy put into it. Swords do wobble a bit when hit like this they have a bit of bend. But not THIS much typically. With the amount of force you'd need to do this to a sword you're more likely to fucking shatter it, now imagine doing that with solid metal against someone's fucking HEAD. The only thing preventing Squalo from dying from that is well the fact he is a cockroach and can't fucking die.

Now that we got that out of the way, we will now be looking at what type of fight this is. Battle manga focuses on battles it's in the name. But the important thing to know, is that there are several types of fights of which they can be categorized. I usually use 3 types(Narrative, Show, and Goal), though they can be mixed and matched but they cannot replace each other. They have different purposes and replacing one with another can in fact incredibly negatively impact how the story flows and character arcs grow, especially if you replace it with a show fight(one that focuses on a. character skills or b. entertainment value). But fundamentally what's important to know, is that the above that I've picked apart doesn't actually matter due to the type of fight it is.

You see, this is what I call a narrative fight(it is also mixed with a "goal" fight.) A narrative fight is something that explores the character and teaches them something that changes their character. It also is set to show something to the audience about the two characters fighting. Not their strength and their abilities, it's about their personalities, beliefs so on, things that can't actually be quantified. Almost all of the Varia arc fights are narrative fights. Fundamentally, in order to achieve what needed to be achieved, Squalo would and should never be able to get his hands on that ring.

Aside from the fact that Squalo would just kill any opponent he wins against if he doesn't have a reason not to(and in the case of the rain battle there's nothing there protecting Yamamoto). The rain battle is a battle of a lot of things. It is to teach Yamamoto humility, it is to show Yamamoto's progress from when he got his ass beat by squalo, it's to show the intense flaws of Squalo's pride, it's to show that insurmountable odds are possible to beat. Remember they're going 1 - 3(due to tsuna losing the sky ring) they're at an intense low point if yamamoto loses it's 1 - 4, which is more than half of the rings. But it's also about change. Yamamoto's entire style is about change. Squalo's isn't. Squalo's is incredibly ridged and stuck as it is.

For Squalo to win is to deny change is important, to say he is completely correct in being a prideful dick. To teach Yamamoto that this is correct, is very bad, because if Yamamoto were to fully follow Squalo in this? He would also stagnate the same way Squalo had. By breaking free of the competitive nature and seeing past the boxes of most sword styles with one that continues to evolve and encourages this. It's a battle of self reflection, and Yamamoto does this looking back over the battle, his last statements of it being flawless and invincible, is not a statement made to genuine belief that it will never change, but is a statement that because it changes it can always become something that will never truly be killed. But it's also something that pisses Squalo off, and Yamamoto is purposely saying it as a response, to goad Squalo into attacking. To blind him with his own pride and rage, to the new changes to the style, for Squalo to not see that Yamamoto has figured something out and isn't just being stubborn.

It never mattered who was truly better, because this fight is to double as a lesson. Should Squalo win cleanly or not punished for his pride, for being blinded by it, Yamamoto will not learn to grow. The battle is tailored to this, and changing it without understanding the narrative reasons as to why it ended up this way would ruin it's impact. It's not perfect it needs to be cleaned up a little with some dialogue changes and such, but honestly, the only thing that changing it would succeed in at best is a side grade should you make it so Squalo still loses. Or it loses it's impact should Squalo win.

I love the man I truly do, but this? This is one of the only fights where I will say he should lose. Other fights with him are much more arguably loose on which way they should go, but this? This one is a narrative battle that had complete purpose to his loss through and through. Squalo losing here serves a great purpose. He didn't even learn from it much which is a shame, but not surprisingly due to his character and what he represents. Which may be why he doesn't win any further up, because he does refuse to self reflect in any capacity.

[buriedpentacles]

Hi there! So I have this crush, and I don't see him too often except at work. But we've spoken, he's works in the back of the theater and I work the box. We are on the same email chains and phone number directory. Do you know any spells that could influence him to want to contact me?

That sort of spellwork isn't really my expertise, but here's a few simple charms I've used in the past:

Enchanted Glamour Lipgloss:

Sketch out a sigil with your desired glamour - e.g. mine was "when I speak, people listen" but yours might be "my words draw in [crush's name] like a siren song". Find a lipgloss/lipstick/lipbalm/whatever that makes you feel confident. Softly trace over the sigil with the lipgloss/stick (gently of course so not to damage it), as you do visualise your desire, feel confident and empowered, command the energy you want to show to the world. Keep or dispose of the sigil however you want (I kept mine taped to my mirror for a while!)

This could be a good spell to help you attract interest during your conversations.

Simple Come to Me Spell

This is actually a small spell I used that landed me my current partner! We weren't in contact but both liked each other and I was desperate for him to reach out again, and he did the next day after casting ;)

Find something to represent yourself (I used photo of myself), on the back (if you can) draw a sigil of your desired intention (can you tell that I *really* like sigils). Place a fire safe dish on top of the image and add a small (I used a birthday candle so it wouldn't burn for long) pink candle, carve the person's name into your candle if you can (birthday candles are thin so this is hard). You can also surround this spell with crystals, rocks, heart doodles etc, anything you feel will enhance it. Now, as you light your candle, imagine the person you desire - they are that flame and as it melts down the candle they are drawing closer and closer to you. Imagine how you'll feel when you get that text from him, or how the butterflies in your stomach will flutter when he asks you out.

Pay attention to how the candle reacts - e.g. if the candle doesn't burn all the way down (and you've ruled out mundane reasons) that may be a sign of resistance and a message to disregard the spell.

Let me know if you try either of these and how it goes!! Good luck <3

[light-speed-saint]

The door to Ashley’s building is locked, but I have runes to fix that. I keep a hold of the knob to make sure that it doesn’t slam as I step silently over the threshold. I put my weight slowly on to each of the steps that lead up to Ashley’s apartment, so that their creaking doesn’t betray my presence as I climb. Another quick set of runes undoes the lock on the door to her unit, and lets me slip silently inside. 

The living room is a mess. It has Soft pink walls cast in the unsteady glow of candlelight, with all Ashley’s furniture and belongings shoved against the wall or piled on to her desk, making space for a circle of salt. Within the circle are four candles, one for each cardinal direction. Only three are lit. Ashley is on her knees, setting her lighter to the fourth, the west candle, when she catches sight of me. “Already come to beg for this pussy?” She stands slowly, showing off the way her too small tank-top and the linen of her long skirt cling to her lovely curves. Her eyes sparkle in the half light, luminous with arrogance and triumph as she brags “I hoped you would last a little bit longer, the spell I put on you must be more—” 

Ashley’s words are cut off as I grab her throat, keeping my grip just tight enough to make her fight for each breath. I push her backwards; forcing her into the middle of the ring of salt and flame. She yelps as I spin her around and starts to struggle as I gather her wrists at the small of her back. She fights with a wild and desperate abandon, but I am strong enough that its not even an inconvenience. When she settles down, I wrap the tape, slowly and carefully, around her wrists. Even in the heat of my ire I don’t want to cause any lasting harm. 

Only when she is bound do I let my hands start to explore Ashley’s body. I pull her close so she can feel the solidness of my body against hers, and the slow powerful movement of my sinews when my hand slip under the hem of her tank top. I savour the soft skin of her belly against my fingertips, the supple weight of her breasts in my palms. My thumb passing over her nipple is all it takes to make Ashley squirm and whimper. 

“This will be easier for both of us if you’re a good girl who doesn’t resist.” I whisper into her ear. Ashley believes me. She trembles but sinks compliantly as I guide her onto her knees and then lay her gently on her back, right in the middle of her casting circle. My knife flicks out, its blade flashes orange, red, and silver in the candlelight. I cut slowly through Ashleys tank top, listening to the low tearing sound of the threads like it’s a sonata, then slide her skirt and her panties down from her hips with one smooth motion, feeling her shake as I do. 

Lying naked and bound, Ashley is helpless to stop me from indulging my most animalistic desires. But my stealth and my spells serve a deeper purpose. Ashley’s lip shakes as I touch the point of my knife to her collar bone. I am careful not to draw blood as I let it drift slowly down her chest, letting Ashley feel the bite of steel on her tender skin as I tell her “You tried to put a love spell on me.” 

She doesn’t speak as the knife moves between her breasts. When she finally gathers the courage to say anything Ashley says “I’m sorry, okay! let me go and I’ll—” 

“Do you know how to break a love spell?” I ask, as my knife flows down Ashley’s belly in a lazy zig zag. 

She struggles a little then moans in frustration. “No.” She admits. “I just cast them.” 

“There are two ways.” Ashley’s eyes glitter as I slide my fingers past her lips, into her mouth. “The oldest one is called ‘pricking the witch.’ Essentially you draw blood until all the casters magic is gone.” I stay silent a few seconds, letting Ashley feel my knife against her skin and the pressure of my fingers in her mouth; the swift beating of her heart. I look into her eyes as I flip the blade away. “But I don’t like such messy and outdated methods. There’s a newer, less gory way to handle the situation you’ve put us in.” I pause again, run a hand down from Ashley’s throat. I explore, caressing and groping. Playing with her breasts as she trembles. Then my hand glides down Ashley’s stomach and along the curve of her hip. My fingertips reach the edge of her vulva where I move them up and down in a slow, teasing motion. In a gentle whisper I tell Ashley that “You got us into this predicament, so I am going to let you choose how we get out. What will it be pretty girl? The new way, or the old?” I flash the knife out once more, its edge glinting in the half light. 

“The new.” Ashleys voice is soft and breathy as she begs. “Please please please the new.” 

“I hoped you would say that.” I smile down at my helpless captive. 

I roll Ashley onto her back, taking the opportunity to squeeze possessive fingers into the vulnerable flesh of her ass and pulling the cuffs from my bag before carefully cutting through the tape. The floor is hard, I don’t want my victim injuring herself as she squirms. There are four cuffs, each one connected to a ring of steel by a leather strap. It all forms an X that will hold Ashley in place while I work my spell. Because she is compliant and stays still, I can take my time with the cuffs; making sure that each one will restrain my beautiful captive while allowing for blood flow. When I am satisfied with my work, I turn Ashley on to her back once more. “Now pretty girl, the real fun starts.” I take out the jar of ink and place it on the floor, keeping it within easy reach but far enough away that Ashley won’t knock it over when she struggles. And she will struggle. 

The ink itself is cold and viscus, Ashley shivers when I touch it to her skin. “What are you going to do? Torture me until I recant my spell?” Her voice is defiant, but I can feel Ashley’s heart galloping with fear as I draw a circle over her chest. Within the circle I draw four diagonal lines, adding a fifth horizontal line would complete the star and make a pentagram, but its not yet time for that. Outside the circle at each point of the unfinished star a draw sigil. One each for Hekate, Athena, Aphrodite, Hades, and Dionysus. 

I wipe the excess ink from my fingers onto Ashley’s thigh and take a vibrator from my bag. I set it on low and make a slow circuit around Ashley’s clit as I tell her that “Pain can be a useful tool in magic, but its clumsy and doesn’t suit my purpose.” Ashley shivers as the first sparks of pleasure flash in her nervous system. “You can break people more profoundly using ecstasy.” I say, keeping the vibrator in place but leaning in close to whisper “And I am going to break you, Ashley Jennifer Williams.” The vibrator slides easily into her soaked cunt. “You’re so wet pretty girl. You’re not enjoying this are you?” 

The embers of pleasure burning in Ashley’s brain keep her from answering. She just lies there, chest heaving and mouth open. She can’t do anything but squirm. As the sensation of being fucked gets more intense the unfocused gleam in her eyes tells me all that I need to know. I stand up, placing my foot on Ashley’s stomach, above the vibrator but below the pentagram. I look down, taking in the whole image of her beautiful helplessness as I tell Ashley “Before I let you come you are going to tell me, tell the world, what a pathetic little whore you are. You’re going to tell us that your purpose, your only purpose, is to serve [Light Speed Saint]. That you exist to be my little fuck doll. That I own you body, mind, and soul. Do you understand?” 

“That’s not fair.” Ashley complains. “You can’t expect—” She recovers her bravery only until I use my phone to turn up the intensity of the vibrator and melt her thoughts away. She lies bound beneath my feet as bliss illuminates every nerve fibre. It shines out from between her thighs to reach the tips of her toes and depths of her brain. Just when an orgasm is ready to flash through her body like wildfire, I take it all away. 

Ashley can do nothing but moan petulantly. “I’m sorry okay.” She whines, pulling at her restraints. “I didn’t mean to—” 

I turn the power of the vibrator back up. The sudden shock of pleasure catches Ashley off guard; leaves her jaw gaping. “You know what you have to say.” I watch the helpless little twitches she makes as the pleasure builds again. Her toes curl and uncurl. Her leg shakes as her desperation grows. “Fuck” Ahsley squeaks “Fuck fuck fuck.” 

Ashley’s quivers get quicker and deeper as the heat of her need rises. I pull her back from the edge. She whimpers, all her defiance is gone, in its place is a helpless and animalistic desire. I crouch beside her, keeping my touch soft as my hand moves up and down her body. Instead of turning the power of the vibrator back up, I tease her nipples. Sending small, targeted jolts of stimulation instead of a shock of pleasure. “You’re fighting so hard.” I observe. “But you know how good it would feel to give in. Think of it. Bliss exploding through your body like a fire work. All your heavy, cumbersome thoughts disappearing in a rain of glorious sparkle. You’d be a little slave doll, free of worry and strife.” 

“I won’t.” Ashley manages to gasp. “I can’t—" She’s cut off by her own whimper as I turn the vibrator back up. “I can’t- I- I- I’m a pathetic little whore. My only purpose is to serve [Light Speed Saint]. I exist to be his, to be your, good little fuck doll. Your obedient little toy. I surrender my body, my mind, my soul to [Light Speed Saint].” 

At long last I turn the vibrator to high and leave it there. Ashley’s stomach moves up and down like waves on the sea. The quivers in her legs spread to her whole body, and her jaw hangs open as she gives a high, lilting moan. Bliss flashes like lightning; burns through every synapse in her body. The heat and light of ecstasy evaporate her thoughts and her words, leave Ashley in a pleasant daze of submission, just as I promised. 

I don’t turn down the intensity of the vibrator right away, so the pleasure is still burning; keeping Ashley a twitching, whimpering mess as I draw the last line of the pentagram and accept her surrender. “Hear O spirits.” I command. “Hear that I claim this girl, Ashley Jennifer Williams. With the power of Athena, I claim her mind. With the power of Aphrodite, I claim her body.” I watch the steady up and down movements of my new slave girl’s breasts and the steady sparkle in her eyes and say “With the power of Hekate, I claim her soul.” Ashley doesn’t say anything, just whimpers and arches her back; the flame of pleasure growing under my spell. 

Ashley moans softly as I pull the vibrator from her pussy. Her eyes are bright but empty, shining with the last embers of her thoughts. I undo the cuffs on her ankles, bring Ashley up to her knees. I brush stray hairs from her face as she smiles up at me in peaceful adoration. I run my fingers through her hair and ask “Are you ready to worship your master, like a good fuck doll?” 

“Yes master.” She says softly “please let me worship you.” 

I touch Ashley’s lip as I instruct her to “Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue.” She obeys with out thinking, parting her lips to let her tongue slide out. I keep her this way for a few seconds; a naked, mind broken whore, offering her mouth for my use. I open the fly on my jeans, revealing my cock, and grab Ashley by the back of her head. I run her tongue back and forth along the sides of my cock before I use her to make a single long lick along the bottom, from the base all the way to the tip. 

I plunge into Ashley’s mouth, fucking it slowly for the first few strokes. Savouring the warmth and wetness and submission. But pleasure lights in me as well. The soft mmph mmph mmph of her gags get louder and their rhythm faster as I quicken my pace. The pleasure of my slave doll’s body builds. Its most intense at the tip of my cock but radiates out, reaching my extremities. Soon my nervous system flashes with it. My hot cum spills onto Ashley’s tongue and I withdraw. 

For a few seconds I close my eyes and let myself float. The world and its cares have been banished to some unreachable and intangible place. I know that they will return. I open my eyes to look down at Ashley again, just as she says “Thank you, master.” A little of my cum spills on to her now irrevocably peaceful smile, and I cannot help wondering who got the best of my spell.

[fangirlingfromdownunder]

24th Day of Christmas

Newspaper & Duct Tape

Summary/Prompt: The reader receives a gift wrapped in newspaper and duct tape.

Pairing - Dean Winchester x Reader

A/N: Merry Christmas Day to those in Australia and surrounding countries who are celebrating today. I know I have been! Will have one final part tomorrow on our Boxing Day. I hope you have enjoyed these imagines throughout the month :)

Christmas Masterlist | Masterlist

You watch as the flames flicker below you in the grave you and Dean had just painstakingly dug. Having been thrown all around a decrepit house by the restless spirit, you don’t even feel bad for using the flames to heat your freezing and aching body. 

“Welp, Merry Christmas…” Dean says as he starts to cover the flames with the dirt to refill the grave. 

You let out a silent laugh as you pick up your shovel and help. An hour later you’re finally back in the motel. Dean offers for you to go first. Honestly, you’re a little surprised he didn’t make some joke about joining you, but you brush it off and rush into the bathroom. You strip off your sweaty, dirt and blood-covered clothes and stand under the warm water. You scrub every inch of your body until you finally feel clean. You wrap a towel around your body and return to the living area to let Dean use the bathroom. When you come out you notice a small pot plant covered in twinkling lights with a few oddly shaped items covered in newspaper and duct tape underneath the branches. 

Dean watches you admiring it from the doorway of the bathroom. He smiles, seeing how impressed you look and then rushes in to get clean. You restrain yourself from touching anything and focusing on getting dressed instead. You pull on a pair of underwear and one of Dean’s old shirts. You dig into the bottom of your bag and pull out the hastily wrapped box you bought ages ago. You place it next to the other messily wrapped objects, pull a beer out of the fridge and sit on the couch. You flick on the TV and scroll through the channels while you wait for Dean. Thankfully, he doesn’t take long. He comes out with just a towel wrapped around his lower half and you can’t help but stare. Of course, Dean notices you.

He winks at you and says, “Like what you see, Sweetheart?”

You blush and try to focus back on the TV. You and Dean have been on a few hunts alone over the years and have ended up in bed together on a few of those hunts. But it’s nothing more than fooling around. You know hunters don’t get relationships. So you push down the bubbling feelings. With the way he treats you and looks at you, you’re fairly certain he feels the same but neither of you is game to say anything out loud. 

After putting on a pair of boxers and a shirt Dean joins you on the couch. He rests one arm on the couch behind your head encouraging you to lean on him but you try to resist. You don’t want to have sex with him again knowing he’ll be in bed with another woman next week. Noticing your apprehension, Dean gets up and collects the newspaper and duct tape-covered items from under the makeshift Christmas tree. He eyes the new item with a smile and brings it over to the couch as well. He places his gifts on your lap and holds yours as he sits down.

“Merry Christmas, Sweetheart. For real this time.”

“You didn’t have to do this, Dean. I know the holidays are hard for you.”

“It’s not much. Just a little something to show how much you mean to me. Or at least try to.” He holds up my messily wrapped box. “And I’m guessing this is from you?”

“Yeah…I got it a while ago but if you don’t like it you can just pawn it off…”

“Come on, it’s from you, why wouldn’t I like it?”

You shake your head and pick at the duct tape. Trying to bring the mood up, Dean rips open the wrapping to reveal a simple yet attractive black watch. He takes his old, slightly broken watch off and puts the new one on. 

“It fits perfectly. Thank you, Sweetheart.”

Your heart warms a little at knowing he’s wearing something that you bought him. But then the thought of him touching another woman while wearing it flutters through your mind and you internally cringe. To distract yourself, you open his gifts to you. The first reveals a bag of your favourite gummies; the ones you always ask him to buy for hunts. The second is much more impressive. It’s a small black, velvet jewellery box. You hold it and stroke the soft velvet for a few seconds before finally opening it. Inside is a simple pure silver chain with a car pendant that resembles Baby almost perfectly. You tilt your head curiously.

“It’s your car?” You say confused.

“It’s my Baby,” he says matter-of-factly. He takes the necklace out of the box and fastens it around your neck before placing a soft kiss on your neck near the clasp. “The only thing that has ever truly been mine.” He takes your hands in his as he looks into your eyes. “But I’m hoping you’ll be mine as well.”

You stare at him in shock, unsure whether to cry or kiss him. “Dean…”

“I’m not asking you to marry me…not yet at least…just that you’ll give us a shot. No more running. No more meaningless sex with other people to fill a void; none of it’s ever as good as it is with you anyway.”

Unable to form a coherent sentence in your brain you lean forward and kiss him instead. He instantly wraps you in his arms, pulling you into his lap as he deepens the kiss. When you both pull back for air he says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You nod and peck him again before saying, “You do that. 

[iwritetopassthetime]

have yourself a marry little christmas

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x fem!reader

Part of my home to you universe // Masterlist

Wordcount: 11K

Summary: The festive season is in its hight in Bradley and Blossom's new house. The couple is ready to welcome Christmas with family and friends, revive old traditions and create new ones. With nothing but happiness on the horizon, the pair is sure to have a memorable first Christmas.

Warnings: domestic fluff with our favourite pair, Bradley in grey sweats, shameless festive smut, oral sex (m receiving), sub!Bradley if you squint, unprotected p in v sex (wrap it before you tap it!), dirty talk, smidge of daddy kink and breeding kink, creampie, let me know if I've missed anything

6 December, 19 days till Christmas

All week the weather had made everyone in their pompously glittering houses just a little Christmas-y. Of course, the temperatures in Southern California could never drop low enough to merit a knee-high snowfall, or black ice on the roads and pavements, but it was chilly enough to make everyone pull the coats and fuzzy scarves from their closets. 

Christmas tunes were drifting slowly through the beautiful, almost fully decorated Mediterranean-style home. So far it was the only house on the block that hadn’t gone all out in terms of lights and decorations. But the light-up snowman on the front lawn and the twinkling lights that spanned the length of the eaves, were decoration enough for the happy couple that had moved in about a month ago.

Upon walking up to the dark wood door in the arched entryway, one would be greeted by a simple, but stylishly handcrafted wreath. The twisted branches and evergreen vines were dusted with false snow which made the red of the holly fruit all the more striking. 

Then further inside, in the small entry hall, the accent table where you and Bradley would drop your keys upon entering was cluttered with old Christmas cards and small ornaments to amplify the holiday feeling. The door to the walk-in closet was adorned by another wreath, albeit smaller and even less ostentatious than the first.

It was older, a family heirloom like the many other trinkets that were going up on walls and doors as part of your very first Christmas season as a couple.

Finally, a long pine branch garland paired with tiny warm white lights twisted itself around the bannister to the first floor and guided the way up to where the bedrooms were located. 

Immediately to the left from the entry hall, through another arched doorway, was the living room where, it seemed, the beating heart of all this Christmas excitement was steadily thrumming.

Boxes, both old and new, littered the floor and couch, each carton lid sporting a different title in a neat blocky handwriting. Those being the last ones to leave the storage compartment where all of Bradley’s family’s belongings had been kept. Decorations were laying across the available surfaces, ready to be either given a proper place or put back in storage. 

And the piece-de-resistance in this room was the yet star-less Christmas tree that was standing in front of the three large windows facing the street, showing off its twinkling lights to any passerby. 

The electric flames in the faux fireplace seemingly danced to Michael Bublé’s baritone coming from the festive playlist as a string of colourful lights dangled over it. The cable was still half-tangled between your fingers as you balanced on top of a chair in front of the fireplace, trying to hoist the lights over the painting of the sea you got as a move-in present from Penny and Mav which sat above the mantlepiece. 

A roll of masking tape hung between your lips and a pair of scissors were tucked inside the pocket of your leggings. Neither was going be used any time soon as you just couldn’t seem to reach high enough to hook the other end of the cable over the damn frame.

You lifted one leg, feeling the chair wobble a little. ‘Shit.’ You stepped back and scoffed at your unfinished work. Bradley had done most of the things that required the extra inches (that you lacked), but with him in the shower you’d given yourself the task to try and finish setting the lights up.

And obviously, you were failing at that miserably.

‘Hey, hey, hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ You felt Bradley’s hands reach for your hips from behind at the same time as his voice came rushing from the doorway.

He made sure you were stable on top of the chair before you he turned you around to face him. ‘I thought you were going to let me deal with the lights, baby.’

‘Yeah, but I thought I’d manage it,’ you explained, untangling the balled-up string of lights in your hands. ‘Stupid painting isn’t cooperating.’

Bradley chuckled, his hands on your hips gently squeezing your sides. His thumbs slipped beneath the edge of your crop top and rubbed short crescent shapes into your skin. You placed your own hand on his face, cupping his cheeks in your small palms and bringing his face closer to yourself. Still on the chair, you were barely half a head higher than him. 

His hair was still a little damp, ends sticking out at all directions after he most likely towelled it dry. His skin was flushed from the heat of his shower. His face had a thin sheen over it with the remnants of the cleanser and facial creams you’d taught him to use. Bradley was not all that vain, but he had seemed to gladly accept any tips on self-care from you. That included everything from skincare to dietary tidbits. 

You were this close to getting him to switch entirely to oat milk, but he was still taking his coffee with that powdered creamer that made you gag. After seeing the back of the box and the list of “ingredients”, you were convinced that the creamer was called such for appearances only. The general idea of milk relied solely on it being mentioned in the list of flavourings.  

You looked further down at his tight black T-shirt and the pair of grey sweats that although loose still outlined his strong, muscular thighs and… all else.

You smirked to yourself, appreciative of your absolute favourite article of clothing Bradley owned, took a tiny step over the chair seat to move closer to him and wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

‘You’re looking nice,’ you comment slyly, your eyes darting between his own and the sweats. ‘Looking, uh… real comfortable.’

‘Yeah…’ Bradley briefly glanced down at his clothes and as far as one could see he hadn’t seemed to grasp the extent of your interest in his choice of clothing. ‘Just threw these on so we could finish decorating, but I’ll put something nice for the date.’

‘No, no, no,’ you hastily interjected. 

You drummed your fingers on his shoulders and bit on the plushiest part of your bottom lip, stifling that ever growing smirk. With one finger you trailed a line down from his shoulder to the centre of his chest, just at the middle of his sternum. 

‘I’m just,’ you pursed your lips and gave an exaggeratedly pointed look towards his lower half, ‘showing appreciation.’

Bradley threw his head back in laughter. Your hands on his shoulder and chest shook with the force of his chuckle. He took a step forward to fully sever the distance between the two of you and wrapped his hands around the small of your back. You leaned slightly back into his tender but firm hold. 

To be entirely honest the slight possessiveness of it always managed to get you all fluttery inside.

‘Well, I guess it’s like with guys and sundresses. Right?’

You nodded, ‘Pretty much. You just… you look delicious in these.’

‘Yeah?’ Bradley chuckled, his eyes darkening at your not so innocent insinuation. 

His hands slid down your waist to the underside of your ass, lifting you without so much as a twinge of discomfort from the chair. You felt your pussy flutter as slick began to pool onto your panties. Your legs wrapped themselves around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back so as to keep you as close to him as you could. Your slit came to rub against the top of Bradley’s abdomen which was a welcome friction, but certainly not the kind you were now growing desperate for. 

‘And you wanna know what else…’ Bradley murmured against the shell of your ear and it caused another flutter to go through you and peak at the apex of your thighs. ‘I decided to go commando.’

You whimpered. Was he trying to kill you? 

You rolled your hips into his hold, trying to rub against his lower belly and possibly urge him to prove his words by showing you. Bradley, however, seemed to have a different idea because he lowered you down on the ground and reached behind you for the line of Christmas lights that was hanging off of the mantlepiece. 

‘Come on, I’ll finish setting up the lights.’

‘Wait, wait, wait!’ You halted him, still incredibly turned on and with your face several degrees warmer. ‘Bradley!’

He turned back to you and leaned down to kiss away the pout from your lips. ‘Let’s finish this first.’

‘We can always finish it tomorrow,’ you wiggled your eyebrows suggestively. 

‘Nuh-uh, we need to finish it today.’

Bradley had been adamant that one of the Christmas traditions he wanted to revive from his childhood was decorating on St Nicholas day. His mum had been a somewhat devout Catholic and had kept with certain traditions she felt were important to her.

Many of those traditions and beliefs had been, of course, passed down onto Bradley and you genuinely loved that he wanted to start doing them again with you. 

It made you two moving in together and being together all the more significant. He was making you a part of his family traditions, as were you. You were weaving each other’s familial pasts into a present and a future where there was no his or hers. There was only ours, together as one. 

It made you love him even more.

‘I’ll put up these lights,’ Bradley began. ‘You can check those boxes over there for the tree topper, it should be with the other ornaments. We’ll put it up together and then we’ll have some time to kill before going to the Christmas market. How’s that sound?’

You pursed your lips, considering his proposition. ‘You better be really, really naked underneath those sweats, Lieutenant.’

Bradley laughed again and kissed your forehead before climbing onto the chair to put up the lights. 

You made your way to the small mountain of boxes on the couch, digging through years and years of family Christmases and holidays and looking for anything resembling the ornament you were looking for. 

After a few minutes of searching, you caught a glimpse of a white and gold point. You reached for it, turning over other pieces of decoration and memorabilia in the cardboard box to pull out a very beautiful Christmas tree topper. 

The little rhinestones reflected the surrounding lights which made the star appear as if it was actually shining. There were some specks of dirt and dust given that it had spent nearly two decades in a storage compartment, so you grabbed a rag from the coffee table to give it a very light scrub. 

You wanted to make sure you wouldn’t damage a single stone on the piece.

Feeling Bradley’s hands come up to your waist from behind once more, you looked back at him with a comfortable smile. You noticed the rhythmic twinkling of red, green, yellow and blue over his shoulder and you fully twisted your body around to look at the finished work. 

‘Oh, Bradley,’ you said softly, ‘they look fantastic.’

He turned with you and wrapped his arms around you, laying a soft kiss on your temple. 

‘They’re all pretty well levelled, right?’

A long line climbed up the wall, then broke into neat half-crescent moons across the top half, surrounded the painting above the fireplace, continued off in those rounded shapes and dropped back down the wall to connect to the power outlet behind the Christmas tree. This way, all cables would be hidden from view and wouldn’t be a tripping hazard. 

‘They look fantastic!’

Bradley kissed your temple once more before gently urging you forward towards the Christmas tree. The lights, tinsel and baubles were already set up in a beautiful arrangement that kept up with the fairly minimalist style of your decoration.

Both you and Bradley agreed that an elephantine amount of festive ornamentation inside and outside the house would a) be too much for either of your tastes, and b) would make your electricity bill go through the roof. And neither of you wanted your Christmas to be ruined.

Bradley bent down to loop his arm behind your hips, lifting you easily off of the ground again. You shrieked with laughter as Bradley inched both of you closer to the tree. You reached up and placed the star-shaped topped at the very peak of the fake pine tree. 

And your hard work was rewarded by the joyful feeling of finally having completed your festive decorating. 

Bradley lowered you back on the ground and wrapped an arm around your waist as the two of you admired the fully decorated tree. Christmas tunes continued to drone in the background. Bradley swayed you left and right, singing softly the words of the song in your ear. 

He nipped at the skin below it, making you let out a sound that was something between a giggle and a moan. His hand on your waist curled to bring your body around and press it against his own. 

‘Are you still interested to see what’s in my grey sweats?’ He asked you sultrily. 

‘Oh, I’m pretty sure I can feel it,’ you replied. You wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him down for a much needed kiss. 

The twinkling Christmas lights casted a lovely, romantic glow on the two of you as your bodies moved clumsily in the direction of the couch. 

You pushed Bradley down first and eagerly climbed into his lap. Your knee knocked into a cardboard box and accidentally sent it flying down to the ground, it’s contents spilling out onto the large Egyptian rug. 

‘Right, we might need to tidy up first,’ you said with no small amount of dejection. 

You were more interested in keeping up with your current activities, growing wetter by the second as you felt the hard ridge of Bradley’s cock nestling perfectly against your slit. But you also knew perfectly well neither of you would be comfortable on the couch with how cluttered it was.

‘Quickly.’ Bradley instructed. ‘And then we go back to your exploration.’

You cackled at his evident excitement. You got up from his lap and gave a mock salute, ‘Right away, Lieutenant.’

You bent down to pick up the contents of box you had knocked over while Bradley started to collect the ones on the couch and coffee table, hoisting them into his arms and carrying them off to the bottom floor closet for temporary storage. You picked up pieces of old newspapers the were used to cushion the more delicate ornaments, placing each carefully in the box.

Then you foot knocked against something more solid and you looked down to find the edge of what looked like an album that was bound in dark red leather. 

You reached down to grasp its edge and picked it up. It didn’t have anything written on the cover so you tentatively flipped it open to find pictures that were meticulously taped two-a-page. And under every picture there was a brief caption and a date. 

The handwriting was beautiful. Each letter and digit was like a work of art by itself. It was definitely a feminine hand; you’d seen Bradley write stuff down numerous times and he was perhaps a few degrees off from having a doctor's penmanship. 

The first two pictures were of what looked like a table set up with Christmas dinner, the title and date confirming your conclusion. The next two were different snapshots of some people who you didn’t recognise until you turned the leaf and your eyes landed on a picture of two very familiar women. 

One was Sarah, much younger and with her wild, curly hair styled in a side parting. She was wearing an incredibly ugly Christmas jumper that matched the one the woman next to her wore. 

Bradley’s mum.

Carole’s face was split in half by a massive beam that shined through the very picture. Her arm was thrown over Sarah’s shoulder, pulling her in a half hug. The photo just below it was similar — Sarah and Carole being the only two characters present. It seemed as if Carole was saying something to whoever was taking the photo, pointing a finger at them. 

‘Oh my god, where did you find this?’

Bradley looked down at the album over your shoulder. His eyes were wide with surprise and the edges of his mouth were pulling into a grin. He lifted his hand and lowered it gently onto the album’s page. 

‘It was in the box I knocked over,’ you explained.

‘Christ, I remember that Christmas. Mom had invited the whole gang,’ he explained and flipped over to the next page.

There were four photos of Maverick and a blond man who was taller and bigger than him, but still very much lean. The caption said Maverick and Iceman. 

So that was Sarah’s husband, Tom…

‘Look at uncle Ice.’ 

Bradley’s smile grew, most likely going into that place in his mind where his most treasured memories lay. His eyes began to glisten when he looked at the fourth picture — his mother was squeezed between the two aviators, the three of them frozen in laughter. 

You hummed, unable to find anything useful to say. The dates on the pictures suggested it was the Christmas a couple years or so prior to Carole’s passing. It was surely something that brought no small amount of anguish to your boyfriend at the moment. 

Then you flipped onto the next page of the album and couldn’t contain the roar of laughter that escaped you.

There were two pictures of Bradley. One of him on his own, the other of him a whole head and a half taller that his dear mother, but that wasn’t what made you laugh. No, Bradley’s hair was short, styled in spikes with what seemed like copious amounts of gel and he… had frosted tips!

You snorted, trying to contain your giggles. Your whole body shook with the force of your laughter.

‘Look at you hair!’

Bradley tried to grab the album from your hands, but you ran away from him and flipped through it for more compromising pictures.

‘Give it here!’

‘No, oh my!’ You laughed harder when you saw a picture that Bradley had obviously taken of himself in a bathroom mirror, proudly showing off the atrocious hairstyle. ‘W-what?!’

‘It was fashionable!’ Bradley defended when he managed to reach you and tackle you in a hug, prying the album from your hands. ‘And I wasn’t the only guy in high school with that haircut, I’ll tell you that.’ 

Bradley dropped the album onto the coffee table and stood between it and you, his hands holding your upper arms delicately. Tears had sprung in the corners of your eyes, your shoulders still shook and you could barely keep from laughing. When your laughter had turned to steady giggling, you looked up at Bradley, giving you an exaggerated pout.

‘Aw, baby!’ You reached up to hold his face and lifted yourself onto your tippy toes to kiss his protruding bottom lip. ‘I didn’t mean to laugh that hard. I think you actually looked quite, um… charming?’

‘I was actually.’ Bradley softened, a deep blush painting his cheeks that was visible even in the dim lighting of the living room. 

‘Did you do it for a girl or…?’

Bradley scratched the back of his head. ‘Rose Jennings. She was the grade above me, I had a crush on her. Her ex boyfriend had the same hairstyle so I thought she’d like me if I did the same.’

There was something so adorably moronic about him adopting a new style — one that even in the nineties through early naughties was a choice — all to impress a girl. One could put it down as simply teenage foolishness, but you thought it was stupidly sweet. To think that this hunk of a man was once a pining young boy, ready to change his entire appearance at the drop of a hat — all for a crush. 

Sweet, but very stupidly so.

‘Oh, no. Did Rose Jennings not like it then?’

‘Well, she didn’t date me,’ Bradley admitted almost shyly. ‘But we did almost go to third base under the bleachers.’ 

‘Woo hoo!’ You fist pumped the air. 

‘It was stupid. I never thought you’d find pictures of me from that time.’

You let out a curt giggle and buried your face in his chest to calm down. ‘The idea of it is starting to grow on me. Have you thought of doing your hair like that again?’

‘God, no!’ Bradley’s chest rumbled with the power of his baritone. You lifted your head and looked at him quizzically. 

So even he agreed that that had been a choice.

‘Well, you never know. You could bring that style back. I might let you hit home run since Rose Jennings didn’t give you the same curtesy.’

Bradley rolled his eyes playfully. ‘She did give me a half-handjob.’

‘A half-handjob? What’s that, over-the-jeans action?’

Bradley nodded and it was now your turn to give him a pout. This revelation, however, gave you an idea. A brilliant way to combine your previous conversation, your minuscule obsession with his grey sweats, and this new piece of information. 

Your mouth filled with saliva when the idea began to form more solidly in your mind’s eye.

‘Let me imagine you like that for a sec.’ You whispered and made a show of closing your eyes whilst rubbing your temples to conjure the image of Bradley with that horrible hairstyle.

You snorted out another bout of laughter, but remained laser focused on your plan. ‘Okay, okay…’

You let your hands rest on his chest and slowly caress his pecks, searching for the peaks of his nipples. The pert buds began to engorge beneath your touch and you swore you could feel the goosebumps sprouting across Bradley’s skin.

Your hands began moving lower and lower, your nails coming to gently scratch against his stomach. You sneaked your hands underneath, feeling your way across his soft stomach.

You remembered how Bradley had complained about losing his six-pack some weeks ago and you had made it your mission to convince him just how much you enjoyed that extra fluff. 

Looking up towards his face, you found his eyes fluttering the moments your fingers teased against the waistband of his sweats. You smiled to yourself, feeling Bradley’s hands bury themselves in the short locks of hair at the back of your head. 

Deliberately slow and tender, you kissed his neck — right above the small scar he had on there — before letting your teeth sink into the soft flesh, marking him as your own. 

Bradley’s head fell onto your shoulder and he let out a litany of whimpered moans. You pressed your lips against his earlobe, whispering. ‘I know I’m not Rose Jennings—’

‘Y-you’re better,’ Bradley rushed, breathless.

‘I know. And I’ll show you just how I would’ve showed my appreciation.’

Taking a tiny step back from him, you gave yourself enough space to kneel down in front of Bradley while keeping your hands on his hips. Your fingers hooked underneath the waistband of his sweats and before you pulled them down, you looked back up towards Bradley to make sure you weren’t doing anything he didn’t like or want. 

But seeing his lust-blown eyes, the complete desperation in them, you knew that stopping now would be more of a torture than anything else. 

You slowly pulled his sweats down. His half-hard cock sprang free from its confines, slapping against his left upper thigh. The head was a shade of red that was growing in intensity by the second, appearing almost purple the longer you sat there and did nothing more than take him by the base and give him a couple of lazy strokes.

‘H-happy?’ Bradley rasped.

‘Hm?’

He licked his lips. ‘Told you I went commando.’

You smirked, lowering your lips to the head of his cock and giving it a kitten lick that had Bradley shuddering. You licked the tip again, feeling the salty taste of precum gather on your tongue. 

The taste of him was addictive!

‘I knew already. Do you think your own girlfriend would miss the fact that you’re wearing grey sweatpants and nothing underneath?’

‘I guess no— Oh! F-fuck, Blossom!’

Bradley gasped, his head falling back, when you finally spared him from the torture and wrapped your lips around his cock. Your hand at the base began to pump him slowly, working his length at the bottom while you mouth lathered him up in saliva and precum at the top. 

You lifted your eyes briefly, looking up at Bradley through the thick curtain of your eyelashes. His bottom lip was firmly lodged between his teeth, biting down on it so hard you were positive once you rose up to kiss him you’d feel the distinct coppery taste of blood on your tongue. 

Bradley’s eyebrows were furrowed and eyes fluttered shut as his hips rolled once to meet the heat of your open mouth.

You choked back a little at the sudden intrusion, moaning deep in your throat which only seemed to excite Bradley more. One of his hands came down to your head, finding purchase at the back of it to gather your short locks in a firm hold and pull at it briefly. 

You loved when he pulled your hair during sex; it had taken both of you some time to figure out how to build your sense of security in the bedroom which included slightly risky things like hair pulling and choking. Bradley had been patient and maybe too careful, but you had a safe word established and practiced plenty and regularly.

Now there was nothing you loved more than having Bradley grab you by the hair when you went down on him, or even grab your throat and squeeze when he was fucking you like a madman. 

His fingers were buried in your soft hair, guiding your head up and down his length. You relaxed your throat and opened wider. The head of his cock hit the back of your throat a smidge too hard on one of his thrusts and you gagged around it, drool dripping down your chin which most likely made for a pretty erotic sight because Bradley’s moans were growing louder.

He sounded completely wrecked. 

Your free hand came around his thighs to grab at his buttocks and pull him even further into your throat. You bobbed your head faster and the most debauched sounds fell past your lips, gliding down your bottom lip and chin with your drool.

‘Fuck, baby! Yes, yes,’ Bradley babbled. ‘Fuck, I love this mouth, love this mouth so much! God, if you could just— fuck, see yourself right now… ngh, fucking gorgeous. With my cock in your mouth, baby.’

You relished in the incoherent praise and doubled down on your efforts, trying to take more and more of him in your mouth. You felt every engorged vein, every ridge of him against your tongue as you slid his cock in and out of your mouth. 

Bradley’s voice rose in octaves and completely overtook the persistent hum of the Christmas playlist. His chin was pressed against his chest as he gazed down at you through half-lidded eyes, but even so you could see his soft brown irises had turned dark with desire. 

‘Fuck, my beautiful girl. My gorgeous, gorgeous girl. I love you, I fucking love you, baby.’ He groaned louder when you twisted your hand at the base of his cock as you dragged it up and then down. 

You moaned around his length in response, gagging and tearing up at the strain in your throat but you kept at it. The pain was more pleasure than pain. And if it meant seeing Bradley fall completely apart, unable to even keep standing on his own two feet, then you’d take it all.

‘Oh, I’m gonna come,’ Bradley whimpered. ‘Can I come in your mouth, baby? Can I— fuck!’

You lifted your head so only the tip of his cock rested against your tongue. Your saliva-soaked hand kept jerking him closer and closer to completion. 

‘Come, Bradley. Come in my mouth.’

His head fell back as a strangled groan ripped out of his chest. His hand in your hair fisted it harder as you worked him through his orgasm, ropes of cum flying into your open mouth and filling it with that familiar salty taste.

Bradley lowered his hand from your hair to your chin and lifted your face so he could see you better. You made a show of showing him your filled mouth and swallowing down his seed with an exaggerated gulp that had him groaning once more. 

‘Fuck, Blossom. You little minx.’

You helped him by lifting the waistband of his sweats and covering him back up, the alluring sight of his softening cock being the last thing you see before the grey material covered it again. It allowed for an equally alluring sight of that same cock outlined by the cotton material. 

Bradley caressed your chin affectionately, humming in approval when you wiped the remnants of drool from your chin and got up. He helped you by holding your arm and once you were upright once more, he lowered his lips to capture yours in a kiss that had such depth you thought he’d merge himself to you.

‘Was I better than Rose Jennings?’

Bradley huffed, ‘I can’t even remember who that was.’

Your softly murmured good boy was met with a visible shudder on his part. He dipped down for another kiss that rewarded both of you. 

‘Come,’ he urged gently when the two of you separated, a line of spit being the only thing still connecting your lips. ‘Let’s get dressed and head to the Christmas market before I fuck you on this couch.’

‘We can do both in succession if you’d like.’

The Uber driver dropped you off at the entrance of the market, wishing you both a merry Christmas. Like a true gentleman, Bradley helped you out of the car and thanked the man once again before gently pushing the door shut. He entwined your gloved fingers with his bare ones as the two of you made your way through the maze of huts.  

The alpine-style structures offered the ultimate Christmas atmosphere. They were adorned with small lanterns and plush fake snow. The vendors wore red and white hats with bells at the end that jingled with each of their move. And at the end of the first row, there was a sign directing you to each part of the Christmas market. 

‘Oh, we should grab a bite to eat at the bratwurst hut,’ you suggested excitedly. ‘And drink gluhwein. And then we can see about getting some presents for the family.’

Bradley let you lead the way. ‘I’m down for all that. I wanna check out the skating rink, if you’re up for it.’

You considered the proposition for a moment. Ice skating had never been something you were good at, being slightly clumsy in general meant that unstable surfaces were even more of a hinderance to your walking — or even standing — abilities.

‘I’m willing to give it a go,’ you told him. ‘But if I fall and bruise my ass—’

‘I’ll gladly kiss it.’

‘Ew, Bradley!’

He laughed good-naturedly when you slapped his chest. ‘Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t like that.’

You raised a brow and lowered your voice to a whisper. ‘Are we really considering public sex?’

‘We already did that, baby.’ Bradley’s lips pulled in a triumphant smirk as he led you in the direction of the bratwurst hut. ‘Halloween night at the Hard Deck.’

‘That doesn’t count,’ you retorted.

On Halloween, Bradley had wanted to improve your mood after the disappointing start of your house hunting. The two of you had gotten slightly drunk on Margaritas and one too many Jäger bombs. At some point during the night, you had snuck into the men’s toilets and stumbled into a stall to enjoy some risky behaviour. 

‘It totally counts,’ Bradley argued as the two of your joined the queue in front of the hut that was maybe a little too heavy on the lederhosen-wearing cartoon sausages. But the sound of crackling meat and smell of spices made up for the gaudy decor.

Mindful of the random people that surrounded you, Bradley lowered his voice too. ‘The guys walked in on us, remember? Bagman even barged in our stall.’

You chuckled, ‘Okay, okay. They didn’t see much thought. I was wearing that long black dress on so we were both pretty covered.’

‘Mmm, you did look really hot as Rhaenyra Targaryen.’ Bradley leaned down to kiss the corner of her jaw and she swatted him away. ‘Bouncing in my lap like a cock-hungry slut.’

‘Shush!’ Despite the nippy December wind, you felt your entire face grow hot at his teasing. ‘And it certainly didn’t help that we’d shotgunned that joint beforehand.’

‘Don’t know, made everything a bit more… colourful, didn’t it.’

You looked up at him with a small smirk. There was a certain mischievous glint in his eye that was hardened by the vivid Christmas lights surrounding you. If you knew he’d be in such a mood after the fun you’d had back home, you’d known to give it even more effort. You loved seeing Bradley so relaxed and yes, even his bouts of extreme horniness that always seemed to flourish in inappropriate times and places was a part of him you adored. 

‘I’m not sure about the wursts anymore,’ you told him with a joking lilt to your voice. Bradley raised his eyebrows and inquired as to your meaning. ‘Me, gobbling down a sausage. Don’t wanna give you ideas.’

Bradley barked out a laugh which startled the old couple standing in the queue in front of you. He apologised through a fit of giggles that had you hiding your mouth behind your gloved fingers to stifle your own laughter. The elderly woman who had her arm around her husband’s smiled at you both, assuring you it was fine and complimented you on what a charming couple you two make. 

The rest of the evening was spent going from hut to hut, trying different festive delicacies and drinks. Two mulled wines each later, you were warm enough to take off your gloves and stuff them in your pocket. Bradley’s own hands offered enough warmth for you as he led you down the busy path, offering to buy you anything you’d like. 

The two of you stopped in front of a place that had a wide display handmade Christmas tree toys. The most interesting part of their work was the offer to take a picture in their photo booth that they would then put in a little plastic sphere or heart-shaped bauble. 

‘It’s gonna be nice to have something to commemorate our first Christmas together,’ you told Bradley and led him to the photo booth so you two could participate. 

Ten minutes later you were moving off to another part of the Christmas market with your bauble packed in a little bag. Bradley carefully pulled you to stand in front of him while he steered both of you in the direction of the ice skating rink some hundred feet away.

While he was paying for your entrance, your phone buzzed in your coat’s pocket and you pulled it out to see a new message had popped up in the Bitchezzz United group chat you had with Phoenix, Frankie and Halo. 

QueenNix💁🏻‍♀️: BLOSSOM!!!

QueenNix💁🏻‍♀️: checked in with the shelter today. they’ll keep the little guy until next week. Frankieand I will pick him up and keep him at our place until xmas eve.

You gasped, typing out a quick response. 

FlowerPower🌼: That’s perfect! Thank you so much! Keep the receipts for food and anything like that.

baddie with a fattie💋💋: absolutely not babes!

FlowerPower🌼: absolutely yes! Keep the receipts or I’ll ask Amelia to hack into your banking accounts so I can see how much I owe you and give you money instead of xmas presents!

Halo reacted to your message with a laughing emoji. An ellipsis appeared next to Phoenix’s profile picture before her next message appeared. 

QueenNix💁🏻‍♀️: ill keep a tab on any expenses but it’s seriously not an issue. we’re excited to see Bradley’s reaction!!!

FlowerPower🌼: thanks, Nix! Im excited as well! Gotta go now, Bradley took me ice skating.

carbs4life🍔🍜🍕: send pics!

QueenNix💁🏻‍♀️: say hi to mr chicken

baddie with a fattie💋💋: trip him up lmao

Before Bradley could see your chat as he made his way back to you, two pairs of skates in hand, you pocketed your phone.

‘The girls say hi,’ you told him as he knelt at your feet to untie your shoe laces. 

‘They’re still on for Christmas Eve, right?’ He asked.

You nodded in response while he pulled your shoes one at a time, then helped you into the skates. They were a nice cream colour, fleece lined which warmed up your feet immediately. After he was done with your own, Bradley quickly slipped out of his Timbs and into a pair of much larger black skates.

‘How did they manage to find boat sized shoes for you, I’ll never know.’ You joked. Bradley tickled your sides in retaliation which made you yelp and you clamped your mouth shut. 

You watched him with a smile while he fiddled with the shoe laces, very much excited yourself to see the reaction to his Christmas present. You’d managed to get this far with the secret, hiding the fact that you’d been scouring the websites of all breeders and shelters in the state for the perfect puppy. Bradley had told you he’d always dreamed of having a dog and seeing as you had space to fill in your big house, you thought a dog would be a welcome gift. 

‘Ready?’ Bradley got up from the bench and offered you his hand. 

You beamed at him and nodded, sliding your palm in his own and letting yourself be pulled to your feet.

The pair of you waddled your way to the door and carefully got onto the rink, making sure not to fall over the moment the blades of your skates touched the false ice. But with Bradley’s hand firmly holding yours, you began to abandon your worries and happily slide around the rink with him.

24 December, 0 days till Christmas

The dinner table was extended and covered by a beautiful, red table cloth. There were candles spread around in the few gaps that weren’t filled by plates and bowls of various foods. There was a turkey in the middle of the spread, surrounded by smaller dishes containing stuffing, gravy, Bradley’s potato salad, and a pear and red onion chutney you’d made from scratch. There were bowls of dried fruit and a basket of bread from the nearby bakery. The first bottle of red wine was open and left to decant on a side table, surrounded by a fresh set of merlot glasses you’d gotten as part of your list of move-in must-haves.

The food around the table was perhaps enough to feed an army, but knowing full well that a majority of their guests would be an ever-hungry bunch of Navy guys, it made sense. Payback alone could probably finish the turkey by himself and then ask for another. Bob was the easiest to cook for, because he had the stomach of a chicken and rarely asked for second helpings even if your inner grandma was constantly pushing more things onto his plate because he needed the nourishment. 

You’d left Bradley in the kitchen to finish the chocolate mousse while you showered and changed into something nice. That wasn’t too tricky a desert to do and the only thing you asked of him was to whip it until it was an airy consistency. You could say you were confident in his abilities to let him.

Something happened in the shower; you couldn’t tell if it was the festive spirit, the excitement for the night ahead, or simply the fact that you had started to imagine Bradley in his crisp white shirt and dark blue slacks carefully handling a chocolate mousse. 

You could peg it to ovulation-related horniness, but the thoughts kept coming to the forefront and the hot water stream just elevated those feelings to another level. 

His large hands wrapped around the whisk or wooden spoon, flicking through the mousse with a military precision. His muscles tensing under the material of the shirt with every move. His plush lips pursed in concentration.

By the time you got to your closet in search of an appropriate dress to wear, you’d decided you wanted to add on to his Christmas present in a more personal, more pleasurable way.

Your heels clicked against the wood of the stairs as you descended, making your way to the back and into the kitchen. The skirt of your red dress swished around your thighs and you intentionally swung your hips a little more so that the fabric could flare about you seductively. Your put your left hand behind you, wanting to partially obscure the bunched up lacy fabric in your first. 

Your plan seemed to have worked because Bradley’s eyes were immediately on you when you entered the room.

Bradley’s mouth hung open with the wooden spoon he had been using to stir the mousse halfway up. You walked to his side and wrapped your free arm around his middle, making a final check on the mousse. You peeled yourself off of him and dipped a finger in it, tasted, and the sweetness melted on your tongue. 

You let out a deep moan before grabbing the spoon from Bradley and scooping some more of the mousse onto it. ‘Oh my god! This is to die for!’

‘Your dress is to die for,’ he commented before taking back the spoon and throwing it in the sink. He pushed the bowl of mousse out of the way before turning you around to face him. You chuckled at the seriousness and determination in his eyes which raked up and down your form, fully taking in your outfit.

The sweetheart neckline offered a nice view of your cleavage which was enhanced by the bra you knew him to harbour strong feelings for. The dress was cinched at the waist before flowing freely down your hips, reaching just shy of your knees. 

Bradley’s hands wondered from your shoulders to your sides and waist, fully appreciating your outfit and you in it. You were patiently waiting for him to have his fill before spilling the contents of your hand in his own.

‘You look beautiful, Blossom.’

You smiled up at him. ‘Thank you, baby. Thought I’d finally put this dress on, it’s been in our closet for months.’

‘You should’ve worn it out by now. Torn it to shreds.’

‘Yeah?’ 

Bradley nodded eagerly. ‘I certainly would’ve helped with that.’

Your eyebrows twitched and a self-satisfied smirk made its way onto your lips. 

‘Why don’t we give it a test flight then?’ 

You lifted your left hands high enough to slip the bunched up lace in his slacks’ pocket. While he was reaching for his surprise, you lifted yourself onto the kitchen island and leaned back on your palms, watching him expectantly. 

The moment his fingers touched the lace, you knew you had him. His eyes widened comically and you noted how his pupils dilated at the slow, but sure realisation exactly what he was touching. 

He pulled his hand out of his pocket, slowly turning the lace panties that matched your bra between his fingers. He paused for a second, taking the sight of them in, before putting them back in his pocket. 

You leaned forward on the counter, smiling innocently at your boyfriend in who’s eyes you could see an ocean of emotion that was spilling over the edges. You swung your legs back and forth and simply waited for him to make the next move. Which he soon enough did.

Bradley’s hand landed softly on your bare knees and climbed higher and higher, reaching underneath the hem of your dress to feel the smooth and soft skin underneath. The moment he reached the tops of your thighs, he felt his way around for any sign of a material obstructing his touch. And when he couldn’t find any, but could touch freely — which he did and caused a soft sigh to tumble past your lips — he grabbed you by the hips and pulled you closer to his body. 

You gasped audibly when your naked slit pressed tightly against his covered zipper, underneath of which his cock had begun to swell. You wanted him like this, in this position, no prep, no nothing. Your pussy was so wet and aching for him that you were certain that him sheathing himself within you would bring you to the brink. 

‘You know we’ve got guests coming soon.’ 

He was giving you a way out, but you couldn’t care less if they were right outside your door.

‘Not for another half-hour we don’t.’ You raised a single eyebrow. ‘Think you can finish by then?’

Bradley took your face in his hands, leaned down, and pressed his lips against yours. His kiss was hard and demanding. His tongue invaded your mouth without a second of deliberation. 

His hands ran over your curves, pulling you closer and melding your chests together. He lifted your skirt higher while you reached for the fly of his slacks. Your fingers trembled in anticipation and it took you a second to pry two flaps open, nearly tearing the button out of its place. 

‘Baby, can I fuck you without a condom,’ Bradley begged against the heat of your open mouth. ‘I wanna feel you, all of you.’

You moaned loudly. Your head dipped back and offered the expanse of your neck to his wanting mouth. His lips trailed wet, open kisses across your skin down to your collar bones. ‘Yes! Oh, yes, please!’

You reached inside the opening in Bradley’s slacks, freeing his cock from his confines. He groaned against your shoulder when your delicate hand wrapped around the base of his length and pressed it up against your soaking cunt. 

‘Oh, fuck, baby! You’re so fucking wet for me, beautiful.’ He sighed, tangling one hand in the hair and angling your head to his liking. 

His other hand slipped back underneath the skirt of the dress, his thumb pressed against your clit and applied pressure that was barely there to the little bundle of nerves that had you crying out. 

‘Is this why you did this? Wore this dress, took your little panties off and presented your hungry pussy to me for the taking. Huh, hoped I’d fuck you like this? Like the good little slut you are?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘Fuck!’

Your hand on his cock guided him in, your walls opening and sucking him in. Bradley bottomed out without wasting another second and stilled; he dropped his forehead against yours and held you like that.

‘Bradley,’ you whimpered and tried rolling your hips into his own. ‘Please, move, Daddy. I need— need you so much. Please.’

‘Give me a sec,’ he murmured in response. ‘I need to last long enough, baby. Can’t give my good girl everything she needs if I shoot my load too soon. And I wanna reward you, show you how much I liked your little surprise.’

‘You like it?’

‘Yeah, beautiful. If this is my Christmas present, I can tell you…’ Bradley thrust into your heat once, deep and slow, and made you see stars, ‘…it is a very good present.’

‘It- It’s no— ah! not your only pre-present,’ you sobbed while his thrusts picked up in pace and force. 

He began to fuck into you, your barely covered ass sliding against the marble counter, but Bradley’s large hands kept a firm grip on your hips as he half-guided your body towards his own. Your breaths caught in your throat, eyes rolled back to the back of your head. With shaky hands you gripped his shoulders while your legs fell wide open on their own accordance to allow him more room. 

‘My beautiful, beautiful woman. My fucking girl. Mine!’ Bradley growled against the side of your neck, mere inches from your ear. 

You keened at the possessiveness and pulled him closer, clawing at the collar of his shirt. If the material wrinkled, you couldn’t care less. You’d strip it off of him yourself and iron it later, or even better — let him wear his wrinkled shirt to dinner and let all your guests know what transpired between the two of you. Right there on the kitchen island. A foot or so away from the chocolate mousse, you’d be serving them for dessert. 

Bradley nudged the collar of your dress to the side, baring your shoulder to his hungry mouth, and sucked on your skin like he was trying to consume you. His hips snapped harder against yours with every whimper, every wail of exaltation. His hands wondered around your body, touching anything covered or bare so he could, everything within his grasp. 

You felt desired, worshiped, adored. Bradley’s hips rolled against yours, his cock slipping in and out of your soaked cunt with what could only be oxymoronically be described as tender force. Those lustful feelings that had spurred your impromptu seduction melted into a very poignant sensation which softened your touch against his own body. 

Everything seemed to take on a fuzzy, pink hue. 

You smoothed Bradley’s hair back, kissing his face tenderly and sighing against his flushed skin. His own breaths rang like bells against your ear and before you even thought to ask him to kiss you, his lips were joining with yours.

‘I love you, I love you so much,’ he groaned, almost desperately. ‘I love you.’

You gasped into his open mouth and he swallowed your rushed breath, peppering your lips with his kisses.

‘I know, I know. I love you, Bradley.’

‘Please, come on my cock, baby. You know how much I love it,’ thrust ‘know how much I love when you squeeze me, fucking drench me’ thrust ‘oh, baby, you feel so fucking good!’

Your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him even closer.

‘Come in me, Bradley. Give it to me, fill me up. Please, please, ple— AH!’ 

Your wail of pleasure and surprise came at the exact moment Bradley’s cock made one final plunge in your depths. The sensation threw you over the edge and you came shuddering, clutching Bradley against you. You felt him twitch inside you, shoot his hot seed into your quivering cunt and come to a halt. 

Full. You felt full and satiated. Like a cat that had a bowl-full of cream and was lounging in a sun spot. 

Bradley stayed buried inside you longer than he usually did. You caressed his face, his neck, loathe to let him go. This felt too good and too special to end so soon. 

‘Marry me.’

You pulled your face back and looked up at him. Your eyes were wide and mouth agape. All thoughts save but one left your mind with your breath which had stilled in your throat. Your hands came up to hold his face and Bradley’s own rose to cover yours. There was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze when he licked his lips to speak again.

‘Marry me.’

You blinked dumbly. ‘What?’

Bradley bit his lip and you wanted to kick yourself for how uncoordinated you’d become in the wake of his proposal. 

‘This was going to be half of my Christmas present for you. I- I thought… never mind.’

He began to pull away, his softening cock slipping out of you. You gripped his jaw a little tighter and made him stop, staring deeply into his eyes. He couldn’t think you were rejecting him, could he?

Oh, you silly, silly man!

‘Ask me.’ You said firmly. 

Bradley’s features twisted in hesitation before he licked his lips to say once more, ‘Marry me.’

You gasped, bottom lip trembling and eyes filling with tears. ‘Yes. Yes, yes, yes!’

‘Yes?’ He repeated, astonished. 

‘Yes!’ You exclaimed. ‘God, Bradley, yes! I will marry you, I will be your wife!’

Bradley grinned broadly, holding your face in his hands and watching you as if you’d made him the happiest he’d ever been. You sincerely hoped you had, because he’d made you the happiest you had ever been. 

And all with but a single request. 

‘I- I have an actual present, too.’

‘I couldn’t care less about that.’

‘But it’s really nice,’ Bradley assured you. ‘It can double as an engagement present as well. But if you want a separate one, I’ll get it. I’ll give you everything, Blossom. I love you.’

‘I love you, Bradley.’ You sobbed. Tears of joy dropped onto your cheeks as you pulled him back in to pepper his face with kisses, making Bradley chuckle.

‘You really had me there for a second. Thought you were going to reject me.’

You shook your head. ‘Could never. I love you and I want to marry you, have wanted it for such a long time. I just never thought it’d happen right after you fucked me on the kitchen island.’

Bradley laughed and pressed his forehead to yours as the two of your stopped your furious kissing to catch your breath. ‘I had a much more romantic proposal in mind. At the dinner table with our friends, but the post nut clarity—’

‘Thank god, for post nut clarity!’ 

Bradley kissed you again and seemed to savour the kiss with an unquenchable thirst. He then looked at you again, nothing but joy in his eyes. He held up a finger for you to hold for a moment, pulled free of you with a grunt, tucked his now placid cock in his slacks and told you to wait for him there.

‘Can I have my panties?’ You asked as he made his way out of the kitchen.

He smirked. ‘Oh, no. These are staying with me tonight, baby.’

You patiently sat on the kitchen island, your thighs clenched together to keep Bradley’s seed inside. You felt high, higher than anything could ever get you. You kept thinking over the whole proposal, delving deeper and deeper into that pool of absolute, unadulterated joy you felt. 

He wants to marry you. 

Bradley will be your husband, you will be his wife. 

Not more than five minutes later, he was back in the kitchen and jogged over to you. In his hand he had a small blue box that he swiftly unlidded to reveal two beautiful rings nestled inside. Both were very simple, without many embellishments, but to you they were as grand as diamonds and rubies. 

‘They belonged to my mom and dad. Maverick gave them to me the day you got the job. I would’ve proposed then, but knew it was too early and I wanted my proposal to you to be special. If you don’t like them, we can go and get newer ones—’

You kissed him to stop his worried rambling, holding his face in your hands and smoothing your thumbs over his reddened cheeks. You then gazed down lovingly at the two golden bands before taking the larger one and holding it in your hand whilst giving your now fiancé an expectant look. 

‘I love them. Don’t think about changing them, they mean a lot to you and so they do to me.’

Bradley nodded and took the smaller ring from the box, reaching for your left hand and slipping it onto the appropriate finger. You waited for him to feel the power of this moment before you gently clasped his own left hand and slipped the other ring on. 

You looked up at Bradley and he looked down at you, both of you entirely lost in your shared joy. He leaned down to kiss your lips for what was probably the hundredth time that evening, but did it truly matter — you were happy beyond all explanation. 

Just then the doorbell rang, singling the arrival of your guests.

Bradley hastily fixed the collar of his shirt which, surprisingly, didn’t look as rumpled as you thought it’d be. He then helped you off of the kitchen island, telling you to go greet whoever was at the door while he finished setting up the table. 

You couldn’t leave his side before stealing another kiss, and then another, and another. But the insistent ringing of the bell had you running off to get the door. 

‘Hey, Blossom!’ Hangman greeted you cheerfully, his hand clasped around the neck of a red wine bottle. 

Coyote was standing right over his shoulder and followed him into the hallway. He gave you a brief hug before moving out of the way for Payback and Fanboy to walk in as well. It was, perhaps, the first time you’d seen any of them in anything other than uniforms or casual clothing — the four of them wearing suits, but still keeping with their casual nature by wearing trainers. Apart from Hangman, of course, he was always making sure he looked as if he’d jumped out of a GQ magazine spread.

It was a succession of hugs, exchanges of Merry Christmas’s and polite compliments on your outfit which made you look away sheepishly, knowing just how downright inappropriate the intention behind your dress (and lack of underwear) had been. 

‘Damn, this place looks nice!’ Coyote exclaimed when you showed the guys the way to the dining room. ‘Where’s Bradley?’

‘Over here, man.’

Bradley came out of the kitchen, carrying the board of cheeses and cured meats you’d fixed up earlier. You smiled when you caught the soft twinkling of the ring on his finger. The guys exchanged quick festive greetings with him and began chatting as if there’d been no time between seeing each other last and now. 

Payback turned to you for a moment. ‘Don’t wanna be a bother, but wanted to ask—’

‘Don’t worry, Bradley and I made sure to make all foods halal and kosher. Sarah’s coming too, so we were extra careful with the ingredients.’

‘Aw, thanks, bud!’

‘Don’t mention it! We’re glad you all agreed to spend Christmas Eve with us. It feels really nice to fill the house with people,’ you gushed. 

‘I bet!’ Fanboy joined the conversation, standing on Payback’s side. ‘Still can’t believe your guys’ luck! The house looks amazing!’

The doorbell rang again. 

‘Bradley? Baby, mind pouring the guys some drinks, I’ll go see who’s at the door.’

‘It’s probably Mav. He texted that he, Penny, Sarah, and Amelia were a close.’ 

True to his word, once you opened your door you were greeted by the four of of them, arms full with present bags and boxes. Amelia was first to rush forward and bundle you in a bear hug, followed by a much calmer Penny who kissed your cheeks and praised the wreath on the front door.

‘Thank you! Bradley and I made it,’ you said proudly. But once you lifted your hand to push your hair out of your forehead, Penny seemed to catch sight of the ring on your left hand and let out a gasp. Then came Sarah who gently took your hand so the two women could examine the delicate band on your ring finger.

‘Oh, sweetie! Is this…?’

You grinned. ‘As of ten minutes, yes. The other guys haven’t noticed yet.’

Amelia was ecstatic and ran off to find the group of aviators and rub in their noses their inability to notice this very important fact. You laughed when you heard the boom of cheers coming from the kitchen, bringing your attention back to Penny, Sarah and Mav who gave you their congratulations. 

‘What are we celebrating?’ Came Frankie’s voice from the open doorway. She, in her usual fashion, was dressed to the nines in a sparkling green dress which meticulously hugged her curves and matched her glittery eyeshadow. Halo and Bob came in after her, both of them dressed very sharply, but anyone would pale after Frankie’s dazzling entrance. 

‘Phoenix is in the car with the puppy. Want us to bring him in now?’ Frankie whispered to you once you’d directed the others to the kitchen. 

Just then Phoenix herself appeared at the doorstep and in her hands was a little black fur ball with a large red bow wrapped loosely around its neck. 

You couldn’t contain the aw that escaped your lips once you finally saw the puppy you’d chosen as Bradley’s present. The cane corso started to wagging his tail, sniffing the air about you and trying to get out of Phoenix’s arms. She handed him to you and the little guy couldn’t sit still until he could lift himself high enough to lick at your chin.

‘Oh, you are just precious!’ 

‘We’ve got his documents from the shelter,’ Phoenix explained and lifted the small bag that was handing from her elbow. ‘We brought his food, he’ll be good for the next month at least. Frankie overspent on that and treats.’

‘It’s ‘cause he gave me these eyes. Oh, babes, he gives you those eyes and you can’t not give him a treat!’

You chuckled, smoothing the puppy’s sleek black coat back which meant that your two best friends were the next to learn of the recent developments, both gasping audibly when they saw the ring on your finger. 

‘Okay, come in now both of you, we should go take this little man to Daddy.’ You said after another series of squeals, screeches, shouted congratulations, and more face licking from the puppy in your arms.

Frankie gave you her typical lopsided smirk. ‘Is that how you got him to propose? Called him Daddy?’

You jokingly slapped her ass when she walked in front of you. ‘Shush you!’

‘Oh, Daddy! Give me a ring, I’ll be a good girl!’ She gave an exaggerated moan and a sigh, throwing a hand over her forehead and leaning against the living room doorframe in an overdramatic fashion. ‘Okay, okay, let’s go take the little guy to Bradley!’

The three of you, grinning from ear to ear in anticipation, hurried off to the dining room, greeted by the sight of all the guests either sitting at the table and enjoying an aperitif. Bradley was standing near the door to the kitchen, talking to Bob and Maverick, when he caught sight of you and your eyes widened at the contents of your arms. 

‘Oh my god!’

‘Merry Christmas, baby!’

‘Oh my god! Is that for us?’ 

Bradley crossed the distance between the two of you and reached out for the puppy that was now more interested in this new human that in you. Bradley picked him up and hugged him to his chest. Everyone around the room gushed over the adorable puppy.

‘It’s for you mostly,’ you explained to him. ‘Frankie and Phoenix put in me in touch with a shelter in San Fransisco after I said I was looking for a puppy. Apparently, someone found this little guy tossed out on the street as a newborn.’

‘Yeah, some dickhead,’ Frankie supplied.

‘Aw, buddy,’ Bradley gushed, screeching the puppy behind the ears which the he seemed to adore. ‘Guys, I need a cool name.’

‘Thor.’

‘No, Zeus.’

‘I think Cerberus is a badass name for… what is he, a doberman?’

‘Cane corso,’ you explained, already thinking over the name Cerberus. 

It was a fitting name for a dog like this, would be in complete contrast to how sweet he was, but in the end the decision was all Bradley’s. 

‘Well, Cerberus is a badass name,’ Bradley agreed and groaned when the little guy licked his cheeks. ‘Oh, we’re gonna be best fucking friends, buddy.’

You patted him on the shoulder. ‘Alright, let’s sit down and eat, because I don’t want our efforts to go to waste.’

Payback barked out a laugh and pointed at the turkey. ‘No way, we’re leaving this place before obliterating this.’

‘Wait, is this a Christmas and an engagement dinner then?’ Phoenix asked when she took up the chair next to yours.

You shared a brief look with Bradley who simply smiled and gave you a shrug. ‘I guess it is.’

Maverick grabbed his wine glass and lifted it proudly in the air. ‘To Bradley and Blossom then.’

Everyone followed suit with the toast before taking a long sip to your health and happiness. Bradley, still holding little Cerberus in his arms, leaned down to give you a quick kiss on the lips. You placed your hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes, finding that serenity you felt reflected back to you.

‘Merry Christmas, baby.’ Bradley whispered to you as he raised his lips to your forehead, leaving a delicate peck upon your warm skin.  

‘Merry Christmas to you, too.’ Your mouth twitched in a smile. ‘Fiancé.’

Bradley sighed contentedly. ‘I’m really starting to enjoy the sound of that. Be even better when I’m promoted to husband.’

‘Keep being your usual self and I’ll promote you sooner rather than later,’ you promised him.

‘I’ll hold you to that.’

You giggled and leaned back in your chair, taking the offered bowl of salad that Phoenix held. You spared a quick glance in Bradley’s direction still in disbelief that someone could make you so happy.

But there he was, you wonderful man, your fiancé with a puppy in his arms and an engagement ring on his left hand that promised you happiness and love.

What a perfect Christmas…

Happy holidays to you all! Sorry I couldn't post this earlier, I'd planned to make it into two parts, but I was sick then something not very nice happened to me at work so that's why it was delayed. Hope you're all having fun today, however you're spending it (if you're not celebrating Christmas)! 🌸

(taglist is still open, click here and fill out this Google Form)

home to you tags: @gretagerwigsmuse @jupitercomet @youlightmeupfinn @craftymoonchaos @the-winter-marvel33 @agent-jbarnes @blahehblah @katieshook02 @amysteryspot @daisyhollyxox @marantha @piceous21 @mak-32 @twoosinrooster @adoringsebstan @everyoneslovechild @shityoudidntaskfor @alluringshawn @marsontoast @lemur46 @taytaylala12 @benhardysdrumstick @strangeangelflapsuitcase @eugene-emt-roe @shanimallina87 @beachesandboats @ishipit1420 @machsachds @wishfulhope (crossed over names are people I wasn't able to tag, sorry)

[chronicallyclem]

How big are the stickers going to be (+ do you have any suggestions on where to put stickers)?

Im working on sizing right now actually! Im going to try and keep all of them the same size in width (Minus the betty sticker), but the height will vary.

Heres my Flame Princess test sticker! Shes 2.5 inches wide and 4.5 inches tall. I feel like she may be too big so I may shrink her down a bit. Let me know what yall want/think!

As far as where to place stickers, i get this question a TON when im at events, as someone who always gets so scared placing stickers somewhere knowing i cant move them, I always always always recommend putting a double sided piece of tape on the back and putting them on your wall! i do this above my desk with other mini prints and it looks so nice :)

I would NOT recommend putting these on a car, they will get sunbleached. They are laminated so they can resist Some water, but if you put them on your water bottle please Do Not dishwash it!!! it will get ruined 😭

Other good sticker spots i enjoy include ipads, art tablets, sketchbooks, or you can get a sticker book!

[oletusfragments]

if you found the anon with the pre-manor mike rq im sorry i forgot the emoji ;v;

💫 pre-manor mike's reaction to his s/o passing away during the hullabaloo massacre

there we go- ignore that i forgot the emoji-

and once again, i hope you have a nice day :]]

— IN MY HEART AND IN MY HEAD; TELL ME WHY THIS HAS TO END

᠂ — angst — gender neutral reader — before manor — ᠂

"My Y/N is strong! They would never die from a stupid fire! They're fine, they'll be fine! Check again! You're wrong!" Mike exclaims at the paramedic, his tone despairing–trembling. Persistently denying the nightmare happening. His whole body shakes from the sob he tries to resist. No, he won't cry. Because this isn't real. It's not real.

How could this happen? What in the world happened when he left?

Mike runs faster than he ever did when he heard the breaking news. The bag of stuff he bought was long forgotten behind him. Screw that, something–someone was more important.

He prays to any god that hears him that everything is alright. That when he arrives you'll be there with your same comforting smile telling him that you're all okay. Damn the tent or even his career. As long as it's not you. Those things can just be replaced anyway. Or better yet, nothing is wrong and the fire was just a measly flame.

But there's nothing left to replace. What is left of his home is nothing but barren wastes and ashes. The whole area of the hullabaloo circus tent is surrounded by yellow barrier tape. Sirens and discussions of investigations by the police and other staff could be heard everywhere. Burned...cause...crime...survivors...deaths. Their words and voices felt deafening and Mike wanted badly to pull his air out. His beloved home became a wretched crime scene, and it made him feel sick.

Even with the hopeless situation, Mike tries to wish for a miracle to happen. That this is all a dream. All of this is a big joke played by the amount of pranks he has done to his colleagues.

You all managed to get him guys, you can drop the act now.

Come on, he's at his wits end. So get up from that stretcher Y/N.

"Come on...get up." Mike's voice trembles when he is met with what has become of you. Your burnt corpse, in front of his teary eyes lay unmoving despite his plea. Perhaps the universe gave their shred of mercy to spare your face to stay recognizable. But he didn't want to see your face, not like this. He wants to see you without those burnt marks, your chest to move up and down to signify you're still breathing, for your eyes to be open staring back at his own. Anything that indicates that you're alive.

"Urgh...Come on! Open your eyes!" Tell him you're all right. The blonde desperately shakes your body on the stretcher. His tears falling to your chest and his pupils staring directly to your closed ones. Just open them already, you've gone too far with this prank–he thinks.

A couple people stare at him with pity, others shaking their heads. Those aren't the gazes he wanted to receive. He wanted happy ones, like the gazes of joy and amazement as he performs in the circus. He wants yours. The same ones that made his heart soar, set flowers blossoming in his heart. He wants you to prove them wrong–that he doesn't need their pity because you're all right. Prove that his creeping doubts are unreal.

A paramedic comes towards him, "Sir, I am very sorry for your loss. Regrettably, we ask you to step away so the removal technician could transport them to the morgue."

Mike shoots a wild glare at the paramedic. He shakes his head frantically while he holds your body close to him. Not letting any of the ones around him touch you, take you away from him. More tears escape his eyes and his voice trembles as he realizes how cold you feel, that there's no signs of breathing from you. "No! No! What are you saying?! I don't believe this–!"

Mike wants to cover his ears, preventing himself from hearing about what he refuses to acknowledge. But he doesn't want to let go of you.

"My Y/N is strong! They would never die from a stupid fire! They're fine, they'll be fine! Check again! You're wrong!" Mike exclaims, his tone desperate–trembling. Persistently denying the nightmare happening. His whole body shakes from the sob he tries to resist. No, he won't cry. Because this isn't real. It's not real.

But slowly, the wall of delusion he built cracks like his sanity when the harsh truth pokes through and send stabs to his breaking heart. His patience for everything is already thinning. He wants to lash out at everyone in the scene right now. Tell them to get out, to stop what they're doing, not take the last of what he loved the most.

"But sir—"

"Stop! Shut up! They're not—everyone is—they're all–" gone.

Mike stays silent for a moment before letting out a loud sob, choking on his tears, and lets out a scream full of frustration.

He stutters out your name numerous times, still not letting go of you. "Please, Y/N—please, just–!" Mike begs, as if you were to come back alive if he pleads hard enough. He holds your cold hand firmly, dead and devoid of the warmth he craved dearly. And like his hopes and the last of his joy, he completely falls apart. "Wake up, please!"

You were always there whenever he needed you. Behind the curtains, when he craved for sincere love, you were always there to give it to him. Always running and tending to him immediately whenever he needed help. But when he badly needed you the most, why aren't you waking up?

You were always there for him, so where was he when you needed him?

Countless guards had helped to retract his body from your corpse, firm grasps attempt to pull him away from you. Mike panics, fiercely thrashing around and pushing away the people that came near him. No, he doesn't want to let go of you. Not yet, not ever. This, what was left of you, something he never wants to lose. He won't admit that this will be goodbye.

He became so desperate. Even with the bruises and weary arms, Mike endured them all. After all, the pain he felt from others will never rival the pain of his broken heart. He begged the others to stop taking you away from him. To let them have you in his arms for a little longer. He hugged your body tightly, crying to your neck. Relishing the shred of comfort left from your lifeless body.

He was too stubborn that the polices agreed to let him mourn until he's had enough. Eventually, Mike fell asleep from the exhaustion of his own grief beside your eternally resting one. And with the opportunity, they pried you out of his hold.

The time he let his guard down, the time where he takes his eyes off you for a moment, you were gone from his grasp again—for good.

When he woke up from a place different from the circus, did the previous events fall on him all at once. And in that moment he realized, His home was no more. Everything, everyone is gone. And you are not coming back.

[ don't worry anon! It doesn't bother me at all. And thank you for fixing your mistake! And I wish you a great day too :D ]

CR: artwork from official Identity v account. Title are lyrics from Atlantis by Seafret.

[deathscn]

[ WINTER SOMBRA — LEVEL 5 — PATH ]

for weeks now, winter has been in a new world. one that has tested him, made him show vulnerability and strength. with the acceptance of the song in his veins, with the divinity that courses through him like wild fire, he's accepted a new truth, too. he, in some ways, is a prince. the underworld, tartarus, is a heavy mantle to carry and, while he may not have begun to carry the torch of prince of tartarus aloud, it still sings within his veins.

after so many different quests, meeting so many different people, and suffering to the point where all hope was lost...winter has come out on the other side. there have been cracks in his defenses, kinks in his armor, but he has, with the help of others, come through the otherside.

now, as he sleeps—perhaps in his cabin or in a cabin of someone close to him, he begins to hear it. the rushing sound of it, like fire expanding, consuming, burning. the song in his veins is a house on fire within his ears, the sound of it so loud it threatens to wake him.

he tries and he tries and he tries, but something about this feels too real to believe it's a dream.

— and then, his eyes open. his breathing is heavy, his chest aches and, as his vision begins to focus, he realizes that he's not where he remembers. this place is different, perhaps familiar, perhaps not. his eyes widen and he looks around, revealing where he is.

                       WHERE DOES WINTER FIND HIMSELF?                        PLEASE DESCRIBE HIS SURROUNDINGS.

winter felt a sudden rush of heat. it was usually normal for him, he always ran hot. but this felt different. this felt strange. and as he felt the burn on his chest, the hairs on his arms rise, he immediately got up and saw that he wasn't back in his cabin, in the arms of his lover, harley. no, he was back in his old bedroom, the one in greenwich village where he had grown up. but something about this felt completely off. not because of the fire that was rapidly growing, but the fact that it was frozen in time somehow.

winter looked around to see everything that he remembered of the room. the fairy lights hanging by his window, posters of his favorite movies taped on the walls, frames with pictures with memories of his past all settled in the bedside table. the typewriter that his mom had given him when he was fifteen after showing interest in writing. the books of animals laying on his bed after getting so much interest in them after protesting for animals rights.

he hadn't been here in such a long time, not after he left for college, more like ran from it. it is as how he remembered it. but now engulfed in flames.

as keeps himself calm, grabbing the photo of him and his sister that was in his hand and then shoots straight towards the door so he could get out.

the room, which was once a safe haven for him, is burning. on fire. the acrid scent of smoke fills his nostrils and the edges of his room being to curl away like a burning photograph. the flames aren't red and orange though, they're a vibrant blue—hellfire.

as he grabs the photograph of himself and his sister, he jumps toward his door. as he reaches for it, though, the handle burns his hand. while fire doesn't usually hurt him, it sizzles against his skin.

                                            WHAT DOES HE DO?

the moment he touches the handle, ready to turn it, he feels the searing pain hit him. he noticed the knob was bright red, and without thinking he went for it, feeling like he would be okay, feeling like he could handle the fire. he was resistance to fire damage, so why wouldn't he have resistance to it now.

but irregardless, winter feels the burn and he's confused as to why it hurt him. as he watches his surrounding burn, he realizes that the flames are the shades of blue that he normally creates. did he start the fire? was he the cause of all this damage? no... it couldn't be. but it was HIS FIRE, the fire of the underworld, his hellfire.

if this was a dream, he wanted to wake up. fire was not something he feared, it was part of who he was now. but what he did fear was the lack of control, and entrapment, and as the smoke got heavier, filling the room and the lungs along with it, he could feel himself coughing more and more. winter covers his mouth with his shirt, lifting it up slightly as to not inhale too much of the smoke.

he needed to get out of there.

memories of that ONE DAY popping in. being trapped in that bus, trying to bust the emergency door open. and he looks at the door, and he musters all his strength to try and kick it open.

MAKE A STRENGTH CHECK

                                          STRENGTH ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 14

winter takes a step back and he kicks at the door. it takes a few tries, but eventually, the door swings open, revealing the rest of the house. as he leaves his burning bedroom, is the rest of the house on fire? is this even his actual home? where does he find himself when he leaves his burning bedroom?

winter was feeling anxious as he struggled with the door, but eventually after a few kicks it did the work. he started to make his way downstairs and something had shifted. he looks up the stairs, eyes watching as his bedroom was on fire, but something seemed so off. as he continues down the stairs, he turns and realizes that the place is no longer his home. the place looked like the common room of his floor at his old college dorms he stayed his freshman year.

" what kind of mind fuckery is this? " he questions, as he looks around. the place was continuing to catch fire. the same blue as upstairs. it had filled the place with it, dancing around, growing. and instead of trying to control it, winter looked for a way out.

MAKE A PERCEPTION CHECK.

                                              PERCEPTION ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 27

he remembers this layout as if he was just here. he turns on his feet, finding the nearest door that would lead outside and to safety. it's just down the hall.

smoke begins to pour out of his bedroom, filling the hallway, leaking out into the common room. it makes winter's eyes burn and...as he's moving toward the door, he sees a figure, clouded by the smoke. it takes a moment, but slowly, the figure begins to take shape and he can see it crystal clear.

                               WHO OR WHAT DOES WINTER SEE?                 DOES HE RECOGNIZE THIS PERSON OR THING?                                   HOW DOES IT MAKE HIM FEEL?

this place was a replica of where he went to college, the same dorm building, the same common room area. and as he looks over to the door that would lead him to the exit, he makes his way over, coughing some more. the smoke was becoming unbearable at this point, and as he heard the crackling of the fire burning away the memory of the place, he noticed something in the corner of his eye.

winter notices the figure. it's hard to make out at first, but he swears he's seen him before. his eyes. something about his eyes. so familiar, and yet, they haunted him. that's all it took for winter to remember who it was. and then he was back to where he was the day of the accident, where it all happened.

bridge, truck, those eyes, crash, explosion, crash, water.

as soon as he finds his way back, he grabs the handle to the door, trying to open it. he wanted to leave. he feels dread. he doesn't want to be in the same room as this man that appeared to him. the man that ruined so many people's lives, ruin his. the man that caused the accident that ultimately killed eight, technically nine. he turns back to the door, twisting the knob. he needed to get out.

               PLEASE DESCRIBE WHAT THIS MAN LOOKS LIKE.

as the door was hard to budge open, he looks to see the figure once more, seeing how far he was. the man is tall, body more on the thinner side, and fair skinned. his hair is black as the night. he looks like death itself. maybe from the hallowed cheeks. but not only that, the eyes that he so remembered, with gray hues–– they had no life in them.

winter always wondered why he had hit them. was he drunk, was he so tired, maybe he something in the man had snapped or maybe he was just dead inside all along that he wanted to end himself, winter didn't care. but as he keeps his eyes at him and sees everything he remembers, the reminder of that terrible day, he feels small, smaller than he has ever felt before. the denim jacket was too big on this man, pants hanging from the belt he was wearing, burn marks on certain parts of his body, but he wasn't on fire.

" this isn't real. "

the man stares at winter, hollowed out gray eyes looking like a mausoleum instead of a set of irises looking at the son of hades. he tilts his head to the side, smirk spreading over his features. he takes a step forward.

"aww, come on, don't be like that. didn't you miss me?" the man says, lips parting. it takes a moment for winter to pick up the words, the tone, the sound of his voice.

                         DOES THE VOICE BELONG TO THE MAN                                            OR IS IT SOMEONE ELSES?

winter doesn't recognize the voice. maybe it belonged to the man, maybe it didn't. he never got to hear it before, and as he spoke, winter felt a chill run down his spine. he didn't want to speak to him. he turns back, trying the door again. the last thing he wanted to do was to talk to a spirit of the man that ruined his life.

" get out–– get out! " he screamed.

the door opens and winter is able to move through the door. before he can close it, however, the man begins to follow. his hands are in the pockets of his jeans, his stride is casual, as if he's not afraid of winter out running him.

                                       WHAT DOES WINTER DO?

as winter finally got the door to open, he was ready to close the door behind. but he sees that the figure was closer than he had perceived. he almost trips as he starts to turn around so he where he was exactly. where there any exits nearby? more stairs. he tries to find another door to leave. or somewhere to hide.

MAKE A PERCEPTION CHECK.

as winter moves to the next area, he sees plenty of doors. it's like being back in college, the hallway has doors on both sides. some are opened, some are closed. as he keeps moving, keeps running, the man continues to stroll down the hallway after him.

"is that what you're made of? nothing but fear?" the man's voice carries down the hallway, bouncing off the walls, filling the space with ease. "what a shame."

off to his right, winter finds an emergency exit with stairs that lead down or up.

winter looks around. he was afraid yes, especially in situations like this. if this was real or not, it was all out of his control. with the fires erupting, the blue flames filling the rest of the room, he felt his fears come alive again. dying somewhere he couldn't free himself from.

he looked at where he burned his hand earlier and he doesn't even know if any of his abilities would work if he could feel the fire burn him. so when he finds the emergency exit, he followed the stairs down and away from the fire.

running, running, running. winter descends the stairs two at a time, going as quickly as he can. his chest is heaving, his lungs burning from the smoke and the exertion he's using to get away from the burning building.

it takes him mere moments before he's bursting out of a side door and out into the campus grounds. if, or when, he turns around, he watches as the building goes up in flames. then, the next thing that hits him, are the sounds of screams within that same burning building.

winter feels relief as he finally finds the exit door. he is free from that fire, but then the the screams came. winter turns around and looks back at the building. everything was up in flames. blue shone bright and glowed at his surrounding. all winter does is watch. he watches as the fire keeps burning, coming to the conclusion that it had to be his fire, his divine ability that did this. he shook his head. this was his fault. this was all his fault.

" no.... " he whispers to himself. but the screams got louder. the screams becoming unbearable. " this can't be.... this isn't real! " he screams. but the screams sounded too real. he couldn't let them suffer. no one should suffer because of him. and so he runs back towards the door, wanting to help them, wanting to save them.

as winter runs toward the burning building, there's a sweltering heat that bursts forward as an explosion of fire emits from every door and window of the building. it hits winter like a wave of force, enough to knock him back dozens of feet.

PLEASE MAKE A DEX SAVE DC 20.

                                              DEX SAVE ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 4

the force of the blast blows winter back, knocking him over and nearly singing him. if it wasn't for his fire resistance, he'd be charred to a crisp. he lands hard on his back, rolling, rolling, rolling.

he can feel the ground scraping into his skin as he lands; when he looks up, he sees the figure walking out of the burning building, unharmed. he just stares at winter, shaking his head. "why are you running, little godling?"

he feels each bit of pain that came with the blast. and when he finally stopped rolling, he sees the figure above him. winter feels that sense of dread again. looking up at his face, noticing more burn marks around him.

" what do you want from me? " he asked, finally acknowledging him.

the man stops, probably about thirty or so feet from winter. his hands are still in his pockets and, as the building behind him continues to burn, he doesn’t seem to have a care in the world.

”i want you to show me who you are. so far, i only know that you’re a coward.” he says the word with venom in his words, grinning as if antagonizing the son of hades.

winter glares at the figure. he wasn't a coward. he just hated this man so much for what he had done to him, to HER.

bridge, truck, eyes, crash, explosion, selena, hands, crash, water.

" well please, tell me what the hell is an appropriate reaction? " he questions. he groans as he tries to move back. " why the hell should i show you anything? you're dead. so stay dead.... " he states, his hands forming into fists now.

“interesting.” the man says, taking a few more steps closer. “if i’m truly dead, why are you so scared? why are you running away from me?”

" you know why.... " he said, starting to move back now. he could feel himself almost dragging his body away, enduring any pain he was getting from feeling the scrapes on his arms. seeing the face, seeing him, it was just another reminder of a nightmare, a nightmare where he couldn't wake up, a nightmare that the man always seemed to haunt. he was the reason those people were killed. he was the reason his sister was dead. the accident that took his sister's life, the accident that ended his own life before he was brought back. none of it should have happened, but it did. and he hated this man for it.

" do you like torturing me, is that it? couldn't kill me the first time so now you haunt me in your afterlife? "

“and yet you have the power to get rid of me and choose not to.” the man retorts, head tilting to the side a bit as he studies winter. “do you like remembering or is your survivor’s guilt the only thing about you that makes you who you are?”

" fuck you! " he says, trying to get up now. " i'm done feeling guilty about surviving. i'm done feeling small because of people like you, " winter struggles to get up, but he uses every bit of him to finally stands tall. he may be shorter than the man, but his heart was far from small.

" so i'm going to ask you one more time, what the HELL do you want from me? "

“i already told you.” the man says simply, standing there looking at winter. “so figure it out.”

winter was done playing this man's games. the screams didn't stop, and the fire was getting out of hand. he needed to do something, anything. he was the prince of the underworld. so winter finally taps in to his GODLING DOMAIN to try and control the blue flames that have painted the building.

MAKE A SPELLCASTING CHECK.

                                              SPELL ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 10

as he tries to control the fire of the building, he struggles. it’s like the fire within him, the fire that he’s controlled so many times before, is too much to handle, too wild and out of control. winter watches as it flickers and then begins to grow. the man just stares at winter as he tries to control the burning building. “hmmm. not quite. come on, you can do better than that.”

he doesn't stop. he focuses on the fire once more. he has done it plenty times before, and finding himself struggling now was so frustrating. he groans. he taps in his GODLING DOMAIN once more. if he couldn't do it now, what was he good for?

MAKE ANOTHER SPELL CASTING CHECK.

                                              SPELL ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 16

he focuses, the power surging through him. slowly, the flames begin to flicker, slowly dwindling down… but it’s still not enough. in his ears, he hears screams…and they sound familiar… ones he hasn’t heard except in his nightmares…

winter watched as the flames were beginning to dwindle down, but it wasn't enough. the fire was too strong, and the people in the building were screaming. the sounds familiar. but they were screams of people he had known now. his friends, his fellow demigods. he heard the screams of people he cared about. the ones he started to feel real connections with after spending more and more time with them. he heard alejandro, ronen, kieran, virgil, corey, dante, romeo, even jesse who he wasn't the biggest fan of and still it was awful hearing the screams. and then there was one he has spent so much time with since the start. harley's screams were so much worse.

he tried, with everything he could to try to manipulate and control the flames, but his energy wasn't enough. and those screams, the screams of his fellow demigods, were becoming too much for winter.

" no! " he said, running past the figure and going straight to the building. " please, no! " he said. " why are you failing me now, " he said looking at his hands. he hated this, he hated that he couldn't be fully in control with his powers. always failing him when he needed him the most.

she would have been better at this... he thought to himself.

MAKE A WISDOM SAVE.

                                              WISDOM ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 24

there's a sense of desperation in winter's tone as he looks at his hands. his powers have been something that he's relied on, something that's always been there. he surges passed the man and the man turns to watch him. his expression is blank, his eyes trained on the son of hades.

as winter gets closer to the flames, he feels something inside of him begin to lighten. perhaps he's feeling overwhelmed, perhaps he's still shell shocked being back here and seeing that man's face again. but as he gets closer, a path forces the flames to form an archway inside. he's able to get to the now burning doorway of the entrance.

"you think you're gonna survive that, kid? you don't have that many lives and i already took one." the man's voice whispers and it sounds like he's standing right beside winter. if he looks over his shoulder, though, he's still standing back where winter ran passed him.

winter wasn't going to let anyone else die. he was getting too comfortable with the dead, when really he should be out there with the living. he watches as the flames form an archway and winter runs through. hearing that eery voice, however, had placed a small doubt in him. he had died before and it wasn't like winter had nine lives. he looks over to see the figure, still standing where winter had left him. the burn marks only getting worse and worse on him.

" i might be afraid of the water, but fire is was keeps me going, " he said before turning back and running into the burning building. the last thing that winter wanted was for his friends to die. for those he was starting to develop true feelings for, real genuine feelings.

PLEASE MAKE A CON SAVE DC 20.

                                              CON SAVE ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 8

as he runs toward the burning building, he gets to the door and the fire flares up against him. he can feel this heat, he can feel it burning against him. a scream threatens to fall from his lips and he gives in. maybe out of frustration, pain or something else entirely. he's faced with a wall of fire, the very element that he says keeps him going, gives him power. the blue flames flicker and dance, as if losing control.

         WHAT DOES HE DO AS THE FLAMES GROW BOLDER?

winter doesn't give up. as much as it hurt, as much as the burn took over, he was not going to give up. no one would end up dying on his hands, not when he was capable of helping them, of saving them. he screams, the heat scorching his hands. but the pain was becoming too much.

i'm done running... i'm strong enough, i'm STRONG enough.

" dad, please help me, " he speaks out, as he tries to control the fire. he taps in once more to his GODLING DOMAIN. he wasn't going to give up, he wasn't going to let the people he cared about burn alive because of him. " please! " he cries, as he tries to take in all the fire. manipulate it, control it, take it all into himself if he had to.

MAKE A WISDOM SAVE. DC 20.

                                              WIS SAVE ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 13

as winter steps through the fiery entrance of the burning dorm building, he feels something wash over him. pain, more intense than he's felt before. it doesn't feel like he's on fire, though. no, it's the opposite. it feels like his lungs are filling with liquid. he can't breathe, he's...he's drowning. in the back of his mind, he thinks it to be true. he relives the event of his death, right before everything changed, and it bears down on his mind like a crushing wave.

                                           WHAT DOES HE DO?

it's all in his mind, but to winter it all felt too real. somewhere in his mind taking him back to the day of the accident.

bridge, truck, eyes, crash, explosion, selena, hands, crash, water, water, water.

so much water had filled his surroundings. he felt that familiar filling of the liquid. the feeling of losing air, and trying to find some way to fight it. but there was no way to fight this. the lack of air in the lungs was a feeling he feared the most. the burning of the chest, the feeling of unconsciousness coming. he looks around, feeling trapped again, feeling like at any moment he could die. but there was some fight in him. he swims over to the emergency exit. he needs to get out this this prison and swim up to the surface.

MAKE A WISDOM SAVE. DC 20.

                                              WIS SAVE ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 18

there's no water for him to swim. it's a feeling that encompasses him entirely, an overwhelming sense of dread that this is, once again, the end...

"you have so much within you, but you don't use it." the man's voice seems to float around him, no longer taunting, no longer holding any sort of emotion whatsoever.

"you fight when it's too late. you run, run, run. what good is going back now when everything is already scorched from the inside out?" as he stands in the doorway, nearly frozen in place, he watches as the walls peel back from the flames, wooden beams collapse from the damage, broken and burning.

"come on, winter sombra, son of hades." the voice whispers again. "show me who you are."

it's all tricks. he snapped back to reality. he wasn't in the bus anymore, he wasn't drowning. the fire was still so intense that he didn't know if he could truly control it. he feels like his last option is to face his demons. as he grasps for air, he tries to focus on his sister. the entire time, he had the photo of the two of them in his hand. never once letting go of it.

if she was here she'd get out of this mess. but she isn't here. he's all alone. he's felt so alone for a long time. but there were people back at the camp he had gotten close to, felt like he could depend on, and vice versa. he was tired of feeling like he can't do anything. so he feels that fire again burning inside. he then CONJURES HELLFIRE and focuses at the man. the man almost like a living corpse. all three flames aiming at his own demon.

MAKE ANOTHER WISDOM SAVE.

                                              WIS SAVE ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 10

the flames fly from winter's hands, aiming at the man. the hellfire slams against him, but it doesn't seem to do anything. then, faintly, another voice begins to whisper in his ear. this one is different than the one that belongs to the man. it whispers, "you can do this, winter. you just have to trust yourself. don't be afraid anymore. don't give up. stop being scared!"

                             DOES HE RECOGNIZE THIS VOICE?                                HOW DOES IT MAKE HIM FEEL?                                             WHAT DOES HE DO?

winter recognizes her voice immediately. he looks around to see where it's coming from. he uses GODLING DOMAIN to see if he could see her. if she is here, he needs her. he needs to know he's not alone. he needed to fight, he needed to get up, stand tall. he was done running. the figure was right when he said that all he ever does in his life was ever run. but he doesn't want to do it any longer. he was the prince of the underworld, child of one of the big three. people may consider him weak, he may often feel that way, but that didn't stop him from learning, fighting, and better himself.

he feels hope, and strength with hearing her sister's voice. and if she was there with him, it gave him the strength to keep fighting. a luchar as they would say. " i'm–– not–– giving–– up! " he musters.

MAKE A WISDOM SAVING THROW AT ADV.

                                              WIS SAVE ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 26

it's a feeling of freedom.

the feeling to stand on his own, to know that, even alone he's never truly alone. as he tries to see his sister, he pulls on the tethers of his godling domain. he wants to see her, he wants to talk to her. he nearly wills it into existence and, slowly, he watches as the figure of the man who ruined his life, who changed everything for winter sombra, shifts and changes.

now, standing before him, with the flames of the fire beginning to slowly dwinble behind him as if pulling on that much power forced the flames back down to tartarus, or within him, is his sister.

                                            WHAT DOES HE DO?

winter feels the sense of freedom. and as he looks at the figure, wanting to fight, wanting to pay bad for all that he had down, he was no longer there. as he watches the flames start to dwindle down, he stands up and he sees his her. his other half. winter always believe that soulmates existed, and she was his. his sister. selena.

he feels his heart swell. she looked older, like how'd she look now if she were alive. he walks towards her, arms wrapped around her now, embracing her. " sele, " he whispers, hard to even say her name. he wished she was here, alive. and it was so hard not being able to see her, now being able to talk to her. he sometimes wishes that it were him that had ended up dead instead of her. that whoever pulled him out would have pulled his sister instead. he had held that guilt for so long, but recently he let that weight off his shoulders.

" i miss you, hermana, " he whispers, feeling the tears falling.

this image of his sister stands before him now. she looks much the same as she did before, the same sister he'd had up until he didn't. she reaches a hand out to him, resting her fingertips atop his chest, where his heart still beats.

"i am with you always, winter." her voice is soft, barely above a whisper. "you know this. you feel it. stop denying yourself the happiness of life because mine was taken."

winter looks at her, tears staining his own shirt as they fall. hearing her voice, it has been so long since he heard her voice. it had been so long, seeing her like this. but she was right. he needed to stop denying himself the happiness of life. he needed to try and be open more, to friendships, to brotherly bonds, to love. he glanced at her and nodded. " i know i do. i promise i'm trying to be better about it, " he whispered.

winter looks at her, his sister. " i miss you so much, hermana, " he states. " i hope–– i hope wherever you are you are okay. " he says.

a warmth, like the fire inside of him, like the fire that burned the building down, begins to radiate beneath his sister’s fingertips, against his heart.

”you must. your power is only just beginning, but the more you run from it, and your emotions, the more you turn away and deny yourself.” she shakes her head. ”the more your burn yourself out, like a hollowed tree.”

she leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead. he can feel that same heat bloom across his forehead and as he smiles—

—he bolts awake, panting. wherever he’d been when he fell asleep, is where he is now. there’s no burning buildings, no screaming victims, no pain in his chest. the man that had ruined his life is gone, and while his sister is, too, there’s a piece of her always with him. he lays back down, feeling stronger, more in touch with who he is and the power within him. things will change from this point on, but perhaps winter feels like he’s ready for it.

perhaps, he’s looking forward to it.

                                             PATH COMPLETED !

[madhatterbri]

Cheater | J.P.

Summary: Ashley cheating on HOOK with Jack Perry.

Author's Note: 🤣🤣 All jokes with @99hook. Side note I do miss him though.

HOOK stared at the Tumblr post in confusion. His girlfriend, Ashley, made another silly post about him. One tag in particular caused him some confusion. She missed Jack Perry. The very guy that was suspended for starting some shit with CM Punk. Jack and Ashley had a past but he thought it was long over. He knew he had to see her that night. He booked the first flight to her city.

Ashley had been feeling neglected and unappreciated by HOOK. Their frequent arguments about him not having any time for her left her feeling lonely and unloved. One fateful evening, as Ashley was drowning her sorrows at her apartment, Jack Perry paid a visit.

Jack was still broken about being suspended. He was a wounded soul which drew Ashley in like a moth to a flame. She started to think about their past relationship. He was a contrast to Hook in every way. Where Hook was more devoted to the gym, Jack had always been devoted to her. They spent hours talking and laughing, and as the night wore on, they found themselves questioning why they ever broke up.

After a few more drinks they were kissing on her couch. Her fingers snaked in his curly hair. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't resist.

They didn't hear the key in the lock or the footsteps walking towards them. HOOK spoke her name. His voice breaking at what he was witnessing. Ashley tried to explain but HOOK didn't stick around to listen. Their relationship was broken beyond repair.

During the next few AEW tapings, Ashley and HOOK tried to remain professional. Hook threw himself into work and partying, while Ashley was left with the guilt and regret of her actions.

Months passed, and despite the pain, neither Ashley nor Hook attempted to reconcile. The damage was done, and the love they once shared was lost forever.

[opheliajupiter99]

MLP Broodmother Virus: Twilight Tape #1/Research Notes

(Got another burst of inspiration - and a special thanks to the 28 Pranks Later: Twilight's Transmissions Grimdark for inspiring me to do some voice acting! My Twilight impression is...not the best, but her voice isn't super complicated, so I think it'll go alright!)

Tape #1

Research Notes:

With assistance from Spike's flames, I've done my best to replicate a pony's body temperature, in hopes of getting the eggs within the infested fruit to grow.

After waiting a few hours, the eggs still showed no signs of growth. The eggs are clearly capable of remaining dormant, yet still fully fertile, for a long period of time. They also prove just as resistant to magic and the elements as the born Copycats.

On one hand, this means I can easily continue running tests...but on the other hand, this means things clearly aren't as simple as finding a warm and healthy host. That's a large part of it, sure, but if it was -just- that, these eggs would've started gestating.

I know one of the main symptoms is loss of sanity, and this...deep feeling of devotion. So perhaps the eggs won't grow unless it feels a -brain-? Not just warmth, or health, or food, but a fully functioning brain, so it can manipulate it. That and, with how much these creatures copy from us, it likely needs to sense DNA as well - living DNA I mean.

Whatever the case, I'll perform another experiment soon. Spike's been...alright, though stressed, like the rest of us. We've been sending letters to both Applejack and Rarity and have thus far not gotten any response. Their homes seem fine from the outside, and I did tell them to stay inside, so...I don't know.

But the princesses told me to stay here and focus, so that's what I'm going to do. I have no idea WHAT I'm going to do, but I'm going to do it. They've assured me they'll handle the infections in the other towns, just...need to buckle down and focus on Ponyville. Just...need to focus.

[just-horrible-things]

'Verse: Resistance Story: Unlikely Salvation, co-author @whump-sprite Timeline: Arc 2

Riot, pt2 [Prev | Next]

There are breaks from the noise. Whether that means anything’s changed, or it’s just that even the cops have gotten sick of the continuous wailing and turned their sirens off, it’s hard to know.

It’s a welcome reprieve, regardless. 

The news focuses on the police response, and sometimes on the damages. Once a shot of a witch or warlock throwing fire – followed by the familiar rhetoric. Lawless, reckless, dangerous magic users, out to harm anyone who crosses their path.

Ariadne understands why the focus is what it is, what the objectives are. But the lack of actual information is deeply frustrating.

The acts of vandalism are spreading. Anger is catching like a flame, drawing more and more people into the streets. Anger at landlords, at big business, at everyone who has enough. Warlocks angry at regular folk, the poor angry at the rich, young people angry at everyone and everything.

Somewhere, most likely, a mob is forming. When the numbers in the street hit a critical threshold, more people start to pour out from the cracks to join them, drawn in by the allure of a large enough group to feel invincible.

They don’t show that on the news. It would be counterproductive.

They do show a police line, which implies a crowd – or the threat of one. But it’s a tidy, by-the-books line without a rioter in sight, almost certainly drawn up specifically for the cameras. No one’s yet thrown paint at them.

Ariadne makes eggs for lunch, and spends a while contemplating the contents of the cupboards. They have cans that they almost never use, bought on the vague gut feeling that a kitchen should have cans. It’s unlikely they’ll be stuck inside for days, but she still wishes she’d paid more attention when mom used to stretch the food out to make it last.

She works out again, because there isn’t much else to do indoors. Then, driven by boredom, she fixes up the torn hem on that one pair of pants, and a t-shirt with a seam that’s coming undone, even though the only thread she has is black.

Alex watches her with something like fascination, but he doesn’t comment.

There’s another gunshot in the middle of the afternoon. Just one. Alex and Ariadne are silent and still for long minutes listening for more.

Ari checks the news again, but apparently the weather segment is higher priority than the ongoing situation. She leaves it playing, and returns from the bathroom to find Alex scowling at the newsreader’s plastic smile.

“Have they used the r-word yet?” He shakes his head. “No surprise.” They hate admitting that anything is out of control.

It gets worse as evening draws in – or nearer, which is functionally the same from their limited perspective. Sirens again, and beneath them through the cracked-open windows the noise of the crowd, the swell of raised voices, shouting, chanting.

Ari closes the windows, and pushes down the irrational urge to tape over the cracks. It’s unlikely to keep any more noise out anyway. Alex watches, and winces a little at how hard she slams the sash closed.

“This is why I didn’t want to live here,” she grouches, unwisely. “Because of too many warlocks?” Alex snaps back with surprising vehemence. “No. Because of the violence.” “Because warlocks are violent.” “It’s not just warlocks –” she exhales sharply in frustration, and Alex’s tiny flinch makes her wince too. “All I mean is, I’m thinking about our safety. I just want us to be safe.”

“We can’t afford to be safe. Just like they can’t.” A gesture at the TV, currently off. “Yes we can,” Ari insists. “There are quieter neighborhoods.” I grew up poor, she almost says, but she bites it back. She probably had more than Alex did.

Alex glowers at the closed window. “I should be out there,” he says. Ariadne blinks at him. “What, rioting?” “No.” A flat look. “Helping injured people.” “Alex, no.”

If there’s something of a challenge in his stare, it’s a little wide-eyed too. Guilt rises like bile in the back of Ariadne’s throat.

“Haven’t you given enough?” she asks. “Don’t risk getting caught by the cops.” She feels like an asshole for saying it, because she knows before the words are out it will make him wince like that. Her tone turns pleading. “Let’s just stay inside and be safe. I’m sorry I said the wrong things, again. I’m sorry. Can we just try to stay safe?”

There are more raised voices in the street. Not fighting, not here. Not yet. Just calling one to another, back and forth – but with an electric, slightly wild energy. Are they on their way to break something? To look for the mob?

“Okay,” Alex says, voice small and defeated. “I’m sorry,” Ari repeats. “I won’t say any more stupid shit. Let’s put a movie on?” “Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay, let’s do that.”

Ari has a couple of packs of popcorn in the back of a cupboard. The price is ridiculous for the scant handful of calories, but sometimes you need a treat. She lets Alex pick a film while she watches the paper bag inflate in the microwave. When it’s done, she tips it into a bowl.

Alex accepts her offering with a quiet “thank you”. And when she settles at the other end of the sofa, he says “c’mere?”

She scoots over, and he puts an arm over her shoulders and pulls her in in an almost possessive gesture. 

It’s all kinds of fucked up, but some of the tension in her eases just from the physical contact. They’re still okay. This still works.

He’s picked an action movie, and the soundtrack masks the noise from outside, and Ari doesn’t quite forget but for a while she can put it to the back of her mind.

Alex invites himself into her bed that night. He’s welcome. His arm across her ribs and the weight of his head on her shoulder force her not to toss and turn, but she doesn’t sleep. The rioters quiet down in the small hours, but she keeps thinking she still hears their voices, just on the edge of perception.

She isn’t sure how much Alex sleeps either, but it’s more than she does. He twitches with dreams, on and off, and once wakes with a start, grip tightening around Ari’s ribcage.

He lifts his head in the dark, and asks, “Ari?” “Yeah,” she answers, soft as she can manage. “It’s me.” Sorry. A pause. “Not interrogator?” “No, just Ari.”

Gradually, hesitantly, he settles back onto her shoulder.

“I can go, if you want,” she offers. His bed is vacant. Or she could find something better to do than fail to sleep. “No,” he says, “stay.”

Morning brings no respite. Ari almost throws the remote at the TV in frustration. 

She looks round to see Alex staring.

She puts the remote down carefully, inhales slowly, and forces her shoulders to relax. He looks away, but she sees his hands go to the edge of his sweater to fidget at the hems. Irritation and guilt itch across her skin.

She can control herself. She has to. She has no right to be annoyed.

He doesn’t join her in exercise this time. So Ari does angry push-ups until her wrists hurt too bad to carry on. When she showers she sets the water as cold as it will go. 

A neighbour knocks on their door to ask if they’re going out. She has a duffel bag over her shoulder, a ski scarf round her neck ready to pull up over her face, and a pair of heavy duty goggles on her forehead. She has enough goggles to spare, she says.

Alex looks tempted. Ari says no firmly and closes the door in the woman’s face.

“Idiot,” she grumbles. “What if we reported her?” “Are you going to?” “Fuck no. We don’t –” We don’t want any contact with the cops. “I don’t – want to do that kind of thing anymore.”

Sirens roll past, loud enough to be in their street. Ari laces her fingers together and squeezes until the bones threaten to snap, because otherwise she’s going to punch a wall. And that really might break something.

Somewhere in the distance, the mob is singing in that godawful, bone-thrumming way that crowds do, where everyone is out of tune but the melody still somehow rises like a spectre from the averaging of their mistakes.

She longs for a treadmill.

“Are you… okay?” Alex asks, with the wary edge that suggests he might half-want to append a sir. “Yeah.” “Your wrists…” She looks. They’re a little swollen. She hadn’t noticed. “May I?” “No.” It comes out too short. “I mean – save it. I’m okay.”

He retreats to the kitchen, looking hurt.

They have canned soup for lunch. It’s not bad, but Ari isn’t tasting it.

“I’m sorry,” she tells Alex. “I’m sorry I’m on edge. I’m not mad at you.” “It’s fine,” he says, but she doesn’t believe him.

And then the rattle of automatic gunfire has them both leaping out of their seats.

It’s over in a second or less, but the screaming lasts longer. They stand, wild-eyed and frozen, until it ebbs out of earshot again.

Less than a km. But not so close as their own street.

“I-I have to,” Alex says, breathless, just as Ari starts to move again. “Alex, no.” He shakes his head, backing away from her. “Don’t tell me no,” he says, and turns, and almost runs toward the door.

“Alex! Wait! Wait for me, I’ll come with you, wait – we’ll stick together, I’ll bring the first aid kit.”

He hesitates just long enough to look at her, and whatever that is in his eyes, it makes the risk they’re about to take worth it. 

He nods just once, and then they’re both in motion.

Guns, one each, in the hastily-buckled concealed holsters she insisted they splash out on rather than tuck pistols into waistbands. Alex ties a scarf round his face like he’s done it a thousand times, and tosses another to Ariadne. She grabs the first aid kit, and he only needs to bring himself.

She’s first out the door, wishing for the neighbour’s goggles as it closes behind them.

[Next]

[blueringbeetle]

Loving comes easily to me and I’m honestly seething with rage that it is a piece of me that was almost completely killed. I know I would’ve gone with it.

I love picking flowers and taping them into my sketchbook, I love drawing things I’ll never think about again purely because I love the act of drawing, I love creating things that become massive projects and things that never pass the stage of notes in the borders, I love my dogs, I love it when they annoy the shit out of me because it means they’re here. I love clear skies and rainy ones. I love watching movies. I love going swimming. I love doing a good job and doing a bad job. I love doing a middle-of-the-road job. I love starting, I love ending. I love day dreaming. I love music. I love eating from the pan before the meal is even finished because I love what I’m cooking so much, it all ends up in the same place anyway. I love failing. Miserably, even. So horribly it feels like I’ll never recover but I always do. I let myself feel that feeling till it passes because all things do pass eventually. I love how I feel grief and I love how I feel hope.

My spark, the thing that keeps you warm when nothing else does, it was dead for I don’t know how long and now that I’m gently bringing it back to life I am genuinely awestruck that I survived how long I did completely without it. The inertia and muscle memory could only take me so far and I’m glad I collapsed into a heap when I did.

I think the scariest part was that it came so slowly and carefully that by the time I realised where I was, it felt so close to the end I didn’t know what to do. I think smothered is close to the right word, like my innate brightness could only be met with ‘why are you doing that? You shouldn’t do that?’ I’m only sort of beginning to understand what happened, it was slow, nit picky, and near disgust. A quiet ‘oh’ and then I made myself smaller. It was a cutting and minimising act pretending to be refinement and discernment.

I seethe. And I seethe and I seethe and I seethe. It’s a kind of seething that builds and erupts into laughter because I can’t believe how stupid it all is at the end of the day. I’m allowed to play my favourite songs and dance in the kitchen, more than that, I should play my favourite songs and dance in the kitchen. Each time I scrape together the energy to do something purely for fun I am rewarded tenfold with the energy to do it again and something else too.

If someone sees me dancing or laughing, or picking flowers, or being joyful, digging out happiness from between the cracks in the pavement and enjoying my limited time here, and their first act is to point, scoff, sneer, and say ‘wrong.’ I will burn them to the ground with how much I love being myself. I don’t want people who enjoy picking at the happiness of others like a scab to find me easy to be around.

It’s not been easy to recover. It hurts to pick myself up when I am an engine with no fuel but I’m lucky and have people around me who know how to fan my flames. That’s what makes it so easy, even when it’s not easy, is if you have people who know how help works for you. Luck is part of it too, a good breeze can carry you far, and I’ve learnt that to get a good breeze you need to be in places where there is wind. So I dragged myself, at times kicking and screaming, into the tree tops and valleys and I let preparation meet opportunity.

I’m relearning to trust myself. Not in a blind way, importantly. In the way that when I feel internal resistance and terror I’m able to hold myself and move in the direction that I know in my heart and mind is the right direction. Failure and success are both big changes and I need about the same level of self care to deal with either.

I am a warm person because I seek joy like I’m starving and now I find it everywhere. I am hard to kill because all things give me life. I will never let someone leer down at me and my uncomplicated contentment and scoff at me for it. Never again. My sketchbook is full of flowers, my belly is full of food, my heart is full of love and anger and grief. I am alive and learning how to be. All I am is a human, and my god, what a thing that is to be.

[dorn-queen-of-thorns]

"The power in me"

Arriving with obstacle

13. Chapter

A young girl sits alone in the prison cell blindfolded, both hands with heavy steel chains and additionally fingers and wrists encased in heavy steel. In addition, she has her eyes blindfolded without resistance. Her father's coat is taken from her as evidence. proof of what?

She understands the reason for the precautionary measures, but not the background of the cloak.

Karin has warned her earlier and asked her to throw the coat away. Sarada didn't understand it until the incident in the desert. She defiantly refused. She could never have thrown away a memento from Papa. If she has only heeded Karin's warning, she might not be in this position. Stupid girl!, she scolds herself.

Now they are separated and on top of that she is in a prison cell.

Well she's an Uchiha and it's no wonder this treatment, she's often felt the disgusted sight of local residents in Konoha. Unfortunately, she already knew the feeling of being disgusted behind a false friendly facade all too often.

Now this is not Konoha, but Sunagakure as she recognized from the international shinobi tapes when a chaotic incident ensued.

Fragments of memories appear in front of her about what happened three days ago. Sarada tried to protect her last family, albeit not by blood, in the ominous chaos of the new age. It reminds her of the time in Kirigakure when she admitted her connection to Boruto. Why aren't blood relatives closer to her than her own father, who left her alone?

Is she still alive? She is not sure. The last thing she remembers is Karin lying unconscious beneath her while she was still on her hands and knees desperately trying to protect Karin.

Four unfamiliar dolls with an unfamiliar sign on their backs; it looked like a crescent moon with a dot. Despite their old and already broken appearance, they were dangerous and persistent. Were they war dolls from Suna?

No, she doesn't think so. Hell, all she wants is to protect Karin. I'm good for nothing, are her thoughts.

It all happened so quickly: she would attack her opponents, but they would always disappear before she could land a hit. Sarada realized that she could not achieve anything and her hope left her when the next moment she found herself in a strange room with these dolls. This place was cold and disturbing. It was both bad luck and a blessing that Karin wasn't there.

Disappear! Leave us alone! Papa? Why aren't you with me? she wondered desperately. Mama …

It all happened so fast... Her eyes hurt so much and all she saw was those dolls erupting into black flames. She had seen those flames before. Her father could use this destructive power. She looked for him hopefully. "Dad?" she called in, but all she saw again was that a stranger stood protectively in front of her and Karin.

Someone foolishly underestimated her and in her delusion. They tried to overwhelm her, who had paid for trying to have control over her and putting their own people at risk.

"Wait Caleb!" (that must have been the name of this shinobi), she heard a familiar female voice calling the shinobi. But it was already too late for the young shinobi, by all appearances an underexperienced young chunnin, who was being overwhelmed before her eyes.

All Sarada wanted is to protect Karin. Besides her, who else has an important bond with her? She has already lost almost everyone in her young life:

Her father, who seems to have lost interest in her and has nothing more than a few lines for her. Her mother, who disappeared without a trace from the new world without a word, without an explanation. Her team, which is broken, starting with her self-chosen brother, who has changed drastically as she painfully realized a few months ago. Her best friend and adviser who let her go without a word of goodbye.

And kawaki? In the end, it's just a memory of a teammate she's known too briefly, from whom she would have liked to learn more and is now only part of her assignment. To protect him. If he dies, her world will have to die in which all life. Well, now she can't really care if none of her family and friends aren't there for her anymore? What's the point of fighting? Then she remembers Karin, who collapsed, deprived of her strength, and touched her belly in panic. Sarada immediately understood what this must mean when they were attacked by Sunagakure and what appeared to be Sunagakure's puppets in Sandstorm and Chaos. If not for her own sake, she must save the home of the lost children of this world.

In the end, exhausted and unconscious, she must have collapsed when it was all over and now she's back in that predicament.

She hears footsteps approaching. There must be three people... A numeric code is entered on a keypad and the door opens.

One of the people approaches her exactly on the opposite. She is uncomfortable with someone stranger getting so close to her.

"We've been expecting you, Sarada Uchiha. Daughter of Sasuke's Uchiha and Sakura Uchiha, formerly Haruno. We didn't expect you to cause so much trouble and chaos when you arrived though. We only knew something like that from Boruto until now! The son of the 7th Hokage,” says a calm, admonishing voice.

It's the voice of the Kazekage! , Sarada states calmly.

"Wait Gaara! Be careful!” warns a familiar female voice.

Aunt Temari! how much she missed well-known people. Then Shikadai must be here too!

Hope grows in Sarada to be able to see an old friend again or at least to receive a visit in this cell.

"Don't worry, dear sister. We all know now , following Tsunade's investigation, that Sarada was only trying to protect her companion, who carries a child. We all knew we were dealing with an Uchiha and took that risk," explains the Kazekage. Then he turns back to Sarada.

"I place great trust in you now, Sarada. Will you betray us and attack or will you behave cooperatively?", the Kazekage asks her carefully, "if you should resist. I warn you . Next to me are also my big sister, who you already know, and my big brother. All three of us fought your father and are not afraid of you..."

Sarada lifts her face in irritation, what does she have to hear? It sounds to her like her father is a monster.

She can only guess that the precautionary measures must be related to previous events. She remembers Gaara's comment about Karin's condition. She still has it? she notes in shock. Why did she expose herself to this danger?

Sarada hopes to see Karin again soon.

" Please! I will do whatever you ask dear Kazekage! I just want to see Aunt Karin again,” she pleads.

From a distance are hurrying, no! Running footsteps coming towards the small group. Surprised, Temari, Gaara and another strange Jonin look in the direction. Sarada tilts her face in that direction.

A young, heavily and strong built girl of Sarada's age, with tanned skin, fiery red wild hair, and golden eyes, looks excitedly through the armored glass of Sarada's cell. With both hands she supports herself in front of the cell and her face is so close that the glass fogs up from her breath,

"Sarada? Are you that? It's me, Chocho!” she exclaims excitedly.

Surprised and joyful to see a true friend again; to hear in her case; gives Sarada new courage, " Chocho?! I'm so glad you're still alive"

Her joy knows no bounds and she almost has to cry. Her emotions take on a life of their own and a deep reassurance and hope germinates within her; the first time in months.

On the one hand, Karin and apparently her unborn have survived everything, on the other hand, her best friend is probably up. Chocho and Sarada have never really been apart for long and she sincerely hopes that she will be released soon.

" Chocho! What are you doing here? Didn't I forbid you to come here?!” an angry Temari shouts.

Sarada hears a clear bitterness in Shikadai's mother's words. Why is she like this?

"My god, Temari! Now come down. It's not like anyone got hurt. On the contrary: Sarada helped us to destroy the last puppets of the Ootsutsuki clan,” a new voice interjects. Sarada remembers that it must be the voice of Lord Kazekage's second brother, Kankuro. The three true siblings of Sunagakure who once formed an alliance with Konoha and both regions have worked closely together ever since.

"How did the girl get in here anyway?" Gaara asks calmly and observes the restless scenery.

"Shinki helped me with that," she says innocently, answering Gaara's question. His foster son and future successor has found a friend in Chocho and shows disobedience when it comes to this girl.

Of course ! , the Kazekage thinks and turns back to the argument between his siblings.

"Have you forgotten that her clan has always been a threat?" Temari asks angrily while arguing with Kankuro, "I don't trust this... situation in any way!"

Sarada assumes that Shikadai's mother must have been trying to find the right words. And shit, what new things does she have to learn? A whole clan that she and her father belong to??? In addition, her family must have represented a danger.

Sarada is so shocked and disappointed at having to hear everything. What's more, she doesn't have to find out all this from her father.

It's like the whole world is conspiring against her. It hurts so bad. That pain is back, which has been tormenting her for weeks and months and has become a constant companion. Having to go through everything alone. She feels her eyes starting to burn.

She remembers the pain a few days and months ago? A brief memory fragment reappears. That pain... She wanted to protect someone... Her glasses shattered, followed by a shattering pain and then everything went black for a very brief moment... Sarada brings her chained hands to her forehead, trying to mimic the Uchiha's farewell. A kind of declaration of love and deep connection to people who are very close to you.

Sarada is wondering if she's ever passed that greeting on to anyone in particular other than her father? Yes, she had given Boruto something similar before, but more like flicking away a morsel of guild, with thumb and forefinger and with more power. With her learned chakra control on the battlefield, she could have done considerable damage to Boruto, which of course she didn't.

No, the Uchiha's farewell is more tender and careful. With index and middle fingers. Like giving a kiss someone's forehead to say goodbye.

Was her father there when she had her accident, or maybe her mother? It must have been one of those two, right?

Damned! I want answers! Why did you all leave me alone?

Father! Mummy! Boruto and Mitsuki! And damn Kawaki too!

As the pain in her eyes takes hold of her, Chocho's angry voice speaks up: "Never would Sarada harm us! I've known her since I was little. We grew up together. She is polite and friendly to everyone. She stands up for the children and the old ones and is not afraid to welcome strangers to Konoha. After all, she wants to become the future Hokage!” Chocho screams the last sentence angrily and finds it unfair how her best friend is being talked about.

A Hokage of ruin and decay, Sarada thinks morbidly. Great!

Sarada realizes through Chocho's interference that the pain in her eyes is easing again. She thanks her friend from the bottom of her heart for Chocho relieving her of these dark thoughts, albeit briefly.

" Chocho seems to have great faith in you and believes in you and evidence on the last battlefield has shown us that you were on our side. I will now free you from your chains and remove your blindfold. Finally, the venerable 5th Hokage awaits you. And in chains you will not be able to continue your future education. But be sure. My sister Temari will stay close to you and watch you”, Gaara explains to her.

Sarada hears the heavy chains being removed from her. Her skin and nails are dry and cracked. Finally, the blindfold is removed from her.

The sight of the emaciated Uchiha girl makes Temari gasp. Her face no longer shows the happiness of the girl who was once so ambitious.

A dark socket with a very dark grey, almost black eye looks bitterly into the world that has been destroyed for them. The other eye area is covered by a shaggy head of hair. It's like a dark spirit has risen and Temari gasps in shock. She has to remind herself that this innocent girl cannot help her origins and comes from a family of warmongers and mass murderers.

Her cheeks are sunken and her lips are dry and cracked. Sarada has grown a little, her stature slim and gaunt. Who knows how long she and her companion had been wandering around the desert of Sunagakure. The climate here is drier and hotter than in Konoha.

"What is it?" asks the girl who seems to have aged by years.

Temari just shakes her head as if to dismiss an uncomfortable memory. , " Oh nothing. Don't worry! Just come with me first!”, and Sarada is led out of the high-security cell.

An exuberant Chocho greets her and throws herself into her arms, "Sarada!" She hears her sob her name and it's the first time she's had a friend and mate around in months.

Sarada is crushed by Chocho's power and her bones ache at the loving gesture.

"I thought all my friends had died..." Sarada hears Chocho cry.

Shikadai and Inojin too? Sarada realizes sadly. But her tears dry up... She just looks exhausted and tired that she was among the few who survived the catastrophe.

Sarada realizes why Aunt Temari was so dismissive of her. Losing her son is a hard blow for any mother, and Shikadai was her only child by Sensei Shikamaru. And Shikamaru? Probably buried under the ruins of Konoha too, otherwise he would be here and not Aunt Temari.

" Aunt... I'm sorry for your losses! I didn't mean to…”, Sarada doesn't find the right words.

"It's okay, Sarada! Let's not talk about this any further,” the Sunagakure Jonin has resumed her cool personality and looks absent-minded.

The small group is escorted out of the high-security wing for serious criminals. A guilty-looking Shinki is waiting for them outside.

"Dear Kazekage! It's my fault that Shinki asked the jonin to let me in to visit Sarada. It's not his fault!” Chocho tries to apologize for her boyfriend.

"Well, Shinki needs to learn to take responsibility. That he brought you to this potentially dangerous place shows me how immature he is. For the time being, no missions will be given to either of you and you are both immediately under arrest with Sarada!” Gaara says sternly to the adolescents who are growing up.

"But!" Chocho tries to contradict.

"Enough!" the Kazekage raises his voice.

Sarada watches the couple exchange glances, Shinki's cheeks clearly flushed. This observation could be interesting for Sarada and she decides to find out something new about the two in her free time and notices how an old part of her is back after a long time.

"At least we can pass the time with your girlfriend," Shinki tries to cheer up a sad chocho.

"Where are we going?" asks Sarada.

"We'll take you to Lady Tsunade," Gaara answers calmly and, together with his siblings, accompanies the young people through Sunagakure, which has now grown into a big city. Sunagakure has taken advantage of the mountains that surround Sunagakure. Since the climate is very hot here and living space in the desert is very limited, living space has been created directly in the mountain rock with the help of technology from Konoha.

Ever since the 7th was a child her age, Konoha and Sunagakure have maintained a close, friendly alliance. Thanks to the 7th and the Kazekage.

Sarada casts an interested glance at the mountains, beads of sweat beading her face.

"The rock is a natural air conditioning system against the immense heat here," Shinki explains to her, "you will move into a small accommodation with your companion."

"I will see Aunt Karin again?" Sarada asks happily.

" Yes. She too will have to undergo an interview, as will you once her physical exam is over. She's been unconscious the whole time and we hope she's woken up now,” Temari explains soberly.

"Why do you have to ask Karin? She’s didn’t do anything bad! If I locked myself up for her, I would understand, but not Aunt Karin!” Sarada objects.

Temari turns to her in a flash, " Sarada! It is enough! We have our reasons for doing this!”

Startled, Sarada looks at Temari and notices a coldness about her that she didn't know about her.

"Sarada, don't be angry with my sister for her tone. It's just...", the Kazekage has to think for a moment, "complicated memories caught up with us when we and your companion met you." He remembers the red-haired young woman who, together with Sasuke's troupe, had the Kage meeting at that time, before the 4th Ninja World War, and had infiltrated. Sarada's father was able to wreak vengance to Danzo Shimura . He doesn't take offense at Temari's skepticism about the red-haired woman.

Sarada gets the uneasy feeling that a lot of bad things must have happened in the past and that her father and aunt Karin were a part of it.

The Kazekage takes the group through the central and oldest district, which also features the largest and most impressive marketplace Sarada has ever seen. People in wide, light robes walk around busy.

"In Konoha, there aren't such big markets. You have to understand that our social life has always been here most of the time. Konoha's markets cannot compete with ours. Many markets in Konoha have been converted into small supermarkets. We don't have that here. We'll be there soon too. We only have to cross our bazaar and then we are at the whereabouts of the 5th Hokage," explains Gaara, "by the way, you can get everything you need here. Prepare to be here with us for a longer period of time. The 5th told me that your education needs time."

This reminds Sarada of uncomfortable hours of medical chakra control. Half a year ago she was sitting with Mitsuki in front of her burnt fish, which she considered to be an exercise in resuscitation. At that time, the world was fine for her and everyone else. Melancholy rises in her and looks towards Konoha.

"Everything okay?", Chocho addresses her from the side.

"It's nothing," Sarada answers more to herself. Before Chocho can say anything more, both are interrupted by the Kaazekage.

"We've arrived," he says.

The group stands in front of a large building that combines old and modern architecture. A large sign reads "Sunagakure Central Hospital".

Sarada looks visibly surprised. Sarada swallows at the thought.

Gaara correctly interprets Sarada's concern: "Don't worry! Your aunt is in the best of hands in her condition. The 5th takes care of her. Come on let's go in", Gaara cheers her up. He turns to the others, "Kankuro, please bring Shinki and Chocho to their quarters. Temari, please wait in front of the hospital.”

The siblings say goodbye briefly, then Gaara leads her through the hospital to the gynecology department.

"You must know Sarada. Among the shinobi you accidentally attacked was Lady Tsunade's niece Shizune."

Shocked, Sarada turns to him. But the young man can calm her down immediately, "You only stunned a chunnin with your genjutsu and his mission has changed from a normal B-mission: Your safe escort to an S-rank mission. After 4 remaining Ootsuki dolls attacked both of you. They had assumed Boruto had destroyed everyone on his last visit. We've been taught better."

More and more uncomfortable information comes to light for Sarada.

"Why didn't he tell me about it?" she asks the Kazekage. How close were we really? she thinks, not liking the possible answer.

Gaara thinks for a moment: "Maybe he wanted to protect you and his loved ones and not worry you further."

Sarada ponders the Kazekagen's comment and hopes that's the case.

Both walk past several corridors. The fluorescent light of the neon tubes is reflected on the ceiling and walls. A typical hospital. When Sarada and Gaara reach the last room in the gynecology department, they stop in front of a locked door.

Sarada knows this area all too well and remembers earlier times. At any moment, Sarada thinks she will see Sakura again and she will hug her and say that she is glad that her mother is okay.

Reality is catching up again. From outside, the 5th can be heard ranting, "She is my patient and I will determine when my patient is stable enough for questioning. AND NOW GET OUT!!! You're contaminating the patient's room with your dusty clothes!"

Gaara knocks politely on the door. A loud "COME IN!!!" greets the two, and two high-ranking and experienced Jonin storm out of the room, as if a teacher has rung two disobedient students.

" Ready?" Gaara asks her encouragingly. Sarada nods silently.

The door opens slowly. You can see the 5th and Karin. Sarada has finally arrived in Sunagakure along with Karin after an arduous journey.

[crystallinecardinal]

Hypothermic

There was a time before everything went wrong, back before the Unknowing, where Martin felt the gentle warmth of flame inside him. Nowadays, he wasn’t quite sure if it was still there or not. You get used to your own temperature after a while.

—

Or, in which Martin Blackwood gets tied too heavily to the Lonely, and his body temperature abnormally drops.

AO3 link:

Pairing: Jonathan “Jon” Sims/Martin Blackwood

There was a time before everything went wrong, back before the Unknowing, where Martin felt the gentle warmth of flame inside him. Nowadays, he wasn’t quite sure if it was still there or not. You get used to your own temperature after a while.

Now, he sits in the new office he’s been given, secluded away from anyone in the Archives. It makes his job a bit easier, he’ll admit. It isn’t like anyone comes in and out of his workspace anymore. At least, no one other than the new Head of the Institute. Even then, though, that’s tentative. He only ever really shows up if he needs to tell his assistant something. Luckily, he isn’t here now, so Martin continues to type away at his keyboard as a cup of tea rests on the tabletop.

The work is simple, monotonous. It’s the closest to infinite boredom Martin gets, but at least it’s something to do. Half the time, he doesn’t even realize how deep he’s gotten into the same thing over and over again, to the point everything is a haze, even with the ginger locks of hair that fall over his eyes momentarily obstructing his vision.

Such is the same today, just the same routine. Although, something decides to intrude on his space. A click cuts through the empty air, and Martin momentarily stops his typing.

“Oh, hello,” he greets the sound. He doesn’t need to do much to know what it is, he recognizes the hiss, he wouldn’t ever be able to erase it from his mind. Still, he glances over to a clearer part of his desk, and lo and behold, there’s a tape recorder, already running without anyone ever touching it. They always show up at times like this, and, quite honestly, Martin’s given up trying to resist them.

“There isn’t much to hear right now, I’m afraid,” he rambles off to the tape, before focusing his gaze back on the screen in front of him. “I mean, unless you want to hear just work, but that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

He types out a few more words before he stops again, and picks up the tape recorder. “..Fine. I don’t have a statement on hand, there isn’t really a reason for you to be listening.”

The tape stubbornly continues to run in Martin’s grasp, spooling away. Of course, he muses, it isn’t going to stop that easily. “Okay,” he mutters, half sighing. If only it could be easy to get rid of this thing. Stopping the recorder won’t do anything, though, and he doesn’t think he wants to check the batteries.

So, the old fashioned way it is, then. Martin glances around, and listens to his surroundings. All he hears is the ticking of a clock, and the hiss of the demanding tape. Testing the waters, he calls for Peter, but there’s no sound of familiar static marking his arrival. Still, Martin is alone, the slow tick tick tick filling the room starting to lodge itself in his mind.

“Of course,” Martin remarks, unamused. “You know, I’m not sure why I try at this point, it’s not like anyone’s coming. No one really talks to me anymore in the first place, so I doubt there even would be anyone on their way. I guess that’s my fault, though, isn’t it?”

He laughs, hollowly. “It’s weird. I suddenly get wrapped up in this mess, and can barely find the effort to care. I probably should care about that part, I just—“ Martin sighs, holding his face in his hands. There isn’t a spike of warmth with the first second of contact, just the pressure that comes with the motion. “It’s complicated.”

The tape continues to run, the air hanging empty of any response, any little click to tell him he can get back to what he was doing. Martin glances up at the little object in his hands, and purses his lips. Right. You can’t leave an audience hanging. “You still want more, don’t you? Fine. I’ll say more, but we’re making a deal. I’m not giving you to Jon, or Peter, or anyone. I know it’s probably not a good idea at all, but I’m going to keep you right with me. I really don’t want to have to risk anyone hearing, especially Peter. If he found you—“ He pauses, cutting himself off. “Actually, on second thought, I don’t want to imagine that.”

He does, still, imagine it: the passive aggressive lecture that comes with telling him ‘you’re doing it again, caring too much.’ It isn’t like he wants to. He’d gotten into the habit of it over his life, people-pleasing and thinking far too much about things like these. Even if it’s still there, at least the distance is helping a little. It feels safe, and he’s getting used to it.

“..Anyway,” he begins again, forcing himself out of his internal monologue, “I should probably say something. Just talk, and all. Lay out my thoughts I’ve been having, I guess.”

It’s probably the most he can do, he surmises. As said, still, there’s no one here, and maybe it’ll serve as a good log of things. Or, maybe, he’ll just destroy the tape later. Destroying it sounds good. Even so, he’s starting to understand why Jon used to talk to these things so much. “It’s not like you’ll judge me,” he says, “so I should probably just start from the beginning, shouldn’t I?”

“Things used to be a lot more lively here. And, I know, isn’t that obvious? How could the atmosphere not be dreary after everything we’ve been through? With Jon, Daisy, and Tim appearing to be dead, Peter taking over, all the attacks, and then six months being stuck alone… I guess that’s a rhetorical question. I’m pretty sure all of us know the answer by this point.”

“Working for Peter doesn’t exactly make it better. I mean— It’s okay, I guess? Not entirely bothersome. I never had a problem being alone, it’s a comfort for me. Sometimes the silence feels better than all the noise, and honestly, I’m starting to think that I’d probably take being alone doing work for Peter over sitting in my flat, scared out of my mind over supernatural worms for thirteen days straight.”

He sighs, and slumps over his desk, still holding onto the recorder. “In a way, it does make me miss Jon, though, even with the weird circumstances we were stuck together. Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t want to relive everything with Prentiss. I’m just thinking about those late nights in the Archives.”

An image comes to his mind, the nights he spent staring at the ceiling, familiar loneliness clutching him. At those times, he had usually gone to see Jon, against his better judgment. The Archivist had always been a workaholic, and thus was usually still around, even when it was very late, tending to whatever he hadn’t gotten done throughout the day. Back then, he had only barely allowed Martin to stick around while he continued working, but Martin liked the company, even if it meant sitting in gentle silence.

He quickly pushes the thought away, though. Now, there’s no room for thinking that way, for reminiscencing on the past they lost. Things are different now. “Anyway,” he begins again, “I suppose that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You miss him too. He’s suddenly back, and you keep listening. Feeding? I don’t know. Still. I haven’t seen him in,” he pauses, trying to count the days before giving up, “a long time. However long it’s been since I last had to run from him. I know I’m not supposed to, but I still feel kind of bad about that.”

“I really shouldn’t, but sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind over it. It’s like– get over it, Martin, you have new rules to follow if you’re going to make this work! And most of the time, that’s just fine! I can ignore Melanie’s shouts, I turn away anyone who just wants to talk, and I can pass through the Institute without anyone even noticing me. But when I see him, an entire wave crashes over my head. And that’s both good and bad, because well– One, it means it’s harder to do my job. Two, I can’t breathe, and, in some way, it’s exciting, but I also dread it. Which, thinking about it, that’s probably the most terrifying part of it. They don’t tell you when you sign up for pledging your life to whatever these entities are, especially when pledging your life to Peter’s patron, that even the slightest bit of interaction starts to feel strange. If you’re like me, you start to feel detached from everything. Pushing people away has never been easier. But sometimes, you panic. Sometimes, you want to latch onto that wave of excitement, something you haven’t felt in ages, and other times you don’t want to be anywhere near it, because you don’t want to drown. It burns, and I don’t know how. I just know that things got a lot chillier recently, but I’m starting to like it. If I could stay with Jon, I probably would, I think, at least, but there’s too much in the way of that right now. I barely have the energy to do most things, and I know I can’t stay around him. Not if I want him to live.”

“So,” Martin continues, reaching over to his freshly brewed cup of tea, “I guess I’ll just sink into the fog more, and try not to feel any waves over my head.”

He takes a sip of the beverage, expecting warmth in his throat, but finds it feels like it’s been sitting out on a cool winter morning instead. Martin chokes, coughing until his airways are clear. “Ugh— I swear, I just made this a few minutes ago! It shouldn’t be this cold.”

The mug sits unalarmingly, just its usual faded blue ceramic, but Martin continues to stare at it. Suddenly, he remembers the tape recorder, the soft sound of it still running meeting his ears. “Oh– uhm– sorry. That’s all.”

He quickly stops the tape, falling back into his office chair as the silence returns, only broken by the ever steady ticking of a distant clock. He takes a hold of his cup of tea again, eyeing it suspiciously. Okay, really, it shouldn’t be as cold as it is. It’s not like he made it ages ago, it was just before he came in here to get to work. Still, it feels devoid of warmth in his hands.

Martin opts to just drop the subject. It’s fine! He’ll just make new tea later, or suffer through the cold cup. Probably the latter, he doesn’t feel like getting up, and especially doesn’t feel like potentially running into anyone. Not now. Maybe he would’ve in the past, but he’s far past that.

He sighs. Unknowingly to Martin, his breath comes out like fog that swirls around the room he’s in. It’s not like he noticed it in the first place. As said, you start to get used to your own temperature after a while. So, in the end, he begins his work again, finding no point to do anything else. As for the tape in the recorder: he’d make sure to take it home in his jacket pocket, to deal with it there. It’s not like he’d want anyone listening, after all.

And so, the days continue to pass in the Magnus Institute, tendrils of the Lonely only further rooting themselves in Martin’s mind.

~{☁️}~

Sometimes the fog becomes an indulgence. Martin would know that well, with how heavily his heart became tied to it after so many days playing his game and intentionally isolating himself, so much so that it would transform even his ginger hair into cloudy puffs of fog at the ends. He’d know it well, considering his eyes are clouded, his mind is clouded, and he sees nothing but his failures, nothing but his deepest insecurities.

He’s lost in a vast, open space, where somewhere waves lap at the shore. Where that somewhere is, he doesn’t know. He can’t see it, only faintly hear the sound from some other part of his patron’s domain. Yet, still, he welcomes the silence and solitariness. The fog wraps around him, a gentle embrace, and he drowns in the freeze of Forsaken, barely noticeable to his senses. It’s a type of drowning he welcomes, the type where a voice whispers from deeper in the water, “stay here, stay where you don’t hurt, stay where you won’t be a nuisance ever again, stay, stay, stay.” Martin obliges. Maybe he was always meant to be in this place, alone where no one can hear him. That’s what his mind convinces him of.

But then, there’s Jon.

And then, Martin isn’t alone anymore.

When they finally meet again, in some empty part of the landscape, Jon’s touch feels like fire to his skin, warm, unpredictable, and yet, familiar. Even in the distant state of mind Martin finds himself in, where he barely senses a thing anymore, he finds himself gently leaning into the contact, basking in the way it burns. Maybe, if it burns, then some part of him is still alive behind his clouded blue eyes.

Jon doesn’t stagger or falter in the way he holds Martin’s face in his hands, like he’ll never see him again if he retracts his touch. “Martin, look at me,” the Archivist pleads, staring back at him with desperation in his unnaturally green eyes, “Look at me, and tell me what you see.”

And there it is: that familiar wave crashing over Martin’s mind. The wave that drowns him, and yet he welcomes with open arms.

“I see…” He pauses, his voice quivering as something cuts through the fog in his mind. Maybe it’s the burning, maybe it’s the way he’s shivering in the chill. “I see you, Jon.”

He chuckles softly, the burning singeing his skin, reminding him of life. Martin’s clearing gaze meets that of Jon’s, watery sky blue peering into verdant expanses of green, and a smile creeps its way onto Martin’s lips. “I see you!”

When he collapses into Jon’s embrace, it’s a feeling Martin’s been waiting to lean into for the longest time. The idea that he can let go, that he can feel again. “I was on my own,” he whimpers, tears welling in his eyes as his body is scorched by the heat of another. “I was all on my own.”

“Not anymore,” says the Archivist. When he lets go of Martin, allowing him to stand, it’s all too soon. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry. I know the way.”

When Martin takes Jon’s hand and starts walking with him, it feels like touching flame again. He’s too tired and scared to do anything but go along with it. Maybe if he were more aware, he’d do something. Move his hand away? It burns. It’s unpredictable. But still— it’s Jon. And Jon being here means it’ll be okay, right?

As they walk across the vacant landscape, Martin’s mind stays hazy in the empty spaces. At least it’s clearer than it has been, but that’s not saying it’s completely restored. When you get used to the way the fog holds you, the way your mind falls back on it, it’s hard to sense anything else. Maybe he’s able to see now, able to think for himself, but that doesn’t mean he’ll escape unscathed. He knew that since he started to be tied to this place, and he knows it now, even in the half-haze.

Still, at least he’s going somewhere. And somewhere is better than here, because it means he won’t be tempted to stay. Even now, walking at a pace that feels almost routine, part of the Lonely whispers to his deepest fears: stay here, you can’t hurt him here.

Martin simply hangs his head, and continues walking, counting each step and trembling breath he takes. He doesn’t look up, and tries not to think too hard. Maybe that’ll do. He’ll be outside of the Lonely’s hold soon enough, at least, left to try to make do, and find a way to build a new reality.

And when Jon shivers by Martin’s side, a feeling that travels into their interlocked hands, Martin doesn’t even notice it. It’s cold out here in the fog. That’s all it could be.

~{☁️}~

When they finally make it out, it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. They never can have a good ending like that, can they? That would be too easy, and in their little horror tragedy, easy is never the answer to these things.

They drive up to a safehouse after it all. Their coworker Daisy’s safehouse, to be exact, all the way up in the Scottish Highlands. There, they can rest, and hide away from prying eyes. They can learn to be human again, if that’s worth anything at this point.

Martin doesn’t exactly think there’s any “being human” anymore, but he won’t say that to Jon. Not when he knows he’s thinking the exact same thing. He doesn’t need supernatural powers to see that, Jon’s gaze straight forward throughout the long and silent car ride as well as his reluctance to mention the terrors following them says it clear enough.

And yet, despite the way they’ve run from the Institute, the fog follows them under the door.

Martin often finds it’s the worst in the nights. It’s always the worst then, but to be fair, Martin’s had his fair share of sleepless nights. Back then, the cycle had even started to become routine. Lay down, try to sleep, find that he can’t sleep, try to sleep again, and then lie awake.

The loneliness would hit hard in those times, and he’d always find himself doing something he’d regret come morning, most notably calling someone in the middle of the night just to hear another person’s voice, or writing a particularly heavy-hearted poem. He still wishes he could make it up to Tim and Sasha for all the times they picked up when he was too scared to call Jon. Not that the Archivist would’ve picked up back then, anyway.

You’d think the problem would be fixed by the fact that he now lives with the man who was always on his mind both those nights and now, but that notion is only half-correct. Rather, those impulses to reach out have been replaced with staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but apathy and the ambient chill of the night, even when covered in what are supposed to be comforting blankets.

He and Jon have avoided talking about the Lonely these first few days, so they’ve actively found themselves separated. It’s not that they don’t want to talk about it. It’s not that Martin especially doesn’t want to. It’s just that it’s hard. They’ve finally gotten somewhere safe, and Martin’s been finding it increasingly difficult to return to feeling. He looks at Jon, feels like his heart is drowning, and half of him wants to kiss him until he can’t remember his name. The other part of him simply doesn’t have the energy to move, nor make the conversation that stunt would call for. That’s the part of him that keeps winning as of late.

And thus, every night, when the moonlight shines through the windows, Martin only sighs, watching the way his breath briefly appears in the open air. The cold seeps in from outside the cabin into his bones, and he’s left in a haze of remembrance, that of who he is now, and how he still feels as if there’s nothing left in him. Maybe there’s nothing he can do about that. Maybe the Lonely will always have a hold on him. Alas, he stares up again, another night alone. He’ll sleep when it finally takes him.

The first few nights after they eventually address the things they’ve wanted to say for forever, Martin flinches from Jon’s touch. It feels like burning, it feels almost dangerous, and when they’re stuck like this, it means it’s not going anywhere. Still, the Archivist is patient, and lets Martin slowly crawl to him, where it’s warmer. Martin isn’t used to the warmth, after all, not when it’s been noticeably absent from his life. Even his own body has become one with its absence, each tentative touch like ice. But if patience and a rare, yet soft smile is what it takes to comfort Martin, then Jon continues to play the role. Sometimes, Martin’s mind wants to tell him it’s a lie, but he pushes it away. With time, he learns to welcome some of the touch again, as it fades into gentle heat.

Such is the case one morning, yet another day alone together. Before the lit fireplace, Martin sits wrapped in a soft blanket, an attempt to warm himself up. Jon sits with him, taking Martin’s hand into his, resting in a gentle hold. It’s a routine of theirs, an effort to try to keep each other comfortable despite the hunger that comes from separation from their respective entities.

“You’re so cold,” Jon murmurs, half to himself, gently brushing his thumbs over the skin of his partner’s palm. It feels like fire, and Martin flinches, but lets him continue.

“I don’t feel it,” Martin says. “Everything just feels… normal. Except hot or warm things just feel hotter. A side-effect of being tied to the Lonely, I guess?”

Jon hums. “Not anymore,” he says, but Martin can’t bring himself to repeat it. The way his palm is cold to the touch should say enough, and the way the tips of his hair have become an icy white should confirm it. Instead, he moves his hand to bring one of Jon’s own up to his lips, where he places a gentle kiss to the knuckles. The warmth prickles, and he can see the Archivist shiver.

“Maybe someday, I still, uhm– feel the impulses, I suppose. That, and I still know that I’m a bit chilly.”

Jon chuckles. “Yes, I… I know the feeling. And for the record, I don’t mind the cold.”

Martin smiles, one of the few times he’s been able to in the recent days. A thought appears in his mind, and for the first time in a while, he actually lets himself give into the want to let it pour. “If you ever want to know when it started,” he begins, “because I feel you would probably know the timeline a lot better than I know myself, then– uhm– there’s a tape in my bag.” He glances away, softly laughing to himself. “Although, I do talk about you in it, I remember that.”

“I’ll listen,” Jon says, a little too hastily, and Martin can see the way his partner’s eyes spark from brown to unnatural green for a moment. Quickly, realizing his mistake, the Archivist reels himself back in. “My apologies,” he clears his throat, “Yes, I’ll listen. I won’t deny, I’m a little curious–”

“Hungry,” Martin teases, watching in amusement at the way his Archivist quickly shuts up. “It’s okay. I don’t know if you can really do anything to me by listening to that one. It’s not like you’re digging into my head if I’ve actively told you to listen. I’ll be happy after you’ve heard it, though.”

Jon smiles again, one of those little rare ones that are slowly becoming more common for Martin to see. He savors each and every one. For a second, the room feels a little less cold, especially with the way that within a few moments, Martin’s lips tingle with the sudden heat of a gentle kiss, and his Archivist has gone off to find the tape.

For now, Martin muses, he’ll allow himself a little bit of warmth.

~{☁️}~

Even after what should have been peace, the world is ending. Both Jon and Martin know that well. They were its end, after all, and that’s something that’s just made the days worse and worse. But Martin had long since given up mourning a world that never cared for him, and tried to help his Archivist along the way.

Finally, they’re going to leave soon, and venture across whatever’s left of their wasted world, a horror show for them to find a solution to. The cabin isn’t safe anymore, but really, nowhere is. Nowhere but the place at Jon’s side, somewhere Martin has found ever more familiar and comforting.

And so, Martin grows more accustomed to the warmth. He stands now with a smile on his lips, bag slung around his shoulders and a dull jacket over his torso.

“We’ll do this together,” he tells his Archivist, extending a chilled hand out to him. When Jon takes it, pulling himself up, it doesn’t sting Martin anymore. Rather, it feels like sunbeams.

“Right, together,” says his Archivist, and the two face the open door. The sky may be looking back, but Martin Blackwood isn’t lonely anymore. Slowly but surely, the fog and frigidity will turn back to life-giving heat in his blood, starting with today.

Starting with hand in unlovable hand, standing at the end of the world.