#how to tag this let me see... there are fics here for:

[dollgxtz]

I’m seeing a lot of “People are so soft, of course Caleb drugged MC he’s a yandere.” discourse here and on twitter.

As a dark content writer, I wanted to add my two cents. So firstly, it genuinely pisses me off when I see statements like that. People are not soft for having boundaries and triggers. They are not soft for not wanting to be drugged in their fictional game? Like hello? A lot of people have irl traumas surrounding it too so it makes sense why they’re upset that it got sprung upon them in the main story.

Infold should’ve added a content warning. Full stop. It was very distasteful of them to spring this onto people. I’ve genuinely seen people in the lads community express how uncomfortable they felt or how they weren���t expecting it and got triggered.

It truly hurts my heart as someone who writes this kind of content, because the last thing I’d ever want to do is trigger someone with His Watchful Eye unexpectedly. That’s why it’s properly tagged and multiple warnings are given at the beginning so people know what they’re getting into. I tag every potential trigger and sometimes I still feel it’s not enough. That goes for any of my fics tbh.

Stuff like this really does give us who enjoy dark content a bad name. Like we have to realize we are the minority, majority of people do not enjoy that and it’s okay!! We shouldn’t be shamed for what we enjoy, but that doesn’t mean we should turn around and shame others for what they don’t enjoy.

“This must be y’all’s first otome game”

Please stop it with that statement too. There’s no prize for who’s the most desensitized 😭.

I’ve always encouraged freedom of expression with His Watchful Eye. I don’t get upset when people tell me they wish Yan!Sylus would die or they hate him and hope him and MC don’t end up together. I love Yan!Sylus. But does that mean I expect others to? Absolutely not!! That’s the beauty of fiction, everyone has different opinions on it!

All in all, let’s not shame people okay? People are vastly different in their opinions and thoughts, so let’s keep it respectful. Let’s not attack real people over fictional characters yall 🤍

Adding a pic of Sylus that I took below cause I literally can’t stop looking at it 😌

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Meet the Family 9

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, reference to suicide and Lloyd being offensive, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your boss needs a last-minute favour for the holidays.(petite!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: Thanks for all your patience.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Migraines always leave you a bit foggy. Like a hangover, or even a concussion. You power through the airport, waiting in line with your mustachioed curse. Lloyd taps his toe incessantly, adding to the plethora of overstimulation all around you. This isn’t how you envisioned your holidays.  

It’s the 26th and you’re supposed to be on your way home, not catching the flight you booked for two days before. And alone. You’re supposed to be alone. 

You take your boarding pass and leave Lloyd’s for him to grab himself. He huffs and follows after you. He’s like a big dumb dog sometimes. It’s amazing that the realization only comes over you then. It’s pretty obvious when he’s not behind a desk growling like some mafioso. He’s no kingpin, he’s a clown. 

You drop into a seat, your carry-on beside you, and he claims the seat to your left. He’s on the edge, jiggling his leg. You could thank him for upgrading you both to first class but he’s the reason you’re even there. It’s the least he could do. 

You cross your arms and stare through the haze. The first-class lounge is quiet and softly lit. Isolated but for the pest next to you. He continues to fidget. Is he nervous? You didn’t think that was possible since he seems to lack any degree of self-awareness. 

“So, gimme the down low. You got a mom? Girl like you screams daddy issues. Is he still around?” 

You sigh. “Sure is.” 

“Wow, okay. Good guy? Strict? Shit, knowing you, he must be a hard ass,” he scoffs. “Should I put on my best behaviour? Should I have worn a tie, Pixie pie?” He tugs at the collar of his turtleneck. 

“What you can do is hush,” you retort. “Jesus, I’m tryna get my head together.” 

“Last night was wild,” he agrees, though it’s not the point you were making, nor a statement of fact. “We were so close, Pix. You shoulda just laid back and let the magic hands do their tricks. Promise,” he smooths his mustache, “this isn’t just for show. I’ve been told it adds a lot of sensation--” 

“Ew. Would you—if you even say any of that in front of my family--” 

“You gonna spank me?” He asks brightly and sits back, slinging an arm over the back of your chair. 

“Please. I have to at least make this believable and you’re not making it any easier,” you snarl. 

“Are you serious? Our chemistry is like if Einstein banged a beaker--” 

“Einstein was a physicist--” 

“Science is science, baby. All I know is there’s something here and the sooner you accept it, the harder I’ll-- I mean the easier this will be.” 

You look at him dully. All those years you spent bending over backward for him. Behind the mask, he’s a cretin. You always had a suspicion but he was never your creep to deal with. 

“How do you do that?” He asks. 

You grumble and shake your head, turning your glare to the flat screen across from you. 

“How the hell do you skin a man with your eyes? It’s bone tingling and boner-inducing, but damn, it’s something else,” he shifts in his chair noticeably, “you’re gonna make me fly all the way to Canada at half-mast?” 

“You can book a seat across the plane from me if you’re going to keep on,” you warn him. “I’m really not in the mood. We have a deal. I’ll do my part. Pretend, nothing more, and you’ll keep your hands to yourself and give me my money.” 

“I got it, baby. I’m a businessman,” he turns straight and plants his feet wide. “I make deals every day. You’ll get yours.” 

“I want an advance--” 

“An advance? What the hell do you mean? I paid for first-class. Elite,” he punctuates with his finger. “Advance, my juicy ass.” 

“Ten. In my account. Before take-off.” 

“Pfft, you don’t trust me?” 

“No, I don’t,” you affirm. “More so, you owe me. I defaulted on the refund on the flight you made me miss. Oh, and I didn’t get to see my family. On Christmas.” 

“Jeez, well you don’t seem that happy to,” he accuses. 

“Money, now.” 

“Fine, but I get one titty grab--” 

“You get nothing. Mon-ey.” You rub your fingers together. 

He huffs and leans forward as he takes his phone out. He rolls his eyes and taps around on the screen. He takes a deep breath then pushes down. He shows you the screen. “Go ahead and check. You got your blood money.” 

“This is your idea,” you retort. 

“It is my idea but you’re rejecting all my other ones. Like, you know, a sexy massage with a happy ending...” 

“You’re going to give me another headache.” 

“I’ll take it. At least I make you feel something.” He shrugs. 

You shake your head at nothing and check your phone. You can never be too careful with him. Sharing a room has more than proven that. 

🎁

You put the in-flight earbuds in and resign yourself to the hours ahead of you, trapped in a flying canister, next to this incessant man-child. He really brings out the bitch in you. That irritates you even more. You could do anything before without much thought at all; you just got through but Lloyd makes everything a task. 

You close your eyes as the video babbles on. It’s a new release, but those are all remakes and sequels without any real interest. The altitude does little for the shadow of achiness that lingers in the base of your skull. One wrong move and you’ll reawaken your migraine. 

The steady thrum of air around the plane lulls you in a stupor. Just enough for you to stop caring but not deep enough for sleep. You let your head fall toward the window and sink into the numb daze. 

A small tickle makes you shift. You think nothing of it. It’s so small, it could be nothing. Then the sensation travels down to your knee and back up your thigh. You smack Lloyd’s hand before he can repeat the action. 

“Quit,” you hiss. 

He spreads his hand and curls his fingers into your tender flesh. You squeak and open your eyes, clasping onto his wrist as he needs. It’s as if he pinching your nerves. 

“Ow, oh, stop--” you protest. 

“Come on, baby,” he leans over and winks. “Just let me pet the kitty. It’ll help you relax.” 

“How many times can I tell you the same thing--” 

“Just like a dog, you need to be repetitive. Conditioning or whatever,” he purrs. 

You glance past him at the low wall blocking out your seats from the sight of the other pods in first class. You clutch his two middle fingers and squeeze. You bend them back until he grunts and recoils. 

“You touching me isn’t going to make me relax--” 

“Never know if you don’t try,” he wiggles his brows. 

“Trust me, I know.” 

“I’m sure your family don’t need you in a pissy mood. I’m doing it for them, Pixie.” 

“Can I ask you something?” You narrow your eyes, “does the begging usually work?” 

He snorts. He shakes his head and sits back, raising his palms, “you will be flattered to know I don’t usually beg.” He leans against the seat and rests his head on the cushion. “When I tell a girl to hike her skirt up, she just does it. All of them but you.” He clucks and rolls his eyes. “You know that pretty blond from Pristine? Yeah, whenever she comes around, I got her bent over the desk. Thought you’d catch on, she’s not very quiet.” 

You won’t grace him with an excuse. You don’t need one. You’re usually busy, minding your own business, running his errands. You never cared about his office flings. 

“Maybe you should’ve asked her to meet your family,” you suggest. 

“Kidding me? She never shuts up. I gotta stuff my tie in her mouth. Usually why I turn her around--” 

“Lloyd,” you snap. 

“Jealous?” He smirks and you stare back blankly. “You know what? Gotta admit, you surprised me, Pixie Pie. Always quiet in the office, scurrying around like a little mouse. I figured you’d be good because you’d keep the yapper shut. Turns out, you know how to cut deep.” He pushes his shoulders wide and settles. “Never saw mom like that. Or Lillian. Yeah, that was good. You really got her.” 

He snickers and flutters his fingers menacingly. You yawn and look at the small screen. You don’t know what’s going on in the movie. What you do know is that Lloyd Hansen has more issues than one person can solve and you’re not there for anything but business. This is work. You’re getting your money and you’re moving on. 

🎁

Landing is usually a relief. You’re always happy to be on solid ground but it feels shaky as you walk off with your travel companion. The bounce in Lloyd’s step concerns you. He’s much too eager for this. 

He grabs his bags from the carousel, yours too before you can even approach. He loads them all onto a car and steers it around the airport. He’s whistling as you get through the terminal and head for the front doors. As you step outside, he chatters and stops short. 

“Holy grizzly dick, it’s freezing here,” he puffs a cloud of steam as his nose tints pink. 

“There’s not much more snow here than back in the States.” 

“Nah, it’s fucking frigid. Should’ve known,” he shivers and tucks his chin down. You make note of his snipe but don’t acknowledge it. “You maple drinkers drive on the same side of the road?” You glare at him and he winces as he meets your eyes. You’ve booked him trips to Vancouver several times. “Kidding. Obviously. That whole polite stereotype is bullshit, huh, Pix.” 

You ignore him and hail a cab. You just want to be still. The last few days, you’ve been upended. The long drive, his family, the hotel, then a plane ride on top of it all. You’re ready to just stop. 

He wheels the cart around to the trunk and leaves it to the driver to load. You want to admonish him but you’re over the argument. You know you’re going to need your energy. You get in and he climbs in with you.  

He blows into his hands then rubs his cheek. “Santa dropped a load on this place, huh?” He unzips his coat and reaches under it. He fishes around the inside pocket and slips out a pair of glasses. You furrow your nose. You’ve never seen him wear glasses. 

“Where did you get those?” 

“Hipster boy in coach. Snagged them when I hit the restroom,” he explains and pops them on, leaning against you as he cranes to see his reflection in the rear-view mirror. 

“You stole glasses?” 

“Borrowed,” he insists then turns to you. “What’d ya think? Am I the perfect good boy for mom and pop?” 

“You think glasses are gonna do something?” 

“We talked about this, we gotta be convincing, sweetheart. I gotta be a man that sweet lil Pixie would go for.” He adjusts the glasses. “I read Hemingway and have a degree in Social Justice.” 

“Shut--” you catch yourself and sniff. “I don’t even like Hemingway.” 

“Jane Austen? Really? A romantic?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“I’d say. We have to at least pretend we can stand each other. Not just...” he looks down at his lap, “stand for each other.” 

“Ugh, well, start with cutting out those nasty remarks. Second, try, uh, taking care of...” you gesture over your lip, “this.” 

He blinks and his brows draw together. He touches his upper lip, “my mustache?” His eyes widen behind the lenses. “Um, this is style, honey.” 

You scrunch your lips as you try not to laugh. He really believes that. You shrug as the driver gets in. He crosses his arms. 

“Whatever. Judge me but don’t just the stache,” he snips. “So, you gotta tell me. Favourite book.” 

“Do I?” 

“Well, we’re ‘engaged’ so I think I should know,” he argues. 

You watch through the windshield as the taxi follows the airport traffic to the street, “The Bell Jar. If I have to choose one.” 

“Oooh, Plath. How... depressing. But I knew it, you’re a reader, Pixie. Bet you like to sink into a hot tub and get cozy with a good novel. You get the kinky one, let the hand wander below the surface--” 

You elbow him and he cackles. “Alright, sorry. I just—a man’s used to eating daily.” 

“Maybe a diet will do you well,” you retort. 

“Cheat day will come soon enough,” he says. “I’ll do my best to keep my pants on, just don’t go putting your head in any ovens.” 

“You’re awful,” you exclaim. “That’s awful.” 

“Alright,” he combs his hair back, “gonna be a good boy. Promise.” 

“You can take the glasses off.” 

“I kinda like ‘em,” he grins and pinches the arms. 

You make a face but say nothing. The city passes by and your eyes gloss over the familiar sights. The taxi drops you at the rental place and you pull up the booking. There’s at least an hour before you get outside Toronto, then another to your mom’s place. You take the keys and jingle them at Lloyd. 

“Wanna drive?” You ask. 

“I don’t really know where I’m going,” he says. 

“Right.” 

“Besides, Pixie, you got control issues.” 

“Me?” You scoff. “Sure.” 

“Oh, you do,” he assures you as you cross the lot to the rental. “Once you give in to them, you’ll be a lot happier and I'll be your perfect sub.” 

You pop the trunk and tut as you approach the driver’s side, “get the bags in the car, would ya?” 

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Part 2 Coming On 01/26/2025!

I am so happy to announce that I have finally finished part 2, proving again that I cannot write a one-shot to save my life 😅! Thank you so much to everyone who loved part one and encouraged me to explore this world a little more for part two. I'm not going to lie I absolutely love how this one turned out and I can't wait to see what y'all think of it!

And also everyone say thank you to @justagirlinafandomworld for inspiring me with her fic Stranded that she wrote for @jacklesversebingo 😊

Part 1

Just A Little Something 😉

"Can the two of you stop playing find my tonsils and tell me where the hell it is I'm supposed to be driving to?" Dean grouses from the driver's seat while Sam leans over a road map squinting to look at the small print.

"Ready For Love" is playing over the speakers, barely audible over the thud of fat raindrops pummeling the windshield, blocking out the world around you, and sending the shadows racing across your skin where Ben and you are sitting in the backseat.

“Well, if you’d given me a few hours to fuck her at the motel instead of throwing a bitch fit-" Ben begins to say, turning his gaze your face to stare at the back of Dean's head with a lazy smile.

“Dean why do you care?" You interrupt Ben with red cheeks. "I know for a fact worse things have happened in the back seat of your car than Ben and me making out."

"Really? Because I can’t think of anything worse that you and him sucking on each other's tongues and helping the spread of mono." Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel and his shoulders tense.

He’s more wound up than a tinker toy.

It has been exactly thirty three minutes since Dean's mental breakdown back at the motel when Ben showed up. Furthermore, despite how much Dean had screamed at you at the motel, it appeared that he was still going to act like a two year old who wanted a cookie before dinner.

Sam's suggestion for the four of you to figure out why Ben was here, had been a welcome distraction from Dean's spiral. It had prompted all of you to pile into Baby to try and find where it was that Ben landed in your universe and find a clue as to why.

So far the trip had been less like riding in the Mystery Machine and more like riding with the Griswold's on their roadtrip to Wally World…

A/N: I am tagging people who asked me to in part one, but if you wanted to be tagged for Part 2 and I didn't put you down please let me know! 💗

Taglist:

@roseblue373 @mrsjenniferwinchester @livya99 @zepskies

@winchesterwild78 @ladykitana90 @spnfamily-j2 @whyyouegg

@suckitands33 @pizzagirlxnsfwx @s0uz4s @schinug @just-levyy

@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @minas-fantasies @ladysparkles78

@mochminnie @peachhiz

[justanothermemestrider]

Nothing Ever Stays Dead - Part 2

Gadriel x Childhood Friend OC

Part two baby let's goooooooooo

Okay first up, I wanna thank every single person who has liked, reblogged, commented on and read part one (if you didn't catch it, you can read it here :)) . I love and appreciate every single one of you. Your support, comments and tags are literally food for my soul. So thank you ^^

Second, this fic makes reference to @beckyninja 's Titus x reader fic series. Specifically, it references Titus' relationship with the reader character "little healer." I really wanted to reference them bc they were such a big inspiration for me and @beckyninja is such an awesome writer and creator. If you wanna know more, go check out their fics. They're superbly written, and as mentioned above, they are among the inspo for this series. So go read them! :D

Third, standard warnings and notes: this part is sfw, but has violence, angst and general 40kness. Also unedited so apologies for any spelling and grammar errors (I'm sure there are some lol)

As always, thank you for reading and please enjoy :)

Between the towering grid of criss-crossing spires, the night sky twinkled at Ellicent. It was only a sliver- if she held out her hand, she could cover it entirely with her palm. But for a girl whose life until how had been spent at the very bottom of the Underhive's deepest fissures, it was like looking through a planetary telescope.

Stars of every colour shone against the deep blue back drop. It might just be her imagination, but Ellicent could've sworn it they were winking at her. Like they knew how pretty they were, and were only too happy to show off of her.

A smile touched Ellicent's lips. For the first time in a long time, she felt truly content.

"I thought I might find you up here."

She turned in her seat. On her left, not far from where the chimney sat, a warm, round face framed with silver hair appeared over the edge of the roof. Ellicent's smile broadened a little more. "You know me well," she said.

Climbing off the ladder and onto the roof, Gadriel carefully made his way over to her Although they were about the same age, were she was lithe like a cat, he built like an ox. Meant with every step he took, the iron sheet that made up the roof shook and rattled. He lowered himself down beside her, then followed her gaze upward.

"Pretty, right?" Ellicent said.

"Uh huh. If only there weren't so many hive spires in the way."

Smirking, Ellicent leaned into his shoulder. Gadriel lifted his arm to make room for her, then draped it around her. Ellicent had to resist the urge to sigh- after sitting outside in the cold for so long, the warmth of his body against hers was heavenly.

"If you join the Angels, you'll get to see all of it," she said.

"You mean when."

"Sorry. When."

Both of their tones are humourous, but underneath is an edge. An unspoken tension wedged between them, despite how close they are now.

"I thought you'd be too old now, anyway," Ellicent said. "Don't they only take young boys?"

"18 cycles is the official cut off," Gadriel said. "I've still got one more left to make it."

Eliicent nodded, but said nothing. Her silence, however, spoke for her.

Gadriel's arm around her tightened. Gently, he guided her head into the crook of his neck. "Ellie. I-"

"I know. It's the best way to get out of here. To get us out of here." She shook her head slightly. "But it's not the only way. And it's definitely the most dangerous."

"It's only dangerous for me," Gadriel said. "For you and Mum, it's the safest."

Ellicent swallowed the lump that was forming in the back of her throat. An old familiar grief rose up within her heart. With it, it brought pictures of her father.

"Ellie?" Gadriel asked. She felt the warm kiss of his forehead touching her crown. "Will you say something?"

Gazing up at him, Ellicent gave him a brief peck on the lips. "We've still got one cycle," she said. "We'll figure something else out by then."

"And if we don't?"

"We will," Ellicent said.

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

It wasn't him.

Over and over, her head tells her the same thing. With every turn of her screwdriver. With every jolt of pain that shoots through her shoulder from her damaged cybernetic arm.

It wasn't him.

It wasn't him.

It wasn't him.

"But it was," Ellicent says aloud. "It was. He said my name. I heard his voice. It was him."

Why did he never come back, then?

Why did he leave you?

The screwdriver slips from her hand and clatters to the floor. Cursing, she stoops down to pick it up. "I... I don't know," she hisses at herself. "Maybe he- maybe he was too busy. Or thought I was already dead."

Or maybe he forgot about you.

Tears sting Ellicent's eyes. It's all she can do to keep herself from crying out loud.

"It wasn't him," she mutters. "It can't have been."

The snap of an opening door makes her look up.

"Ellicent! What the hell was that?"

Ellicent winces away from the voice. It grates her like a razor across her ear, spawns a knot of anxiety deep within her gut. "I'm sorry, sir," she says. "I-"

He punches her in the face. Hard enough to break the skin of her brow. Ellicent tumbles out of her chair, breaking her fall with her still-damaged cybernetic. The arm's metal hisses like a snake who's been stood on.

"How many Space Marines have you killed for me already, huh?"

Ellicent touches her finger to her brow. She stifles another wince.

"How many?!" Severus bellows.

Ellicent swallows bile and blood. "Ten," she murmurs.

"That's right. Ten." Grasping her by the pony tail, Severus hails her to her feet. His own bionic arm whines with the effort. "So tell me, " he spits. "Why the fuck was some trio of damned blue boy-scouts able to best you?"

Ellicent avoids his eye. He hates it when she looks at him. Doing so now would only earn her another punch. "I'm sorry," she says again, even meeker than before.

She can feel Severus' glare boring through her skull. Her scalp is screaming, but she bites her lip against the pain. Show no resistance. Only subservience. Even if you hate it, it is the only way to survive.

With a wordless snarl, Severus throws her to the ground. "Worthless wretch. I invest everything in building you, and you give me nothing in return."

Ellicent sneaks a glance up at him. Running his hand through his long, greasy hair, he wears an exhausted, frustrated scowl. "The Drukhari won't forgive us for this," he says, more to himself than to her. "They'll want to cut ties. Won't wanna risk having the Sons of Guilliman looking their way."

He carries on like this for several minutes. Completely ignoring Ellicent, as if she'd never been in the room in the first place. Ellicent pushes herself up to her knees, but doesn't risk trying to rise. Even without the threat of Severus' wrath, however, she doubts she could stand anyway. Her face aches from the punch, and her head is spinning.

It wasn't him, her mind tells her. Over and over again.

Her heart, however, is not so easily silenced.

But what if it was?

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

"A Valkyrie is on it's way for Chairon," Titus reports. "Despite appearances, the Apothecary believes he will likely survive."

Gadriel looks up from his hands. For the last hour, he's done nothing but stare at them in silence. He looks past Titus to where their brother lies prone. When the gas charge had detonated, Chairon had caught a piece of debris to the side of the head. It had struck with enough force to sever his helm, break his skin and crack his skull. A sickening mixture of emotions broil within Gadriel at the sight of his brother like this. At the knowledge of who had done it to him.

"Promise me you'll come back."

"I promise."

"Sergeant?"

Gadriel starts. "Forgive me," he says. "That is- that is a relief. Thank the Emperor, indeed."

Titus' expressionless helm stares at Gadriel for several long moments. Gadriel has to stifle the urge to squirm. The lieutenant briefly looks around; after the attack, the fireteam had retreated into a nearby complex, smashing down the windows and taking cover within its walls. Since then, the area has been silent. The only evidence of there ever being a fireifght are the odd tangle of black smoke still spiralling in the air. Satisfied that they are still secure, Titus looks back at Gadriel.

Then, he removes his helm.

The seals around his throat hiss as Titus breaks them, lifting off the helmet before tucking it under his arm. His face is squarer than Gadriel's, with a firmer jaw and a blunt nose. His hair is cropped close to his skull and the pair of silver studs above his right brow indicating his century-long career as an Ultramarine- gleam in the low, polluted light. His is a fierce visage to look upon, there's not doubt about that. But despite that, when he looks at Gadriel now, the only thing fierce about him is the intensity of his worry.

"Forgive me for saying this, brother. But you appear to be distracted. Unsettled, even."

Gadriel's instinct is to lower his gaze. To try and brush the lieutenant off with a snide remark or flat out refusal. Indeed, if they had been having this conversation back on Kadaku, that might have been exactly what he would have done. But much has happened since then. Many things, both good and bad, have passed between him and Titus. As such, the lieutenant has become one of his closest friends.

If anyone might understand, it will be him.

Taking a breath, Gadriel sighs it out through his nose. Removing his own helmet, he sits upon a nearby ledge and sets it on his lap. "That woman," he starts. "I... I know her."

"You've encountered her before?"

Gadriel covers his blush with one hand, feigning the need to rub his nose. "That's one way of putting it."

Titus eyes him carefully. Despite his best efforts, Gadriel can feel himself wilting under the scrutinisation. Titus clasps his helmet to his hip, then walks up to Gadriel to sit beside him. He's leaning forwards elbows braced on his knees. Something about the posture gives Gadriel a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Is she a former ally?" Titus asks quietly.

Gadriel chews his cheek. Shakes his head.

"An enemy, then?"

"No," Gadriel says sharply. "No, she- she was the first one."

"An ally?"

"How much more?"

The word makes him wince. "Yes. But she was..." Throne, how do I even describe it? "She was more than that. A lot of more."

Gadriel bites his cheek. His tongue feels like ash in his mouth. "We were... together. Before I joined the Ultramarines."

Titus nods thoughtfully. "I see."

A beat of silence passed between them. Titus is the one to break it. "Tell me, how long have you served for?"

"As of this cycle? Fifty three years."

Tirus nods again. "That's a long time. Particularly in the eyes of a baseline."

The comment is innocent enough, and in no way untrue. Even so, Gadriel feels his hackles rise. "What are you saying? "

"She tried to kill us, Gadriel. She raised a weapon against the Emperor's Angels. And even if she hadn't, I know you saw the same as I: the particle beams, the necronian cybernetics. That alone is-"

"It's not as simple as that," Gadriel says. He looks down at his hands. "It can't be."

His hands become fists. For the first time this entire interaction, Gadriel looks Titus right in the eye. "I need to talk to her."

"Sergeant-"

"No, listen to me. Ellie would never do this. Never. Severus must be coercing her or have her enslaved."

"Gadriel-"

"She could've killed me back there, at the warehouse. She had her blade at my throat. But she didn't. When she heard me speak, she stopped. She recognised me, Titus. She said my damn name!"

"Gadriel, enough!"

Titus' voice snaps like a whip, cutting Gadriel off mid-breath. The corners of his eyes have hardened slightly, and though he still appear sympathetic, Gadriel can feel exasperation bubbling beneath it. "I understand your frustration, brother. If she were truly falsely accused, you know I would take your side. But we both saw her wielding alien technology. We both saw her bomb wound Chairon and her blade almost kill you." His voice softens. "Whoever she was to you does not change that. It can't."

Gadriel bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to make it bleed. The taste of his own blood is sharp on his tongue. Sharper still is the invisible blade scything away at his heart.

But what if it's all my fault? He wants to say. What if I was reason for whatever terrible thing that brought her here, and if I didn't remedy it, I could not bear to live with myself.

Gadriel says no such thing, however. If he did, all he would get from Titus is more stern sympathy.

That isn't to say that Gadriel remains silent, however. In fact, he's already got his next argument prepared, has for a while. He doesn't know if it will work, and the only thing he does knkw is that, initially at least, it will do nothing but outrage Titus. But Gadriel has no other ideas. He's desperate. And he running out of the time.

"What if it had been your little healer?"

Titus' entire body goes rigid. "What?"

Gadriel clenches his jaw. Both of his hearts pound as if he'd just stepped into a firefight. But he keeps talking. "She was accused of heresy, wasn't she? Her own people tried to kill her. But you saved her."

Titus' nostrils flare as he exhales sharply through his nose. "What relevance does that have here?"

"What relevance?" Gadriel demands. "It is the same thing!"

"My healer was falsely accused."

"You didn't know that when you saved her, though, did you?"

With a crash of ceramite on concrete, Titus is on his feet. "Speak your mind, Sergeant," he growls. "But I warn you; you are on thin ice."

Gadriel steadies his pulses with a slow, deep breath. Then, joining Titus on his feet, he meets the lieutenant's gaze. "If this was your healer," he says. "You would not hesitate in seeking her out. Even if she had attacked us- even if she'd succeeded in killing Chairon and I- you would go to her. You'd want to help her. Or, at the very least, try and talk to her. I know you would, and I know that you know it too, even if you won't admit it. So why won't you allow me to do the same?"

Titus' jaw feathers with tension. Gadriel can practically hear the storm raging behind his eyes. He imagines Titus can see something similar happening behind his own eyes, too. "You know the Codex would absolutely abhor such an action," the lieutenant says quietly.

"I do," Gadriel says. "But the codex is not always right. You taught me that."

For a long time, Titus says nothing. He just stares at Gadriel. Either searching for something within the sergeant's expression or mulling over his own thoughts. Gadriel's hearts roar in his ears. The cut he'd chewed into the side of his cheek has now become an open wound. But he doesn't dare interrupt the Titus' thoughts. Right now, the lieutenant is Gadriel's only hope. By extension, that makes him Ellie's only hope.

Finally, after what feels like a century, Titus opens his mouth. "You're right," he says. "Absolutely, you are right. And as your friend, I wish I could stand by you. But I am not merely your friend, Gadriel. I am also a servant of the Emperor, and I am also your commanding officer." He trails off, but Gadriel can hear what goes unspoken. It makes his throat close over, fills his stomach with rocks. "Titus," he whispers. "Please-"

"I'm sorry, Sergeant. But there is nothing I can do."

Gadriel opens his mouth to argue, but as the first curse word leaves his mouth, the bang of a firearm makes both Astartes turn. Gadriel scoops up his helmet and makes his way over to the window. Above the city skyline, piercing the dying daylight like a sword through armoured plating, a single, scarlet light rises into the sky.

"Is that a flare?" Titus says from Gadriel's side.

Gadriel swallows thickly. There's no way... No way she still has it.

"Yes," he replies.

"But there are no other Imperial forces here."

"It's not Imperial," Gadriel mutters.

Titus looks at the sergeant, confused. It doesn't take long, though, for the pieces to fall into place. "Gadriel-"

But Gadriel is already gone. Slamming his helmet back over his head, locking its objective marker onto the location of the flare, no other thought, feeling or concern in his mind.

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

Feel like I'm finally cooking now XD part 3 is about to be the scene that I dreamed up that made me wanna write this story in the first place so I am SO HYPED to write it :D

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed <3

Taglist: @solspina @beckyninja @egrets-not-regrets @wolf-feathers12 @jaghatai-khock @lemon-russ @moodymisty @hatsubara-8chan @nereidof40k @yanagikou @fyxestroll @yurihasurunbara @lylakoi

[midnite-c6]

After reading ur patient!namgyu fanfic I was just wondering if you could pretty please w a cherry on top write a fic about Seowan !! Doesnt have to be doctor x patient, I just need more fics w my beloved Seowan 🔥🔥 have a great day/noon/night!

i haven't seen any fics about seo-wan, it makes me so sad, but here's oneDJFH also, i added squid game tags because i want more nam-gyu lovers to see roh jaewon's character in daily dose of sunshine!! FIRST NON SQUIDGAME FIC .. my fav schizo TT.

kim seo-wan x reader !! <3 warnings: fluff , angst ?! , mentions of mental illness </3

つ⁠｡⁠☆ he's your study buddy!! both of you couldn't pass the exams the first time and you guys bonded over that. the two of you would sit next to each other when the professors lecturing about a lesson, since you both share the interest of being determined in passing the exams this year, there wouldn't be alot of talking during a lecture, but afterwards he's actually quite talkative!

he would also share his notes, giving you a bunch of sticky notes, all of them would have silly random doodles and small comments about how "you can do it!"

you manage to even hang out with him after classes ..which still includes studying, but you told him he needs to let lose, even for a little while. eating noodles in those small shops on the sidewalk, visiting libraries, and if you feel like your falling behind in studies, he would share the other side of his headset, making you listen to the lecture he found on youtube.

a new store would open up right next to the university, because the lessons were tiring and obsessing over the tests is unhealthy, the two of you decide to explore. it was actually a computer-shop.

since then, it's been you and seo-wan's new hobby, to play videogames for hours after lectures, how you were practically his pocket healer, how you two can't play alone without the other right by their side.

this newly-shared interest has gotten you two alot closer, you'd even ask him out, gratefully, the feelings are mutual, kim seo-wan is a simple man. now there'd be long sessions of kissing inside his small apartment, cosplaying, the two of you didn't have alot of money, but this was enough.

video games became a part of your life, one to escape reality. but unfortunately, this hit a little bit harder for kim seo-wan. you'd notice how he wouldn't take the time to study anymore. of course, as the concerned lover you are, you would remind him all the time, but he just wouldn't budge.

his parents were nice, they'd always treat you like you were family, even cooking dinner or lunch for you whenever you come over. since you haven't seen seo-wan in awhile, you'd ask them, only to find out your boyfriend has been sent to a psychiatric unit.

you would visit him everyday, telling him about your day, and asking about his. his day was filled with thinking of you, playing ping-pong with the other patients, and this fantasy world he lives in. but whenever you were too busy to visit, he'd be extra depressed inside the hospital and says he has ran out of mana. </3

you were always intrigued whenever he would tell you about his visions. his stories contain that you were truly his 'mediator', and that you're there in his life to save him. "this is very unprofessional, oh my dear.. mediator, but i'm inlove with you, for you make me look forward to explore even the darkest caves or the highest mountains." he'd take your hand to place a soft kiss on-top. he had forgotten your previous relationship before, atleast he still loves you in the new world he's living in.

you'd end up taking the test without him, but you'd never talk about it in the hospital, you know he needs more time.

in the end, you two agree upon each other to fight the fire dragon together, whatever the future may hold. because, as he confidentally says: "once i've saved up enough mana and leveled up all my armor, i choose you to come with me. you're the only one i can trust in defeating the fire dragon. i will protect you with all my life, my dear mediator!"

i'm sobbing just thinking about this bye ☹️☹️☹️ was gonna do nsfw parts too as i usually do but like i was too up in my feelings LMAOFHBRK trust im gonna post sum nsfw story next 🤞🏻

[endwersed]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged in (a little while ago) by the brilliant @violetfairydust & @crownofstardustandbone ✨

I'm still working through the first draft of my next fic, call it off - a high school AU with closeted jock Derek and out loser Stiles. Lots of angst can be expected, and here's a little snippet of some 😄

-

Behind Stiles, the hinges of the bathroom door creak, not a knock or a word before it opens slowly, before somebody comes right in and does not immediately flee upon finding the room already occupied. He grits his teeth, his eyes screwing shut so hard colour dances behind his eyelids, and crushes his fingers white-knuckle tight around the edge of the sink.

“Someone’s already in here,” he says.

No response. No cowed footsteps of retreat, either. Just the hinges of the door sounding once again, the snick as it shuts firmly and locks whoever that fucking is inside here with him.

“Dude,” he says, a harsh snap to his voice, “I just fucking said. Someone’s already in –”

He lifts his head, opens his eyes, and spies the intruder through the mirror. His warning cuts off with an abrupt click of his teeth, the pit of his stomach sinking right down to his feet as his eyes lock with none other than Derek fucking Hale, those sharp features dark and twisted in that unmistakable reflection.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Derek says.

There is nothing that Stiles can do to stymie the sudden, incredulous laugh that barks right out of him. He spins quickly in place, hands flying up into the air as he moves, wild and trembling as they hover out in front of him, his head already shaking as he snags Derek’s eye once again.

“The fuck, man?” He lets his hands crash back down to slap against his thighs. “Did you fucking follow me?”

“Yes,” Derek says, instant and flat and entirely unrepentant, even as Stiles’ eyes practically bug right out of his skull. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

“Um, I’m using the bathroom,” Stiles snarks, eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead as he flings an arm out to gesture around the room. “Which isn’t something I really need your help with, actually. So you can, you know – get the fuck out.”

A muscle ticks at the notch of Derek’s jaw, his hands already curled into tight fists at his sides. His eyes are locked onto Stiles, unrelenting, as he takes a single, small step forwards. It is still enough to send Stiles reeling backwards, stumbling over his own feet to get away, the edge of the sink jutting painfully at the base of his spine.

Derek stops. It does not even look like he is breathing. His shoulders are squared rigid and back, the corded muscle of his forearms tensed to prominent attention. A slow, ragged exhale pushes out from his flared nostrils.

“You’re only talking to that guy to piss me off,” he grits out.

Stiles’ jaw practically hits the floor, his head already swinging in disbelief. His breathes are coming out hard and fast, his nails scratching into the rough denim of his jeans, his heart pounding the beat of an unsteady drum against the brittle bones of his ribcage.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, a nasty curl to his lip. “I’m talking to him because he’s hot, and he’s single, and he’s not ashamed to admit who he really fucking is. That’s more than I can say for you, asshole.”

“He probably just wants to fuck you,” Derek sneers.

“Well, yippee,” Stiles laughs, high and harsh and hollow. “I guess that means me and him want the same fucking thing, doesn’t it?”

It has exactly the intended effect. Derek’s face falls into something gutted, something cracked right open, raw and vulnerable. Stiles slides his gaze up to the ceiling, a burn at the back of his eyes that he will not pay heed to, anything so that he won’t have to see that expression on Derek for even a moment longer.

“You… you left.” Stiles’ voice is quiet, broken already on those two words alone. “You just… left me there. You messed around with me, spewed all this bullshit about how much you like me, and then you fucking… you ran away.” He pauses, a shudder of choked breath catching in his throat. “You said it was a mistake. You said it was wrong.”

“It was wrong,” Derek snaps, his words fast, urgent. “Don’t you get it? I – I had to leave.”

Stiles flicks his hard gaze down from the ceiling. He meets Derek’s lost, pale eyes.

“Then leave,” he says, nowhere near as steadily as he wants to. “Stop chasing after me. Let me talk to whoever I want, to Luke or to – or to whoever the fuck, I don’t know. You leave me, and I’ll leave you, and we can both just get on with our fucking lives.”

He does not let another second pass before he pushes himself away from the sink, a jerk of his body to propel him forwards, intent on shoving right past Derek, knocking right through him. But he finds himself caught, finds himself stopped, by the too-tight clamp of Derek’s fingers gripping at his arm, curling around his elbow and digging harshly, desperately, in.

Their faces are far, far closer than they should be as they stare at one another. The space between them is filled with ragged, meshing, panting breaths.

“Don’t do anything with him,” Derek whispers.

It sounds like a plea as it slips softly from Derek’s mouth. Stiles shuts his eyes against its sincerity and rips his arm out of Derek’s entreating hold.

“That’s not really any of your fucking business, is it?” he spits. “So just… just fuck off, Derek. Go back to your girlfriend. Leave me alone and go back to your fucking girlfriend.”

-

No pressure tags! @anothersigh @dear-massacre @eevylynn @heavensenthale @like-lazarus 🩷

@lucky-bishop @okdeannawrites @patolemus @raisesomehale @renmackree 🩷

[kkreadsstuff]

how to recover/come down from a fic that u loved? why, get up under another one of course! while i get me final thoughts together about "meet your match," i'm going to read a pair of short fics, one dramione, one pansy/percy (which is funny because i have only read fics where percy is gay, so i'll have to get my brain switched into a different gear for that one lmfao).

first up is "one and done" by pacificrimbaud! i saw someone compliment it on the dramione subreddit, and it's short, so i thought, "why tf not?" it's 4 chapters, just over 34K words, and the rating is explicit. let's get cozy real quick!!!

here's the summary:

Hermione Granger has a career she loves, friends she can depend on, and a nice set of hand towels for her new flat. She's single and tired of tiresome men, but that doesn't stop her from wearing beautiful lingerie underneath her serious Ministry skirts. Or having pictures taken in naughty knickers. Just once. For herself. Draco Malfoy doesn't get upset at the sight of blood, which is good, because he sees a lot of it. What he doesn't see a lot of is Hermione Granger in her unmentionables. Usually. A series of meetings and mix-ups in which one cannot possibly mean done.

tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Dominance, Submission, Office Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Smut, Fluff and Angst, Smoking, Heavy Drinking, Possessive Behavior, Spanking, Jealousy, Praise Kink, Hair-pulling, Rope Bondage, Romantic Comedy, Happy Ending, Rolled sleeves

i am super into like........ all of these tags and i would just like to thank the Almighty right quick for all of the praise kink fics finding me! alhamdulillah 😭😂💖 i'm not really getting much from the summary besides that this is a kinky office romance but ykw, that's fine, i'm ready for it and excited to read this little fic! i've read two other little one shot sby pacificrimbaud and i REALLY enjoyed them, their writing was so immersive and kept me tuned tf in! so i'm excited for where this fic is gonna take me.

if u wanna see what i thought of the one shots i have read by pacificrimbaud, click here!

alright let's get going! 🐎💨💨💨

*this thread will contain spoilers for the story so turn back now if u don't wanna know what i know 👁👄👁*

[zephyrsobsessions]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @insomniaflarrow (my first tag in one of these!!! Thank you!!!)

Sharing another bit of Don hit Loki with a wrench cause I've been writing it so much and really like how it's coming along! Wanted to show a bit of Loki's perspective this time!

“It’s alright,” Loki waved his hands dismissively, “I deserved it.” Loki admitted, realizing how he had probably sounded. “It doesn’t look too bad.” Mobius grimaced, the hand that was on Loki’s shoulder now hovering near his injured cheek. Loki chuckled, easily detecting Mobius’ lie. “Yeah, alright.” He rolled his eyes, and then with a flick of his wrist, healed himself. He opened his mouth to adjust his jaw, checking that it was back in place, but quickly noticed the disbelief flash across Mobius’ face, followed by several other emotions that Loki could instantly name. It only took Loki a moment to realize why Mobius was so shocked. Because this was not his Mobius, therefore he did not know that Loki was the god of mischief. “Uh…” Was all that Loki could muster, once again finding himself speechless. It wasn’t often he didn’t know what to say.

I don't know many people who write fic, so here's a couple no-pressure tags: @distracteddream and @gloriouslokiuss! (Feel free to let me know if you'd like to be tagged in the next one!) And even if you aren't tagged, feel free to tag me in it anyway, I love seeing what people are writing!

[joaosnovia]

❦ - i knew you were trouble

summary:: you and kenans relationship is falling apart but you can’t help but love him amongst it all.

warnings:: angst

writers note:: i lowkey planned on finishing this series ages ago but i need to include kenan so here we are! and also a joao fic coming too from this series nd then i need to clear my inbox ! xx thank uu all for being so patient w me 😭

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; lmk if you wanna be added!

The bass reverberated through the club, low and steady, like the pulse in her ears as she watched him from across the room. Kenan leaned back against the bar, head tilted, an easy smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

He didn’t see her yet, or maybe he did, and he was pretending not to. That would be his style, wouldn’t it? To play with the tension like it was his own personal game, the stakes as unimportant to him as a casual flick of his wrist.

She knew better now. Too late, but she knew.

The first time they met, he was magnetic in a way she couldn’t quite explain. He didn’t have to try to be charming; it was effortless. His voice, low and smooth, carried promises that made her breath hitch without her even realizing it. He’d been trouble from the start, but she hadn’t wanted to admit it. Not then. Not until the shine faded and the jagged edges of his confidence started to cut.

Tonight, she thought, she’d walked in knowing exactly what she was walking into. She’d come here to end it. To look him in the eye, tell him she was done, and mean it. Yet now, standing there with the echo of his laughter cutting through the crowd, she faltered.

He turned. His gaze landed on her like he’d been waiting for her all along, and her stomach sank. That smile, infuriatingly self assured, spread wider, as though he already knew she wouldn’t follow through. He pushed away from the bar and crossed the room without hesitation, his stride slow but deliberate, like a hunter cornering his prey.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said when he stopped in front of her. Her voice wavered, betraying her resolve.

Kenan tilted his head, studying her in that way he had that made her feel like he could see every thought she was trying to hide. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be either,’ he said, his tone light, teasing. But there was a weight in his eyes that told her he wasn’t joking, not really.

She hated that he could do this. That he could stand there, so calm, so casual, while her chest burned with a thousand unsaid words. She hated that no matter how much she prepared herself, he always unraveled her in seconds.

‘You don’t even care, do you?’ she said, her voice sharper now. Anger was easier than the ache clawing at her chest. ‘You do what you want, say what you want, and then act surprised when everything falls apart.’

His expression didn’t change, but she saw the flicker of something in his eyes; guilt, maybe, or regret. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said, quietly this time. ‘I care more than you think.’

She didn’t believe him. Not anymore. But the way he reached for her hand, the way his thumb brushed over her knuckles, made her wonder if maybe she wanted to.

Maybe that was the real trouble; she didn’t want to let him go.

And he knew it.

[mscostac]

There you are...

You can call me Costa! (she/her/Ravenclaw)

I write. I daydream. I yearn for love stories and happy endings. This is how I ended up here.

This is the growing library of my stories—completed works, WIPs, longfics and one shots. I write SFW and NSFW (MDNI).

All stories are part of the same universe featuring the same characters. These are the pairings I love so much it hurts:

❥ Sebastian Sallow / Carolyn Morgan (FMC, Gryffindor Player Character)

❥ Ominis Gaunt / Phineas Black (MMC, Slytherpuff, canon-ish but mostly an OC)

All my works are published on AO3 and Wattpad, and you can also find me on Discord (mostly active on the OHL server) and Tiktok!

Below is the masterlist of stories & art commissions.

All sorts of interactions are appreciated ♡ I'm a pathological comment replier

Chronological Fic Order guide:

Main Fanfiction Works:

Take Me To The Lakes

COMPLETE | 35k words | Ominis Gaunt / Phineas Black | Mature

Childhood Friends to Enemies to Lovers; Forced Proximity; Grumpy Sunshine; post-game events. All-time readers' favourite and I recommend you start here ♡

Full story + summary & tags on AO3 | Wattpad

Epilogue one-shot on AO3 | Wattpad

I know he's rolled on his side because though his voice is low, I can hear it closely, right in front of me. Too close. He says, "Don't you want to put a face to the person you hate so much? So you can have a clear picture of me while you think about all the loathing?" As if I need to know what he looks like when I already think about him all the time. "Putting a face to it would only make it harder." "Make what harder?" He chuckles faintly at his own joke, but I can hear right through him. The hesitant, insecure, and vulnerable boy I once knew is still there. "Harder to hate you." Grasping my wrists, he traps my hands between his face and his palms. "Let's make it worse, then."

Timeless

Ongoing (~80%) | ~150k words | Sebastian Sallow / Carolyn Morgan | Explicit

real Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, arranged marriage, Amortentia, plot twists, all the 'firsts', dual POV

Full story + summary & tags on AO3 | Wattpad | TRAILER (VIDEO)

I heard Natty entering the dormitory, and the sound of her steps grew louder as she got closer to me. "The moon is beautiful tonight..." I breathed out. She leaned by the window, attempting to make eye contact. "I know dreamy eyes when I see them, Carolyn," Natty mocked. I blushed. "Do you think he knows, Natty? How I feel about him?" I grabbed a pillow and held it close to my chest. "Well... I surely hope he does. The endless letters during summer. The excessive amount of time you spend together. That canvas right there he gifted you. Honestly, I am surprised you two are not dating yet." "The canvas?" I glanced at the Iceland painting and wrinkled my nose. "Oh no... I am definitely not talking about Sebastian Sallow." She tilted her head to the side, lifting one eyebrow. "What? Who are you talking about, then?" "Natty..." I breathed out heavily. "I... I fell for him." I gazed at the moon again. "I am in love with Ominis Gaunt."

One-Shots Collection:

❥ Anne’s Every Flavour Biscuits

3.2k words | SFW | AO3 | Wattpad

Aroace!Anne, Coming Out story, Ominis Gaunt gives a hug

Anne Sallow has always felt different. What was supposed to be just a cosy evening baking shortbreads with a new special potion becomes the first time she feels seen (not literally, though, when it comes to her best friend, Ominis Gaunt).

❥ But Daddy I Love Him (You Should Have Seen Your Faces)

3.5k words | Ominis Gaunt/Phineas Black | NSFW | AO3 | Wattpad

Exhibitionism, P in M and A (say gex), Daddy Issues

Headmaster Black is dead, but it's not too late for his son, Phineas Black, to come out of the closet and make him proud with the help of Ominis Gaunt.

❥ Save a Candle, Blow a Wizard

3.2k words | Sebastian Sallow/Carolyn Morgan | NSFW | AO3 | Wattpad

Birthday boy!Sebastian, Deepthro@ting, nsfw art here

Sebastian's birthday was a day full of activities that his girlfriend Carolyn planned for him. She knew how to make him happy and indulged him with a birthday present of his choice.

❥ Sebastian Sallow Is Not Scared of Snakes

2.8k words | Sebastian Sallow/Carolyn Morgan/"Boggaunt" | NSFW | AO3 | Wattpad

cuckhold, voyeurism, inappropriate use of non-beings (?), crackfic, readers' favourite lol

There is an intruder at the Sallow’s Manor. Sebastian experiences a twisted new type of rage as his biggest fears are put to the test. Is he jealous of the unexpected visitor, though? Or, Sebastian watches a boggart shapeshifted as Ominis f*ck his wife. And he enjoys it.

❥ Two Sebastians Are Better Than One

3.4k words | Sebastian Sallow/Carolyn Morgan/Sebastian Sallow | NSFW | AO3 | Wattpad

threesom&/DP, inappropriate use of a time-turner, selfcest (?)

How Sebastian Stole Christmas, using Santa Claus’ time-turner to have a holly jolly threesome with his wife and... himself.

❥ Cedarwood Lakeshore

5k words | Ominis Gaunt/Phineas Black | Mature | AO3 | Wattpad

established relationship, fluff, surprise marriage proposal, Christmas and NYE, they live in NYC

13 years later, Ominis Gaunt and Phineas Black found their happy ending in NYC. Ominis has one last surprise for Phineas, and Phineas has one last surprise for Ominis.

Art Commissions:

Sebastian Sallow/Carolyn Morgan:

Swimming at Clagmar Coast, by puridew

First Date at the Owlery, by myokk

Their spot at the Transfiguration Courtyard, by giselesann

Almost Kiss during Christmas, by giselesann

Yule Ball, by giselesann

Night at the Library, by vienguinn

Black Dress and Suit, by giselesann

The Notebook kiss, by ketto-art

The First Time, by yoshitsuno

Touch Down (NSFW), by rednite-dork

Morning Daylight (Mature), by kylominis

Save a Candle, Blow a Wizard (NSFW), by meizze-art

Ominis Gaunt/Phineas Black:

Cosy reading, by giselesann

Smoking Hot, by giselesann

Do You Want To Know What I Look Like? by giselesann

Sharing a Bed (Phineas was, in fact, staring), by giselesann

Saturn promise, by giselesann

Rain Kiss, by giselesann

Idyllic summer, by pheexblack

Other:

Carolyn & Ominis are judging you, by kylominis

Yule Ball princesses, by silvyadrakkon

Sebastian & Anne shenannigans, by silvyadrakkon

Sebastian, Anne and Ominis bebes, by sylviadrakkon

Sebastian for Corinthians x Ominis for Palmeiras, by giselesann

header group art: commission by @adelikashere

Lakes and Timeless cover arts: @vienguinn

dividers: @saradika

[saradika]

— Get To Know Your Mutuals

I was tagged by @lubdubology, @flowersforbucky, @kedsandtubesocks, and @always-andromeda - thank you! 🥺💖 I loved reading more about you all!

what's the origin of your blog title? saradika is mando’a for little flower, and I thought that was cute! (and then eupheme is a greek goddess of praise/acclaim, I thought it sounded pretty & would be a fun name for a blog where I get to chat about how much I love the fics I’ve read! 💖)

favorite fandoms: my current faves are TNBF 😏💕, SDV, PPCU 💖, DP+W, TLOU, Marvel/X-Men - anything I’m writing for, really!

OTP(s)/shipname: ghoulcy, poolverine, characters x my friends OCs

favorite color: soft pastels and earth tones

favorite game: gosh so many - I am always down for a farming sim, but right now I am loving SDV, BG3, FO4, and anything animal crossing

song stuck in your head: ragged wood by the fleet foxes

weirdest habit/trait? cracking my knuckles

hobbies: writing!!! reading, crafting, napping

if you work, what's your profession? want to keep it vague but it’s a lot of spreadsheets and supporting sales

if you could have any job you wish what would it be? I would love to do anything creative - number one would be an author but I’d also love to be a ceramicist or crafter. OR a combo bookstore/coffee shop/art gallery owner!!

something you're good at: getting things done under pressure

something you're bad at: lots, but mostly letting my shyness /anxiety talk me out of reaching out/doing things

something you love: friends ideas & their fics, my partner, my cat, and time with loved ones

something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: lord of the rings for sure, fallout lore, animal crossing - any of my fave games or movies really

something you hate: being too warm (you know, on top of the recent political changes and also a number of things on here)

something you collect: omg too many things to list - right now I have a little collection of calico critters, and I also love tamagotchi and pretty books (and sometimes squishmallows!)

something you forget: that I don’t need to be constantly doing something, that it’s okay to slow down and take a break

what's your love language? gift-giving but in the me-giving-you-gifts way, and quality time

favorite movie/show: anything regency/victorian (esp p&p, emma, jane eyre, and north & south), when harry met sally, lord of the rings, fallout

favorite food: pasta & boba tea 🧋

favorite animal: cats!

are you musical? I would not say so

what were you like as a child? independent, quiet, always reading,

favorite subject at school? art and english, for sure

least favorite subject? math, it’s never come easily for me

what's your best character trait? thoughtfulness?

what's your worst character trait? non-confrontational - I’d rather chew my own arm off, thanks!

if you could change any detail of your day right now what would it be? that I could afford to work part-time

if you could travel in time who would you like to meet? I think a fave author like Austen or Tolkien, or Fred Rogers

recommend one of your favorite fanfics (spread the love!): I have an on-going rec tag on both blogs, I would so suggest any fic shared with them!! 💖

(no pressure tags 🏷️💖: @citrus-moonlight, @tarabyte3, @celestianstars, @tarrenterror25, @moonlight-prose, @zoe-creates, @zloshy, @elflutter, @ozarkthedog, @sceletaflores, @vellichormybeloved, @obiknights, @avocado-writing and you, if you see this!!)

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel 11

Chapter 11: fevered Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. Huge HUGe Voyeurism bit, arthur being a perv 🤨👀 huge weirdo energy LMAO small mention of wanting death, WC: 7780 Hello snow angels : ) here is chapter 11!!! this chapter will be from arthurs perspective so very exciting 😳 i had a ton of fun just getting nasty with him and writing his fucked up little thoughts 😈 arthur inner monologue was a bit weird at first but im sure ill get better at it by actually attempting to do it LMAO i hope you guys enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!! i wanna thank everyone who has left replies and asks about this series, all of you have been so supportive and amazing, couldnt do it without you guys 🥹🥹💖💖💖 also this ended up way too long so sorry Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol - What does it matter if the man who saved your life is a little strange?

It must be dusk falling too soon. Slow deprivation of heat and light; does things to his head, as if that wasn’t half screwed off already. Arthur’s fingers clutch the dusty curtain in front of one of two main windows at the front of his cabin; his eyes swear they can see…something out in the treeline. At first he thought of Pinkertons; to collect that bounty they were on about. Why they would follow him to the ends of the earth for that would be beyond him but Arthur had been known to do stupid things for a big payout. And of course, he hadn’t lived this long without a healthy amount of paranoia. Or what he called caution. Or perhaps Charles should have left his ass at the nearest asylum.

But he can sense that he’s wrong when nothing comes of it. No gunshots, no desperate shoot out for his life. Just the quiet again. In a minute, he’ll look out the window and watch the figure disappear. And he’ll shake his head, rub his calloused fingers over his tired eyes. He drops the curtain, pouring another cup of coffee at the silver percolator in the kitchen. He is not losing his grip; he isn’t. He’d leave that to Dutch. 

It’s gotten worse with the winter; those strange things he sees from time to time. They make him feel more out of place than he already does. As if there’s something wrong with him, wrong with this moment. The frost grows over the windows like mold.

The summer sun kept the darkness from slipping in and leaking into his vision. But that’s long gone, been gone for a month. Shit weather up here, long dragging winters. Summers that were too short for his liking and an autumn that was beautiful but also short lived. The winter is too heavy now to do much of anything but loop out to the stable and back. Not much sightseeing to do, the same shock white landscape to see everyday. 

In spite of how beautiful the mountain is; with its sprawling forest, creeks like liquid glass, the fresh winter air… Arthur finds it arduous to see it. Closing himself inside his cabin is easier. He could go and hunt something, draw the scenery. But was that any better than the fireplace? The comfort and simultaneous unease of staying inside the confines of his new home drag him in opposite directions. And even if his paranoid visions are just residue from another time in his life; he knows there are people who could be still searching, who might remember his face. Bad things had a way of following Arthur wherever he went. 

Even more loathsome is the lack of sunlight. The sun disappears around 4 or 5 and it feels like it was midnight by 6. The windows of his wooden cabin blacken like soot, leaving him tired and groggy. 

Arthur tries to keep himself going with bitterness like always. Coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He thinks the lack of light plays with his head. It’s easy to mistake shadows for ghosts, trusting himself was hard as it was. 

Damn snow, cuts to the bone.

The stunning silence surprises him still at these odd moments in the day. Arthur thought that maybe the peace would do him some good. But there was a need that scratched incessantly at the front of his skull. Over and over and over. 

He spent a long time being needed by other people. Dutch made him feel needed at the very least. Like he was part of something that symbolized how free a man could be. And he had devoted every shred of himself to the vision that Dutch had for the world. It was all that mattered to Arthur. His fealty was really all he had to give and so he gave it. 

God, had he felt the fool on the last day he saw him, when Dutch walked away, as if everything Arthur had ever done was nothing to him. Twenty goddamn years of his life. If he was being honest, he knew that his loyalty was wasted before that day but he had waited to see if the man he knew would emerge. If he could kill that gutless rat and show Dutch the truth but he refused, leaving Arthur with nothing to show for it. Helping John, Abigail and Jack to safety was barely a comfort when he thought of all that he wasted. All he did was hand another man a chance at the life that he wanted. 

But it was too late. As always with Arthur. (Everything was always too little; too late) Providing for others was embedded deeply in his being. It was something he had done for years, especially when he decided to get his shit together. He might have dallied, thoroughly enjoying his youth. But he learned (through several extremely painful lessons) why it was important that he pick up the slack. Loyalty isn’t represented by inaction. He hadn’t been all too kind to people but he had kept his comfort that in some part, his work was what kept that camp running. And when that fell apart; he really did try to help the less fortunate.

Really, he was making up for his failures to the people he cared about most. Arthur questioned if he had cared enough. If he did, maybe things would have ended differently between him and the people he harmed by being selfish.

Maybe Dutch put some modicum of power in his hands and Arthur had wielded it badly, went around acting like the cesspool he felt like most of the time. But at the end of the day, the camp ate because of him, they had medicine because of him, hell, they even drank because it was him that brought back more money than anyone else. 

There is no one who needs him now. Arthur scrubs his hand over his face then down to rub over his shoulders. Leans his head back. At first it was nice. The independence. No more debt collecting for Strauss, no more worrying if there’s enough food for Pearson, no more looking out for O’Driscolls. He thought he would like only having one person to worry about; he had been lying to himself. Although he still had other things missing from him. They’re like phantom limbs. He can feel where they were supposed to be but when he looks down they’re gone. Hosea’s guidance was missing from him. Even if he was terrible at following it. The sound of the girl’s giggling and gossiping. Even Uncle and Swanson ambling around, drunker than he thought was possible. Dutch looming, watching through his haze of maduro sweetened smoke. He keeps looking down but they’re gone.  

The fire crackles and the wind howls; picks up the silence. Sometimes the wind from the flue sounds like the breeze over Flat Iron Lake. The fire doesn’t sound any different than it did when it crackled warmly around a circle of a mismatched band of criminals singing songs together, alongside the chatter and the drunken crooning. When it was the background noise to thick Irish blabbering. The poor kid. He was going places, as most of the younger ones were, he and Lenny would have run that gang when they got past their growing pains. He could have told them that when they were living, that sentiment would have meant something then. 

It’s been a year or two, the days sort of connect like train cars and chug along, not because he wants them to but because that’s how life goes. It’s an endless drag, an endless struggle. He can’t see how this is much better than being dead. Arthur Morgan is one of the few people who knows how precious life can be, he spent a lifetime taking it away from people as he pleased. 

He tries to savor this peace (as if he knows how to). Tries to remember what it was like, not having any time to himself, always at Dutch’s beck and call. Barely any time to take a piss, let alone really rest, really give himself room to be anything but what others wanted. How he loathes those memories. The years he spent dedicating himself to another man's dreams. Watched all those years slip away, ashes in a smoke stack, rising forever upwards until they’re forgotten. 

Arthur refuses to recall how many things he gave up for that life; down to the simple pleasures. Love, privacy, a family. He convinced himself that anything else wasn’t living, that he couldn’t ever be tied down. That old life was just… what he had. There was nowhere else to go and when he was old enough to go his own way, there were kids like him with nothing left; nothing to return to, no one to look after them. He might not have been anyone to look up to. Maybe he was a shining example of what not to be. It was Arthur who was there to keep people in line, to show them how to be killers for Dutch’s aspirations. He’s sure he ruined lives more than he taught them anything useful.

Nothing about that life was rooted in anything real, substantial to the world. Pipe dreams. Vague imaginings of living free in the west or some such tropical paradise. What a waste. Just the thought of a secluded island with palm trees on it summons a bitter laugh. 

He sits and watches the fire. Tries to ignore the shadow in the corner. It's thin and wavering. Today, it looks a bit too much like Hosea for his taste. Especially when the log on the hearth cracks, it sounds like that ominous cough that followed the graying conniver everywhere he went. 

Arthur lights another cigarette. He’s been making (quite frankly, just awful) attempts at rationing and this is his allotted second cigarette of the day. He’s two for five. He curses himself every time he forgets to take the drags and it crumbles to ash too quickly, landing on the rug beneath his boots. He hisses, a singe on his fingers snaps him back to the present moment. It burns his fingers when he forgets that he’s holding one entirely, too busy drilling holes in the walls with his eyes. He can’t stand it but he doesn’t have another choice. The silence has the mysterious property of making Arthur lose track of himself. He should have listened but he never learns. 

This deep into winter, not too far from the base of Mt. Pàtu, he can’t just head out on the road and get more cigarettes. The nearest town is a six or seven hour ride and that isn’t happening, not in this weather. He might take Currant out for a light trot so he can get some exercise but he can tell something big is coming soon. The bellows of air from the west have him readying for storm weather. Best to get a move on now if he were to be going out. 

It’s dinner now. He’s not sure where the time went but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s got coffee and he’s got hot food. Salt pork with potatoes, boiled in the salt water from soaking the corns of salt off the meat. He’s gotten better at cooking at least. Arthur scoffs at the thought of the slop he used to be eating. He takes a glass out and sets it on the counter, along with his fifth bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He’s allowed 6 bottles a month. By anyone else’s standards it might be a lot but where he spent most of his time; around other drunkards and degenerates, it’s not enough. 

The storm hits full force now, there’s gonna be snow all the way up to the porch by tomorrow morning. But the air inside of his cabin is still and smoky. From the window, he checks the stable to see if the doors stay closed. It’s well insulated so Currant should be fine. The storm will have scared most of the game into hiding away, he contemplates when he’ll head back out for hunting. He takes a seat at his plain dining table, spends a while on the same glass of bourbon. The smell of cedar and salt is nice.  So is the warmth of his cabin but it’s all lost to him. His sense for how fortunate he is to be here and not dead in a ditch is dull. Only he could be the man to crave chaos and blood and the sound of gunshots while sitting on his ass all day, sipping bourbon. 

He thinks he’ll read a boring book or pretend to keep busy by stoking the fire. Arthur listens to the silence, waiting to hear something but the crackling and the draft from a small crack in the wall. But there’s nothing. He should have listened to Charles. But he insisted that he would be fine. He can’t go back on that now, he’s always been fine by himself. He’ll just wear the groove into his leather chair even further like the sorry bastard he is, trying to ignore how small and stiflingly warm the room feels.  

The blizzard gets louder and louder. Dozing off on the sofa or in his chair sounds like as good a time as any. But he isn’t exhausted, just annoyingly groggy. Bouncing his knee does not count as activity. Neither does all the fidgeting he does, twitching his fingers, putting his legs up and bringing them back down. He tries to pace a little but wearing treads on the floorboards isn’t doing any good either. He puts his hands on his hips. 

 He grabs his journal but he doesn’t have much to write. What would he write about? Surely, the exciting things he experiences everyday. Waking up feeling like hot shit on a platter after having too much whiskey was not the kind of thing worth memorializing in his journal anymore. He’s a little past the shame now too, the embarrassment. He lets his fingers feel the blank page, the tooth of the paper. 

He lets his hand form images of spring, the point of his pencil worn into a dull tip, recollected as best as possible. It’s nothing but a pale comparison. 

There’s a pat on the door. It’s soft and weak. And just as softly, there’s a voice pleading for help, asking if anyone is inside. A light shining in through the cracks of his world. 

He pushes himself up. He knows he hasn’t had that much to drink tonight. The worst possible outcomes play in his head. A ruse from bounty hunters, a local gang taking advantage (not a whole lot better than he would have done only 3 years ago), or another ghost from his past (the ones that play at the corner of his eye). His chest gets a little tight but he’s been good at keeping unease from holding him back. Arthur shakes his hand out, placing the book on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Who’s out there?” It’s an oddity. To hear another voice. One that isn’t his own. It’s a beautiful noise, a pleasing beckon. But he’s no fool. He doesn’t even particularly want to be here, why would anyone be here if they didn’t have to be? He grabs his revolver from the small table next to the entrance, one of the only loaded guns in the house. “Please, sir, I promise it’s just me,” and the earnestness in that voice, he has to believe that promise is true. He has to open the door. With a deep sigh, he stuffs the gun away after a second thought. 

The figure is much too bundled up to gather any immediate details. She’s not very much, standing there out in the cold icy fluff. It isn’t until he nods his head to direct her does she realize she should probably come in. He peeks out at the tracks, just one long line of horse tracks in the process of getting blown over by the harsh wind and the lashing ice. Her struggle up to the porch marked in snow. Arthur scans the tree line for any of those dark silhouettes but they’ve blown away in the wind, they’re pushed from his mind when he turns back and closes the door shut behind the both of them. 

He turns to her, he doesn’t mind the way she shrinks away from his body, skittish and slight. Such a small girl, alone in a snowstorm. He can’t think of a single good reason why she would be going it alone and what she could possibly need more than a night in. She should be warming her hands next to a fire. He could do it for her, could gather them and breathe on them. He tosses that behind him like an empty tin can. He has other things to focus on, mostly trying to get a better look at her and prying an answer out of her as to why she’s out here like this. 

He’s more rude than he intended to be but a little rudeness is nothing new to him. “What the hell were you doin’ out there?” He has been described as coarse. Intentionally and unintentionally. He’s a little bit like a puffed up rooster when he catches her looking him over, marveling at the size of him. But he lets that fall away, surely she needed no old man assuming things on her part. He knows he ain’t much to look at. At his gruff tone, she has no response. The poor thing is so cold, her teeth chatter, whatever she mustered up to yell at him over the storm has run out. Arthur feels a little of his hard veneer chip away. 

He thinks to take her coat, covered in frost and not nearly as insulated as he had hoped, it’s damp with melting ice now that she’s inside. But he feels like he’s dreaming again, peeling her coat off and hanging it on the rack, a faux gentleman. He doesn't know why he’s trying to impress but there’s a chance that she’d like a man like that. So he plays, pretends. He’s surely done that before.

When her coat is shed, all of those visions he’s been having must have caught up to him. 

Jesus, Morgan. You’ve really lost it now. 

This disease of loneliness he’s been given has surely destroyed the vestiges of his sanity. He must be imagining some young soft handed girl with warm bright eyes and vibrant, shiny hair. Face of an angel, looking hopeful; grateful. Her eyes on him burn like hellfire. He feels strange, watching much too close at how her tongue wets her lips; chapped from the cold. Beautiful; she must be someone’s girl, he hopes for a widow who had lost her husband to the winter frost. He’d gladly pick up where the fucker left off. Pry her from his cold hands. Could just be the loneliness talking. He can’t bring himself to care all that much about it. 

Arthur can feel shame eating away at him, like ants at the corners of a scrap fallen off the table. He could have found himself sick to his stomach not too short a time ago. A girl as young as her and he, an old dog with even older tricks have no business together. He knows it too. But he was done with that crushing feeling of dread that ate away at his very soul some days. He had enough of his life to feel awful about. Blood on the floorboards, forgotten promises, disregarded words of affection. Just these moments, where he can hoard the vision that is this girl to himself after so long of giving pieces of himself away. 

What has that shame ever done but made you worse? 

If there isn’t the will to keep his eyes off the girl then there’s the give in him. Like a levy, it cracks a little, breaks into a million pieces of splintered wood for her. It’s been too long since he’s seen something so pretty. All flesh and blood. No graphite on paper; recollections of the women from his past, no Gem of Beauty cigarette card. She carries the smell of soap and perfumed cotton. He thinks it's geranium scented or another delicate flower crushed to pieces to make her smell like she came from heaven too. It’s a weakness he hadn’t culled. 

This girl of his; she must be something quite real. His wishful daydream would have diverted to more intimate topics by now, and he’d probably imagine a woman he’s at least met before. Deciding if he’d prefer her to be real or a misty figment of his imagination; he can’t make heads nor tails of it. Arthur knows he’d probably end up disappointing a real person more than he could offend a figure cooked up in his mind. He sighs. He turns to the iron stove beside the dining table. There’s still coffee and he can distract himself from his ridiculous train of thought by clumsily pouring it out for her. 

Hopeful bastard.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” He knows she isn't but he wants to hear her talk some more. And maybe if she hears what a brute he makes himself out to be most of the time, she’ll turn her nose up at him the way she’s supposed to. Lots of women have, she wouldn’t be the first warned away by his attitude like a bad smell. He could almost let that temptation win. To change who he is at this moment. If only for the selfish purpose of luring her further into his home. However, he’s too impulsive and his tongue is too practiced at offending. He has words that are about as gentle as a fist to the nose. 

He sets her cup down on the table. Arthur doesn’t wait for her to figure herself out, grabbing another cigarette, swiping them off of the coffee table in front of the fireplace. To hell with the rations. It was a special day after all, a goddamned holiday. He strikes the match on the table, lighting it as she tentatively steps forward. Nearly singes his finger on the match he forgot to put out, wincing and waving it out to put out the flame. 

She’s a pearl, surrounded by the ugly oyster that is the less than stellar home he keeps. Carefully, she steps into his space. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of every thing she could find awful or garish; his hunting trophies or the weapons or the wall. Or the mess of papers on the desk in the corner. It has him gripping his cigarette a bit too tight. Her face hardly moves in any particular reaction, as if used to him already. A simple neutrality is what takes her as she looks at some of the things over the mantle, then her eyes track over the small hallway, leading to the bedroom and some storage. She’s quick to bring her attention back to him, a soft smile that stuns him graces her face, kicking up some long buried hope of his.

 If there was a woman who should be a lady, it’s her. She sets herself down on the sofa, neatly keeping her hands to herself, reaching for the cup he set out for her. But first checking to see if it wasn’t for him with a nervous flick of her eyes up to his own. He can hardly ignore how it pulls at him. She holds the blue speckled cup on her thigh. 

“No, I…was getting something for my granny…” She explains she couldn’t make it to the doctor in the almost fatal weather outside. He has a humorless laugh. How could anyone send her out for the sake of some old hag; already knocking on death's door? Selfless girl but stupid. Defenseless. Her own mother, too. He supposes he can relate. The man he regarded as his father had been the one to let him down the most.

 It’s always the ones you trust. 

He makes his opinion known to her, maybe he can talk some sense into her. 

“I can imagine. What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” He reprimands her, she might need it. 

Little girl gone out by herself. Needs you, don’t she?

What she probably needs is someone to keep her from doing things that risk her life for nothing at all. Doesn’t have to be him but he won’t turn the thought away. Breaking her open on her marriage bed. Such a pretty thing, a distracted smile into her cup of coffee. Lost in a snow drift because no one cared enough to keep her inside. 

And she does nip back. Trying to give a rebuttal but he won’t have it. He knows he’s right, giving his idea of a light hearted joke, his particular brand of poking humor. Heavy handed as always. 

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed.” 

 Perhaps insinuating her grandmother was already dead wasn’t the best attempt at familiarizing her with himself, her face tinges with an expression he’s used to seeing. Dutch said he had a sharper tongue than people thought. Hosea said it was too blunt. 

“And if it weren’t for me, well…” she’d be dead. Forgotten somewhere in the snow with a dead horse for company. Such an image should hopefully be sobering for her. It’s a harsh reality but one he would prevent from happening.  His hand comes up to scratch at his brambly jaw. She probably thought his slightly overgrown beard was ugly and unkempt. His fingers raise the delicate rolled cigarette to his lips. A nice calming drag helps his nerves calm down, they quit jumping under his skin every time her eyes pull over him, over his scarred face and his crooked nose and his gnarled hands. She looks like she holds something back. Her tongue, he thinks. He wished she would have just come out and said it. 

But she’s a polite little thing, stifling herself with another drink of the coffee. The satisfaction on her face and the small droop in her shoulders now that she’s warm makes him smile. 

She speaks up with a tremor stuck to her words. “I’m sorry mister,” her nose scrunches a little, doesn’t even know how darling he finds it. “but I don’t think you gave me your name…” 

In a well practiced motion, he leans and ashes his cigarette. It took him a while to remember that he can’t just ash them on the ground anymore. He had floors and a permanent roof now. He tends to get the hang of things at some point. He kicks his legs up on the table, gently so as to not frighten the girl on his sofa, warming herself by his fire, and drinking his coffee. The thoughts tickle that provider’s instinct so deeply embedded in his being. His name, he almost forgets all about that, looking into her pretty eyes, blinking curiously. Right. 

“Arthur. You married?” He never liked small talk too much. Never one for the surface level bullshit people put on. He watches each of her features form into something like a smile but not. Too nerve-y, falls into something else when she presses her lips together, her brows twitch as they pull together and her fingers scrunch in her gloves. 

As if she’d marry you, ain’t exactly the pick of the litter, are ya?

His fingers twitch, squeeze his short nails into the give of his palm. Then why does she call him? So enticing, then, looking at him with soft eyes, her legs pressed together and slanted. A real proper girl. Cute thing. Naive enough not to recognize someone like him at first glance. He’s something to be avoided. He wishes he could see a ring glittering on her finger, to ward away the seething heat in his head and his gut. Like a prayer muttered in the presence of evil but he doubted it’d be strong enough. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” her voice is like velvet, the rub of a rose petal between his fingers. Her eyes flick away and her teeth press gently into her bottom lip, sweet looking. No man to look after her besides her worthless father, left her out here to freeze. Alone, really. Or she might as well be. The world has been known to be cruel to women. To his mother, to a woman whose life he had ruined, to Mary even, to Susan and Molly. Well, most every woman he knew. It wasn’t fair but many things in their lives were disparagingly slanted away from them, scales always uneven. 

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself?” Arthur scoffs, even as he points out her tragedy. “Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” His fingers push his cigarette into the ash tray a bit too hard, twisting it. And he looks at her blouse, drawing the outline of her with his eyes. He’d put it to paper later. She has a small nod for him. A shining opportunity. But he has to introduce his own dingy reality. The one where he was probably old enough to have been able to hold her when she had just been born. 

“You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Honest words slip from him, too loose for him to keep them behind his teeth. The bashful look crosses over her face makes his lip curl up just a little. She deserved to have someone tell her how pretty she is, who wouldn’t ever let her forget for a second how lovely she looked. Where all of these sappy things come from is beyond him. They ooze into his mind anyway.

Delicately, she sets the cup down on the table littered with other cups he had forgotten to put away and empty packages of cigarettes. He rolls his eyes at himself, of course he doesn’t clean up the day he has company.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind,” her hands pet at her thighs, he can see where the fabric is damp. Immediately, his mind clicks into place, thinking on how he can fix it. That’s what the fairer sex truly craved, wasn’t it? Not some puffed up egomaniac. A fixer. A solution. His hands itch to move. To pick up the pieces of her problems and push them back into the shape of something whole. “Ain’t no trouble,” the relieved sag in her shoulders tells him that she actually worried about it. 

So Arthur does, he’s nothing if not a man of action. “Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He’s up before he can hear a protest. But she doesn’t give much of one. In his bedroom, his hands swipe his hair backwards. The small mirror he usually keeps around strictly for shaving catches the light of the small oil lamp. 

God, his best years are way behind him. So say the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gouges of his age on his forehead and the delicate webbing of wrinkles under his eyes. All of the evidence of his lifestyle glares back at him. There’s a ruddiness over the higher planes of his cheekbones from burning them under the sun. Some of the fist and knife fights from his youth have left permanent evidence of his misgivings on his face. Mostly in the form of scars and his odd nose. 

You disgust her, don’t go kidding yourself. 

If he ever told her the truth of himself, he’s sure a girl like her would go running, suddenly not minding the cold. He never was good at keeping beautiful things by his side. They rotted or wilted, or blew away with the wind. His rough fingers rub at the back of his neck. He stares deep into his own eyes. Trying to force some normalcy, some sense into himself but it’s all in vain. He grunts, paying mind to other things. 

He opens his cabinet, all of the simple clothes he keeps. Something new and not so weathered, or dirty, something clean. Like her. Some nice cotton knit union suit, something he bought when he was preparing for winter. He grips them tight and hesitates at the door. 

Just go n’ give it to her, and try not to be an idiot; for god’s sake. 

And the sweet smile he sees knocks whatever sense he had gathered out of him, he can hardly form a word. He just holds the fabric out to her like an oaf. And she rises, as to keep things comfortable, good at reading his brutish signaling, taking them gently and skirting around him. And then she’s in his bedroom. With a mental cuss, he realizes that he forgot to clean the room before he left. 

Ah, she’ll find out how pathetic you are at some point. Just a matter a’ when… 

All those empty bottles and habits he’s formed from living alone. Dirty clothes piled somewhere and sheets that probably smelled a bit too much like sweat. Christ. He sighs, pinching his nose. He’s not sure why he’s putting so much thought into this. He doesn’t care. Not a care at all. Right…sure.

At first, he distracts himself with preparing food, his leftovers, hopefully enough for her. Doing this is an action which is perhaps a bit selfish. He wants to make it clear that he can give her things she needs. He could figure out wants later.. Typically, he hadn’t thought too much of what women wanted but with her he makes lists, takes out the fine brandy. Sometimes he took after Dutch more than he would like to admit, the man was all too good at forgetting about a woman’s wants and needs.

The food hasn’t gone too cold. His hands look for things to do, stirring unnecessarily. Fumbling the dish he places it on. However, the little comfort he gains from activity fades. He can only grip the counter like a vice while staring out the window above his sink for so long. The shades of brown and orange that make up his cabin blur into nothing, the wood grain isn’t as grounding as he wants it to be. 

But then his legs drift in the opposite direction, He can hear a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing behind the door. He wets his dry throat. Arthur shouldn’t salivate. He does anyway.

You’re a creep. Something in his head laughs at him. 

Been too long since you had a woman this close to your bed and she ain’t even in it with ya…c’mon. C’mon, just open the damn door. 

His heart is about to pound his ribs into dust. He’s among the worst of the worst but this… pushes boundaries. Lines drawn in the sand. Peeping on women wasn’t something he was raised to do. And if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, it was an accident. 

You ain’t that bad.

He’s used to letting the tide wash those out so he can draw new ones. And here is a new one. When his fingers push at the door and he can see the sliver where she bares her own flesh. Rubs her hands up her thighs, stepping out of her clothes. His throat goes dry, his teeth bite bluntly at the tip of his tongue as his jaw gets tense. 

His eyes follow the natural plush curve of her body, pale yellow lamp light glancing off of her. He’d kill a man to touch her and he’d kill a man for touching her. Devouring every inch, his eyes soak it all up, dedicating her to memory. 

 And then she’s stepping into the creamy cotton of his clothes. Doing up the buttons at her front. Unbidden by him, his cock fills out, half hard, pressing uncomfortably at just the sight of her. The perfection of her hips, her hair brushing over her back. 

The guilt is chewing a hole in his conscience. It’s like there are termites gnawing away at the foundation of whatever restraint he had. He’s felt less disgusting after killing a man, making him choke on his own blood as it fills his lungs. But the reward had never been so delightful. A sweet girl, so trusting, putting her hand to her chest and smiling as she realizes he’s there. It doesn’t feel good at all, the realization that he’s drooling over her like a mutt. All she has given him is reluctance, nervous glances. She doesn’t touch him or leave her hand to linger. A sweet-as-cream smile is all he has, enough to tide him over. He wants her anyway, needs her to stay. Letting her walk out after this will be next to impossible. 

“You scared me, Mister…” Mister. So polite, an angel delivered unto him. He can feel how his body is tense, tight like a spring. How she doesn’t notice the evidence of his wrongdoing, pressing at the front of his pants is luck or her naivety. His expression must be dazed, a foolish look because all he can do is stare, unable to stop himself. Observing the way his clothes drape over her, exaggerating how much smaller she is in comparison. How stunning she’d look, sprawled over his bed sheets. Precious girl; struggling not to cry when she gets all stretched out on something wholly too big for her. In his mind's eye, she mouths his name, looks at him like all she wants is him inside of her. Right. His name again. 

He dips back into his own ease in which he controls all of himself with. He is self assured and well handled. And he certainly doesn’t curl in on himself. Lets her see how big he is, slips back into old habits with the ease that comes with capability. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” his real name, no Kilgore’s or Calahan’s. She should know it anyhow, if he has any real intention in giving it to her.

It’s dangerous and it’s like she can feel it, somewhere in her body is that base instinct. One she was born with to protect herself from people with bad intentions. But she has another instinct, bares her neck to him. Arthur has always been good at suppressing his hunger, desire for soft pretty things. Settling like sediment on them was the control he had, buried them and buried them and buried them. She's a rainstorm, flooding his mind, washing out his carefully maintained resistance. Leaves his want raw and exposed and actionable. He wants her too much, wants her more than he has any right to. 

He feels what little control he has over his urges begin to slip with that thought.  Usually, he let them take over. Let whatever pain and anguish in him manifest into pure rage, cold and unadulterated. At first, it revolted him, his actions. And the reputation he built to go along with them. But they began to grow over him like a second skin until they encased whatever hope he had for a better life completely. His self induced hatred hid whatever pieces of him weren't supposed to be his to have and to share. The things he had to hide from himself even to feel like a whole person at any given moment. And he let himself be that awful thing people thought he was. Arthur Morgan. A force of nature. 

But he deserved it, didn't he? Everyone should keep their distance anyway. He has a habit of making things worse than when he found them. But all he wanted was for her to be close. Sure, he could play the vulnerable man who could pine after his sweetheart, go out riding after her, guide her home where she would forget all about him. Just a kind man out to help the world.

That's not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay here. Can’t bear the thought of being a good man, sending her away when the storm blows over. In sickness and in health, til’ death do us part. That’s what he sees when he closes his eyes. She’s standing in the kitchen, turning the spoils of his hunts into dinner. With that easy smile. His too empty house just wouldn’t feel like a home without her in it. He’s sick, he knows; but he’s sure she can cure him. 

Arthur Morgan has always wanted more than he could have. He chews on the thought like tobacco. Bitter but eventually he begins to need the taste, to crave it. 

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” God, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth too hard. And of course, he lays all his cards on the table. Man can’t leave his woman hungry.

Every little gesture she makes, wrapping her arms shyly around herself, the gentle tilt of her head and the small affirmative gesture she makes is in no way unordinary. But they’re all dripping with her appeal. How can she smile at him like he doesn't look the way he does? Like he hasn't made the world worse just by existing in it?

 He soils her just by laying greedy eyes on her neck, on her nipples which he can make out through the fabric of his union suit. And when she opens her mouth, he knows he’ll end up calling her what she is. Sweet and syrupy, soothing on his throat. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” Arthur is convinced he heard her wrong. But her honesty is in those radiant eyes, in her easy posture. It must be meant to be, it’s not every day a woman talked to him like that. Or talked to him at all. He was perhaps too busy making sure they knew what they would be getting into; dealing with him. 

It may just be the respectful manners instilled in her. He supposed her parents had given her that; mannerisms that made her quite the catch. Utter perfection. But really, even that was a disservice. They damned her to him. Makes him see glimpses of a life he could have. Hundreds of conversations, every iteration of the precious babe they'd have together with his hair and her eyes, a son or a daughter. Two of each perhaps. Hours and hours of her gentle, refined voice taking up the empty room. He bows his head as if he can keep his disbelief and joy under the brim of his hat, currently hanging by his front door. 

She comes nearer. He can smell her cotton scent, can see the way the light casts around her hair, feathering over her, turning it into gold. His body moves to make the smallest space for her. Hoping she’ll nudge against him. He doesn’t even realize the way he’s formed himself to keep her here for just a moment. So close, Arthur nearly loses track of what he was supposed to be doing.  

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” apprehension floods her body, her features. Her eyes focus on him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Arthur sees how she bristles. He only meant to be honest but she’s already read between his lines. Smart girl. 

He shows her just what he means. Even when he knows better, even if he’s never been this far. It’s like he has to touch though. No where uncomfortable, just to be sure she isn’t a sign that he’s truly gone from this world. 

“Please, I-” 

Her plea goes down his spine. It rakes its teeth over the parts of him that are wrong. That weren’t formed with gentleness, aren’t intricate. Just instinct that he’s indulged. 

He may not be a good man. But he can behave well enough to keep her. Now that he has the room for her. He doesn’t live in a drafty tent. He’s not a dog chained to the hand that fed him too many years ago. He would never treat her like an object to display or a mistake made in a drunken night of pleasure. He wouldn’t throw this away, this one chance at having something real. Wouldn’t lay waste to this opportunity to fill a hole in him that yawned empty for what felt like eternity. She’d be his wife and he; her man. A husband. Mister and Missus Arthur Morgan. A crock of shit, he would have said a month ago.

That ain’t the hand you been dealt and you know it. You’ve made a mess of things enough.

 But now… it's a dreamy reality. It hasn’t quite taken shape but he can get it there. Determination starts to crystallize over the idea. She’s something good; doesn’t need him. He could try to make something better too, could make the best of a situation, try to show her the best in him. But he knows it’d never be enough for her. He always throws these good things away, always ruins it somehow. But he grips and shakes like a mutt at this idea, gnaws it until it's raw. He can just take what he wants. Done that before, hasn’t he?

Just leave’er alone. God, you never learn, goddamned fool…

His fingers graze over the skin on her neck, uncovered by the collar of the union suit he lent her. Here in the dark of the small hallway, he can swear there’s something in the way she breathes, shudders. “I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman… Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He’s aware that he sounds like a right bastard but he’s only telling the truth. His hand settles at her back, like it’s supposed to be there. They’re meant to be, all he has to do is show her. 

ok yall how we feeling LMAO i think his perspective was interesting and fun for me to write but idk if its any good, but i hope with practice ill get more confident 🥹🥹 bro is a freak sooo yeah it was fun to write him as a freak he is very conflicted about everything and he is super weird but also sexy sooo😳 i hope you guys enjoyed this lil backstory on why arthur is a weirdo 😊😊😭😭 lmk what you guys think !!

[solomonara]

Game: 10 first lines challenge

Thanks for the tag @stevieraebarnes! Let's see if my first lines can hold a candle to your absolute bangers.

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able to and see if there are any patterns!

1. Investigator: The crash of shattering glass, and a lot of it, startled the pleasant hum of socialite conversation into hiding.

2. For Good: Some days, Link wonders how they got so lucky.

3. Here, After: If asked, Sidon would not be able to say truly when it began.

4. The Cross Purposes Job: "Well, Mr. Jeffries," Sophie – or rather, Ludmila Popova, official representative of a wealthy overseas tech consortium that was definitely not a thinly veiled front for any shady Eastern European government, no matter how much they were funded like one, wink nudge – said with a charming smile.

5. Scarf: "Emma. What is that?" Georgia asked, stopping immediately inside the door to their apartment.

6. Fever Reducer: Bruce stared at the nearly empty shelf in the breakfast aisle, despairing.

7. Osteoclast: Dick knew, even before he was fully awake, that he wasn't going to enjoy what he discovered when he opened his eyes.

8. Per Aspera: Jason Todd was bleeding.

9. Looked After: Make sure he's looked after.

10. The Damned Prince's Bodyguard: The Damned Prince of Gotham surveyed his domain with a great deal of satisfaction and a very small amount of champagne.

Well, I don't know. Most of these introduce the main characters (but not Looked After or Investigator). Most of these ask a question or imply one (but not For Good or, again, Looked After.) And what was I thinking with The Cross Purposes Job. That's so many words... Maybe I should be looking at second lines XD

Hey @elwon, @dragonsorceress22, @bitterleafs, @burntheupholstery, @unicorncoalition you want to give it a whirl?

This invitation is also open to anyone who is reading it. Yes you! And tag me when you do it, I want to read your first lines (even you, stranger.)

[gods-perfect-idiots]

something something blood-soaked hands cradling your face something something

anyway here's the post btw

[lunar-system]

Izzy Hands: The Moon.

Re-imagined from the traditional Rider-Waite-Smith tarot, this version of the Moon shows Izzy taking the shape of a lone Lover, longing for what he cannot reach.

Longer exploration of the card's symbolism under the cut.

Symbolism of the card

I initially meant this card to be specifically Izzy's, but he is once again unseparable from Ed. Though the moon itself is depicted as Ed, it is through Izzy that I interpret the journey of the card. Feel free to invent your own interpretation as well!

In the original version of the Moon we see a dog, a wolf, and a crayfish. Izzy takes the place of the wolf, marking him as wild and untameable. He is accompanied by a dog, symbolizing his loyalty. The crayfish has retreated, and we can see a monster lurking in the depths of the water, reminding us of the beasts that lie within.

Rachel Pollack (2011) writes: "The Moon signifies the dangerous time between the end of one world structure and the beginning of another. On the emotional level it can indicate the strange state when something powerful has ended and you find yourself thrown back on your instincts."

In the card Izzy already has his wooden leg. He his stepping into his role as the Unicorn, marking a shift in his loyalty and his place in the world. His reign as Blackbeard's first mate is ending, and a whole new world order is being imagined.

Ed is also seen in a new light. With his short beard, he is at the end of his captaincy, possibly even at the end of his piracy. He as the Moon is illuminated by the light of the Sun, personified by Stede in another card, The Sun.

Izzy bears witness to their combined light, unreachable to him on the ground. He teeters at the edge of the water illuminated by that very light, and is faced with a choice. Will he turn, follow the path and try to reach the unreachable? Or will he explore the unknown waters in front of him?

In tarot, water symbolizes emotions, intuition and subconscious. Pollack writes: "Here in the unknown territory our animal selves take over. We cannot suppress the wild emotions but only travel through them." The message of the Moon beckons Izzy to step into the water and face his emotions.

However, there are also dangers in the murky waters of the subconscious. Pollack continues: "The Moon card calls forth powerful dreams, visions, and the power of the feminine." In tarot water is a feminine element. Izzy, a beacon of masculinity, has in the past confused the feminine with the monstrous. He is now dared to invite the feminine within him to the surface. His posture already mirrors that of the feminine lover from the Lovers-card. It also calls back to the Fool, to someone at the beginning of their self-discovery.

Tl;dr: Izzy, the Fool and the Lover, is on a journey from one world to another. Will he follow the path and try to reach the unreachable, or will he find the courage to plunge into unknown waters?

A comparison between the original Rider-Waite-Smith card from 1909 and the re-imagined version

Izzy's pose mirrors the feminine Lover

Sources

Image source: Pamela Colman Smith, 1909, republished as Tarot of A. E. Waite, 2016, AGM-Urania, Germany

Text source: Rachel Pollack, A Journey of 78 Steps, 2011, as cited in the booklet for instruction and guidance of Tarot of A. E. Waite, 2016, AGM-Urania, Germany

[demonslayedher]

I finished posting the unabashedly educational Sword Fic.

It includes a detailed (but hopefully beginner-friendly) explanation of all the steps of making a Nichirin blade from a sunny mountain like Mt. Youkou, a touch of swordsmith and metalworker folk lore (including demons), meta about what must make Kimetsu no Yaiba's swordsmithing methods different from real life methods, some character exploration for Haganezuka and his polishing method, vocabulary and additional resources in the chapter notes, and hopefully, an endearing, silly POV character to learn this all through.