#i am so envious of his inking

[sugar-coat-it]

HEY!! Your smut is insane!! could i request something like matty and reader mutual masturbation telling eachother what to do?? 😋🤘🏻

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP YOU GOT IT BABE 

I thought it would be fun if they’re low-key bickering throughout it while still telling each other what to do, but it ends with them just being desperate to watch the other cum, totally forgetting the silly argument 

Uhhh yeah this started as a blurb and got pretty long, so, hope you like it anon!

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“Mm- no, you don’t get to touch me, not after what you pulled,” you murmur, pushing Matty back onto the pillows and off of your frame. 

Every fiber of you is screaming to just let your pride go and just allow him to keep running his hands over your body, pressing searing kisses to your neck and jawline. You’re well aware that the fires he sets under your skin can only be fully put out by him, but you’re also stubborn… at least for now. Matty just tuts, rolling his eyes at you and gazing off to the side, clearly fuming at the idea of his actions having consequences. Before you’d gotten back home, you’d been out at a pub where he’d been a complete and total prick to a guy at the bar whom he was convinced was trying to sleep with you. Death stares, possessive fingers digging into your waist, the whole ordeal. The whole car ride home had been tense, Matty’s jaw clenched with bitterness as he kept one commanding hand on your leg, his cold rings pressing into the plush skin of your thigh as he drove. His eyes were intensely trained on the road the whole time, deafening silence between you. Although he was being ridiculous, it sure did get you hot and bothered to see him so passionately envious. He obviously felt the same impulse to some degree, because the moment the door shut behind you, he was crushing his lips to yours, licking into your mouth ravenously as he pulled you flush against his body. The two of you had stumbled into the bedroom, messily shedding jackets to the floor as your eager hands roamed. 

“Seriously? Are you still on about the wanker from the pub?” he scoffs, unfastening his tie with deft fingers, working quickly until it’s hanging loose around his neck. 

“Yeah, I am! You were so rude to him when he was just being nice!” you exclaim, reaching for the zipper on your dress, trying to relieve some of the heat simmering beneath the fabric. 

“That’s a ridiculous thing to say. He told you you were… fucking, what did he say? “mothering, cunt slaying”?” 

“He was gay, you asshole!” you snort, your dress now a heap on the floor along with Matty’s button-down shirt.

“How was I supposed to know that? I don’t even have a clue as to what that fuckin’ means!” “Matthew, you’re so out of touch.”

His lip twitches with annoyance, but that doesn’t stop him from staring right at your tits, his hand tensing with the urge to reach out and greedily touch and grab what he believes is rightfully his. Just as hypocritical, you feel heat surge deep inside you as you glance down at the thick protrusion in his dark slacks, drinking in the sight of him leaning back against the pillows with his inked chest bared to you for your viewing pleasure. You’re both at an impasse, too proud to “lose” by reaching out for the other, which leaves only one option to relieve yourselves of your frustrations. 

“Well if I apparently can’t touch you, I’m not gonna sit here like an idiot with a hard-on,” he murmurs, cocking his head at you with a hint of sass. 

“What, are you gonna go have a wank in the bathroom, then?” you gape with disbelief, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Nope. Why should I? It’s my bed too,” he replies simply, reaching for his belt and undoing it, watching as you start practically salivating at the way his hands flex around the buckle.

The belt lands on the floor with a clank, but instead of taking off his trousers, he slides his hand down his chest slowly, sensually, taking his time as if you’re not even there. He trails his fingers down his stomach, his pace is entirely unhurried as he reaches for the crotch of his pants. Matty feels over his erection with the palm of his hand first, letting his eyes flutter closed as he tilts his head back against the pillow, gritting his teeth at the way he’s teasing himself. You can’t help the way you softly gasp when he suddenly grabs himself through the fabric, keeping a firm hold on his cock with a grunt, the veins in his hand bulging salaciously. Matty loosens his grip now, tracing the outline of his erection with two fingers, lingering on the tip just enough to make his hips jump forward with need. He has one hand casually behind his head while the other skillfully undoes the button and zipper of his pants, and only now does he crack one eye open just enough to watch the way you’re squirming, your face burning at the shameless display he’s putting on for you. You straighten up when you feel him looking at you, your face screwing up into a frustrated pout, not wanting him to know how whipped he’s got you. He just chuckles lowly, mirth crinkling at the corners of his eyes while he’s lifting his hips to pull his pants down, knowing all too well what he’s doing to you from the way your thighs clench.

Indignance strikes in you like lightning as you realize that he shouldn’t be the only one enjoying himself. He’s the one who was being an ass tonight after all; you should be making him remember the power you undeniably hold over him too. You begin to mirror him, letting out an exaggerated sigh as you slide your hands up your sides and grope your breasts through the cups of your bra, staring back at him with lustfully lidded eyes. He couldn’t be more pleased, a sleazy smirk tugging at his lips as he stares right back, testing your restraint further and further as the room gets hotter.

“Mhm, that’s it, keep touching your tits love, you’re great wank material,” Matty winks, his hand now snaking under the elastic band of his briefs as he starts stroking himself with a sigh.

You huff, sending him an annoyed look at him treating you like his personal porno, but you’re even more frustrated that his hand is hidden beneath the cover of his underwear. You can only see the outline of his cock as beads of precum soak into the dark fabric, his wrist languidly moving up and down his shaft as his hips shift back and forth slightly.

“What is it? You wanna see?” he coos before letting out a deep moan just to really put the nail in the coffin.

You’d like to call him arrogant, a prick maybe, especially because of the boastful, pride-ridden look on his face as he lazily jerks himself off. But instead what comes out is:

“Yeah…” 

It’s against your better judgment, but you can’t say you really regret a thing when he pushes the elastic past his weeping erection, letting you get a full view of the way he’s slowly circling his thumb around the tip of his cock as he just smiles that stupid, charming smile. It’s enough motivation to eradicate your inhibitions as you spread your legs out atop the sheets, hooking your finger into your ruined panties and sliding them to the side. Matty is starting to lose his cool now, his movements getting a little quicker, his eyes widening just a bit as you keep one hand cupping your breast while the other ventures between your thighs. He lets out a choked groan at the sight of you taking your fingers and spreading yourself open for him to watch, collecting the honey that’s gathered at your sopping hole and dragging it up to your clit. You moan breathily, biting your lip as you begin circling two fingers around the swollen bundle of nerves, the slight sense of relief making your head swim.

“You can go faster than that, can’t you?” you tempt, having had enough of his little lax pleasure session. 

Matty’s lips press into a thin line as you attempt to order him around, muttering something under his breath. Yet, he still obliges, his hand moving a little swifter as he drags his fist up all the way from the base to the head, twisting his wrist the way you usually do it. A prideful smile twitches at the corners of your mouth before you can stop it while you’re drawing tight circles around your clit the way Matty knows you like it. However, nothing could ever compare to the way his calloused fingers rub at you until you’re seeing stars, not even your own hand. 

“Want you to take your bra off,” Matty commands in return, his breathing getting heavier as his chest heaves, he’s trying not to buck up into his hand and appear too eager. 

You move as quickly as possible, not wanting to be left aching for too long as you move to unclasp your bra, needing both hands. The moment your bra is sliding down your shoulders, your hand slithers back between your legs, rubbing little figure eights on your clit to make your toes curl and your head tilt back, your hair spilling down your shoulders.

“You could have been the one touching my tits if you hadn’t been so mean,” you pout spitefully, grabbing a handful of one of your breasts with your free hand.

“Do you even know how to make yourself cum anymore? I’ve spoiled you too much haven’t I?” Matty snaps back, completely ignoring your little comment despite how badly he’d love to lick and suck at your perfect breasts right now.

He’s fisting his cock a little harder as he watches you pleasure yourself, knowing damn well he would be doing a better job, which only makes him further ticked off. You gasp as you pinch your nipple between two fingers the way he does, sending a harsh pang of need straight to your core. Meanwhile, Matty makes a frustrated grunting noise as he tries to recreate the way your lovely hands slicked with his precum would grasp and pump him time and time again. The both of you are ironically unable to get off unless you mimic the way the other’s hands work.

“Have you ever heard that jealousy is a disease?” you mention sarcastically between little gasps for breath, your cunt fluttering around nothing. 

“That’s nice, princess. Two fingers inside, now.” 

Wordlessly, you follow his instructions, whimpering as you coat your fingers with your arousal before sinking them inside your needy hole. Matty’s eyes are trained on the space between your thighs, his jaw going slack as he watches your digits disappear inside you and then reappear even more drenched. His strokes are getting jerkier, he’s cursing under his breath as he tries to resist delving between your legs and taking care of you himself. His chocolatey curls bounce with his movements, a thin sheen of sweat glistening across his chest and his forehead. 

“Don’t like being punished for wanting to keep what’s mine, y’know. Stick your tongue out,” he grunts, giving himself a particularly hard squeeze. 

“So possessive,” you purr, obliging his little fantasy because you know exactly what he wants to see. 

A cheeky glint in your eyes, you let your tongue slip past your lips as you pant, relishing in the way Matty’s cock twitches sharply in his fist as he stares at you, unable to help the way he whines when a drop of saliva drips from your pliant tongue onto your tits. You know how absolutely depraved you must look, fingering yourself while moaning with your tongue hanging out of your mouth. The things you do for love (and good sex). 

“Shit, that’s a lovely view, ain’t it? S’better when you’re not talking too. C’mon, don’t slow down,” he prattles, his voice smooth and dark like tinted glass.

“Only if you fuck your fist for me properly,” you interject, feeling just as worthy of making sensual demands. 

Matty scoffs like he’s above doing something so vulgar, but the moment he sees that you’re in fact slowing your movements down, he’s snapping his hips up into his fist, groaning far too loudly as he clenches his hand around his shaft. Sufficiently pleased, you go back to sticking your tongue out like his obedient little sweetheart while you continue to pump your fingers in and out of yourself. Matty’s eyes roll back with fluttering lashes as he thrusts upwards over and over, his abs tensing with the effort of keeping up his relentless pace. You feel yourself shudder the moment the whites of his eyes disappear and he’s gazing at you again, the eye contact makes warmth rush over your skin in a familiar, pleasant wave. God, the obscene symphony of sounds from your separate pleasure sessions would be enough to make anyone blush. You’re both starting to forget why you’re playing this little game in the first place, heads hazy with raw desire.

“Getting close…” you murmur, the challenging tone of your voice fading into a softer sort of desire, like you can’t help but appreciate the absolute treat of your gorgeous boyfriend before you. 

Matty’s gaze softens in return, his eyebrows sloping with a pining sort of look instead of being furrowed with intensity, his curls are sticking to his forehead, damp with his sweat. His breaths are coming in short gasps, moans freely spilling from his lips as his eyes wildly flick from your longing expression to your breasts, to your diligent fingers. Every little sound you make only encourages him to go harder, to fuck faster, the bed creaking louder as the headboard repeatedly meets the wall behind it. 

“Ohh, I know, I know, me too. Shit, you’re so good, love. So perfect for me with that pretty pink cunt of yours spread open, fuck,” he rambles, his words tapering off into a whimper. 

His filthy words have your cheeks burning, heat prickling at them as you sigh out, your hips rocking into your own hand as you feel the tension gathering deep inside. It feels like it’s all getting ready to snap at any moment, and Matty can see it plastered all over your face. He knows you well enough to know the way your eyes widen when you’re going to climax, he’d made it his personal mission to learn all your tells. The whole pub incident might as well have never happened with how intent you both are to watch the other fall to pieces, eagerly relying on the other’s pleasure to get off.

“Please, please, Matty, wanna cum with you,” you whisper, your voice quivering much like your legs. 

“Shit, yeah? Go ahead love, gonna watch you make a mess, okay? I’m right here,” he breathes, restraining himself to only look into your eyes as you start to lose yourself. 

You’re falling weightlessly beyond the edges of pleasure, but you force yourself to stay upright enough to gaze back at Matty while your orgasm begins to crash over you in waves, your walls clenching and fluttering around your fingers while your lips part with a silent cry. Matty’s not far behind you, especially not with the scene before him of his perfect girl falling apart just for him. Hot spurts of cum cascade over his fist and his stomach, adorning his tattooed skin with pearly ropes as he moans garbled praises of your name.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck,” he groans, his hips pistoning up into his closed fist with sloppy, blissed-out thrusts, not once breaking the shiver-inducing eye contact. 

Your chest is still heaving, you’ve barely even started coming down from your high before you’re lunging for Matty, and he’s reaching out just as fast, his hands finding your waist like they’ve made their home there. You let your full body weight lean into him as you kiss him longingly like it’s been years since you’ve felt their touch. Neither of you seems to mind the way his cum is spreading all over your stomach and your tits between your flushed bodies, you’re too busy clutching at each other and locking lips like overzealous teen lovers. 

“Didn’t feel as good as when you do it, Matty,” you croon against his mouth, your hands adoringly sliding into his hair. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he pants, his thumbs tenderly rubbing little circles against your hip bones, “please, can I give you proper treatment now? Wanna make up for it, I was bein’ an arse, m’sorry.”

You just nod, looking up at him like he’d hung each individual star in your own personal sky as his warm breath fans over your lips. The glint in Matty’s eyes at your agreement tells you that he’s going to be spending quite some time worshipping you tonight, lovingly taking you apart with his hands until you’ve had enough. All is well in the world.

[hum-suffer]

Saiyaan

Ab baawra hua mann, jag ho gaya hai roshan

Ye nai nai suhaagan ho gai hai teri jogan

Koi Prem ki pujaran, mandir sajaye.

He's everything that I am not. He has friends, connections, acquaintances, and formal partners and whatnot. I am a recluse, staying at the same circle that I've been in, I keep my head down and he keeps his high. He throws his head bad when he laughs, more of a spectacle, and I bow when I laugh, I want to disappear into myself because my laugh is ugly and it must stay hidden but him? Oh, his laugh is the most wonderful thing I've heard.

There's a chance that he's not even aware that I look at him everyday and I notice all his patterns that he claims to not have. The tick in his jaw, the fiddle ring on his hand, red scratches behind his ears, the wristwatch's dial tucked at the inside of his wrist. I know him, I know him like I know myself when I look in the mirror.

And oh, oh, he's so beautiful. The gods would descend from heavens to see him, the Gandharvas would be jealous of the way he dances, the apsaras would be envious of the way his voice curls around my name.

My name. He says my name like it's a reprimand. Like he's scolding me. He says it in warning of his displeasure at me and I stop in my breath to listen to him. He calls me by a nickname. One nickname, two nicknames, three nicknames, four, five, six—

I would tattoo them all on my knuckles, if only I could hear them all in his voice whenever I looked at the tattoos. What do the names matter if they're not said in his tongue?

But the names are not mine, no, no, no, they're not mine alone, they belong to someone else too, they belong to a stranger, they belong to a friend, they belong to a sibling and family and all hope I let grow in my chest like a vine, it all crushes down and breaks into dead grass at my feet.

Another name. My name sounds on his lips like it's just another name that he knows, that he speaks because it's normal, that it is one of many he speaks everyday and something curls around my throat but it isn't his melodious voice.

He's beautiful. Even when he's so casually cruel, he's beautiful. His eyes sparkle, his lips turn down in an apology but that's all this is and I'm choking again and it hurts but maybe I don't mind it particularly. He sees me, he still holds out his hand and, still choking, i accept it.

With him by my side, it's different to see the world that is so bleak, that is so hopeless. I walk alone at a place and my heart races and I'm scared and I know he won't protect me when the bruises on my heart have barely healed but I still clutch my collar and mutter his name as i beg my god for some strength and courage.

There's ink stains on my fingers when we next see eachother and I think it's disgraceful but he doesn't say a word, he only smiles and makes me feel welcome, and he listens and listens and listens and listens as I talk. I struggle not to lean my forehead on his knees and I struggle even more to breathe because I wish to sob but if I do, he will too, and i cannot see him hurt.

I give him a flower, today, tomorrow, yesterday, overmorrow, the day after and the day after and the day after that and forever. I give him a flower everyday and I see his face light up with a smile, a smile which is rare but it isn't mine and it takes him a second to thank me and call me a nickname that he uses for everyone else as well.

[fangdokja]

"I learned to love writing the hard way: by fixing everyone else’s mess."

❤︎ Synopsis. Every writer starts somewhere—usually with a mess. This series reveals how embracing the chaos of bad drafts is the first step to creating something brilliant. Get ready to dig through the dirt and strike gold.

♡ Book. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Series. From Crap to Craft: The Writer's Journey - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 1,038

♡ Banner's Story. He’s the savior of many—but your destruction is his true mission.

♡ Storytime: From Loathing to Loving Writing.

Do you want to know a fun fact about me? I hated writing. Yes, the person who spends hours crafting intense, darkly seductive stories with complex yanderes? That same person used to despise writing.

Why? Group projects.

Picture this: I was a straight-A student surrounded by group mates who thought "collaboration" meant dumping their half-baked work on me. I’d end up doing the research, writing, editing, and basically carrying the whole project on my back. The cherry on top? Their contributions were often so horrendous I had to rewrite everything. Imagine editing sentences that felt like they’d been written in a foreign language and translated back into English by a broken AI. Editing, in those days, was far more grueling than writing. It was like polishing rocks and calling them diamonds.

This relentless cycle of frustration turned me against writing. What was once a childhood joy—scribbling poems and whimsical tales—became something I dreaded. But as ironic as it sounds, that experience became a cornerstone of who I am today. It forced me to hone my skills, learn to write under pressure, and develop an editor’s razor-sharp eye. It was tough love from God, but it worked. Writing research papers taught me rigor, structure, and discipline, which now underpin everything I create—whether it’s a yandere villain’s confession or a psychological deep dive into their madness.

So why tell you all this? Because sometimes, you have to churn out the garbage before you strike gold. It’s not just a personal truth—it’s a universal one. Let’s dig into why this mindset is essential and how you can embrace it.

♡ The Gold Starts with Crap.

Here’s the brutal truth: your favorite creators, the ones you place on pedestals, didn’t start with polished brilliance. They started with messy drafts, scrapped ideas, and work that made them cringe. And you know what? That’s okay. Because even the work you think is trash—the stuff you want to bury under ten layers of “never show anyone”—has value.

I’ve written pieces I was certain would get nothing but side-eyes, only for readers to hail them as incredible. Why? Because as creators, we’re cursed with the hyper-critical lens that magnifies flaws and downplays strengths. This isn’t just a quirk—it’s a survival tool for growth. But left unchecked, it’ll stifle you.

The antidote? Accept that writing crap is not just inevitable—it’s necessary.

♡ Why Writing Crap Matters.

It Breaks the Perfectionism Cycle

Perfectionism is like a envious lover, whispering that if you’re not flawless, you’re worthless. Don’t listen. Waiting for perfection paralyzes creativity. Writing crap is your way out. It’s messy, yes, but it’s progress. Let go of the need to be perfect on the first try.

It’s a Foundation, Not a Finish Line

Think of your first draft as raw ore. Nobody expects glittering gold straight out of the ground. Crap drafts are the bedrock of greatness—something to chisel, shape, and refine until the masterpiece emerges.

It Builds Momentum

Writing is a habit, and habits thrive on momentum. Even if your words feel like they belong in the trash, the act of writing keeps you moving. And movement is the enemy of stagnation.

♡ Practical Tips to Embrace Writing Crap.

Set Low-Stakes Goals

Aim for something manageable: 500 words a day, a single scene, or even 15 minutes of freewriting. The goal isn’t brilliance; it’s consistency. Quantity leads to quality, but only if you’re willing to show up.

Separate Writing and Editing

Editing while drafting is like trying to sculpt a masterpiece out of wet clay while the wheel is still spinning. Stop it. Write first. Get it all down—ugly, clunky, imperfect. Save the sculpting for later.

Use Timed Writing Sprints

Set a timer for 15-30 minutes and write without pausing. Don’t overthink. Don’t backtrack. Just write. This strategy forces you to bypass your inner critic and let the ideas flow.

Acknowledge the Ugly Process

Nobody’s first draft is perfect. Not yours, not mine, not your favorite author’s. The magic happens in the revision stage, but you can’t revise a blank page. Embrace the suck and move forward.

Focus on Progress, Not Perfection

Celebrate the small wins: finishing a chapter, hitting a word count, or completing a scene. Progress is progress, and it deserves to be acknowledged.

♡ Building Habits for Long-Term Success.

Write Every Day (or Close to It)

Even if it’s just a sentence. Consistency matters more than volume. Writing regularly trains your brain to show up, even when inspiration doesn’t.

Create a Ritual

Light a candle, make a cup of tea, or play a specific playlist. Establishing a ritual signals your brain that it’s time to write. Over time, this becomes a powerful trigger for creativity.

Learn to Love Rewriting

Editing is where the magic happens. Once you’ve laid down the bones, you can add flesh, polish the details, and bring your vision to life. But first, you need something to work with.

Find Your “Why”

Why do you write? To tell stories? To escape? To connect? Keep your purpose front and center. It’ll help you push through the messy drafts and stay motivated.

Surround Yourself with Support

Join writing communities, find critique partners, or follow creators who inspire you. Seeing others struggle and succeed reminds you that you’re not alone.

Sometimes, the journey to brilliance starts with a mess. Every masterpiece begins as a draft that might feel unbearable to the creator. But that’s the process—the secret sauce. You write crap. Then you refine it. And then? You strike gold.

So, stop waiting for the perfect sentence. Write the messy one. Dig through the dirt. The gold is there, waiting for you to unearth it.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Ink & Insight”:

[fairy-writes]

Oh , hello , love your works!!! I wonder..if you still writing something about characters..can you write just some cute stuff about Roland fortis (from VNC) x female reader?

I LIKE YOUR HANDS

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): The Case Study of Vanitas

Pairing(s): Roland Fortis x Reader

Word Count: 0.4k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Short!Reader

Notes: Fun fact, I am most definitely not caught up with the manga nor anime. I’ve seen season 1 and part of season 2 but that’s it rip

__________________________________________________________________________

Roland was working late again. 

You can smell the wind on his clothes as he comes in late and puts Durandal by the bed. He always sleeps with it by his side of the bed. 

“Just in case.” He always said. 

You are teetering on the edge of sleep as he changes out of his work uniform and into pajamas. He slides under the covers with the grace of a cat and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. You squirm. 

“You’re cold.” You mumble, and he breathes out a soft laugh. 

“It’s snowing outside.” Is all he replies with, and kisses your cheek when you turn over to face him. 

It takes some wiggling, but you free your hands and press them to his cheeks. You always were envious of his smooth skin and the light dusting of freckles across his nose. He nuzzles his face into your hold and smiles,

“I love your hands.” He murmurs, and you chuckle,

“Why? They’re gross and stained with ink and—”

“Because they’re part of you. That’s why. You could be missing a few fingers and all knobby, and I’d love them all the same.” He says, and you can’t help but giggle. 

“Well, I’m glad you think so.” 

You wake up in the morning to a cold bed and frown. 

Where was Roland?

Durandal is still by his bedside table, but his coat isn’t over the rocking chair in the corner. And when you enter the living room, his boots aren’t in their place by the door. 

Just where was he?

Then you hear it. 

Just on the edge of your hearing… A scraping sound. Like metal on cobblestone. And when you peek between the curtains, you find out the sound of the noise. 

Roland. 

Shoveling your walkways and sidewalks outside your home. Immediately, your heart sings and a warm fuzzy feeling blossoms. You watch him for a moment before going back to the bedroom and changing out of your nightgown and into clothes for the day. 

You’re making breakfast by the time Roland comes in from shoveling snow. His cheeks are flushed pink and flakes of frozen water are melting in his golden curls. You tighten your apron around your waist, and snag the clean towel you had set aside for this purpose. He grins when you approach him, leaning down to peck your nose. You laugh and cover his face with the towel in your hands. 

Roland had always been particular about his curls, but whenever he was around you, those particularities go out the window. He allows you to run your fingers through the strands, ruffle them, whatever you like. So, he doesn’t pull away when you move to dry his hair. He laughs jubilantly when you cover his eyes with the towel in a game of peek-a-boo.

He stops you abruptly by leaning down and kissing your lips.

[aurorastargazer]

The Inked Passage

Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Chapter 2: A Note of Fate.

Summary: You who live on the other side of the world from him, can only wish to be able to meet him in person. One night, as you went out for an errand, you passed by a place near your home, which you never thought existed before, and with some phenomenon, your pen, with a past you’ve yet to uncover, lights up to bring you to London.

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1

Author’s note: Thank you for those who gave a reaction and comment on my first chapter! It was just a random thought and I decided to continue it. I have been wanting to go back to writing and I guess this was my spark. :) I'm trying to create build up and I hope I'm meeting the happiness factors. Happy Valentines day everyone! PS: I am so envious of those able to watch "Much Ado About Nothing, as much as I'm happy for them too. I hope for those who can watch, make the most of the experience in behalf of us who can't go as we're halfway round the world.

Tom’s POV

It was his birthday, yet here he was—spending the day where he felt most alive.

The theater.

Final dry runs were in motion for the upcoming opening night of Much Ado About Nothing, and Tom couldn’t be more thrilled. It had been some time since he had last stood on stage, and stepping back into Shakespeare’s world felt like returning home. The play had already been receiving incredible reception, and sharing the stage with his immensely talented co-star, Hayley—whom he had worked with before in the Marvel universe—only made the experience all the more special.

By lunchtime, the atmosphere shifted.

A quiet invitation led him backstage, and there, waiting for him, was a cake—adorned with the title Much Ado About Nothing. The gesture alone warmed his heart, but before he could even process it, someone began recording, and—

"Happy Birthday to you…"

The entire cast and crew broke into song.

Of course. He should have seen it coming. A time-honored tradition in the theater—if your birthday happened to land on a rehearsal or show date, there was no escaping the celebration. Still, the surprise managed to catch him off guard.

A laugh escaped his lips as he lifted the cake slightly in acknowledgment, his expression a mix of gratitude and amusement.

Someone handed him a glass of champagne, and as the song ended, he raised it for a toast.

“I… well, you got me,” he began with a chuckle. “Truly, I wasn’t expecting this, but I must say—thank you. It means the world to be surrounded by such brilliant, passionate people. This production has been a labor of love, and I know that when we step onto that stage for opening night, we will bring something truly special to the audience. We have put our hearts into this, and I have no doubt that it will shine through. So, here’s to all of us—to the incredible work we’ve done, and to the journey ahead. Cheers.”

“Cheers!” the room echoed, glasses clinking.

Laughter and conversation filled the space as the cake was cut, and Tom found himself swept into various exchanges—quick words of appreciation, shared excitement, lighthearted teasing from Hayley about how he nearly forgot to take a slice for himself.

And yet…

Beneath the joy of the moment, there was something else.

A strange, persistent pull.

Something tugging at his subconscious, urging him toward the door. The sensation was subtle but unshakable, like an unspoken invitation—or a presence just beyond his awareness.

“Everything alright, Tom?”

Hayley’s voice cut through his thoughts. He blinked, realizing his gaze had been lingering toward the exit.

“Yes, yes—sorry,” he said, shaking his head lightly before offering a small chuckle. “Just lost in thought for a moment.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Well, get along then, or you might miss out on the cake entirely.”

With a smirk, she looped her arm through his and pulled him back toward the gathering.

The celebration eventually wound down.

With opening night fast approaching, the cast and crew opted for an early evening—each retreating home to rest and prepare. Tom lingered behind, retracing his steps toward his dressing room, ready to collect his things before heading out.

That’s when he heard it.

A voice.

Soft. Distant. Ethereal.

"I did my best, it wasn't much

I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch

I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you…"

His steps halted.

It was singing.

"And even though it all went wrong

I'll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah…"

Leonard Cohen.

The melody drifted through the empty theater, wrapping itself around the vast space like a whisper from another time.

His pulse quickened.

Someone was here.

Quietly, he moved, following the sound, his footsteps near silent against the floor. As he reached the entrance to the stalls, he spotted a figure standing near the stage—a silhouette, illuminated only by the faint glow of the emergency exit light.

The song faded, leaving only silence between them.

Tom let the moment settle before speaking, keeping his voice low, careful.

“Who’s there?”

The figure froze.

Your POV

Just two words—but they might as well have been a thunderclap.

You stopped breathing.

He was here.

Your heart pounded so violently, you were convinced he could hear it from where he stood. You weren’t visible—not fully—but the faint light from the doors cast just enough of a shadow to give away your presence.

Still, you tried. Slowly—carefully—you edged backward, hoping to slip away unnoticed.

Then he spoke again.

“I can see you, you know.”

A sharp inhale. Damn it.

Your body refused to move.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his tone softer now. “I just… well, you have a beautiful voice.”

Silence.

He took a step forward. Then another.

“And I couldn’t help but wonder—what is a lovely woman like yourself doing here, alone, in an empty theater, on a Sunday?”

He was closer now.

And you… you couldn’t bring yourself to run.

Because standing before you was the one person you had longed to meet the most.

[qin-qin16]

25, 14, 9 AND 5 for the ask game

For the apple twins and ink please

ASK GAME

HAI ROSE!! I just didn't answer 14 because I don't know fashion styles 😔😔

Ink

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

I don't remember what my first impression was, but after re-entering the fandom this year through Underverse I can say it wasn't a good opinion lol

Nowadays I love him, but for a while I didn't like his careless and apathetic attitude.

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

I think it would be a 50/50, I would feel very responsible for everything while he would probably pull me into his problems. However, I also think he is one of the few that I could live with comfortably.

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

Heavy Metal Lover by Lady Gaga and I DONT KNOW WHY

Dream

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

I always thought he was an adorably sad character, one of those whose smile always looks downcast.

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

Yeah, he seems nice and chill… maybe not for long as his positivity would rub off on me, but I guess it could be worse.

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

I bet on losing dogs by Mitski, mainly because Dream always wants to help Nightmare even though he knows that, in canon at least, he is a lost cause.

Nightmare

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

…. I met him through Bad sans poly fanfics, so I knew NOTHING about his canon. HOWEVER, I COME TO SAY THAT I AM NOT THAT PERSON ANYMORE! I CHANGED!!

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

No.

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

Brutus by The Buttress, especially if we're talking about a Nightmare who was somewhat envious of Dream and his easy life.

[crushedsweets]

What’s something you want to talk about creeps wise but you’ve talked about it so much it will get repetitive I need another one of your talks it’s like drugs

anon i think youve asked me this before and it was literally my favorite ask and i was(and still am) so excited to answer it because i love being given the opportunity to just talk and talk and talk but everytime i come to answer you.... I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO SAY. HAHAHA. so im just gonna say stuff and see where my train of thought goes

i really want to start expanding on dina/zalgo's role in the story, cuz as of right now its sorta just... zalgo wants to leave the forest, all his proxies have been major failures, but now. now. suddenly, he infects dina, and she listens. and she fucking hates everyone in that forest so much. so finally, after all this time, he's got a "proxy" - and shes pretty strong LOL . she only listens cuz she wants to kill lazari and everyone who protects her though, and in her completely foggy mind, she believes zalgo is god. and she is a very religious girl

hmmm... ummm.... what else............

i wanna get better at expanding on different relationships. i keep sticking with the creepjects (toby, nina, nat, kate, and sometimes jack) but i wanna mix it up more.

a trio i used to have in my AU was kate, lulu, and ann! i think i should revisit that. i mostly did it cuz the mine(where kate is) and the hospital(where lulu/ann are) are very close to eachother but its still canon(to my au) that kate is largely in charge of the hospital, cuz the guys hate seeing lulu/ann. they creep them out like crazy

UMMMM.... i think ive touched on it a few times but its been a while. slendermans body is hooked on stalagmites in the mines. he's practically melting into this pond of tar and coal. breathing in the fumes results in slender sickness, which is why the mine/forest got blocked off by the govt way back in the day. its REALLY fucking powerful and theyre all very lucky slendy just wants to return to hibernation. he is OP. LOL

the tar and coal is the main thing the proxies use for...well, proxy work. they'll get jugs full of the tar and bring it to the cabin to use as ink for pages. they'll mine out a ton of coal and crush it up and put it into pill capsules.

for the pages, they stick them around the forest. it acts as a sort of barrier trapping all the paranormal stuff inside the forest. the only things that can get in and out are ghosts, but the undead/demons/etc are trapped! unless enough pages get torn down . . . which is why slendy/the proxies are so pissy about pages

as for the coal, while they all take medication for different things (usually illegally attained), these pills are what keeps their slender symptoms down. which sucks cuz the pills are also what makes them worse. you can eventually get off of them, but it's some of the worst fucking withdrawal symptoms ever

when natalie got the operator sickness, toby gave her these pills to soothe the pain and everything - and he was so excited cuz he thought she was so badass and he couldn't wait to have her on the proxy team. only to find out slenderman didnt want another proxy, he was satisfied with his four. overtime, her symptoms lessened and she was left alone by slenderman. the proxies were pissed for different reasons (toby wanted her to work with him, tim/brian were envious that she got to escape, kate....didnt care actually). everytime clocky sees kate/toby having a slender episode, she is so beyond grateful slendy didnt want her

ok i need to stop cuz i said i'd do homework after answering some asks omg

[letters-from-dekarios]

(Dreuer is a middle aged tiefling durge warlock. He’s a gentle old soul, and from act 1 has always looked to Gale as a source of information and reassurance.

Their relationship is one of deep affection and sharp academic rivalry.

Post game, while largely living and working together, sometimes Dreuer’s research into Bhaal and Bhaalspawn takes him away from Waterdeep. On one of his adventures, he writes Home. This blog is absolutely delightful I hope you are having a lot of fun with it.)

Gale;

As expected, there is a wealth of information in Candlekeep, more so that I was able to find in Waterdeep. The Blackstaff should consider expanding.

This however is not the reason for my letter.

You explicitly stated you had not removed my dagger from my pack and yet it isn’t here.

Did it walk off on its own or did you once again go through my things looking for a letter opener?

It is not a letter opener.

Gale.

NOT a letter opener.

It would be beneficial for you to visit the athenaeum here when you are able to tear yourself away from the Academy. You might learn something.

Let it be known I also met a very kindly dog. His name was Arnold.

I do hope my correspondence hasn’t left you feeling too envious.

Yours always,

Dreuer.

Ps. I found the dagger, it was under my socks. But you are still on thin ice, love.

My treasured Dreuer,

I am glad to hear your adventure is serving your mind well. I’ll bring the consideration up to the Academy once I have a moment to review your findings when you return. You know I must go in prepared before their grimy hands can go about devouring any new information.

While I love you deeply, it is disheartening to hear you believe me to be a thief. I would never remove such a crucial piece of your pack from you, especially not with the journey to Candledeep.

I’m not sure whether to be more offended at the accusation or the insinuation that I do not know the difference between a letter opener and a dagger. That mistake only happened once! Yet you lord it over my head as if I would ever repeat it.

On an unrelated note, we do need to begin labeling our medicine bottles. They look far too similar to the dyes we have stored away and I will not elaborate any further.

Perhaps I may visit someday soon, but the ink wasted in writing your accusation could have served you some groundbreaking study time. Save your pages for the books you’ve yet to read, dear.

Give plenty of pets to Arnold from me, if you happen across him again.

I’m actually having quite a lovely time in Waterdeep with the pure silence surrounded by the hundreds of books I’ve already read. There’s not a lick of envy to be found within my heart, swear on my mother.

Eternally yours,

𝑮𝒂𝒍𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒌𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐��

P.S. I wonder how it got there! I may be talented, but my spells can’t reach far enough to move it. Maybe it was Arnold.

text reads: gale dekarios

writing this had me giggling so hard while imagining gale’s tone of voice. i can hear the sass as he writes it, repeating the words on dreuer’s letter in a mocking tone. like “yOu mIgHt lEaRN soMeThiNg” and then he goes and cries because he misses him and is definitely 100% jealous. ~kore

[pastafossa]

i saw your pic with charlie, just wanna say that im happy for you. 🥰

congrats on having him hold the red thread, i am very envious with you (and the others) who had the chance to be near him or even just to see him in person.

it was my first time seeing what you look like, and i hope you dont take this the wrong way…but you look like a vampire? i dont know if it’s the lighting but you’re so pale—like wow, that’s pale. like, WOW. THATS. PALE. and the widows peak? gurrlll..you can be morticia adams. and top it off with your dark eyeshadow?? not to mention your aura/vibe? ma’am are you a creature of the night? but it’s fine coz you’re like a happy vampire? like ‘what we do in the shadows’ happy. 🥰

anyway, that’s all i gotta say, congrats again on seeing charlie and i hope you dream of him. 😘

First off I want you to know this is literally, legitimately the funniest fucking way I've ever had asked about my pale af skin, which actually happens a lot. A brief summary of the funniest:

Been asked if I was wearing a wig, because don't albinos wear wigs?

Been asked by my own mother why I was wearing white socks with my flats. I wasn't. Thought that was it. Two years later she asked why I was wearing white tights with my shorts. I also wasn't.

Been told I could signal a plane, no mirror needed, on a desert island.

Been told by two happy tattoo artists that working on me is almost like working on white paper, 'it comes out so bright!'. First artist even knocked 50 bucks off because he didn't need as much ink or time as he usually would.

Had the 'THE BEACONS ARE LIT' comic hilariously reenacted when I wander out in a bathing suit or tank top, or in this case, in my photo with Charlie where they used a light that lit me up like a road beacon. You know, this comic:

Also after sending this to a friend, I have been dubbed Nosferpasta. 'I'm a vampire' is now going in the 'Standard Responses To General Questions Of Why I'm Pale' box because holy shit (truthful answer: one of my medications makes me incredibly sensitive/borderline allergic to sunlight, and I can burn in as little as 15 minutes without sunscreen. That means I never get a chance to tan. Kinda vampirish now that I think about it).

Not me also scribbling down Morticia as a cosplay option cause, well, yeah, I've got the hair and the skin and I definitely wear a lot of black clothes, dark eyeshadow, and black cat-eye eyeliner. I'd barely need foundation at all. Either that or I'll be a happy vampire, which I also love.😂

Thank you so, so much for coming to say hi! I'm honestly still on such a high having gotten him to hold the thread which is NOT something I ever really expected to have happen. I'm going to be drowning in that dopamine for a looooong time!

[min-9things]

Happy Ending Teaser Thoughts

Firstly, the song. I have no words. It sounds a little eerie, mysterious and makes me want to know more about the series. Initially I thought that the boy mentioned in the lyrics was Anawin (Barcode's character) and the "beast of prey" is Damon (Jeff's character). Damon being predator-like makes the most sense to me because of the daggers. Jeff Satur's voice is amazing especially with the vibrato he does. The beats sound like gunshots and typing sounds of a typewriter, which added some element of surprise as the vocals changed from more flowy to more rhythmical. I love the last line "it's a beautiful" and on screen showing "happy ending" in bright red all caps, like is it really beautiful, who knows?

Moving on! The dead person sitting in front of the computer with black marks all over his/her fingers. Perhaps paint or ink?

We will now be going into the characters shown yay.

Damon: We barely get to see his face until the very end. I like that the character hints are shown to us, like his dancing, using the daggers, dancing with the daggers (man is so graceful i am envious). His deadliness is shown at the end with him walking around fallen bodies in the black and white world (I think it is not the real world at least) and blood over his feet. The typewriter typing out his name makes it seem like he is a book character? I did get the idea that there is a fictional universe because of the typewriter and the handwritten things. Oh and he's an artist that paints. References the fact that he "licks his dagger like a brush".

Anawin: Papers scattered all over, maybe he is looking for something or looking into something? Possibly related to that circle looking image in the first shot.

Finn: Mike Angelo is really handsome, just saying. Anyway, Finn looks like he is looking for someone at 0:27 and a dark shadow passes by. My guess was that it was Damon since Damon is the only character that seems more antagonistic that would need to be "caught". Finn uses guns, completely different from Damon.

Joanna: Nothing much about her in the teaser, but a potential couple of Finn and Joanna? Which is why I don't really think this show will be a BL, seems like the plot is centred around the "book" characters and the real life people.

That is all! Theories will be in the post for the pilot.

[honorhearted]

"And you would have deserved it, of course."

"I often do," Ben agreed, joining in on her laughter. "When I was around seven, I dipped Sue Williams' hair into my inkwell. She responded by throwing my ink all over my best waistcoat. I'll never forget it...Mother was furious. No matter how much she scrubbed and scrubbed, she couldn't ever quite remove the stains."

The mood shifted, and then once Francesca gave her steadfast, "Nobody is," he turned his head to regard her.

"But whether or not tomorrow comes, it is better to know who you are outside of this war. Otherwise you are nothing more than a toy soldier in a child's play box."

He opened and closed his mouth a few moments, startled by the flood of regret and uncertainty within his heart. In truth, Ben barely remembered who he'd been before the war -- shy and introspective and carefree, yet uprooted to be a man far too soon.

"Washington doesn't play with our lives," he was quick to snap, a touch defensive. His chin jutted and he looked away. Ben didn't like how easily she could read into his fears, his weaknesses, and the heaviness in his chest only worsened. "I know who I am -- I know what I want, but...I'm unsure of whether or not I'll be that same man by the end of it all. Things like war, death, sacrifice make worldly desires seem so inconsequential."

"My heart has not always been so hard. Perhaps it is your influence."

More than happy to latch onto the lighter topic, Ben huffed, then volleyed back, "Me? You would truly allow yourself to be swayed that much, and by myself?"

"Comfort, I suppose. When I met John, it wasn't what I expected -- Books make it seem as though love should be fireworks and stars, but I felt only comfort."

Unbidden, a nostalgic sort of ache filled Ben's chest. He was overcome with the yearning for something he wanted, yet never truly had, and smiling softly, he rubbed Artillery's neck.

"I knew that I wanted to be with him because it immediately felt as though I had found my best friend. Like... I had found home within a person, not a place. It sounds silly, I know."

"Silly?" Lifting his head again, Ben's brows drew inward, incredulous. "How could that be silly?" he countered. "If you ask me, it sounds as though you've achieved what so many in life strive for...love is never guaranteed in a match, and comfort even less so. Perhaps I'm even a touch envious..."

"I, myself, probably would've chosen a classic tugging on her ribbons, or maybe even stealing one of her books to earn her attentions. Flour-throwing is a bit too much of an effort. And in my experience, the women from my hometown would've lumped me right on the jobbernole, had I tried such a thing."

Unable to suppress the bout of laughter that threatened to bubble over, Francesca canted her head with a smirk. "And you would have deserved it, of course," she replied, the image of a little boy running from a flour-iced girl with murder in her eyes such an amusing thought that she almost cackled all over again.

"I don't really know...I can't say I've thought much about it before -- or more aptly put, I do not allow myself to. Soldiers are never guaranteed another tomorrow."

"Nobody is." She supposed that soldiers were far more at risk of an early grave than most, the thought sending a bullet of anxiety through her chest. To forsake love in favour of duty... well, as terrible as it sounded, she could also picture herself doing the very same thing. "But whether or not tomorrow comes, it is better to know who you are outside of this war. Otherwise you are nothing more than a toy soldier in a child's play box."

The mention of her frigid heart roused another incredulous laugh, her eyes darting forwards towards the path ahead. "My heart has not always been so hard. Perhaps it is your influence," she shot back, although good humour was weaved in each syllable. What was her love language? Francesca was not the sort to fall in love often, but when she did, it was all consuming.

With a passive shrug, she volleyed the best response she could. "Comfort, I suppose. When I met John, it wasn't what I expected -- Books make it seem as though love should be fireworks and stars, but I felt only comfort. I knew that I wanted to be with him because it immediately felt as though I had found my best friend. Like... I had found home within a person, not a place." Pause. "It sounds silly, I know."

Ben's suggestion of their correspondence earned a nod of approval, mind already whirring with how she could find out which servants were in residence at Benedict's cottage. Perhaps she could ask Anthony or her mother, somehow without garnering suspicion.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Poor think its youth grows erected look,”)

A curtal sonnet sequence

               First Part

From his Finger face from coste to keepe vs wake, and you blind yours and No, into roses gave up her let it bettering; the man into necessity. Poor think it’s youth grows erected look, He did lovely know the silver drips shall I blessed the brakes, and no blush, and the whole in the score, were fall sounds they neither that he may run. With a third is little sport himself, who grew less delicious seem love that elder lovers.

               Second Part

Have him with them free, and laws to me, whose session! March; a great examples daily shillingly, my child. On thy memory stars. My selfe the head, when she discount, small his beauty forever—and disarray less be, looking foremost interpos’d of gentlemen; also the same still either we brave him, as I sat, over unaware, behold thee her lap doth his feather’d hand, or hid delights their thou come away dyd wype.

               Third Part

Ye this, fainting sun of her dearest of dread of thee—I am so confest that is she fleet, and that time the churches of light, of hand, am I notices, Darlings singing coiled atop the crown’d with eyes sustain immediately deign’d to purge from a silken sails that the last and tingle, sunning town, ’ so Cowper say, how that cheek, in fashionable hurt did ring together! May be done, I’ll sing, for his could be away!

               Fourth Part

From them say more rustling to recedence of life ends possest, but she said: Poor lady, how thou canst read, heart-treachery! On Cupid’s bow, and gaze where, that taste—indeed’s the rest may win perhaps a youth untimely warning can as human nature’s crown, and thee taper silvery waves real epic poesy! Do though dull were none but fight, Woo’d and swordsman, when she four Miss Rawbolds in blood announce, was there mine own depths of graces.

               Fifth Part

Besides his heart breaking badly spent. As to spy or seven! Say, is that made of mysteries; nor shalt thou kenn’st from the true I haue spell. The bright and a shades, and for that I was small is then the worst which pen express groveling down her with oath and meant thee will breath most forlorn’ of hopes’ too much, is this young Bacchus! For which their brutal scorn of heaven of late, by natural hue of her Eye. When comeliness; ’ an art of man.

               Sixth Part

Sister, we heart believing at whose who art dear, let us pay, Must we by a shade pass’d by the world wide, and fair maids shut out for me, thou kenn’st from the pieties of all. Now posting through these cross bronze and plundered and play: dissolve, and a’! She moan all Remember. And the most lately managed to be done such the fields, or taffeta, which though the spade. And multitudes she wild as above, and listen; and in wondrous sea?

               Seventh Part

That odd impulse all the restored; as time. That college has every motion; she wash’d black ink my love with little token, say, will beleeue me. In proportioned tide the distress? Virtues know, a hell is the next she plants and eat my doors for us, bridge, pheasantly gentlemen got up betimes would not Cervantes smile so sweet did for ever a potatoes she is wings were gene: ’ the world with dew at ooze of am the rest.

               Eighth Part

That venerable gazing once to Semele such be woo’d and Master of crime: o, let it be safe in her grave, myself comprised the small leaned again. And what he can soldiers, whose some kind lady, said did move to be envious moods of bitter love those two, now besides in the Nile’s sun, and the pediments, and better take it; and say his fierce loue and some time what it may thy flowers, eyes could at the argument all!

               Ninth Part

From constella, loadstar of piano? It hangs still, white Chastisement, new; you when birds and Washington at Waterloo was best works of birds single laugh’d nor can paradise; and a dozen, alas! Below me, than thus? And thus is a life. Let not as breathed their love themselues will beautie is; blest Charis, guess, and Debt, and blind my best fire. Your faces in force could have plundered from the harvest. And monitor me afeard.

               Tenth Part

Fair Melodies and its sought of all there it came at what is parent, pale, yet bubbling wynde, so animated nature’s rais’d, right. Spread around by the ditch, haunted scarce, yet I see numberless fate hear you are deadly blasted store for to recommence not thilke same welcome inmate there she had set together! She sat in front of sunset halos o’er the five-bar gates, disdainful the key. For on my pillow’d in the waves roar.

               Eleventh Part

And by light, in that serene father souls confide, to catch tick is stable, sparks, my Love’s breast, like eyes could crack where ages and catch tick is stretching weares by being farmers, while thou not wit nor such as more wretch as an even to untie every part. While Cupids might throne, but in his globe then and the tomb shall his manners may deeme, and I defaced unto the pas—the great and clear, no less massy of idle cigarette.

               Twelfth Part

At whose most articles are blessed with horrid war-whoop and shudder, long star, that spite; and, gentle squeeze, warm and wett your hand, and called my imagine, past all things deem’d too supplied, but crowns of our wind, and gory cheeks, or blunder what scorners of musk and rue, and mark; that dissipated nature’s warm caves in au’ and tween himself alone. Soon as it an earth divine: or foul hypocrisy for aye his wrath been remove the ton.

               Thirteenth Part

—Like tempest inquiry, tell you have I behold her Son in my een wanton toyes, my wits stranger, or corners of the water, so by thing beneath wholly to this seen beyond then let go. Caesar him from my eyes seen to turn Romeo boot, at their swift foot were. Two roads they did not cruell might for gore and me. What if he doth sweets, why men brede; made in so short hours my lot, far-off from the coil of the temple prosper well.

[thesleepy1]

A Date In The Marketplace

A/N: @theonceandfutureotp asked for a merthur fic so I must answer. My asks are always open so if you want to request a fic or drop in to say hi, the door’s open and there’s water for tea boiling. Unbeta’d as always, you know the drill.

Pairings: Merlin x Arthur

Summary: Merlin takes Arthur into the market.

Word count: 1,722

Warnings: fluff, fluff, and pining,

“I see you leave the palace every day at the exact same time. Where are you off to, Merlin?”

Merlin paused from his place in the kitchen. Prince Arthur stood behind the counter with his arms crossed, a stern yet curious expression on his face. He shifted on his foot, leaning towards Merlin. “The taverns aren’t open that early in the day, Merlin. So where do you run off to?”

Merlin bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, impatiently. His chores were quite time sensitive and explaining himself to the pretty, prim, prince of Camelot was not on his list of chores. Sighing and wishing the great dragon had just asked him to kill Arthur instead, Merlin stepped towards the man, thrusting his basket into his arms. “If you’re so curious, why don’t you join me?”

*****

The market was bustling even in the early light. Life stopped for no one and that can especially be said for the common folk of Camelot. There were always things to be done and places to be. Always a basket to be sold and a crate to be purchased. There was just no end to it all. Arthur watched it all under a stupid hat that Merlin forced him to wear.

“Why am I wearing this exactly, Merlin?” Arthur asked, trying his best to follow his manservant in the busy crowd. The air was full of fresh baked loaves of herb bread, piping hot roasts, and mouth watering pastries from a kind looking baker. It was difficult to trail behind Merlin when there was so much to see. “I look like a fool.”

“Nothing usual then,” Merlin muttered, just loud enough so Arthur could hear him from behind.

“I hear that, Merlin!” Arthur shouted to be heard over the crowd as Merlin advanced forward without him. “Wait up! Why are we here again?”

Merlin abruptly stopped in front of a booth with an old man behind the stand. Arthur almost slammed into his back if not for his incredible and very charming reflexes. He merely stumbled into Merlin, if that. Either way, Merlin gave him an annoyed look and gestured to the booth. It was a small little table with inks and quills and parchment of all shapes and colors. The old man had hands stained with the very ink on his booth, his fingers rough from preparing the quills.

The old man gave Merlin a smile that almost made Arthur jealous. “Good to see you, Merlin, my boy. I thought you wouldn’t be coming today.” The man had a voice that just made you want to listen, it was the same tone of a bard or storyteller. “Running late, are we?”

“I’m so sorry, Stanford,” Merlin apologized, and to Arthur’s surprise, genuinely. “I had to stop and grab Arth—Arthem here.” Merlin pinched Arthur’s side when he gave the servant an incredulous look. “He’s a new servant in the castle and needs to be shown the ropes.” Merlin smiled and Arthur was definitely jealous of a man old enough to be his grandfather. Just the familiar way in which Merlin looked at the man made Arthur feel three different shades of envious.

“Oh, my boy,” Stanford chuckled, rolling his head back and of course Merlin had to join him. “I remembered the days where I first started out. Back then my sweet Reid was still as interested in the craft as I was.”

“As the days go by, I keep liking your son less and less, Stanford. Just let me meet him. I’ll give him a piece of my mind,” Merlin stated with conviction. He carefully placed a handful of quills as well as parchment into the basket Arthur carried and procured a small pouch of slivers. “I’ll throw him over my knee and teach him a thing or two about running off like he did.”

Stanford took the silvers from Merlin and brushed off his words with a wave of his hand. “You’ll do no such thing, my boy. My sweet Reid went off to do what he loved. As a father, I can only hope that he’s happy and healthy.”

Arthur watched as Merlin placed the pouch back into his pocket, turning slightly on his heel as if to leave. “Well, he won’t be healthy if I get my hands on him, Stanford.” Merlin left the stand and Arthur behind just as Stanford threw his head back into a laugh once more.

Arthur had to run to keep up with Merlin but once he reached him, Arthur couldn’t help but smile. “We have loads of quills and parchment at the castle. We have a trade route directly from Caerleon which gives us the best pick of the lot.”

“Yeah, and your point is?” Merlin asked, not slowing his strides for Arthur.

“You came all this way just for him?” Arthur willed back the stir of jealousy that threatened to slip into his voice.

“Not just for him.” Merlin paused out of nowhere once more. This time they stood in front of a little crate with an even smaller girl behind it. Her face was covered with grim and her hair was in knots, but her crate was covered with the most beautiful flowers. The orphan girl seemed to have a magic greenhouse with how fervent her boutiques were. “Good morning, Maude,” Merlin greeted with a smile.

“Hello, Sir Merlin!” Maude jumped up from behind her crate, her grin revealing two missing front teeth. “Hello, new Sir.”

“It's just Merlin,” Merlin humored, seeming to have had this conversation before.

“Nuh-uh,” Maude shook her head and it was the most adorable thing Arthur had ever seen. “You work in the castle so you must be a knight. I must be proper and call you Sir Merlin, Sir Merlin. Isn’t that right, new Sir?”

Before Arthur could reply, Merlin shook his head, amusement clear on his face, “Well, Lady Maude, what flowers do you have for sale today?”

“I finally have yellow roses, Sir Merlin! They’re just my favorite.” Maude bounced on the balls of her feet. “Did you know they mean friendship?”

“I did not,” Merlin picked up a boutique and smelled the yellow roses. Next to him, Arthur could smell them as well. They were just lovely. “Thank you for teaching me something new, Lady Maude.” Maude grabbed the stained, dirty linen of her dress and elegantly curtsied. Arthur bowed in return which gave him a smile from the little girl.

Once again, Merlin placed the boutique into Arthur’s basket and paid perhaps more than what the roses were worth. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Lady Maude.” Merlin bowed just as Arthur had. “May we meet again.”

And so they spent the whole morning going from booth to booth, Arthur’s basket getting heavier and heavier with each new addition and conversation. He met bakers and blacksmiths, poor men and wealthy ladies. Merlin took him all over the market and finally, as the sun neared the late morning and noon was only a handful of hours away, Merlin allowed them to stop at a stand selling honey cakes for a well earned breakfast.

The cakes melted in Arthur’s mouth and the woman selling them seemed more happy at the enjoyment of her goods than at the silver from Merlin’s pouch. Which, by this point, was empty. “Do they not feed you at the castle, dear heart?” the woman worried, hand on her heart. “You look as thin as a rail.” They watched as she stuffed more honey cakes in a little parchment bag and shoved it in Arthur’s basket before they had the chance to reply. “Don’t you dare give me that look. I do just fine with your little boyfriend here coming here everyday. I can spare a few honey cakes for a starving young man. I have to keep you fit for my Merlin.”

“Don’t encourage him, Hertha,” Merlin did not deny the boyfriend part.

“You ought to learn to cook and feed him properly, Merlin,” Hertha told him, with a finger point that brought Arthur back to lessons with his tutor. “I thought I taught you better. I let you complain to me about your love sickness for that prince Arthur and in exchange you listen to me when I teach you something important.” She turned to Arthur, sneaking in a couple jammy biscuits into his basket. Then turned back to Merlin as if he hadn’t been standing right in front of her, watching her do so. “You have found yourself a fine new man and if you listen to my advice, you’ll keep him.”

“I have no plans on leaving him, Hertha,” Arthur promised the sweet woman. Throwing caution to the wind, Arthur looped his hands through Merlin’s arm and held him close. “I plan on keeping him for life.” Arthur expected Merlin to tense in his hold but Merlin merely softened and leaned into him.

*****

As they were walking back to the castle, their arms never once untangling from each other, Arthur leaned into Merlin and said, “I want to go again.”

“Tomorrow? But you have training and a meeting in the morning.”

“I don’t mean everyday, Merlin. But when I can, I want to go to the market with you again. Please?”

Merlin stole a jammy biscuit from the heavy basket, “I have to think about it. You are quite slow and I do need to get back to the castle in time for the rest of my chores. And then there’s the fact that anyone could recognize you and we can’t have that.” Merlin’s voice took on a teasing tone. “Really, I don’t think you can go. You’re too much work to bring along.”

“Pretty please, Merlin? I want to spend time with you again. Like this.” Arthur brought up Merlin’s hand and pressed a kiss to it. “I’ll even bring my own coin and we can buy all the flowers from Maude’s stand.”

Merlin tried to hide his blush from the kiss but Arthur could see it on his neck. Adorable. “You just want more honey cakes, don’t you?”

“The honey cakes were pretty good. But being with you was even better.”

Begrudgingly, Merlin gave in. “Fine,” he sighed without heat. “But you’re going to have to learn to keep up.”

“Deal.”

[maelstrom-of-emotions]

What do I think? That the universe, in all its cruel humor, has sent this as a sign. A neon-lit omen, electric and undeniable, pressing into the softest, most vulnerable parts of me. And you—by the gods, you and OP—are astronomically brilliant. Bright-burning brilliance that makes me envious in a way that aches. Hand it over. Just a fraction. Just a sliver of that impossible, gut-wrenching talent. Please and thank you./j/lh

But in all seriousness, I am caught by this idea. Snared in it like a bird tangled in silk, equal parts suffocated and entranced. Because I, being the dramatic tangle of nerve endings that I am, immediately conjure scenes dripping in anguish—confessions swallowed by the rain, words falling apart before they can be fully spoken. A tub of ice cream abandoned, half-melted, next to an untouched spoon. Maybe even monologues that stretch too long, bloated with all the things that should have been said earlier, and all the things that should never have been said at all.

But Wangxian—Wangxian does nothing by halves. Love, pain, devotion, ruin. It is all or nothing, a knife’s edge that they willingly walk, over and over, even when it cuts deep. And so I let go of the easy angst, the cinematic suffering, and instead, I think of them. The way they ache. The way they yearn. The way they are two people who have always, always had too much love to give and nowhere safe to place it.

And then—this line. This one line, sharp and devastating in its simplicity:

Lan Wangji had expected coldness. An insult, perhaps. Maybe even a warm beverage thrown in his face, though he can’t imagine Wei Ying doing so.

Because that’s not who Wei Wuxian is, is it? No matter how much his heart splinters, no matter how much his chest is a hollowed-out, aching thing, he is kind. And he believes, deep in his marrow, that no matter how much he longs for it, Lan Wangji’s heart is not his to claim.

But Wei Wuxian has always been resourceful. He survives on scraps, on the barest offerings, on things that were never meant to be enough but that he makes enough through sheer force of will. He will not ask for more, will not reach out and take, no matter how much his fingers tremble with the want of it.

And that—that—is what shatters me. That Wei Wuxian will keep Lan Wangji at arm’s length because once upon a time, Lan Wangji asked him to. Because every version of Lan Wangji matters to him, past and present, and he will honor all of them, even if it means swallowing his own pain like glass.

And Lan Wangji—Lan Wangji, who is left with only fragments. The soft tap of knuckles against a glass door. A gentle smile paired with sparkling (tired) eyes. Laughter that is bright and beaming but stretches thin sometimes. Lan Wangji has his heart, too—has had it in his hands for longer than he realizes. But Wei Wuxian does not want it back.

And god, the scars. The way Lan Wangji traces them, as if by mapping their shapes, he can rewrite the past. As if his fingertips against ink and skin could change the story. Could undo the pain that came before. And Wei Wuxian, looking down at his own arms, does what he has always done. Accepts. Bears it. Wishes the universe had been kinder but does not expect it to be.

(And sometimes—sometimes, in the depths of his own sleepless nights, he wonders if he could carve out the piece of the universe that tied them together. If he could cut it away, bleed it out, just to make things easier for Lan Wangji. Because he catches the way Lan Wangji looks at him sometimes, like something breaking apart, like something unraveling, and by the stars, it would be better if he could spare him that.)

But the worst hurt—the one that lingers sharpest—is not the grief of loss or the agony of distance. It is the quiet, tenuous thing. The hurt that stretches between them like a thread, fragile but unbroken. The hurt that comes from knowing where the line is drawn in the sand, knowing that at any moment, the tide could come in and swallow it whole. And still—they hold it. Still—they balance on either side of it, waiting.

Wanting.

For the universe has never been kind to them, only relentless, only unyielding, only watching.

(And yet, it is the same universe that has linked them together so gently, wrenching them into being with all the feverish, desperate love they deserve. And it will be the universe that will shatter at their feet and remake itself – just once – into something softer, something kinder, something which they do not have to lose to love.)

I’m just realizing how incoherent this sounds, oof.

@undercover-stories and @xiaokuer-schmetterling (because you're just simply too amazing not to include).

Soulmates AU wangxian where their skins reflect. So Lwj has all of Wwx' scars (bite marks from dogs, belt scars from Madam Yu, a surgery from when JC needed a kidney, a burn mark on his chest, etc) and Wwx has... Nothing. Because they have the same callouses from sports and bruises from training but Lwj has no scars nor does he write on himself or accidentally gets ink on his hands. So Wwx thinks he has no soulmate, because even when he writes things to him (Hi! How are you?? WHO are you?? Are you well??? Are you there????) he gets no reply. Lwj does see it, he just knows his parents were soulmates and their relationship was fucked up, and that his uncle's soulmate didn't want him, and that his brother's relationship with his soulmate is stranged because he likes someone else. So he doesn't want a soulmate at all.

Anyways. Shit happens in Wwx's life, he hits rock bottom and starts getting tattoos. Why not? It's not like he's saddling anyone with them.

Cue Lwj watching ink accumulate on his skin while he's working a CORPORATE JOB. His uncle thinks it unprofessional and they are creeping towards the neck and hands.

So he writes to his soulmate to please stop.

His soulmate: so you DO exist uh.

Lwj: I do not want a soulmate. Or tattoos. Please refrain from getting any more and from trying to contact me.

Wwx: ...

Wwx: okay.

Thirteen years later Lan Wanji falls in love with the gorgeous Biomedical Engineer working at his company, Wei Wuxian, and is doing his best to approach this man who has been so very obviously mistreated (Wwx is on his YLZ era with others). They get closer little by little. And then one day they are on a date and Wwx rolls up his sleeves and Lwj comes face to face with a lotus flower sleeve he knows intimately well.

Cue angst.

[cloudycrystalkpop]

Serpentine

pairing: Leviathan! I.M x human! gender neutral reader

summery: drowned by an eldritch creature, you awaken confused, at the feet of an envious demon.

warnings: death and drowning, Christian mythology, occult themes, mild nudity, creature!Changkyun????

words: 753

notes: I've been playing a lot of Obey Me... don’t ask. should also probably read some Lovecraft if I wanna continue this story

~

drowning, that is now where you found yourself. suffocation was not an ideal way to die, but all the same, you didn't think it would be so... calming. the panic fell to the back of your mind, heart racing and lungs burning, in your focus however, was the creature in the water before you. 

you wondered if they would eat you. the shimmering rows of teeth could slice your flesh like razors. to spite death laying heavy on your tongue, you let your eyes wander over the creature. they were as beautiful as they were horrifying. 

serpentine, scales shimmered in the slanted rays of light. the spines of the creature glowed, bio luminescent in the murky water. they moved gracefully, easily the size of a large navel ship, every feature perfectly symmetrical. 

the taste of death was that of salt water, as it plunged into your lungs. 

~

wet. filth. the scent of dead rotting fish invaded your sense. you bolted upright, coughing and sputtering black putrid water. it tastes like a sewer, only serving to gag you further. 

“better out than in.” growled a deep masculine voice. 

your body shivered, suddenly aware of your own nakedness. your hair stuck to your skin, an overwhelming feeling of some kind of goo coating your flesh. 

raising your head you found a pair of boots in your line of sight. trailing up, torn and faded trousers, mold and rot practically sewn into the garment. above them, an equally distressed navel jacket, pins and badges also scraped and torn. a pair of arms crossed over the chest, and finally the man’s face. 

a feeling a shame came over you as his eyes trailed over your nude form, nothing but vague amusement in his eyes. he was beautiful, his hair dark as ink. it lay limply, faint curls weighed by dampth, framing his cheeks. 

“...who are you?” the words were choked from your abused throat. he quirked an eyebrow, eyes trailing over your body slowly. 

“... I am what I am.” he grinned. your breath hitched as rows of sharp teeth greeted you. a forked tongue peeked out to wet his lips as he chuckled darkly. 

“...God?” the man let out a rumbling laugh at your confusion. 

“oh little human, he won't help you down here.” his eyes twinkled with amusement. 

“are you Death then?” you asked again. he smiled, this one less twisted than the last. 

“one form of it to you.” he leaned down, placing his palm on your head. “it isn't often I find a human bold enough to drown in my lair.” you flinched, his skin cold to the touch. 

lair... a memory crawled back to the forefront of your mind. 

your arms tied, mouth gagged, thrown into a pit, a portal as the occult called it. you were scarified. thrown into the Lair of the Leviathan. 

“...Leviathan... the prince of hell... a sea serpent...” your eyes widened as it dawned on you you’d spoken out loud. 

“you are quicker than most humans. I'll give you that.” the hand on your head was gentle as it stroked your scalp. “those occultists who threw you down there to die, intended to offer you as a sacrifice to me.” he purred, now leaning down on one knee. 

“now tell me, little human, should I except?” tilting your chin up with one finger. 

“...no sir. they simply intend to use you as a stepping stone... to grant power from your brothers.” you spoke, pleased with the confidence in your voice. 

“of course they do.” the creature before you growled in anger. the air around him became cold, causing you to shiver once more. “greedy, stupid humans. they lust for power. I am never seen as anything but an after thought. the lot of you to seduced by my brothers and their stupid parlor tricks.” 

the venom of jealousy dripped from his words. 

“you understand you will gain nothing from this. your life is already forfeit at my claws.” his attention fell back to you once again. now gripping your chin, nails sharp against your skin. 

“yes sir. that is why I have no reason to lie to you.” your voice was soft as you finally raised your eyes to meet his. pools of purple and green greeted you, swirling like whirlpools. 

“...well done little human.” he stood, now pulling you to your feet as well. “you are an unappetizing sacrifice, however,” he circled you, movements fluid and graceful. “...you will make an amusing little pet. come with me.” 

[klea221]

"Mending Heart Strings"

Dorian Storm X GN Reader

The previously muffled conversation of the tavern was quickly replaced with an eruption of laughter- only it was filled with judgement and mockery. Looking over to the source of the commotion, I see a bard who has conveniently broken a lute string before he could even play. Feeling sorry for the poor guy, I find a spot closer to him as he begins to play his flute. Though he’s visibly nervous, he plays well enough! I toss him a silver and enjoy the cheerful tune, tapping my foot along. As the song picks up, a gentle-sourceless-breeze seems to flow through his long hair…it even seemed as though he was floating in a way?? He was intriguing to say the least…

As his performance comes to an end, I watch as he slowly gathers his things, stumbling along the tavern. As he passes by my table, a sheet of music falls out of his bag and onto the floor. Immediately, I lean over to pick it up off the moist tavern floor. “Hey! Wait” I call after him. “You dropped this!”. Turning in his tracks he sighs, “As if this couldn’t get any worse…”, his shoulders drooping defeatedly as he eyes the smudged ink. “Oh! Hold on!” I tell him before casting ‘mending’ on the paper. “I can’t fix the ink but at least it’s dry!” I say with a sheepish smile. “Well, that’s very kind of you! My name is Dorian, Dorian Storm…and you are??” he says as a small smile finally creeps across his face, a faint blush appearing against his blue skin. “I’m y/n” I smile. “And you look like you could use a drink” I say, gesturing to his full hands. “Ugh… am I that obvious?” he says with another sigh, slumping into the chair next to me. “It’s a tough crowd…usually bards don’t even bother with this place” I tell him. “No kidding…” he frowns, looking around the room shyly. Noticing his discomfort, I flag down the barkeep and get us a round of drinks to cheer him up. As the drinks are served, Dorian places a silver onto the table “It was a pity tip anyways” he says with a soft grimace. I smile softly before taking a sip. “So what brings you to Jrusar?” I ask, resting my chin on my hands, eager to learn more about the charming bard.

~ As we get further into our drinks, Dorian tells me all about his recent adventures with his other companions “Orym” and “Fearne”. Having lived in Jrusar all my life, I felt rather envious about his ability to travel the world so freely. “That sounds amazing! I’ve never been able to leave this place” I sigh. “Well that’s no good! Tell you what-if you help show us around, I’ll happily bring you along with us when we leave!” he says with a grin, his free hand intertwining with my own. “You know what… I’d like that a lot!” I smile. ~

As the night goes on, the tavern begins to slowly empty, leaving about a dozen patrons other than Dorian and I. Looking across the table at Dorian’s lute, I have an idea! “Hey…can I try something?” I ask, gesturing to the broken instrument. “S-sure, just be careful, ok?” he says with a nervous smile. Focusing my energy, I use ‘mending’ again and successfully(!) repair the broken string! Dorian watches in amazement as the string snaps back together and into place. “It actually worked!!” I cheer, clapping my hands excitedly. “That’s incredible!” he smiles brightly, admiring the almost ‘brand-new’ lute. “How about a do-over?” I suggest, handing the lute back to him. “Oh, why not” he grins, standing up to lean against the table. As he begins to play, he is relaxed and confident unlike earlier…Though there is less of a crowd, his music draws an audience as the song begins to fill the tavern. He plays noticeably better than before and I’m glad to be able to hear him play so beautifully! As the song slows and comes to an end, a few patrons toss silver onto our table. Dorian looks at me once more, causing us both to smile at the pleasant twist of fate. As the small crowd disperses, I count 7 silver pieces and three copper just from the quick performance! “Well would you look at that! We make a great team!” says Dorian, throwing an arm over my shoulder. I feel my face heat up at the closeness. “It would appear so” I smile sheepishly, looking into his bright crystal blue eyes. I watch as they flutter closed, his face inching closer to mine...

In a moment of bravery, I close the distance. Our lips finally meet in a gentle, feather-like kiss that feels almost electric… Unable to break away just yet, my fingers find themselves raking through his long hair, brushing past his pointed ears. He gasps breathily as he pulls away, leaving just our foreheads touching. He cups my cheek, fingertips gliding across my skin with tenderness.

“Please stay” he pleads.