#hey hey you. you want to read All That's Left In The World. you want to read it so bad

[cimmanonrowl]

Focus

It’s hard to please Daddy when it’s finals season and everything feels overwhelming. There were stack of books everywhere, unwashed mugs of coffee piling on your study table, and there seemed to be not enough time to revise for every course. And when Aaron finally had enough of your attitude, he decided to take the matter into his own hands.

Pairing: aaron hotchner x student!reader

Theme: smut heaven

Content: mention of starvation & hair pulling, academic pressure, huge age gap, consenting adults, edging, cockwarming, unprotected sex, daddy kink, ddlg dynamic, soft daddy dom!aaron, bratty!reader, powerplay: older man x younger woman relationship.

Note: Read the content warnings and proceed with your own discretion. If it's not your cup of tea, scroll up and have a good day.

The door clicked softly as Aaron stepped into your shared apartment.

The weight of his busy day still clung heavily to his shoulders. It had been one of those days in the office—long hours of reviewing reports, draining meetings with the board; the kind that gnawed at your patience until you only had so little left to give. Some days, he’d prefer to be out on the field so he can freely stretch and move his body. Most days, he doesn’t— simply because he doesn’t want to be away from you.

He kicked off his shoes, heaving a deep sigh of exhaustion as he did so. The usual sense of relief for being home hadn’t yet settled in as he glanced around the dimly lit space, his thick eyebrows pinched together in a confused frown.

It was quiet. 

Too quiet.

“Honey? I’m home,” he called out, his voice bouncing off the walls of the small apartment. 

Worry trickled down his spine with the unusual sight. He had hoped to come home to something different— a warm meal, maybe, with the sound of your favourite songs blasting in the background. Or better yet, you wrapped in his favourite lingerie; the one that barely covers your pussy and clings to your body in a godly sight, kneeling on the living room floor with a sweet smile, ready to take his cock deep down your throat until he was shaking and begging to finally take your tight cunt.

Just anything– anything to signal that you had taken a break, that you weren’t still buried under the mountain of stress he’d seen building in your eyes over the past few days.

But the apartment was as silent as it had been when he left that morning. 

Aaron’s brow furrowed as he made his way down the hallway, the muted light from your own study spilling out into the corridor. He had an idea, a feeling more like, as to what might greet him as soon as he sees you.

Goddamn, this girl.

The door creaked quietly as he pushed it open. And he felt his heart sink as he found you exactly where he had left you that morning— hunched over your desk, the same thick textbook open in front of you, surrounded by the same clutter of mess. The only difference was the growing pile of empty coffee cups at your side.

Had you even moved all day?

“Honey…” he tried again, softer this time, as he leaned against the door frame. 

You didn’t respond. Your eyes were locked on the page in front of you, and he could see from the tension in your shoulders that you were anything but focused.

Aaron’s gaze traveled over your form, noticing the same clothes you’d worn earlier, and the half-eaten sandwich he had left on the corner of your desk that morning. His chest tightened, concern quickly overshadowing the fatigue he had brought home with him. He could make out the tension looming over your crouched figure.

“Honey…” his voice came out a whisper, curiously watching you as you murmured the words you were reading in your textbook, memorizing every word earnestly.

Aaron stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the way your hand was gripping your hair, pulling the strands tangled tightly around your fingers. You didn’t even seem to realize you were doing it— too caught up in your own world to understand what you were doing.

“Hey!” 

You jumped, your hand releasing your hair so suddenly that you winced as a few strands were pulled free.

“Aaron! Y-you scared me!” your eyes finally lifted to meet his, wide and startled, as if you were seeing him for the first time that day.

He crossed the room in quick strides, worry etched into his features as he reached out to pull your hand gently away from your head. His thumb brushed over the raw area where your hair had been yanked, and he felt a pang of guilt for not noticing sooner. 

“Darling, you’re doing it again,” he said quietly, his voice tight with concern. “I thought we talked about this.”

You blinked slowly. “I—I’m sorry. Yeah. I didn’t notice. I didn’t mean to.”

“You’ve been here all day, haven’t you?” he scanned his eyes over the desk for any sign that you had taken a break, had eaten something, anything. The half-eaten sandwich was evidence enough that you hadn’t.

“I was just trying to finish this stupid chapter,” you mumbled, your voice small, almost ashamed. “I didn’t realize how much time had passed. I’ll eat after, I promise.”

Aaron sighed heavily. “You didn’t eat. You didn’t move. You’ve been sitting here, pulling your hair out over these stupid finals all day, and you didn’t even notice?”

Blood rushed through your warm cheeks. And you felt the sudden urge to yell at his face. 

Stupid finals? 

Stupid? 

You looked down at your hands, irritation slowly flooding in as his words sank in. He wasn’t wrong— you’d been so consumed by the pressure to finish everything as quickly and efficiently as you could, to get everything right, that you had lost track of everything else. But stupid… really? What you were doing was far from that word. How insensitive could he be?

You bit your lower lip, trying to control your rising temper.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered with a heavy heart, feeling the weight of his words like a stone in your chest. “I just wanted to do well. I didn’t mean to…”

Aaron’s expression softened at your words. He’s as frustrated as you were yet he’s concerned more than anything else. He crouched beside you before reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, sighing softly as his warm gaze lingered over your face.

You look tired, he noticed.

“Baby…” his voice was soft it almost made you tear up. “I know you’re stressed, but this isn’t healthy. You know that, right? You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

You nodded slowly. “I know. I just… I don’t want to mess up. I want to make you proud, Daddy...”

“Oh, sweet girl. You already do,” he took your hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “But you’re more important than your grades. Daddy needs you to take care of yourself, sweetheart,” he added, gently rubbing the spot where your hair had been pulled. 

“But… I don’t want to slack off...”

Your pout deepened as Aaron frowned down at you.

“You’re the most hard working girl I know in this world, baby,” he said seriously. “What I need you to do is promise me that you’ll take breaks, eat on time, and stop… this…” 

Whatever this is, you knew what he wanted to say.

“But—”

“Are you talking back to me?”

Hesitation clung to you with the sudden drop of his voice. The promise felt heavy on your tongue. There’s still a lot to do, deadlines to beat, too much reading to finish, papers to write and revise. You know with the current state of events, you can’t carelessly promise anything to him, but the way Aaron’s eyes squinted at your defiance was enough to make you nod quickly.

“S-sorry, Daddy. I promise.”

Aaron searched your face for a moment longer, then finally relaxed, though the worry didn’t entirely leave his eyes. 

“Good. Because if I come home tomorrow and find you in the same spot, I’ll drag you out of here myself and punish you, baby. And no more coffee after 5 p.m.,” he added, eyeing the empty cups with disdain and disapproval.

You managed a small smile, the first genuine lightness you’d felt all day, and nodded again. “Yes, Daddy. No more coffee.”

“There’s my good girl.” Heat dusted over your cheeks as you giggled at his praise, and this time there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He stood up, pulling you to your feet with him. “Now, enough of that, come on. We’re ordering takeout, and you’re taking a break. No arguments.”

Panic settled on your heavy bones.

“Huh- what–” you stammered, peering over your books and the half-finished paper on your laptop. “Daddy, I nee– just one more chapter, please. I need– just another paragpra–”

The stern look he gave you made you stop. He didn’t have to say anything. Just seeing the scowl on his face; his thick eyebrows tugged together, his eyes narrowing in silent warning, was enough to put you back in place.

You pursed your lips immediately, and finally let him lead you out of the study, the tension in your shoulders beginning to ease just a little.

That night, Aaron let you use his cock for relief. He’s always been true to his words. He ordered a take out from your favourite Chinese restaurant down the block, ran a bubble bath and joined you shortly to wash your body, massaged your scalp and shoulder, showered you with praises for being his good girl, for being hardworking and smart, and for being the prettiest girl in the world. Then you let Daddy fuck your wet, needy cunt with his thick fingers until you came and writhed against his soft touches.

It was almost midnight when you heard your neighbor pound angrily on the thin wall separating your apartments, screaming in frustration to tone down your fucking. Which you only giggled. Daddy gave you permission to ride his big, fat cock the way you like it. And you did. But it was only after he lapped and ate your pussy like a starved man that he made you cum twice on his tongue, until your legs were spasming uncontrollably from the blinding pleasure.

The next few days were just as rough.

It was an underestimation on some angle, but nothing but the truth as a whole. You and Aaron were arguing nonstop. He was scolding you too much. You cry nearly every night. But he never stopped breathing down your neck: reminding you to take a break, eat the food he ordered for you from his office, drink your vitamins, don’t drink any more coffee, eat the fruits he bought instead of potato chips, rest your eyes, take a bath, take a walk, threatening to punish you if you don’t.

“Are you seriously fucking kidding me?” His voice was flat, his weariness laced with something sharper, though you couldn’t tell if it was frustration or concern. Maybe both. Or maybe he’s seriously just pissed off.

Slowly, with brows pulled in a tight frown, you glanced over your shoulder.

You didn’t hear Aaron walk down the hall, didn’t hear the way his pace slowed just outside the door, or how he lingered there for a moment, leaning against the frame to watch you in annoyance. His frustrated sigh filled the room, deep and full of exhaustion, but that you heard. 

Your hand went limp, your fingers still tangled in your hair as you stared back innocently at him.

Aaron stood there, quietly observing you from your seat, still in his work clothes— his tie loosened, shirt untucked from where he’d probably tugged at it during his long day. His expression, however, was fully focused on you, and the hint of gentle smile he usually carried whenever he comes home to you was absent, replaced by a frown etched deep in his rugged features.

“What, Daddy?” you asked in a small voice, as though you hadn’t been doing anything wrong.

You felt the pull of your own hand still gripping your hair. Slowly, you released it, lowering your hand to your lap.

Aaron let out a sigh, running a hand through his own tousled hair before crossing the room to you. “It’s almost eleven,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. 

“Have you been sitting here all day?”

What?

You blinked, looking around for a clock to confirm what he was saying. You barely remember anything that happened. All you can recall was being kissed on your forehead before he head out to work, reminding you to eat the breakfast he prepared for you, and to keep your promise. But now the light outside had faded into complete darkness, the street lights illuminating the crossroads outside, streaks of moonlight painting the night sky. 

Almost like an afterthought, your stomach growled faintly. You suddenly realized you hadn’t eaten since… that morning… 

Maybe.

“I… I guess so,” you murmured, as if admitting it out loud will make everything worse. 

He crossed his arms, thick muscles bulging against the tight fabric of his dress shirt.

“You guess so? Try again, little girl.”

“I—” You wandered your eyes over the pile of untouched notes, the cold cup of coffee still sitting on your desk, and the empty plate from a hastily eaten sandwich. “I… I didn’t, sorry. I didn’t notice the time.”

Your mind was wrapped too tightly around the fact that you still have one more essay to finish before the due date. It was a frustrating day. You caught yourself a lot of times staring mindlessly at the words printed on your book, though they blurred and danced right before your eyes. You stared at the same paragraph for… how long each? Minutes? Hours? You weren’t even sure anymore.

Aaron’s eyes narrowed as he crouched down next to your chair, his gaze level with yours now. 

“I told you to eat proper meals, didn’t I?” He pointed out, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed under your eye, and you realized how dry and tired your skin felt. “And you still haven’t eaten, have you?”

You bit your lip and shook your head slightly. “I wasn’t hungry, Daddy. I just wanted to get through this part—”

“No,” Aaron cut you off, shaking his head as he firmly gripped your shoulders, turning your chair so you faced him fully. “No. Enough of this now, little girl. You’ve been doing this to yourself all week. Staying up too late and skipping meals. This is not good for you.”

Your eyes started to burn—not from exhaustion this time, but from something heavier, something you’d been holding in for days now. 

“You don’t understand, Daddy. This is important to me!”

The stress, the pressure, the sense of being completely overwhelmed. You felt like you were sinking, and somehow, it all spilled over the moment Aaron looked at you with those tired, worried eyes.

“I just…” Your voice broke, and you looked away, blinking rapidly. “I have to do well, Daddy. I can’t mess this up. I have one semester left until graduation. I can’t– I have to do well.”

Aaron’s expression softened as he listened, and his hands moved to cradle your face, gently turning you back to meet his gaze. “Baby, Daddy knows how important this is to you,” his voice was calm and steady. “But you can’t do well if you’re running yourself into the ground. You’re hurting yourself, and you don’t even realize it. I’m not doing this to sabotage you, honey.”

His thumb brushed over the spot on your scalp where your hair was still tender from your unconscious pulling, and you winced slightly. 

“Sorry—” you apologized quickly. “I don’t realize I’m doing it, daddy. I’m sorry.”

His brow furrowed at that, and he lowered his hands, his worry etched into every line of his face. “Just promise me you’ll stop,” he whispered, as if the words themselves could break you. “Or else I’m putting mittens on these little hands of yours.”

You nodded quickly, stifling a giggle. “I promise, daddy. I didn’t even realize I was doing it—”

“I know,” Aaron cut you off gently before you could finish. He stood up then, his hand dropping to yours, tugging you softly up to your feet. “C’mon. You’re done for the night.”

“But—” You glanced back at your desk, at the still-open textbooks, the unread chapters waiting for you. “I’m not done. I have so much left—”

“What do you still need to do?” He asked, following your gaze on your table.

“I’m halfway through this paper and I still have to revise them. Then…” your lower lip prodded a little as you stared up at him. “I need to review for my deptals. I just finished making flashcards on my iPad, Daddy, but I haven’t checked them yet…”

“Then we’ll do that tonight,” he said as he steered you out of the room and down the hall toward the kitchen. “First, you need to eat. And then, we’re going to bed.”

“Daddy, I just said I need to revie—”

“Yes, yes, you will, honey.” He squeezed your hand gently as he led you to the kitchen table. “You’re not doing this alone, okay? You’ve got Daddy. I’ll help you tonight. So be a good girl for me and eat first.”

You sat down heavily in the chair as Aaron started pulling out some leftovers from the fridge, reheating them with quick, efficient movements. He didn’t ask you to explain yourself or demand an apology. He just moved around the kitchen with an ease that came from his conscious effort to know you— knowing when to push, and when to just be there quietly.

When he placed the food in front of you, you hesitated for a moment before picking up the fork.

“Daddy…”

He hummed. “Yes, my love?”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled between bites. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Aaron pulled up a chair beside you, leaning forward on his elbows as he watched you eat; a small, tired smile playing on his lips. “I know you didn’t, little one. But you did. And I’d rather see you take care of yourself than get another A.”

“You’re just saying that, Daddy. You said I’ll always get a reward if I do well in school. You were bribing me.”

“Maybe…” he grinned, the tiredness in his eyes easing a bit. “But I still mean it.”

As you continued eating, Aaron reached across the table, brushing his fingers against your hand again. “Remember your promise?”

“Yes, Daddy. I’ll try harder not to do it anymore.”

“Good girl,” he leaned back on his chair with a relieved sigh. “Now, finish your meal. What would you say if Daddy help you study?”

You smiled wider at that, nodding your head quickly. “I’d like that, Daddy.”

“What if you sit on Daddy’s big cock while I ask you your reviewer questions? Would my little girl like that?”

Heat pooled in between your legs as you listened to the vulgarity of his words. He gave you a small smile, reaching his hand to your face before gently tucking the stray hair behind your ear.

“S-sounds good, Daddy,” you said weakly, blushing as you crossed your legs under the table. “D-do I get to come?”

“If you answer the questions correctly, yes you will,” he said lowly, lightly caressing your exposed neck with his thumb.

A low whimper rumbled on your throat.

“But wha– what if I don’t, daddy?”

“Then we’ll just have to see, don’t we, little girl?”

Aaron laid on his back, looking so comfortable and snug as ever, with the soft glow of your iPad casting a faint light in the dimly lit bedroom. The night shirt he previously worn was already discarded on the floor, completely unforgotten. His brows were furrowed in concentration as he scrolled through the flashcards you’d painstakingly made for your departamental exams, his fingers gently swiping the screen.

“Alright, honey,” Aaron said, his voice low and focused. “Define ‘morphological productivity’ for me.”

You stared up at the ceiling, trying to pull the answer from the jumble of concepts crammed into your brain. A low whine escaped your lips under the intensity of his gaze; exactly just as you felt his thick cock twitch against your walls.

“Daddy… f-feels so good…” you shook your head weakly as the pad of Aaron’s calloused palm traveled your bare thighs.

“I know, honey. But I need you to be a good girl and focus right now.”

Your heart raced, though it wasn’t just from the pressure of not knowing the answer to his question. His presence—so close, so steady—and the familiar heady smell of his bodywash was making it harder to focus. The warmth of his body underneath you, his big cock inside your wet cunt, the way his voice dropped whenever he asked a question, all of it felt heavier, more instense than usual.

“Morphological productivity…” Your mind raced to remember the specifics. “It’s when the… morphology is productive—oh fuck!”

Aaron barked a hearty laughter, sending shivers down your spine with every twitch of his cock inside your hole.

“Just joking, Daddy…” You pouted adorably, slowly grinding your hips to feel more of his girth. “It’s… it’s… t-the guide that control how words are formed and structured in a l-language, r-right?”

“Hmm. I don’t know, baby. Can you give me an example?” 

“One e-example is affix… affixation…” You moaned softly, stopping your hips from grinding back and forth as Aaron gripped your thigh in a silent warning. “Sorry, Daddy. F-for instance, you can add ‘-ness�� to the root word ‘happy’ to make ‘happiness’ and it still makes sense.”

Aaron gave a small nod, his lips curving slightly in approval, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Close enough,” he said, his voice steady. 

His eyes flicked toward your bare chest before returning to the iPad, and you felt wetness pooling in between your legs intensify.

“Next, baby,” he said, swiping to the next card. “What’s the difference between a free morpheme and a bound morpheme?”

You shifted slightly, pressing both your palm on his stomach, trying to stifle a moan.

“A free morpheme can stand alone as a word,” your voice came out a little softer, distracted by the way his fingers moved so casually across your thighs. “Like ‘book’ or ‘run.’ A bound morpheme can’t… it… it h-has to be attached to something else, like pre… oh, Daddy… pre…fixes or s-suffixes. Like ‘-s’ or ‘-ing.’”

Aaron’s eyes lingered on yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. His gaze was heavy, like he was weighing more than just your answer, and the quiet that followed hung between you, thick. You could feel the heat of his body underneath you, and his pulsating cock inside.

“C-correct,” he murmured, but his voice had dipped lower. 

His fingers lingered over the screen, not moving to the next flashcard right away. The air between you seemed to hum, each small movement or breath amplified in the quiet room.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. The weight of his gaze was now making it difficult to focus on anything but the heat of your skin together. Studying had always been stressful, but this… this was different. His serious, deliberate tone, the way he was so focused, so intent on helping you, made it all the more difficult to not cave in to your crushing desire.

“Now, this one should be easy. What is a washback?” he asked, his voice still low, though his eyes hadn’t left yours.

You hesitated, distracted by the way his lips formed each word. “It’s also… uh I think it’s also called the washback effect. It is the influence of an assessment on teaching and learning. It can be both beneficial or harmful, and is a common phenomenon in institutional learning.”

“Mm-hm,” Aaron hummed in approval, his eyes darkening slightly as he nodded. “Good girl.”

He didn’t move to the next flashcard right away. Instead, his hand shifted slightly inches slightly to your hips, his thumb rubbing soft circles. It was such a subtle motion, but it sent a shiver down your spine. 

“Daddy… please…” You bit your lip, trying to refocus. “Are you… Are you going to ask me the next one?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, betraying your growing distraction.

Aaron’s gaze flicked to your lips for the briefest second before he looked back at the iPad, though the movement wasn’t lost on you. He cleared his throat, as if remembering the task at hand, and swiped to the next card, though his thumb lingered on the screen a little longer than necessary.

“Define… vowel harmony,” he said, his voice slower this time, before gently bucking his hip like his simply adjusting his position.

You whined loudly, the tip of his cock hitting the special spot inside, your mind scrambling to pull the answer from the depths of your memory.

“It’s… uh… Daddy… stop m-moving…” You swallowed, your voice catching in your throat. “It’s when… when… vowels within a word need to m-match in some way. Just… just l-like in certain languages, all the vowels in a word have to be either front or back vowels.”

Aaron nodded, his lips curving just slightly in a faint, knowing smile. “Very good.”

His hand shifted again, this time closer, brushing down your inner thigh, right where your bodies meet. The heat from his touch seeped through every fiber of your being, flooding your senses with heat and desire. And lust. Overflowing heat and lust.

Your breathing quickened, your mind no longer on linguistic theories or exam questions.

“Do you want to keep going?” Aaron asked, though his voice had lost the strict, studious edge it had earlier. His hand still rested on your inner thigh, his fingers ghosting against your throbbing clit, as if waiting for your answer to decide where they might go next.

“D-daddy…” you said in a whisper, slowly grinding your hips again. “N-need you… plea…please… daddy…”

Aaron didn’t move for a moment. He kept watching your desperate movements with that same heavy gaze, his fingers slowly teasing their way to your needy cunt, sending another shiver through your body. 

Then, slowly, deliberately, he set the iPad aside, his hand resting fully on your hip now.

“My little girl’s been studying hard…” his voice was low and rough, the pad of his big, calloused hands against your skin. “And you’ve got all these answers down.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body instinctively leaning into his touch. The anticipation was almost suffocating in the best way, choking you. He started to rock his hip slowly, the trail of hair from his cock grinding against your clit in a heady way. 

“F-fuck…” your voice trembled as you impatiently increased your pace. “Y-yes, D-daddy… please...”

He sat up to lean towards you, his lips just a breath away from your ear. “Baby, you’ve earned a break,” the words filled with a promise that made your pulse quicken. “I’ll fuck you nice and good, hmm?”

As Aaron’s lips brushed ever so lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck, your world crumbled and you couldn’t focus on anything else.

His lips trailed down your exposed neck, his nose pressed against your skin, taking in your scent as he left a soft trail of light kisses. A heavy sigh escaped your lips when you felt his hands tighten around your waist, guiding you in back-and-forth motion. The way his big and girthy cock was stretching your leaking cunt was intoxicating. You whimpered in embarrassment, hiding your flushed cheeks at the crook of his neck as you felt the tip of his cock deep into your belly.

“D-daddy… can you move, please?” you whispered in a weak voice.

“You want Daddy’s cum inside you, sweet girl?”

You nodded, feeling Aaron move gently to fix his position. “I d-do, Daddy… s-so much… please...”

“Then you’ll get it, princess.”

With a yelp, Aaron’s girthy cock rammed in and out of your waiting cunt. The shrill sound that escaped your lips made Aaron smirk in satisfaction. This is where you belong; in his arms, perched on his lap with your warm, velvety walls wrapped tightly on his cock, his name leaving your lips like a desperate prayer.

Deep grunts and small whimpers tangled in the air like harmony. Your voice was raw, and your throat dries as he assaulted your greedy, little cunt with deep thrusts. His breathing was ragged and heavy.

“Da…Daddy…” Your fingers tightened on his hair, pulling a little with every plop of your sweaty skin. “C-close, ‘m close… Daddy…”

Aaron let out an amused laugh. “No, not yet. Wait a l-little more, you can do that f-for Daddy, princess?”

You whined.

“N-no… I-I want… Daddy… come, p-please… Want to c-come…”

A sharp slap on the side of your thigh stilled you.

“Who fucking own you, little girl?”

“Y-you... Daddy…”

“And who fucking own this greedy cunt, huh? Who get to say when you’re allowed to fucking come?”

A particular thrust set your nerves on fire. “Y-you, Daddy! Only y-you… fuck… that feels g-good! There- t-there! R-right there! H-harder, Daddy! Fuck– f-fuck me!”

“There’s my good girl.”

You felt the familiar coil twisting in your belly. The squelching sound of your wet hole being pounded hard and fast was dirty and somehow humiliating. He kept hammering his hips into you, the tip of his throbbing cock nudging the most sensitive spots deep inside your body. Parts you never knew existed until you met Aaron. He has always loved you hard and always fucked you even harder. Like you’re nothing but a fleshlight. A toy. A fuckdoll he could use just the way he wants it.

“Y-yes! Yes! D-daddy! Right-r-right there! F-fuck!” Your release inched closer, roused by his pained grunts and heavy breathing. “Please! P-please! Please, Daddy! Come in-inside me! Breed m-me… please! I’m a g-good girl, r-right? Fuck m-me full of c-cum, please! W-want it s-so bad— want y-you so bad!”

“Come, princess. Go on. Let go.”

Your orgasm ripped through you like an avalanche. Your eyes rolled at the back of your head. Aaron’s loud grunt and your whiny moan pierced the silence of the night, his fat cock spurting ropes and ropes of warm cum into your waiting womb. Shivers ran down your spine, your bones weak, legs trembling.

“That’s it... good girl... my sweet girl...” Aaron murmured against your ear, his breath hot and heavy. “Just take it, princess. Daddy loves you.”

A loud pounding on the wall startled your calming heart. It even made Aaron jump a little. Seconds ticked in and the familiar voice of your angry neighbor echoed inside your sweaty, sex-filled room.

“Stop fucking in the middle of the night, for fuck’s sake! Some people have fucking exams tomorrow unlike you fucking horny crackheads! Fuck!”

You could only giggle in exhaustion.

Guess who’s back, bitches! (affectionately) Please give me some love and appreciation in the form of your thoughts or reactions. Also, don’t forget to drink your water and keep slaying, babes!

Tag list: @downbad4reid ,@roseydoesypoesy, @pastelpinkflowerlife, @justyourusualash, @hotchsmutrecs, @msfreedom, @birdysaturne, @gghostwriter, @mrs-ssa-hotch, @fore45fore, @actualdeemon, @diksy1112, @jethro-mcgee-tony, @hotchnerbau, @iniyalovesall, @222hwilsss, @balariie, @oliviabbb, @ncis0mrs0gibbs, @jasonswhitetuftofhair, @m4pl, @zaddyhotch, @fandom-garbage, @obsessed-oops, @ujws5, @babybluelrh98, @anime-lover-forever-1127, @hazel-babbit, @3amcloudss, @seraphinlover

[stoneexo]

hey my babes, so i've been super overwhelmed with school and work lately (literally spent 3hrs trying to get home yesterday in what is normally a 45min drive, love canadian winter), so i'm a little late on this for y'all and i'm so sorry :') so here is the little sevika blurb that i promised to keep you occupied while i try to wrap up the vi x reader fic & proof read it! unless you guys don't want it proof read? (lmk)

anyways, enjoy!!

sevika was used to fucking, and she was used to giving a good strap-down treatment. after all, she had always preferred to touch than be touched. but there was something completely different when it came to you, underneath her like this, bent over so pretty while she pounded you stupid. she was used to being rough, the drooling, the scratching at her partner's hips as she forced herself impossibly deeper into whoever's cunt she happened to be fucking that night. she was used to the control. the power. but with you, it all went out the window.

she wanted to touch you so badly. no, she needed to. her flesh hand wanders around your body, exploring every mountain and valley on your body while she gets drunk on the sounds you make under her. she wasn't used to this, to having a need like this. to not being in control. even though you were the one pinned beneath her, back arched and body on full display. everything about you was intoxicating, the way you bounced back on her, the pretty mewls and moans that left your lips in between the cries of her name. and when you reached back to hold her warm hand that was now gripping a fistful of your ass, practically sobbing on her dick, she knew damn well that you were calling the shots now. as she hunched over you, pressing even deeper, drool dripping down your back as she rutted mindlessly into you, sevika knew she would do anything you asked of her now.

something about you like this just did something to her; it was better than drinking, better than smoking, better than shimmer, better than anything else this world had to offer, she was sure of it. she bit down into your shoulder in an effort to contain herself, her hips snapping into yours violently as you struggled to speak in your fucked out state. "d—don't fu—ckin' stop 'vika!" you stammered out, voice pitchy and breathless as the words struggled to come out. sevika only bit down harder into your shoulder in response, causing you to moan yet again.

sevika had experienced phantom limbs before with her arm, but never like this. she swore she could feel you clenching around her cock, impossibly wet, pussy fluttering with each stroke. and it felt like heaven on earth. whatever she had done to deserve this, she would do it a million times over if it meant spending one second longer in your perfect pussy. "ha—i'm gonna c—cum!" you squeaked out, grabbing onto the sheets desperately as sevika ravished your body, squeezing all over as you approached the edge.

"come on doll, give it to me." she murmured— no, demanded, laying a kiss where she had been biting previously, before licking it, her voice breathy and sultry. and you did just that, cumming nearly on command to her desprate rutting.

and that's what did her in, you were sure, as you heard a desperate whimper escape the stoic copper-skinned woman's lips as you clenched around her strap. the nails of her metal claw dug into your hips as her thrusting stuttered. but as quick as the pause came, it went, and she was pounding you even harder than before, leading to your explosive end as you sobbed out underneath her. sevika had never needed someone like this before; so bad that she lost all control of her body, that she made pathetic sounds like this. and she was mortified by the noises she was making, to say the least.

sevika bit her lip and tried to fight back another whine but she couldn't help it as you squeezed her hand and her cock yet again— and she found herself wishing she could be inside you like this for real as she struggled not to cum herself just from your body and pleasure. she tried to stifle the noises, biting her lip so hard she knew it was bleeding, but that fell apart the moment your begging began. "p—please baby w—anna hear yo—u!" you pleaded, body shaking from the overstimulation as she ravaged your body.

and sevika did let go, a flurry of whines and whimpers escaping her lips as she destroyed your cunt till you couldn't take it anymore, making sure you were good and fucked out before she began to slow. you were in a daze of euphoria beneath her as she pulled out and you collapsed on the bed. sevika only left you to retrieve a towel and a glass of water, fully intent on cleaning you up and showering you with kisses as she finds you passed out on your bed.

(you make sure to let her know the next morning, however, that you'll need to hear her like that more often...)

[etherealrin]

⋆.˚ call it what you want.

in which proplayer!sae could care less about what the media was calling you two, if it means being with you again

warnings: none // wc: 647

note: fem reader! badly proofread

the star midfielder of re al, itoshi sae, has a spotless reputation. there wasn't a single stain on his image, not one rumor or dating scandal. it was a matter of heated debate online; there were multiple twitter threads regarding sae's love life. was he truly single? perhaps not into women at all? did he have a secret relationship with another celebrity? if he did, he was remarkably good at never being caught.

so when a photograph of sae leading a girl to a secluded room, shot at an angle where one could only see a flash of glimmering hair, goes viral, the entire internet was wholly appalled.

sae scoffs as you read another article from your phone's news feed to him. "hey, look at this!" your tone is joking as you point towards the device's screen. "they're questioning if i'm some top hollywood celeb. is it because i dyed my hair recently?"

"love, that's stupid. you know dispatch reports more lies than truths." he replies, nose wrinkling at the thought. sure, you were beautiful, more so than any actress, but he really didn't enjoy all of the media speculation he recieved. was it so wrong of him to want something normal, to have a private relationship?

you'd known sae since before he went to spain, when you were just two simple kids trying to go through life the right way. when he had left, it'd caused a huge buzz in your town, japan finally receiving international attention for football. and you'd long since been regarded as sae's closest friend, so everyone was clamoring to ask you: would he ever come back? the drama queens threw their fits (sae had no shortage of admirers even then), many people called you a liar when you said that you didn't know, the pressure caused you to isolate yourself—done with how nosy the world was being. and of course, you missed sae more than anything. you'd mindlessly twist your fingers through the silver necklace he gifted you right before his flight, the 冴 character shining in the pale moonlight. no one else knew the words he'd suddenly whispered into your ears before he boarded without sparing a glance back; "i love you, i'll swear i'll see you again."

you'd kept that necklace for years, until itoshi sae appeared in japan once more, to play for a mysterious soccer match; and a front row ticket was mysteriously sent to your email. which you had never changed from before he left. nervous anticipation floods you, you were about to see your best friend who you hadn't heard from in years. when you finally spot him on the field, he looked nothing less than a daydream, dark pink locks impossibly perfect even against the wind and sweat. as he's being introduced, sae's gaze somehow found you amongst the crowd—you might have died. though he knew you would show up, he couldn't help but look for extra assurance. and you couldn't have predicted the whirl of events that happened after. his manager pulling you aside, saying that "itoshi sae needs to meet you," sae walking towards you with his head down, evidently trying to avoid the paparazzi, grabbing your hands and guiding you into an empty interviewing room; teal eyes glimmering with unsaid words.

your lips inevitably crashed into each other, you both had heard the cameras click and seen the flash of brilliant white, but none of you cared. "at least i did one thing right," is what sae had murmured after a few minutes, deft fingers tracing across your cheeks. his eyes flickered over the chain he gave you, one you'd never taken off. the media could call it what they wanted, because in that moment it was only you and sae. though perhaps it had always been that way—all it took was for one of you to see it.

a/n: dude i'm so obsessed w this song rn. also i finally stopped slandering sae who would've thought this day would come so soon!

masterlist.

[honeyryewhiskey]

mirrored souls

or, dean dreams of what he believes he can never have. warnings ! angst, hurt/some comfort, dean's feelings are hurt, unexpected pregnancy, tough conversations, two ppl with the same fears j's note ! hey so let's not even talk about the fact that this is neither of the two fics i posted snippets of lol idk what possessed me to write 5k fucking words for this i'm sorry i just want to baby trap dean winchester erm idk enjoy? it's sad but maybe pls dont take my word for it i'll continue this and let them be happy also i stopped proof reading half way through bc it is my bed time <3 5k words

He’s had this dream every night for weeks. 

The sun is golden, thick with warmth, stretching over endless fields of green. It settles on his skin like an old friend, seeps into his bones, loosening the ever-present tension in his shoulders. The air is clean, carrying the scent of wildflowers and summer, and for the first time in his life, he feels safe. Like he could lie back in the grass, close his eyes, and let the world move on without him.

Then, he hears her.

A laugh—small and weightless, like wind chimes in a summer breeze—rings through the stillness. It stops him cold, strikes something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

He turns, and she’s there.

She can’t be older than four, standing barefoot in the grass, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes—green as polished emeralds, too big for her little face. His eyes.

But everything else—her delicate nose, the slope of her cheekbones, the way her wild hair frames her face—that’s you.

She tilts her head, smiling in a way that makes something inside him shatter. Then she reaches for him, small fingers wrapping around his calloused hand like she’s always belonged there.

And just like that—like the break of a wave, like the snap of a thread—she’s gone.

Dean wakes with a sharp inhale, the remnants of warmth already fading, replaced by the cold press of reality. His chest aches, heavy with something deeper than longing. A quiet, creeping fear slithers in, curling around his ribs.

Because she has his eyes and your face—a combination that will never exist.

You left. And you haven’t come back in months.

It was always cat and mouse with you—years of fleeting moments, an unspoken desire for more that neither of you had the courage to face. You’d cross paths, use each other's bodies to release some tension, but never linger long enough to ignite anything real. 

Until about eight months ago, when everything changed. You stayed longer than just a weekend. Dean had you in his arms for four months—four months that felt like a lifetime of stolen moments, of finally letting down walls you both had built so high. But when it all started to feel too real, when the weight of it all settled between you like an unspoken truth, you pulled away. You told him it was too much, that you needed space, that you couldn’t do it anymore. You needed to breathe, to step back before it swallowed you whole. And with that, you walked away, leaving him to sift through the pieces of something that was never meant to last.

His heavy hand slams down on the bleating alarm clock beside his bed. The sharp noise cuts off, leaving only the ragged sound of his breathing in the dark. He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his tired eyes, but it doesn’t do anything to clear the remnants of the dream—the sunlight, the laughter, the way she looked at him like he was her whole damn world.

Dean exhales sharply and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Another short night, another dream of something that doesn’t exist, of someone who will never be real. He tells himself it’s just a trick of the mind, a byproduct of too many years spent running on empty. But the truth—the one he won’t say out loud—is that the dreams never started until you left.

And maybe that’s what makes them feel more like a haunting than a fantasy.

He’s spent each day the past four months trying to shove it down, burying it under booze and hunts and half-hearted distractions. But it doesn’t matter how many times he tells himself he’s over it, that he saw it coming. Because he did. He knew you would run the second things got too real, the second you got too close, too comfortable, like maybe you wanted this life with him.

And then, just like his dream, you were gone.

You never said it outright, but he knew—deep down, you were always more like him than you wanted to admit. Built for the road, for the chase. Love wasn’t something you stayed for.

Except you never really left, not completely.

Every now and then, his phone would ring, and it’d be your voice on the other end—casual, distant, asking about a hunt, about a lead on something nasty you were tracking. Always avoiding the bigger conversation, never asking how he’s been, never giving him the chance to ask where you are.

And Dean let it happen. Let you keep him at arm’s length. Because at least this way, you were still something in his life.

But now, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, the dream still fresh in his mind, it pisses him off.

He stands, yanking on a t-shirt and running a hand through his hair before heading for the door. He just needs coffee—something to shake off the lingering ache sitting heavy in his chest.

But the second he steps into the hall, Sam is there, hovering with that anxious look that never means anything good.

“Hey,” Sam starts, lifting a hand like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “Before you go in there, just—don’t freak out, okay?”

Dean’s stomach tightens, his muscles tensing. The look he cuts Sam with makes the younger brother’s eyes widen, searching for words to mediate and settle the storm brewing at either side of him. “Sam, what the hell are you—”

Before Sam can answer, Dean hears it.

The sound of pacing. Quick, uneven steps against the kitchen floor. His body goes still, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t need to see you to know.

You’re here.

Dean’s pulse pounds in his ears. His stubborn rage choking out the glimmer of childish hope that sets his nerves on fire. He stares at Sam, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Sam just shifts on his feet, uneasy.

That’s when another sound cuts through the silence—your voice.

Muffled, pacing, like you’re muttering to yourself between shallow breaths.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he pushes past Sam. His mind is already racing, his thoughts a tangled mess of you, his dreams, his heartache and the damn voice in his head telling him to grip you tight enough so that you can’t leave him again. Whatever this is, whatever brought you back, he’s not in the mood for it. Not today. Not after all this time.

But when he steps into the kitchen, the world tilts on its axis.

You freeze mid-step, eyes wide, hands curled tightly around the edge of the counter as if you’re holding yourself together, bracing for something. For him, maybe. Your posture is rigid, your whole body taut with tension. You look… different. There’s an unreadable heaviness in the way you stand, the nervous bite of your lip as you chew it—like you’re preparing for a blow, for him to lash out, to reject you. 

A heavy silence falls over the room, thick and suffocating. His heart hammers in his chest, but there’s no anger now, no easy target to aim it at. Just this painful, aching pull between what he wants and what he’s afraid to hope for.

“You…” He’s barely able to get the word out. His throat feels tight, words caught somewhere between anger and something much softer, something more dangerous. He’s not sure which one is scarier.

You glance at him, then quickly look away, the uncertainty in your eyes like a crack in a mirror he never thought he’d see. Dean feels something in his chest twist—familiar, painful, like it’s been waiting for you to come back and break him open all over again.

His mind is a whirlwind. He wants to be angry—hell, he’s had four months of anger built up over your disappearing act. But standing here, with you so close, he realizes just how torn he is inside.

He wants to scream at you, demand to know why you didn’t come back sooner, why you couldn’t have just stayed. But that’s not the real question, is it? Because deep down, a part of him knows it wasn’t just you who ran. It was him, too. He shut off long ago, convincing himself it was easier that way. He was easier that way.

But you? You always seemed to slip through his defenses.

Dean stares at you, struggling to find his voice, his hands suddenly feeling useless at his sides. The walls he’s built up for his entire life—years of anger, bitterness, and pain—are cracking, piece by piece, and he has no idea how to stop it.

Dean crosses his arms, trying to shove down the storm already brewing inside him. “Well,” his voice is rough with sleep and something dangerously close to hurt. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Your spine straightens, and just like that, the tension shifts. Whatever nerves had you pacing seconds ago are buried under the sharp edge of your own attitude. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan on it either.”

Dean scoffs, a bitter chuckle, the undertone to the eye roll he throws you. “Oh, great. That makes me feel real special.”

“I…” You hesitate, fingers digging into the edge of the counter before you let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Dean. I don’t know if this is the right thing, or if I’m just—” you stop yourself, biting your lip again. You were never as good as he was at hiding your pain. It’s evident now, in the vulnerability in your eyes that cuts through him, raw and unguarded, and it makes everything inside him spin faster.

Sam clears his throat. “Why don’t I give you guys some space?” He glances between the two of you, clearly ready to escape the tension.

Dean doesn’t look at him, just stares at you as you stand firm, the scowl on your face trying desperately to cover the sadness in your eyes. The fact that you’re asking for anything at all should piss him off. After months of the half-hearted check-ins that only ever came when you needed something, after the way you left—why should he give you the time of day?

But he can’t say no.

And that scares him more than anything.

Sam nods to himself when neither of you protest and slips out of the kitchen, leaving you and Dean in thick, suffocating silence.

“Why are you here?” His voice comes out quieter than he intended, but the question hangs in the air, laced with something deeper, something that sounds too much like hope. A falsehood he’s terrified to acknowledge.

You take a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping just slightly, as if the weight of being in the same room as him is too much to carry alone.

Dean takes a step toward you, his feet heavy on the floor, his chest aching. His instincts shout at him to pull away, to protect himself from the inevitable hurt, but something else—something buried deep inside him—begs him to go closer.

The words come out before he can stop them, quieter now, barely a whisper. “I don’t know if I can do this again, are we gonna keep pretending we have nothing to talk about?”

You wince, a flicker of pain crossing your face, and it rips through him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, but he can’t stop the words. He can’t stop the fear, the resentment, that’s built up over all this time.

"I don't know if I can just act like nothing ever happened between us. Like you didn't leave me. Like..." His voice breaks off, his throat thick with emotion he’s been swallowing for far too long. He’s not even sure who he’s trying to convince anymore, you or himself.

His hands are trembling now, and he clenches them into fists, fighting to keep the storm inside him contained. But every time he looks at you, sees the way you’re standing before him, so tired and lacking the fire that he always adored. That you’re here now when he never thought he’d see you again, it pulls him under a wave of emotion he can’t quite place.

“I don’t know how to do this, not after everything,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to be okay with it.”

Your eyes fill with regret, but there's something else too—a quiet understanding. You know what you’ve done. You know what this looks like, but still, you're standing here. And that small, painful spark of hope flickers in the pit of his stomach.

“Can we just sit and talk, please?” Your voice is soft, pleading. And this time, you don’t look away.

Dean stands there, his whole body tense, his mind screaming conflicting words in the crosshairs—walk away, stay. But something in your gaze, in your quiet desperation, tugs at him. For a moment, he’s paralyzed—conflicted in the most unfamiliar way.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he nods. “Fine. But we talk,” he jabs a finger at you, his brows set with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat, “really talk. No more running.”

You nod, your shoulders relaxing, just slightly, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if maybe—just maybe—he’s still capable of believing in the possibility of this. Of you.

His eyes narrow, the weight of years of unresolved anger and hurt pressing down on him. But despite it all, despite everything you put him through, he can’t seem to dig his heels into this anger. Not when you’re standing here, so close, with those big, pleading eyes that always seemed to strip him bare.

The years of touch and go, the broken promises, the words left unsaid—they all float between you, a suffocating fog that neither of you knows how to break. But Dean’s tired. Tired of fighting this pull, this pull toward you he can’t seem to ignore, no matter how many times you leave.

With a frustrated sigh, he crosses the kitchen, the hard floor beneath his boots clacking louder than it should. He grabs two chairs from the worn wooden table, scraping them across the linoleum as he sets them down. Wordlessly, he nods toward the seat beside him.

“Sit,” he mutters, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You stand there for a moment, the air between you thick with things left unsaid. And then, quietly, you take the seat next to him.

Dean can feel the weight of the moment in every fiber of his being. He doesn’t want to look at you. Not yet. Not until he’s ready to hear whatever it is you came to say.

The silence stretches on, thick and uncomfortable, as you sit side by side, neither of you knowing how to begin.

Finally, you clear your throat, a small sound, but it’s enough to break through the tension. “Look, I know I don’t have the right to ask you for anything. But… can we just talk, like we used to? No games. No running away this time, okay?”

Dean stares at the table in front of him, his fingers tapping restlessly against the edge. Your words hit harder than he expected, and for a second, his chest tightens with something raw and unfamiliar.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore, you know?” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Every time you leave… it’s like you take a piece of me with you. And I’m just left here picking up the pieces, wondering if you’ll ever come back.”

You wince at the admission, and it hits him harder than he wants to admit. He doesn’t know why he said it—maybe because this is the first time in years that you’re actually sitting here, facing him. Maybe because it’s the first time in years that he feels like you might actually be willing to stay.

You reach out, placing a tentative hand on his, stilling the tapping. And for a brief moment, his breath catches.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Dean,” you say softly. “I never wanted to be another person who hurts you.”

to forget the months of silence, the aching space you left behind. He wants to pull you close, bury his face in your neck, and pretend none of it ever happened—that you never walked away, that he never let you.

But reality crashes down just as fast.

He can’t let himself go there, can’t let himself believe this is something he can have without it slipping through his fingers. So instead, he exhales sharply, shoving that fragile part of himself deep down where it belongs. His jaw tightens, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough, edged with his angry armor.

“Then why did you leave?” he grits out, his voice quiet but commanding. He needs to know. Needs to understand why the person he thought he might finally let himself love disappeared without a trace.

You pull your hand back, lips pressed tight. “I—”

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, like the weight of months spent apart. Dean’s still trying to wrap his head around what’s happening, why you’re here, why you’re sitting beside him, but something shifts in your expression.

You take a deep breath, eyes falling to your lap before lifting to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words soft but full of weight. “I’m sorry for always running off. For disappearing when things got too real. I know it’s not fair.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t know what to say, what to feel.

“I was scared,” you continue, voice breaking just a little. “I still am. I…” Your words falter, but then you press on, searching his eyes for understanding. “I was consumed with this fear of losing it all. That I’d attach myself to you and this life would rip you away.”

The quiet admission sits heavy in the air. Dean feels his heart thudding faster beneath his rib cage. A pang of regret washes over him, for never admitting he shared that fear. That he thought he would be the thing that rips you apart. And maybe if he had, you wouldn’t have felt alone in those thoughts. 

You run a hand through your hair, a nervous gesture, and he watches the movement, the tension in your body. “I didn’t think I could do this. I didn’t think we could do this. I don’t see a world where something like that survives,” you shake your head, lost in the thoughts that shuffle through as you try to find your words, “Where… where we get a happy ending.”

Dean feels his chest tighten, his pulse speeding up as he takes in what you’re saying. The words hang between you, both of you holding your breath. And for a long, painful moment, the only sound in the room is the distant hum of the refrigerator, a constant reminder that time is still moving, even when it feels like everything’s frozen in place.

“I’m not saying that I don’t want it, Dean,” you add quickly, your voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to believe it’s possible. But I didn’t come here to ask for you to take me back.”

Dean stares at you, his pulse hammering against his ribs. There it is—that damn crack in your voice, the one that always cuts through him like a blade. He wants to be angry, to hold onto the bitterness that’s been festering since you left, but it slips through his fingers the second he sees the way you’re looking at him. Like you’re scared. Like you don’t expect him to want this.

Like you don’t expect him to want you.

His throat tightens, his fists clenching at his sides as he fights the urge to reach for you. “Then what do you want?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “If you’re not here to ask me for anything, then why come back?”

You open your mouth, then close it, searching for words. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jacket, your shoulders curling inward, like you’re bracing for him to tear you apart. And damn it, that does something to him, because he’s never wanted to be the reason you look like that.

Dean drags a hand down his face, trying to ground himself. His mind is a battlefield, waging war between the fear clawing at his insides and the need to fix this—fix you. But how the hell is he supposed to do that when he’s still not sure how to fix himself?

“You don’t know how to believe it’s possible?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, join the damn club.” His chest feels too tight, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “You think I had some fairytale idea of us, sweetheart? That I thought this would be easy?” He lets out a breath that’s more of a laugh, humorless and hollow. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’d be any good at this. But you didn’t give me the chance to figure it out, did you?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. And God, he hates that. He hates seeing you cry. Hates even more that he’s the reason for it.

“I was scared,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like shattered glass. “I am scared.”

Dean swallows hard, his anger flickering, giving way to something deeper, something more painful. He’s scared too. He’s scared as hell. Of not being enough. Of screwing this up. Of losing you all over again.

But when he looks at you—when he sees the way you’re trembling, barely holding yourself together—it hits him. He’s not the only one drowning in this.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair before finally, finally stepping forward. His hands hover for a second before settling on your arms, grounding you. Grounding himself.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, softer now, “I guess we can be scared together.”

You drag the backs of your hands across your cheeks, trying to contain the tears that just won’t stop flowing. “No, Dean, you don’t get it—” you cut yourself off with a groan. Your breathing is coming out uneven as anxiety pulls at your every nerve, and suddenly you can’t sit still. You can’t do this. 

You’re up on your feet again, pacing slightly as you try to steady your breathing. 

Dean watches you, his stomach twisting as you distance yourself. There’s a wild, frantic energy in the way you move, your arms wrapping around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Your breath is uneven, shaky, and those damn tears keep slipping past your lashes no matter how hard you try to blink them away.

His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for you again, to do something—anything—to stop that panicked look from overtaking your face. It melts his resolve, steadies his rising temper.

His voice comes quieter this time, hesitant. “Hey—what’s going on?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, shaking your head as if you can will away whatever storm is raging inside you.

Dean’s chest tightens. His mind is running through every possibility, each one worse than the last. “Sweetheart,” he tries again, the pet name easing off his tongue as if no time had passed since he last called you that, “talk to me.”

"I... I didn't catch it in time, I'm sorry." You start, your voice barely more than a whisper, the words thick with something he can't quite name. Your eyes squeeze shut as if the simple act of speaking is too much.

Dean’s chest tightens, a knot of confusion twisting in his stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?” His tone is gentle now, trying to coax it out of you, but the moment you raise your eyes, he sees it—the fear, raw and trembling beneath the surface.

He’s on his feet again, closing in on you like you’re a scared animal that’ll take flight from any sudden movement. 

“I just thought it was stress making me miss my period again, but…” You choke, your voice cracking as if admitting it out loud is tearing something inside you apart.

Dean’s breath hitches, and his heart races, but he doesn’t dare interrupt you, his own confusion giving way to a growing sense of dread. He takes another step toward you, but you flinch, eyes shimmering with tears that slip through your heavy breathing.

You finally break, the tears turning into sobs that shake your shoulders. You shake your head, wiping at your face again, as if trying to push it all away. But it’s too late now.

“I’m scared, D.” You gasp the words out, the weight of them crushing you. “I’m so scared.”

Dean’s chest tightens, a cold sensation creeping down his spine, even as his heart lurches in his chest. He can feel the tremor in your voice, the rawness in every syllable, but he can’t make sense of it. The world seems to slow, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place—but not quickly enough for his mind to catch up.

“What… What are you saying?” He asks, his voice quiet, strained with confusion and something that feels dangerously close to panic.

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy with tears. You open your mouth, but the words seem stuck, lodged in your throat. The silence between you is deafening.

Finally, you take a deep breath, almost like you’re gathering the strength to face something unbearable. “I’m pregnant, Dean.” The words fall from your lips in a broken whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Dean freezes. His entire body goes still, as though he’s forgotten how to breathe. The weight of your words hits him like a freight train, and for a moment, everything goes silent except for the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

Pregnant.

His mouth goes dry, his thoughts scrambling, trying to make sense of it all. The pieces click into place—the missed periods, the way you looked at him when you walked in, the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

His dreams.

 He takes a half-step back, his mind too far behind, too rattled by the weight of what you just said.

And then, slowly, it hits him—this isn’t just a shock; it’s a bombshell. One that could tear everything apart, and yet, at the same time, it pulls something from him that he hasn’t felt in a long time. The edges of his world begin to blur. He’s scared. He’s terrified.

“Are you… are you sure?” His voice comes out rough, almost panicked, like he’s waiting for you to tell him this is some sick joke, but he knows it’s not.

You nod, sniffling. "I took a test, I went to the doctor and they told me I was already four months along." you whisper, choking back a sob. "I didn’t know what to do."

Dean steps closer, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you. But you flinch again, the space between you thick with everything you’ve never said to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you. I could have just called, I should have—” Your voice cracks, and you finally meet his gaze, eyes full of everything—regret, fear, and a raw, aching vulnerability that threatens to break him.

Dean's heart races, the panic starting to crawl up his throat. He wants to scream, to tell you that he’s terrified—that he doesn’t know how to be a father, that he’s too broken, too fucked up to raise a kid. The thought of something happening to you, to your child, terrifies him in ways he can’t even put into words. But you’re standing there, so small, so vulnerable, looking at him like he’s the only one who can fix this. And damn it, he has to be strong.

He closes the distance between and pulls you into his arms before either of you can second guess it. His hands are warm and steady on your back, but inside, his mind is a storm. His pulse is erratic, his breath shallow, but he holds you close, trying to give you the comfort he doesn’t know how to find for himself.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice like a lighthouse to steer your sinking ship. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re not alone in this.”

You shake your head against his chest, a shaky breath escaping. “I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know what to do.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression soft but full of intensity. His thumbs pushes away your tears, warm and rough against your skin. “You don’t have to know right now,” he assures you, trying to convince himself as much as you. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time. I’m here, okay? We’ll get through this.”

Inside, though, his mind is spinning out of control. He doesn’t know how to be the man you need. He doesn’t know if he can even be the father this child deserves. But in this moment, he’s all you have. And somehow, he knows that no matter how badly he’s freaking out, no matter how scared he is, he’ll find a way to make this work—for you, for the little life growing inside of you.

He gently strokes your hair, pressing his cheek to the top of your head, grounding himself in the act. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers again, his voice thick with the promise of something more than just words.

But inside, the panic churns, a rising tide he can’t escape. He holds you tighter, pretending for your sake that everything will be fine, even as the weight of the world presses down on him.

edit to add tags why do i always forget tags @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @ultravi0lence14

[00valentina-writes00]

hiii! i don’t know if you do requests like this but could you do something with reader and abby going on one of those supply runs in the wlf and reader getting SUPER injured and it’s so angsty (but reader lives ofc). thank u your reading is so yummy 😋

✞⛧ Stay ✞⛧

Warnings: blood mentions, gunshot wound, angst, near death experience, fluff towards the end

The blood on your hands isn’t yours. Not at first.

The run was supposed to be simple. In and out. No unnecessary risks, no unnecessary fights. That’s what they always said before they sent people out beyond the walls. As if infected or desperate survivors cared about plans.

As if death cared about plans.

It happens fast.

The sound of a gunshot cracks through the empty street, and at first, you don’t even realize it hit you. It’s only when your legs give out that it makes sense. The pain doesn’t come right away. There’s just pressure—like something punched through your stomach, twisted, then left a hole.

You hit the ground, the world tilting as you collapse onto the pavement.

“NO!”

Abby’s voice is raw, panicked. You’ve never heard her panic.

The moment you hit the ground, she’s there, kneeling beside you, hands pressing down hard over the wound. A strangled noise leaves your throat as white-hot agony erupts in your stomach.

“Shit, no, no, no—stay with me.”

Her voice is shaking. She’s shaking.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, but the pain is unbearable. It spreads through you in waves, a deep, gnawing agony that turns every breath into a battle.

There’s more shouting in the distance. WLF soldiers returning fire, pushing back the ambushers. You don’t care. All you care about is the blood pooling beneath you, the warmth of it soaking into your clothes.

“You’re losing too much,” Abby mutters, more to herself than you. Her hands are covered in your blood, fingers pressing into the wound, desperate to keep you together.

You try to focus on her face instead of the pain.

She’s terrified.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her like this—jaw clenched, eyes wild, lips pressed so tightly together they’re white.

“Abby,” you whisper, voice barely there.

“Don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t fucking talk like—like this is it.”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

You blink up at her. “Hurts.”

“I know, I know,” she says quickly, her free hand coming up to brush your face. Her fingers are warm, calloused, smearing blood along your cheek. “But you have to stay with me. You hear me? You don’t get to quit.”

She’s begging. Abby Anderson does not beg.

A sharp cough racks your body, making the pain spike tenfold. You gasp, vision blurring with the effort. The world around you fades in and out, dark corners creeping into your sight.

You know what this means.

So does Abby.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she whispers. Her forehead presses against yours, her breath uneven. “You hear me?”

Your fingers twitch weakly against hers. “I’m so tired.”

A choked sound escapes her throat. “I know,” she breathes. “But you don’t get to leave me. Not like this.”

You want to promise her you won’t. But you don’t know if you can.

The world tilts again. The last thing you feel before the darkness takes you is the warmth of Abby’s lips against your forehead and the way her voice shatters when she pleads, “Not you.”

Pain is the first thing you recognize when you wake.

The second is warmth.

Something solid, something safe is wrapped around your hand, squeezing, grounding you. You force your eyes open. The light is dim, flickering, casting deep shadows along the walls.

You’re in the stadium. The infirmary.

You’re alive.

Your throat is dry, tongue heavy in your mouth. You try to move, but pain rips through your body like fire, seizing every muscle. A sharp gasp escapes you.

There’s movement beside you. Then, a voice—hoarse, exhausted, desperate.

“Hey—hey, I’m here.”

Abby.

You blink, vision focusing on her face. She looks like hell. Her hair is a mess, pulled back but tangled, stray strands sticking to her face. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, deeper than you’ve ever seen.

“You’re awake,” she breathes, like she doesn’t quite believe it.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. She notices immediately, reaching for a nearby cup of water.

“Here,” she murmurs, slipping an arm behind your shoulders to help you sit up just enough to drink.

Even the slight movement sends sharp stabs of pain through your torso, but Abby is there, holding you steady, making sure you don’t fall apart.

You take a sip, coughing weakly. Abby’s hand lingers on your back before she eases you down again.

You watch her, taking in every detail. The tension in her shoulders. The way her hands tremble.

“You—” Your voice is nothing but a rasp. You swallow hard. “—look like shit.”

She exhales sharply through her nose, almost laughing. Almost.

“Yeah, well,” she mutters. “You don’t exactly look great yourself.”

There’s something in her eyes—something raw, unguarded.

Something that looks a hell of a lot like relief.

“How bad?” you ask.

Abby’s jaw tightens. “Bad.”

You nod slowly. You already knew that.

Silence stretches between you. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. There are things she isn’t saying, things you don’t know how to ask.

Finally, you manage, “You stayed.”

Abby’s lips press together. Her gaze drops to where her hand still grips yours, like she’s only just realizing it’s there. But she doesn’t pull away.

“Of course, I stayed,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

Something twists in your chest, and it has nothing to do with the injury.

“Thought I was gonna die,” you admit quietly.

Her grip tightens.

“You almost did,” she says, and for the first time since you woke up, she looks at you—really looks at you.

Like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she blinks.

Your stomach sinks. You thought you’d seen every side of Abby—the hardened soldier, the ruthless fighter, the unwavering leader.

But this? This is different.

This is fear.

She was afraid.

For you.

You squeeze her hand. It’s weak, barely there, but she feels it. Her breath catches, just for a second.

Then she sighs, running a hand down her face. “God, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” you say, and somehow, it’s the most sincere thing you’ve ever said.

Abby shakes her head, exhaling sharply. “Don’t be.”

She hesitates. Then, carefully, she shifts closer, pressing her forehead to yours.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

There are no words for this.

For the way her breath hitches when you lean into her touch. For the way her fingers curl around yours like she’s still trying to hold you together.

For the way she stayed.

You close your eyes.

“Not you,” she whispers.

She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to.

[t00tsmcgee]

Rook as a companion banter episode seven : Lucanis

Banter written with my Rook in mind. Read more about him here.

Part 1 (Neve) | Part 2 (Bellara) | Part 3 (Davrin) | Part 4 (Harding) | Part 5 (Taash) | Part 6 (Emmrich) | Part 7 Lucanis |

-

Lucanis: “You eat garbage.” Calais: “I feel like I’m being accused of something?” Lucanis: “Not literal garbage but I saw you fish out a flat sandwich from your pack the other day and eat it like it hadn’t been in there for two days.” Calais: “It was still good. The cheese was a little hard and sweaty though.” Lucanis: *Shuddering*

Lucanis: “What do you like to eat?” Calais: “I like fries and chicken and fried chicken.” Lucanis *quietly whispering* “Ayayay..” Calais: “I also like fried fish.”

Calais: “I liked that salad you made.” Lucanis: “It’s a Nevarran recipe. Blood orange salad.” Calais: “I’d had it before, but it was never this good.” Lucanis: “Every salad is better with cheese and some kind of nut.” Calais: *chuckle* Lucanis: "What's funny? ..Oh." *sigh*

Lucanis: “Aren’t most Nevarrans vegetarian?” Calais: “Most, yes.” Lucanis: “But not you?” Calais: “No. I’m only just really discovering that food can be something besides sustenance. I want to experience as many flavours as I can.” Lucanis: “I’m glad you’re having fun.” Calais: *fondly* “I blame you.”

Lucanis: “What about drinks?” Calais: “I like almost everything, but I don’t drink alcohol. Always just kind of tastes like paint thinner to me.” Lucanis: “What about warm beverages? Tea, coffee, hot chocolate?” Calais: “I’ll take tea over coffee any day.” Lucanis: “Who hurt you?”

Calais: “You know, Lucanis, I appreciate all the effort you make to take care of us.” Lucanis: “Someone has to. It’s a miracle you didn’t all contract some disease before I was here to cook for you.” Calais: “I didn’t have much choice.” Lucanis: “No?” Calais: “Rations are rations. We just ate what we were given, back at the Necropolis.” Lucanis: “That explains a lot, actually.” Calais: “So your food is a real treat. Just wanted you to know how much I’ve been enjoying it.” Lucanis: *Warmly* “Thank you.”

Lucanis: “Don’t even think about eating that sandwich you still have in your pack. I saw you take it with you when we left.” Calais: “It’s just a cheese sandwich, it stays good for a while. Maybe a bit stale but-” Lucanis: “Unacceptable. If you want to eat that at least let me toast it for you.”

Calais: “Hey, Lucanis?” Lucanis: “Yes?” Calais: “Will you teach me how to cook?” Lucanis: “You never learned?” Calais: “Not really. I mean I can fry an egg just about, and I read books about it, but I see the most wonderful illustrations in those books, that make my mouth water. I want to be able to make those!” Lucanis: *Chuckles* “Sure, I can teach you.”

Lucanis/Spite: “Spirit One reminds me of home.” Calais: “What was home like, Spite?” Lucanis/Spite: “It was home. Where I belonged, until she did this to us.” Calais: “I’m sorry, Spite. You didn’t deserve it.”

Lucanis: “So how is that you can see Spite when no one else but I can?” Calais: “I’ve always been able to speak to spirits in this way. If one has manifested as a possession I can see them hovering around the person they’ve possessed because that person tethers them to this world. Otherwise I have to draw them here with my magic.” Lucanis: “But Spite can touch things when you’re around, too.” Calais: “He uses a little bit of my power to manifest that touch.” Lucanis: “Doesn’t that tire you out?” Calais: “No, I barely notice. He’s very careful.”

Lucanis: “You’ve taught Spite how to paint.” Calais: “Actually I didn’t teach him anything. He just.. took a brush and went for it.” Lucanis: “He seems to like it.” Calais: “I think it’s a way to express himself when he’s lost most of his ability to do so.”

Calais: “You have fun painting don’t you Spite?” Lucanis/Spite: “Yes! Many colours giving shapes to emotions!” Calais: “And your colours are so well chosen.” Lucanis/Spite: “Yes, he likes it!” Calais: “I like it very much. Can I have one to hang on my wall?” Lucanis/Spite: “No! Its mine!” Calais: *laughing* “It was a compliment, I like it so much I want to look at it all the time.” Lucanis/Spite: *snarling* “Fine! Pick one! But only one!”

Lucanis/Spite: “The Spirit One is hurting.” Calais: “Oh, that’s just my leg. It always hurts. Don’t worry.” Lucanis/Spite: “Perhaps we can help.” Calais: “How?” Lucanis/Spite: “We can fly. We can carry!” Calais: *laughing* “As exciting as that sounds, it’d be a little impractical. But thank you, Spite.”

Lucanis: “You seem fond of Spite.” Calais: “I’m fond of you too, Lucanis.” Lucanis: “I know. But Spite listens to you. I spent the best part of a year with him and he hardly ever listens to me.” Calais: “Well I do speak to spirits for a living. It’s kind of my thing.” Lucanis: “Makes being around you hard, he constantly wants to speak with you.” Calais: “I’m sorry. I’ll try to engage less.” Lucanis: “No, it’s alright. It makes Spite calmer to talk with you. I had an actual night of sleep the other day, after he spent all evening talking with you. I think you’re good for him.” Calais: “He’s adorable, once you get past all the anger.” Lucanis: “I enjoyed your company, last night.” Calais: “And I yours. That was some very good tea you made.” Lucanis: “It’s no problem. I’m glad you enjoyed.” Lucanis/Spite: “Should have kissed him!” Calais: “What?” Lucanis: “No! Nothing, please, ignore him.”

Lucanis: “You’re getting better.” Calais: “At what?” Lucanis: “Cooking. For a while I wondered if my lessons were actually landing, but that pot roast you made yesterday was delicious.” Calais: “Thank you. I learned from the best.” Lucanis: “Well-” Calais: “And the most handsome.” Lucanis: *clears throat* “I’m not sure that’s relevant.” Calais: “Helps me pay attention to you.” Lucanis/Spite: “*cackle* He thinks you’re handsome!”

Lucanis: “Cal, would you maybe like to learn how to dance?” Calais: “Dance? Why do you ask?” Lucanis: “I was taught how to dance for social occasions and official parties. It’s a fun way to exercise. You said you struggled with regular work outs, this might be easier, for your leg.” Calais: “You’d do that for me?” Lucanis: “After everything you’ve done for me and Spite? Of course.” Calais: “It’s not transactional, Lucanis. But yes, I would like to learn. Thank you for thinking of me.” Lucanis/Spite: “He does it a lot!”

Calais: “Kind of sad we don’t have music to practice dancing to.” Lucanis: “I suppose we could give Spite a violin and see what he produces.” Calais: “I like my eardrums in tact, thank you.” Lucanis: “You think it will be that bad?” Calais: “Do you remember when he tried to play my piano?” Lucanis: “Ah.. say no more.”

Lucanis: “You seem quiet, ever since we returned from Treviso.” Calais: “You let Illario live.” Lucanis: “Yes. I don’t have enough family that I’d happily execute whatever shredded pieces of it are left.” Calais: “Family isn’t always blood.” Lucanis: “And blood isn’t always the answer.”

Lucanis: “Mi amado, I would like to take you to Treviso soon, meet my grandmother officially. She’s invited us for tea.” Calais: “Are you sure? She didn’t seem to think much of me when we rescued her.” Lucanis: “She’s going to have to get used to you, whether she likes it or not.” Calais: “What do I even say to her? ‘Hello Mrs Dellamorte I’m in love with your grandson?’” Lucanis: “I’d leave out the question mark at the end.”

Calais: “Papi Chulo.” Lucanis: *Hard exhale* “What?” Calais: “Viago said I should call you that, that it was a cute Antivan nickname for one’s lover.” Lucanis: *Deep sigh* “You don’t listen to what Viago says. Ever.”

[dcdreamblog]

Hey there. I recently moved to Gotham for job related reasons. Thought I had a pretty good handle on the whole hero and villain thing down here, the Bats and their various enemies are the only ones anyone seems to talk about anyways.

So imagine my surprise when one day I'm driving back home and something that I can only describe as some kind of yellow and red demon lands right on top of my car hood before getting back up and leaping into the sky. look up and see what I think were some other ugly monsters or something firing down some magic stuff at em.

Got back home as quick as I could after that, asked a few guys I know at work what the hell it was about but they got nothing, but one of em pointed me to your blog. So Historian, you happen to know anything about yellow and red demons in Gotham?

First off you should probably contact your insurance about the car. Unlike the jokes made by people who don't live in superhero cities, or the fearmongering of idiots, insurance DOES cover "acts of superhero" especially if you live in Gotham. If they give you a hard time, reach out to the Thomas and Martha Wayne Foundation. Bruce Wayne LOVES thumbing his nose at oligarchs in these sorts of situations. As for the demon you saw, you are VERY lucky you only got a glancing blow from whatever the hell Etrigan got wrapped up in this week.

(A CCTV image showing Etrigan bursting forth from a burning warehouse)

Now you'll have to forgive me I only took a few occult related classes in college for my degree and my knowledge of the Arthurian Period is limited to how it intersects with my specialties but the basic rundown is this. Etrigan is a demon. Like from Hell (or some version of the Christian vision of same, how you feel like dealing with this information is down to your personal theology). He's on the higher rank of mid class demon from what I know, not any kind of ruler, lord or arch but a caste of warriors known as "Rhymers" (due to their distinct habit of every statement they utter having to be rhymed). (All of the information below has been run past my occult colleagues, I have those now, to make sure I am not summoning anything or offending anyone who would want to turn my intestines into snakes) Etrigan was something of a Monkey King figure, born as first son to the Arch-Demon Belial and the Serpent Queen Ran Va Daath he was too powerful to control even for Hell's bureaucracy and so he was placed under the control of the mortal wizard Merlin (who is his younger brother, long story, go read a grimoire). It was during the Fall of Camelot that Etrigan was bonded to the dishonored knight Jason Blood, I actually already did a dive on that some weeks back. Blood and Etrigan have been stuck together for the following millennia, Etrigan's instincts as a born engine of destruction kept in check by Jason Blood's honorable character meaning that most often the Demon has been set against creatures of his own domain in defense of mankind. Blood currently works as an Occultist in Gotham though he's very much a jet setter and can be spotted just about anywhere in the world there's mystery afoot. The advice I would give is DO NOT seek out any more information about this in person. If ANYTHING was left on your car (blood, fangs, scales, scraps of cloth) that you KNOW come from Etrigan or the other demon or can't otherwise identify. I have been tasked with giving you some instructions by my said occult colleagues. 1. Gather up as much of the mass of the object as you can.

2. Burn it, if you are religious, pray while you burn it. In fact, praying during every step of this disposal process couldn't hurt.

3. Gather up the ashes, wrap them in a burlap sack tied off with a leather cord (yes the material is important).

4. Place (DO NOT THROW) the bag beneath the current of cold, running water.

5. Wait for any bubbles or any motion within the bag to stop, anything that's drowning in there is not your responsibility.

6. Gently release the bag and do not take your eyes off it until it either hits the bottom or vanishes from sight.

7. Scoop up the water in a metal container with your RIGHT hand

8. Douse the spot you picked up the material from with the water. Do not touch, sit on or otherwise interact with the spot until the water has naturally dried.

9. If at ANY POINT these processes do not go as planned. If you notice signs of your car or home being rearranged without your knowledge. Or otherwise sense anything amiss, contact a licensed occultist from www.Shadowpact.org and follow any further instructions TO. THE. LETTER

10. Make a mental note that you do NOT fuck around with magic. Magic is NOT a joke or a scam. And the people who deal with magic are VERY well educated in how not to get themselves killed. YOU ARE NOT.

[takaraphoenix]

Hey! It's me again! Your favorite indecisive author!

I'm gonna wrap up two multi-chapter fics this month and I am, once again, unable to decide which one I want to write the most. So I am outsourcing the decision making to you!

The Alpha Pack's Spark

Deucalion/Peter/Stiles, post season 2.

When Peter resurrected, he was still an Alpha. Deucalion and the Alpha Pack came to town because Deucalion heard about his former lover's death. He is pleasantly surprised to find Peter back alive.

He is also surprised when Peter comes to find him with three battered and bruised teenagers. Because Peter couldn't let Stiles slip out of the warehouse, injured and alone, and he somehow let himself be roped into tracking down the two wayward Betas.

While they agree to tend to Erica and Boyd until the teens are healed again, Deucalion makes it clear that there are no Betas in an Alpha Pack. But the two bond with the pack and they left Derek's pack and they need a pack.

Well then, it's a good thing that Stiles has magic that roots in his belief? If he wants it enough, it'll happen. And he wants Boyd and Erica to be able to stay in that pack, even if that meant being Alphas.

Color Deucalion, Peter and everyone else surprised when they realize Stiles is a Spark. And one powerful enough to create Alpha sparks.

Changed (For the Better)

Deucalion/Peter/Stiles, post apocalypse time-travel fix it.

The world had gone to shit. Everyone Stiles loved was dead, his mate had died in his arms just before Stiles used the last of his magic to go back in time and try to save everyone.

The spell took "save everyone" and brought Stiles back to the night Paige would die. So he could save Derek. What a wonderful coincident that Gerard is in town too, to betray Deucalion. Because in the end, Gerard had played a huge role in revealing the supernatural to the world and leading to everyone dying. So Stiles kills him, before he can ever do any harm.

Stiles didn't know what to expect though. Was he supposed to live out his time in the past? Would he just... die, once the deed was done?

He didn't expect to be transported back to his time... but in a different timeline.

People he lost years ago were alive again, everything was different. His mate, his Peter, was alive... and was happily mated to Deucalion. Who wasn't a bad guy in this timeline, because as a side-effect to his own revenge, Stiles had saved the man too.

Now Stiles has to adjust to this new reality, this new world that he doesn't belong to, while carrying the pain and trauma of the original timeline and being forced to watch the man he loved be in love with someone else.

Mutual Understanding

Derek/Stiles, sequel to Mutual Devotion and Mutual Benefit.

A rewrite of season 3A, minus the Alpha Pack and with a twist on the darach, in the universe where Derek and Stiles got together between s2 and s3. They're an established Alpha Pair and their pack - Boyd, Erica, Isaac, Jackson, Lydia, Peter, Danny and the recently added Scott and Allison - is good, they're strong. Are they strong enough to face this new threat together?

Shadow of the Sun

Peter/Stiles, in a sort of Shadow and Bone AU, as Darklina.

A long time ago, Peter's entire pack were slaughtered, because the royal family feared werewolves. Only Peter and his nephew Derek survived. Enraged and seeking vengeance, Peter gave himself to dark magic and, as a side-effect, created the Shadow Fold and made himself and Derek immortal.

Centuries later, the Argents are still on the throne. Under ever new identities, Peter and Derek serve at the court, training the supernatural army that King Gerard uses as cannon fodder.

All Peter wants is for the royals to be gone, for the oppression and death of his people to finally end. He knows that what he needs for that is a Spark, though most people believe the Spark to be a myth.

Stiles was just an orphan from the small town of Beacon Hills, signing up for the army because there was nothing else for someone of his status to do. Besides, he had his best friend Scott with him. They were making due.

Until they are sent through the Shadow Fold and Scott nearly dies. To protect his best friend, Stiles taps into a magic inside him that he didn't know he had - his Spark.

He is sent to the Little Palace, to be trained by General Hale in the use of his Spark so he could one day tear the Shadow Fold down for King Gerard.

(And let me be clear that when I say sort of Shadow and Bone, I very much mean "my Spark is not gonna work to uphold the status quo and the royals' rules, fully joining Peter to tear down their oppressors and be the power couple that Darklina should have been. Also, no Grisha, just general supernatural creatures as in Teen Wolf canon")

[rypnami]

Theiara Drabble

self- indulgent theiara drabble about a time they see a dragon, feat. some stuff i made up on the fly (hehe get it) about the hebridean black. not beta read or edited so keep that in mind heeh. literally no plot i just wanted to write them.

word count: 1081 no warnings, just fluff and the classic theiara bickering lol. established semi-new relationship <3 idk if any of this makes sense byeee

tagging @amethystandemma since chatting w/ you about the dragon pics inspired me lol

The Scottish highlands are, in Chiara's opinion, the most beautiful place in the world. Granted, she hasn't been to many places in the world, and perhaps being a Scot herself, she's biased, but simply nothing can compare to the rolling green of the mountains or the glistening water on the scattered lochs. Now that winter is, for the most part, over, and spring is finally showing its face, it’s the perfect time to take a long walk and enjoy seeing the sun for the first time in ages.

The only thing that could make the day better would be if she had someone to share it with- as luck would have it, she does. After quite a lot of convincing, she has brought Theseus Scamander in tow for this mini-adventure. They’ve been coworkers for a few years now, but recently it’s developed into something more. They haven’t technically labelled it yet, but it is certainly more than just friends, or coworkers that drive each other mental at any given opportunity. 

Where she has opted for more casual clothes for once- a simple white blouse and knee-length grey skirt, he is in his full blue overcoat, the grey blazer she’s rarely seen him out of, and his incredibly fancy shoes; perhaps not ideal for a trek in the highlands. It’s hardly different from what he would typically wear to work, as if they are about to be called on a very important case, and not out trying to enjoy themselves on one of their few days off. He does look good, however, so she can’t complain too much. 

They’ve stopped in an open meadow-like area, surrounded by hills and dotted with purple flowers. She flops down in the grass, just off the well-worn dirt path, and breathes in the freshness of the air. Her pale blonde hair spreads out amongst the green.

Theseus leans over her, eyebrows raised. “You’re going to get insects in your hair doing that, you know.”

“Spoilsport.” 

“I’m only sayingggg, I don’t imagine you, of all people, want crawly things all over you.”

Hm, true. Chiara hates just about anything with more than 4 legs. Honestly, who needs that many? What are they even used for? “You’ll pick them out for me.”

He sits down beside her, smiling slightly. “Of course I will. But… is this really what we came all the way out here to do? Have you lay on the floor?”

“It’s called appreciating nature. Try it sometime.” She sticks her tongue out at him. “And ‘all the way out here’ is an exaggeration. You can still see the hamlet.” Chiara points left, back down the dirt path, where just peeking over the rise of the hillside, the thatched roofs of Bainburgh are visible.

 

“Yes, but we could appreciate nature from there.” 

“If you’re going to whinge the whole time, you can just go on back and I can enjoy myself.”

“Hey, now, I didn’t say I want to go back.” Almost absentmindedly, he reaches over and starts playing with her hair. “Just pointing out that someone truly in awe of the natural world could do it anywhere.”

“Have a sense of adventure, Scamander,” Chiara huffs, sitting up and crossing her arms. “There’s more to see out here than at a mouldy old hamlet!” She gestures as a couple shaggy, long-horned cattle that meander by. "See?!"

“Ah, yes, we can see all the cows. I love cows. Very interesting.” A grin spreads across his face, and accompanied with the twinkle in his eyes, it would be obvious to anyone that he’s only trying to rile her. Unfortunately, Chiara has never been one for attentiveness to such things- or emotional regulation, honestly. 

“Cows are brilliant!” 

“Have you seen their expressions? It looks as though they operate on about 2 brain cells.”

Chiara narrows her eyes. “Two more than you have.”

Theseus chuckles. “Alright, alright. You know I’m teasing. I love spending time with you, wherever. Even amongst the livestock.” He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her in so she’s sitting in his lap. He rests his chin on her shoulder as Chiara leans back against his chest. “I’ll admit, it is nice to be just us.”

“Mm.” Chiara sighs. Yes, he might drive her up the wall sometimes, but she truly can’t imagine her life without him. “There’s not just farm animals around, anyhow. Could see… I dunno. Hippogriffs, maybe some Puffskeins, or- a dragon?!”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up about a dragon-”

“No, look! A dragon!” Chiara gapes.

Overhead, a handful of kilometers away, is, in fact, a dragon. It is positively massive- so big, in fact, that she can still make out what it looks like rather clearly. It has a massive wingspan with orange membranes spreading between long, finger-like segments. It seems to have dark brown or grey scales, but a lighter underbelly. As it flies even closer, close enough that they can almost feel the wind from its wings, she can see what looks like a large, vibrant purple eye. 

Although there is something incredibly unnerving about such a powerful, dangerous predator so close to them… it’s also oddly mesmerising.

“It’s beautiful,” Chiara murmurs.

“It is.”

“What species do you think it is?”

Without missing a beat, Theseus answers. “Hebridean Black. Looks like a female, too. See, she’s got two sets of horns, one curling forward. Males have three, and they all curve back behind the ears.” He squints at the dragon as she flies away. “Her tail is also pointed- a male would have more of a club shape, for defence.”

Chiara stares at him, her jaw hanging open. “How in the hell do you know that? Just off the top of your head?”

“Oh. Er, I dunno.” He runs his fingers through his hair, smiling a bit sheepishly. “I- suppose it’s my brother’s fault. He’s quite passionate about magical creatures. My whole family is, really, but him especially. When we were younger, he used to always talk my ear off about beasts and creature identification…only ever listened to humour him, but I reckon I was paying more attention than I thought.” 

“That’s… unexpectedly sweet.”

“I beg your pardon? I am plenty sweet. All the time!” 

“Of course you are.” 

He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Yes, well. Perhaps we ought to go back inside, on the off chance she comes back around and spots us… I don’t fancy being dragon food today.”

“...Fine.”

[777rare]

2025

hey my lovelies...I am back! It's been so so long since I came back here and I just want to first say...I'm happy to be back but also I apologise to whomever has been waiting for more content (if there are any lol) and also to those who have been waiting for my replies to your messages and asks.

I can't give excuses but I find it hard to catch up to everything at one go you know.

Like catching up to things online and offline stuff with friends, family, acquaintances, world affairs, online trends, celebrity drama and everything else is so damn hard for me.

Even my family tells me I'm the most lost creature they've ever met.

So what have I been focusing on? My further education and Academics. I need a stable life so I'm working towards it.

Anyways, I am back, but I do have to remind you lovelies that I won't be so active here.

Thats only cuz I'm studying...mostly without the 'stu' lol (I hope u guys got the joke).

Believe me, I wish I weren't so busy but when I get a little time to come here, I spend the time reading other posts on astrology observations cuz I just love em. There are so many talented souls here.

Anyways, I once again, am happy to be back😊. I also want to let you all know that I already have some content to upload cuz I left some in my drafts before I uhhh Disappeared. So yeah, see u very soon! Will also respond to asks and messages!❤️

oh, also the reason I just kept the title as '2025' is cause I did not have anything interesting to put....and anyways, I think the title was pretty eye catching no? Lol. Thankyou for reading so patiently, it means a lot to me ☺️.

[angels-read-fanfiction-too]

Short and kinda dookie Jerry fic but it's cute sooo pthhh

Warnings: swearing and errm... Josh doing a dookie

also this was based off my insert so sorry if it's not like you all too much :[ (now proof read, sorry to the people who read it with the spelling errors, i wrote it at 5am lol)

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

"Psst! Psst!" You very poorly whispered, tapping at Bill's shoulder who was just getting more and more pissed off. Just as the cherry on top, you were wayyy too close for comfort and those creepy eyes were staring right at him... It freaked him out. Why did Jerry even like this annoying bitch? "What? What?!" Bill yelled while whispering, putting a strain on his voice. You shrunk down a little and moved away in surprise at his sudden tone, expression blank and wide eyed. "Uh... nothing." You mumbled, looking back to your work and tapping on the table with your neon yellow spongebob pen with an obnoxiously big rubber figure of the character on top. He was shocked it was even allowed to be used to write an essay on the second world war. "Oh fuck off! the hell do you mean 'nothing'? you always want shit from me." Bill complained, basically seething in anger over something so small. You cartoonishly sighed and looked over to Bill with a slight pout "Is Jerry in today?" Bill thought he would start screaming in the middle of history. "I don't know and i don't care about a bitchy whore like you and her pathetic boyfriend." You looked around awkwardly before mumbling "jeez, man, i was just wondering." As soon as the class ended, Bill walked as fast away from you as possible and left you to find Jerry on your own.

While walking through the halls, you spot Pete! You rushed up to him, the books in your bag loudly bouncing as you ran. "Sup sup!" You greeted. "Sup." Pete parroted, closing his locker with some kind of horror comic in his hands. "What dat?" You asked, not fully out of my 'derp' phase, looking down to the gore fest of a comic Pete held. "Uh, your sister gave it to me, said she liked it." He said, an oddly hesitant feeling to his words. Hey, you remembered that! "Oh, yeah, she really likes that one. She let me read it but it's a bit too intense for me, made me kinda ill." Pete scoffed in a confidence he didn't deserve "Yeah, well i'm tougher than that. I won't let some geeky bitch try and out gross me." He paused for a couple seconds before adding on "But uh... don't tell her but this is pretty rough. I didn't know chicks were really into this stuff." Shrugging it off, you just explained "She freaky like that. Anyways, d'you know where Jerry is? I asked bill but he got mad at me." Pete huffed "The dumb cunt will yell at anything... Yeah, i saw him. He's in the bathroom pretending to have a massive dump." Your eyebrows furrow in confusion "And... he's just pretending?" Pete nodded "Yeah, just wanted to play on his DS." Your eyes flickered to the boys bathroom, a long silence coming between you two. "I don't wanna go in there" Pete shrugged. "Do what you want but if you're gonna go in there, don't be so prissy like you always are." confusion crossed your face yet again, "prissy?" "Yeah!" Pete explained "You know, 'wash your hands before you eat, pete' 'eating of the ground is gross!' 'you gotta wash your hands every time you pee' you know, prissy girl shit." Your face was dropped in pure shock "You don't wash your hands every time you-" "Okay okay!" Pete suddenly cuts you off "Come on, get in there, Go meet your prince charming."

Okay, time to find Jerry sitting on the toilet so long he'll get haemorrhoids- HOLY SHIT THIS PLACE STINKS! "Ugh Jesus christ!" You exclaimed the moment you walked in... is someone crying in here? "Uh... hello? i cry on the toilet sometimes too, it's no biggie... i also get really constipated so that's probably part of it." "I'm not crying! god fucking damnit!" a familiar voice yelled back. "Oh, hey Josh. Man, i try to lay off the fat jokes but you're making it really hard to not bring up how Elvis Presley died." You could hear Josh sigh from behind the stall door "Get out, Y/N. This is the men's room! What are you gonna do? Grow a penis and use a urinal?" You got weirdly defensive at that and argued back, "Hey! you don't know what i'm capable of, man. Also where is Jerry? Pete said he was in here?" Josh grunted in both annoyance and struggle with the toilet. "I don't know. He wasn't here when i was, now get out!" You then snickered and mumbled a little too loud "Yeah, because your stench probably dissolved him." "FUCK OFF!" You then quickly scurried out of the bathroom, giggling to yourself.

As you were laughing to yourself at your own joke, you bumped into someone... Hey! It's Jerry! "Hi!" You immediately hugged him, giving him a kiss on his acne ridden cheek. Jerry froze up a bit, flustered at the sudden affection "U-uh... Thanks, buck." He said with an awkward chuckle, not giving a kiss back but holding your hand. He wasn't big on pda but he did appreciate your excitement towards him. "I wanted to ask you, d'you wanna watch Ren and Stimpy after school?" Jerry smiled gently "I'd love to."

[weaveandwood]

The Snake and The Crow: Regrets

Pairing: The Viper x Female Rook (Bianca, an Antivan Crow mage) Words: 3.4K Rating: Mature

Summary:

Bianca faces all of her regrets, both in the Fade Prison and outside of it. Ashur deals with a fading mind. AN: Surprise! I got the chapter done early and was able to get it posted before the scheduled Wednesday update date! I've had a lot of this chapter sitting waiting to be used for a bit now, and I'm so happy to get it out for you to read.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! Read on AO3! Previous Chapter

Bianca blinked open her eyes. How long had she been out? Her head hurt, her vision was swimming, and every muscle in her body was screaming. The last thing she remembered was Ghilan’nain dying and everything going to shit. 

What happened? Everything felt wrong, like the air was thick and the color had been leached from the world. It reminded her of something. Almost like…

She sat up quickly, her head spinning, and saw a yawning chasm, not unlike the one she was used to when talking to Solas. There was someone on the other side, a woman. Bianca tilted her head, squinting to get a better look. 

Oh, no.  Oh, no, no, no.

It was her.

“Your work is done,” he had said, looking down on her with a mixture of pity and disdain.

She curled in on herself, panic beginning to course through her veins. She was trapped. Solas had betrayed her, used her to escape this prison made for gods and left her to rot. Her breathing quickened along with her pulse. She looked around this greyed out wasteland, desperate for anything that could get her out of here. Something. 

She thought she heard the faintest whisper on whatever would pass for a breeze here—there one second and gone the next, but it sounded so much like him. Like Ashur. But it couldn’t be him, not really, not when he was still alive, or as alive as the blight would allow him to be. It had to be either a trick of the Fade or her mind. Still, she stood up, following where she thought the voice went. He was impossible to ignore. 

“There has to be a way out of here, I just have to find it. Then I can…What? Make things right?” she laughed to herself, bitterness replacing any humor. Her voice sounded loud and out of place here. Neve, Davrin, Assan, Lucanis…all dead. All because of her. Again. This is my fault, this is my fault, this is my fault . Her old ghosts came back to haunt her, like they had for weeks after the blighted dragon razed Minrathous. 

“Hey, kid. Solas found a way out, now you need to find yours.”

She turned in a circle, looking for the source. Another voice on the breeze. First Ashur, now Varric? Her mind had to be playing tricks on her, craving something familiar, something comforting. Nothing in the Fade made sense. 

Stairs, though. Stairs were good. Stairs made sense. She started to climb. Another voice filled her head, the familiar shape of a friend flooding her vision as larger than life statues appeared before her. 

“I told you the enchantments were dangerous, but you chose me anyway. Who will protect Dock Town now? It’s like you want to see it wiped off the map. I trusted you, and it got me killed. Just like you killed Ashur.” 

Each of Neve’s words were perfectly sharpened to cut her where it hurt the most, each syllable a quick stab, poised to kill. They echoed around her, a whirlwind of pain, dragging her out to the sea and pulling her under. This is my fault . 

“Rook is not to blame.” That same faint whisper. Was it in her ear, or her memory? She couldn’t tell either way, only that it was Ashur once again providing a small act of mercy, stopping her from collapsing in on herself just as he did the night the dragon razed Minrathous. The flurry of daggers stabbing at her soul with every beat of her heart fell to the ground and she could breathe once more. This wasn’t her fault. This prison was locked by regrets—she couldn’t afford to dwell on them anymore, not if she wanted to get out and finish what they started.

“I made a choice. I live with the choices I make. The successes…and the failures. We all believed in this. The real Neve knew what it might cost.” She wasn’t sure who she was saying it out loud for. This fake Neve surely didn’t care. Maybe it was just for herself. 

More stairs. With shaky hands, she continued. What would she face next? Who would she face next?

“Whatever it takes, that’s what you told us. You lived it every day. You asked a lot of us, of the team. But you asked even more of yourself. After everything you’ve done? It was my turn to make the sacrifice. And I’d do it again. Without a second thought.” 

A tear fell down her cheek. Davrin was supposed to be living a new life, finding new purpose with Assan and the other griffons. He was more than his sacrifices, he mattered outside of his death. And now he was gone. 

“I’ll make sure your sacrifice matters, Davrin.” 

“What about mine?” Varric asked. He was no trick of the Fade, as real as anything here could be. She wished she was imagining things, that this was just a dream. Wake up, wake up, wake up . 

Solas had betrayed her yet again. Used her this entire time. Fooled her. He certainly had earned his many titles. She felt her magic deep within her, dulled by this prison but heated and burning with rage all the same. He was lucky this wasn’t a prison locked by wanting to throw him off a cliff, weighted down by the heaviest of stones or she would never break out. She looked at Varric and her fire gave out, extinguished by overwhelming grief she had not yet been allowed to feel. He had been…all this time…

“I think I knew the truth, deep down, but I couldn’t face it because it would mean admitting I let you die.” This was my fault. “I made a call, and it got you killed.” 

“Haven’t you learned anything, kid? I made the choice, even knowing the risks. My decision, my sacrifice. You don’t get to take that from me.”

Varric always had a way of making her see things clearly. Everyone made their choices, they knew the risks. She may have been the leader of the team, but it was not on her to shoulder everything. It was not on her to diminish their sacrifices, to take away their autonomy.

Even me , the faint whisper said. It is what it is .

She closed her eyes, allowing it to seep in, filling every empty space within her, grief replaced by acceptance. Of course Ashur would challenge a dragon by himself to save those less fortunate than he was. Of course Davrin would distract Ghilan’nain to allow Lucanis to take the shot. Of course Neve would offer to break the wards. Of course Varric would try to reason with his old friend. They were who they were. 

It is what it is. 

“Rook!” She heard Lucanis’s voice in the distance, relief flooding her so quickly she thought she might drown in it. An arm grabbed her through the pale light she had been walking toward the entire time without realizing it, the place where the veil was thinnest. 

“I’d say good luck, but you don’t need it,” Varric called as she was pulled through, reunited with her friends once more. 

She wanted to believe him.

Dear Ashur, if you’re reading this, I didn’t make it back from Tearstone Island . 

Dear Ashur. Dear Ashur. Who was Ashur?  Was he Ashur? He must be Ashur. 

The thoughts in his head were dissonant, making it nearly impossible to focus sometimes, but when he thought of her, he was able to find himself once more. He was Ashur, The Viper, so many other masks, and she was Bianca, Rook. Gone. Betrayed. Pulled into the Fade by the Dread Wolf. The very one who was assisting Minrathous at this very moment with holding back the blight and Elgar’nan. It had taken all his restraint not to use what little magic he had remaining when he saw Solas. Had he been healthy, unblighted…but he wasn’t. He didn’t have the strength to focus his magic on anything but keeping the blight within himself contained, just for a while longer. Just a little while. 

His brief hold on his focus was waning, the call of the Blight growing ever louder. It would be so easy to succumb to it. For some reason he couldn’t recall, he didn’t want to succumb to it.

Through blinding mist, I climb a sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base endlessly far beneath my feet. The Maker is the rock to which I cling

The Chant always provided him with comfort in times like these, he had said to her the last time he saw her. He did not know then it would be the last time he saw her. 

Her? Who was her ?

Bianca. Bianca. Wild curls, ocean blue eyes, spark and flame. The letter. He went quickly to the desk in his room, no longer at the Shadows hideout but in his home that was too grand for one who was just a man. A man, not a title. The letter lay there, well-read with edges crumpled and stained with drops and smears of black blight. He skimmed, looking for his favorite part: 

I had already started falling in love with you.

Love. It made his magic spark to life once more, warmth flowing through his veins. Something it had not done these last weeks once he learned she was gone. They were trying to get her back. He could not do anything but pace his room, a fate worse than this blight for a man of action. 

It called to him. Sang louder than The Chant at times. He had fought this for months, but it was winning. Tendrils of inky black coated his body, the dripping proof of his injury everywhere he touched. Perhaps it was better she did not see him like this. He read the letter again, his eyes stopping once more at her confession. 

I had already started falling in love with you.

He had loved her from almost the beginning, that was one thing he remembered. He never got to tell her and now it was too late. So many secrets, so many lies, so many things he thought he was protecting her from. For nothing. She was gone and he would be soon. A faint thought of “It is what it is” echoed through him, anger rising. The blight sparked, feeding on it. He didn’t want acceptance. He wanted her. He wanted love. He wanted to be selfish for once in his life. 

Why wasn’t he selfish?  Who was he? A glance at the letter. Dear Ashur. He was Ashur. 

A soft knock at his door. The blight within him surged, the song begging.  Rip. Attack. Tear. Feast.  He swallowed it down. His magic was so tired of swallowing it down.

“Enter,” he called, as much as he could. His voice was weak for the first time in his life, used to echoing through the Chantry or the hideout, leading his faithful. No more. A man opened the door. He had a vague flicker of recognition. Who was he? Tarquin. Tarquin. 

“We just got an urgent missive. They have her—she’s back. They’ll be fighting Elgar'nan tomorrow.” 

Something he once recognized as relief flooded through him. The end. It would be over tomorrow. He could hold on just one more day, join the fight. He knew he wouldn’t survive it, but he could help. He sat down and grabbed his pen, hands shaking from the effort. 

Bianca, I have succumbed - either to illness or violence but either way I no longer remain on this side of the Veil and have gone to the Maker’s side. The truth of the matter is this…

It was time to write his own confession. For her. 

It turns out, you don’t have to be trapped in the Fade to be in a prison of your regrets. Regret didn’t have to be a statue of a fallen friend, the memory of one you didn’t realize was lost, or the voice of someone you were on your way to losing. Regret could take the form of a pair of warm brown eyes looking down at you, a trusted friend who could be more. Who you thought you wanted to be more. It could take the form of a pair of violet wings wrapping around you in comfort when they were usually used to aid in violence. It could be the gentle press of lips followed by a more urgent one, whispers of “you’re here,” and “I promise.” It could feel like hands that are not the ones you truly want tracing the shape of your body. It could feel like dancing on the knife’s edge of love, but with the wrong person. It could feel completely right, but completely wrong at the same time. 

She wanted this.  She didn’t want this. 

He wanted this.  He didn’t want this. 

“Wait,” Bianca said. 

“What is it?” His brows knit together, the crease between them present once more.

“This isn’t…we shouldn’t, Lucanis. I’m not what you want. I can’t be what you want,” she said. She couldn’t be a statue in his own prison of regrets. Something he looked upon and thought if only I hadn’t. 

“You—I want you, Rook, as you already are. I thought you knew that. I thought you felt the same,” he said, sitting back on his knees between her thighs. Lies. To her, to himself, to everyone. 

I do.  I don’t. You do.  You don’t. 

She was silent. She saw him start to retreat back into himself, the pedestal of her sculpture already formed in his mind. How do you tell someone that you want them, but that you want someone more? Someone you can never have, someone who will be on the other side of the Veil sooner than either of you would like, someone you would have gladly stayed in the Fade to meet once more? How do you tell them you know they feel the same about you—the wanting and the not wanting, constantly at war with each other. 

“I thought I did. I want to.” She had thought, when he came into her room moments ago, that she could love him fully, that she would be able to forget everything else and have only him. He understood her, he trusted her, he had been there for her through it all. His was the first voice calling her name as she was pulled from Solas’s prison. She had been so close to falling before, what was stopping her now? She had been so good at lying to herself her entire life, why would her heart not let her lie about this?

She had fantasized about it, being with Lucanis. The Demon of Vyrantium, the First Talon, the rogue who almost captured her hardened heart. The man who would kill with pinpoint precision then come back and make her churros because he remembered her favorite drink was hot chocolate. Daydreamed how it would feel to be a part of something, fully, and have a family with the Crows she always felt like she was on the perimeter of, just inches away from belonging. She had wondered how those hands would feel on her body, in her body, and now that they were…they weren’t the right hands. 

It’s not fair to him. He deserves more. She deserves more. She sat up, still in her undergarments but feeling completely naked in front of him. 

“Lucanis, I–”

“I thought we had something, Rook. Why are you pulling away now? After all this time?” he asked. “Why would you—”

“Lucanis,” she interrupted, smiling softly. “You don’t want this either, it’s just easy . I’ve seen how you look at Neve. How you smile around her. You don’t smile like that around me. And I don’t think I can smile like that around you. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll be able to smile like that around anyone, at least not until…”

His face softened. “At least not until you know…” 

Neither of them could bring themselves to say the hard truth. Until he was dead . 

She nodded, though her head barely moved. Her hands in her lap suddenly were the most interesting thing in this room—anything to avoid seeing the hurt on his face. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

They sat there in silence, moments dragging out into eternity. Would the Fade reclaim this space with the two of them frozen in this position, the stone of the Lighthouse crumbling around them while they sought to avoid looking at each other? Would the glass separating them from the aquarium crack and deteriorate with age, the fish long gone due to lack of care, the plants that brought her so much comfort with their rhythmic floating on the currents crumbled to the floor below while they avoided saying anything that mattered?

She felt a hand on hers. It may have been moments, minutes, hours, or decades later, she couldn’t be sure. She looked up to see him looking at her, his eyes warm and soft, a knowing smile on his face. A tear she didn’t even know had formed escaped down her cheek. He reached forward to brush it off her face. 

“I still can’t believe we found you. I thought we’d never see you again, that I’d never see you again. That you were lost for good.” He laced his fingers with hers, still fighting the war between wanting and not wanting. 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, I’m afraid,” she said with a half smile. She brushed her thumb against his, fighting the same war. Her heart tugged and pulled, Lucanis and Ashur on opposite sides. Something growing or something dying, something expected or a beautiful surprise, something easy or one of the hardest things she’s ever experienced. 

Why did she always have to choose the difficult path?

“You’re right. About Neve,” he said after a few moments. “You’re always right, Rook. It’s infuriating sometimes.” He cocked his head to the side. “Spite agrees.” 

She let out a small laugh, her fingers sliding out of his after his confession. “Well if Spite agrees, who am I to argue that?” 

She wanted to cling to him, to tell him it was a joke, that she was only kidding— “Oh, you know Rook, never serious!” She faced the prospect of being alone, truly alone, for the first time the day after tomorrow and she had to admit she was terrified. But that was her sacrifice to make, for Lucanis to be as happy as she was in those hours before the dragon attacked Minrathous and all of her hopes were as blighted as the man she hadn’t yet admitted to herself she loved. That she still loved. That she would love, until it was over. Maybe long past that. 

“Will we…be okay?” she asked, tentatively. She didn’t want there to be any issues or unhealed hurts between them, especially when they both went back home to Antiva to resume their lives—him as First Talon, and her as a thorn in Viago’s side. 

“More than okay, Rook,” he said softly, brushing a curl from her face and tucking it back into place. He kissed her softly, one more to add to her small collection of kisses from him that night. One tentative and sweet, one desperate and urging, and one for goodbye. She stared at her empty hands, lost in thought while he dressed and left, the door to her room closing with a gentle click. 

She lay back on her sofa and turned toward the fish, her constant companions. She watched as they swam to and fro, free to go where they pleased, wherever the current took them. She wondered, as she contemplated how her life would look after tomorrow, if she could be afforded that same option. Throughout her entire life, she realized she had never had a say in where she ended up, always a pawn in someone else’s plan for her. To be able to go where she pleased…it sounded like a luxury she used to only dream about on those cold nights surrounded by other orphans in Treviso, or when she was huddled up under a threadbare blanket distracting herself from her growling stomach back in Vyrantium. She had seen so much of northern Thedas now, she was changed through and through. How could she go back to her old life? Did she even want to?

As her eyes fluttered and finally closed, she found her head at war with her heart. She knew her heart would win. 

She always did choose the difficult path.

[goldkirk]

I don’t know how to explain any more clearly that it doesn’t MATTER if it seems legitimate to you. You have got to fact check every single headline and post and claim on the left just like you need to do on the right.

The left is NOT immune to misinformation and rushed reporting. And the more emotionally polarizing or shocking the talking points, sound bytes, and headlines are, the worse it is and more frequently it happens.

Learn to verify through multiple independent sources. If you can’t do that, you can’t trust it.

If you have to wait extra hours for the real information to come through vetted channels—NOT just one individual somewhere everyone links to, and not just one single media source either, EVEN if it’s a major news network—thats just how it has to be. What news outside of genuine local disasters near you TRULY needs your outrage and post-sharing in the next hour specifically?

Misinformation works best by not seeming like misinformation and by fitting in with the rest of what you already expect to see. It doesn’t help anyone to not be able to recognize and avoid the stuff.

[bitegore]

baru cormorant seems to me to be a series that suffers miserably for me having read machineries of empire first. unfortunately everything BC is doing strikes me as something MoE did better and more believably and with much a greater and more grounded eye for how systems, complex system interaction, and oppression like. work

[illmamnim]

[Listens to Only Us from Dear Even Hanson] omg All That's Left In The World....

[lizardho]

When I came out, I was SO scared I was gonna get disowned. I wrote a letter to my parents, sent it to their emails, put a physical copy on the counter, and left the house for a few hours to give them time. In that time I tried coffee for the first time, which was a dreadful idea, and got all jittery. I kept waiting for a text or something but nothing happened.

After a few hours, I didn’t hear back from them so I went home. My parents were home and had stacked a bunch of groceries on top of the letter without opening it. They said “hi” and I said “hi” and went down stairs to the basement. I held my dog and panicked about what to do. My sister, who knew that I had written them a letter of great importance, told me they hadn’t read it yet. She also told me she could ask them to do so. I consented to this and stayed in the basement. A few minutes later my dad knocked on the door and poked his soft smooth little nerd head in and said “hey buddy” and I started crying so hard I almost vomited. He came over and gave me a BIG hug and said that it was gonna be OK, he was OK with this, he knew it must have been hard but he was here for me. He told me he and my mom had already talked years before they had me about how if they had to pick between their faith and their child they’d pick their child. It was a very sweet moment. I came out to my mom later that evening and we were both bawling the whole time.

The day after I came out to my parents, I came out to my brother @inbabylontheywept at a Mexican restaurant and he took it like a champ. That evening my mom took me for a walk and looked almost angry - she said she wanted to make sure that I didn’t use being a woman as an excuse to not go to grad school. I told her I wouldn’t and she instantly looked relieved and happier.

My dad, on the other hand, seemed to struggle with it. He kept asking me if I had a boyfriend, and I told him I did not. He kept asking me if I wanted to go clothes shopping with him and I did not. He kept asking me if I would let him go to some of my shows, and I had NO idea what he was talking about.

Finally, 6 months after coming out, of awkward misgendering and questions that didn’t make sense from my dad, he excitedly pokes his soft smooth little nerd head into my bedroom again and says “I found a movie about Your People.” My people. I was absolutely bewildered, but he was so excited and I knew he had been trying SO hard so I watched it with him. It was The Birdcage, and it was amazing. It also was revelatory in that I finally realized why my initially-supportive father seemed to be having such a hard time with my pronouns and stuff - he didn’t know what the difference between trans and doing drag was. After the movie he again asked if I would invite him to one of my shows, and I said, “Hey dad, you know how about half the world is women?” And he said “yeah,” and I said “Well, see, I’m on that half now. I’m not doing drag.” And it was like a switch flipped in his brain. He was like “omg that’s so easy? I was so confused about what to call you when?”

Anyway, my parents are charming and my family has been so kind and patient with me, I like sharing the stories of my little wins with them.