#i spent way too long deciding between this version and another one

[undead-knick-knack]

[runawayolives]

So for baby daddy Nate: when they are older and married reader can't handle anymore and they both fight she ask for divorce but the kid hear it.? Hope you write about this.

This isn't canon, I think.

This belongs to Baby Daddy.

"I think we should get a divorce."

"What?"

"I said that I think we should get a divorce."

"I heard you the first time."

The Jacobs' household was soaked in silence, the two young adults in the kitchen after setting their kid to bed. Nate was sitting on the armchair near the kitchen island, while she was cleaning the remaining of dinner. He stood up, walking towards his wife, invading her personal space.

"Can I know where this is coming from?" The faucet had been dripping for a bit, probably because it knew breaking the silence was its new task.

"I don't think we need to be married." Her hand was gripping a damp towel, hyper-focusing in a little circle of coffee from that morning. "We aren't a married couple, we're just two adults living in a house and raising a child."

"Who's fault is that?"

"Don't blame me." The circle was finally gone. "You were the one who married a woman who never wanted you." Their eyes met for the fist time since they put their child to bed.

"Don't say that shit."

"Mommy? Daddy? I'm thirsty." Both young adults turned around to look at the small figure standing by the hallway. The way they were gripping the doorway and their half hidden body proved that the child had been there for longer.

"Mommy will get you some." Quickly she turned around to fill a plastic cup with water. "Here hon. Do you need help going back to bed?"

"I want daddy to do it." Those big brown eyes were too hard to deny, making Nate walk forward.

"Come on, Jojo, I'll read you another story." He lifted his child to his hip, somehow still dwarfing the child, as if they hadn't grown since they were still a baby.

"Goodnight mommy."

"Goodnight, baby."

The staircase was full of picture frames of the young family, at the park, the zoo, on christmas. Endless memories that his stupid wife wanted to throw away because she was a quitter and a coward.

"What were you and mommy talking about?"

"Nothing you have to worry about."

"You were mad. Is mommy in trouble? Should she sit on the step?" Jojo was the most terrifying child Nate had ever met. The big eyes, the big cheeks and their calm nature made them look like a small victorian child that had seen too much. Jojo had a normal childhood, two parents that loved them, friends, and two set of grandparents that spoiled the kid a bit too much. Normal, very normal child.

Nate thought all the weird things that came out of Jojo were her fault. She burdened their child, he knew it. Jojo played like any other kid, Jojo had the same taste buds as any other kid. But Jojo asked uncomfortable questions and would stare at you for a bit too long, as if the five year-old was trying to figure you out.

She spent too much time raising the child, got bored because she's a stupid selfish bitch and decided to treat Jojo like an adult. Too many books, too many paintings and too many museums.

Jojo loved their mom, and Nate was envious. Not because Jojo didn't love Nate, but because looking at them proved what relationships between mother and child could be. Martha hadn't been present, she was home, and she picked him up from school, but his dad was the one in charge of raising him.

Seeing Jojo and Y/N somehow was the Universe or whatever entity rubbing it his face. You had the potential for having this, but you didn't.

The white walls of his kid's room were covered in little scribbles on the wall, something they hadn't bothered in correcting as long as it was only in these walls. The dinosaur lamp was still on, spreading the room in the light green light. Some story books were laying on the ground, and some books. Original versions of classics such as Little Women and To kill a mockingbird laid besides The very humgry caterpillar and The Giving tree.

During the walk up and the small back rubs Nate was giving Jojo, the five-year old had fallen asleep, long eyelashes tickling their cheeks. The toddler was set on the brand new ocean life bed sheets, their latest obsession, and immediately started hugging the handmade-crochet whale they had made with their mom's help.

After setting the kid to sleep and kissing their small forehead, Nate went downstairs. His wife was were he left her, this time with a mug between her hands.

"If you think I'll give you a divorce and let you separate me from my son, you're way stupider than I thought."

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART VII

—forever winter

summary: the trials and tribulations of falling in love or two idiots who can't get their shit together.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 6.8k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). angst!!! cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol and covid. feelings of hopelessness, anxiety. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello again, here's the next part!! also here are a few songs i listened to while writing this one: salt in the wound - boygenius, flume - bon iver, the gold - phoebe bridgers, for emma - bon iver, forever winter - taylor swift and calgary - bon iver.

happy reading <3

masterlist!

January 19, 2020

Los Angeles, CA

There have always been two versions of you: the person you once were and the person the world has decided you are. The first is the one who existed long before the spotlight, the one with a bit of adolescent angst, dreams bigger than herself, and a heart still learning to shield itself.

This version was taught by her parents that she was special, but the world hadn’t yet caught on. She was the girl who felt small and out of place, who wrestled with who she was and where she belonged.

And then there’s the second version, the one who stands in the center of magazine covers, on the glossy side of fame. She is everything you once dreamed of becoming—and more. You’ve spent the last decade perfecting her image, carving her out of raw ambition and countless hours under the hot glare of cameras. Her Wikipedia page reads like an epic: awards, accolades, achievements—flawless. She’s a masterpiece.

This side of you is never tired. She never shows frustration. She knows how to angle her face when the camera flashes, to smile when the questions sting, and to cry beautifully when accepting awards. She can gracefully discuss the sexism she’s faced in the industry, yet she knows better than to name names or point fingers.

She always sticks to the narrative.

For the longest time, you hoped you wouldn’t need to split into two people. That the version of yourself from years ago would be good enough for the world. But the divide wasn’t gradual—it was sudden. It happened four years ago, the day your ex decided to make you the centerpiece of a bitter, ugly breakup that splashed across every tabloid in the country. Since then, you’ve been caught between these two identities, juggling the woman you once were with the image the world expects of you.

As you sit in the back seat of the car, your eyes linger on your reflection in the tinted window. Tonight is the SAG Awards, another high-profile event where your public persona will take the lead. You watch yourself in the mirror, a familiar stranger, and wonder: Does anyone truly know you? Do you even know yourself anymore?

“There's a line of press when you get out of the car,” Taylor, your manager, says without looking up from her phone. “You know, the usual stuff.”

“Got it.”

You nod, trying to focus on the task ahead, but your thoughts are far away. You look out the window, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of color. No matter how many of these events you attend, it never gets easier.

The car slows to a stop, the muffled sounds of the crowd growing louder through the windows.

“Why isn’t Daniel here?” Taylor asks, breaking the silence.

“He had to fly back to Enstone,” you reply, a pang of disappointment in your chest. “The season starts soon. He’s prepping.”

Last year was a challenging one for Daniel—his racing season wasn’t what he hoped for, and he’s determined to make up for it this time around. His commitment to his craft mirrors yours in so many ways, but tonight, you wish he was here with you.

“Oh, that’s too bad, babe,” Taylor says, her hand resting on your knee in a gesture of sympathy. “When will he be back?”

“I’m not sure; he didn't say,” you murmur. “Hopefully soon.”

The door opens, and the roar of the crowd hits you like a wave. Flashing cameras, the shouting of photographers, and the glittering red carpet stretch out before you. “Looks like we’re here,” Taylor says, stepping out and extending a hand to help you.

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. It’s always easier with someone by your side, but tonight you’ll have to do this alone. You follow Taylor’s lead, plastering a smile on your face as you step out into the chaos. The cameras flash, posing and waving, but inside, you feel detached—like you’re watching yourself from afar.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally make it inside the venue, your body relaxing slightly as the noise of the red carpet fades behind you. You’re greeted by familiar faces and smiles, but the exhaustion from keeping up appearances lingers.

“I thought I was going to be the coolest person here, but clearly, you've beat me to it.”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts, deep and teasing. You turn and find Pedro standing there, dressed in a sleek silver suit jacket with black pants, his expression warm and playful.

His presence doesn't faze you; you've been filming for the Mandalorian since November last year, seeing each other here and there, not really spending time together between takes, and not acknowledging what happened at the wedding. You didn't hear from him since production stopped mid-December, only to get back on set early January. Although with everything else he's doing, you barely see him there anyway.

“You look amazing,” he says, his eyes lingering on you.

You glance down at your outfit—a sharp, stylish suit you picked for the night. It fits perfectly, giving you an air of confidence even though, inside, you feel anything but. “Thanks,” you say. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Pascal.” You gesture to his getup, offering a kind smile.

Pedro smirks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I came over to congratulate you.”

"Yeah?"

“The Achievement Award. That's huge.”

You laugh softly, a little self-conscious. “That sounds like an overstatement for someone who’s only 28.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze piercing. Pedro has always been able to see through you in ways that others can’t. You can hide from the world, but not from him.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly, his voice firm.

“Do what?” you ask, but he cuts you off before you can finish.

“Don’t invalidate your accomplishments. You deserve this.”

There’s something in the way he says it—a weight to his words that makes you pause. Part of you wants to argue, to downplay everything like you always do, but his sincerity stops you.

Instead, you nod, offering a small smile.

“Thank you, Pedro,” you say softly. “That means a lot.”

Does it?

He sees right through and holds out his arm, a silent invitation. “Wanna walk in with me?”

For a moment, you hesitate. There’s an unspoken tension between the two of you, a history that neither of you has fully acknowledged. But as your eyes meet, the air shifts. You loop your arm through his, holding onto his bicep as the two of you make your way into the theater together. A camera flash goes off, and you smile. But this time, with Pedro by your side, it feels a little less lonely.

•••

You were sitting at a table when a fellow actor and friend started talking about you on stage. It was surreal, like time had slowed down, and you found yourself lost in thought. You’d been to countless awards shows and accepted more than your share of accolades, but this one felt different. A recognition of not just a role or a single performance, but a lifetime of work—or at least, a decade of it. And you were still young. Too young, part of you thought, for this kind of tribute. Yet here you were, about to be honored in front of your peers, the people who had seen your highs and lows.

The screen flickered to life, and a montage of your work began to play. Scenes from movies that had shaped your career, close-ups of moments that had shaped you. A smile here, a tear there, moments of triumph and vulnerability.

It was oddly like watching your life flash before your eyes—a strange out-of-body experience, as if you were looking back at someone else's journey. The montage moved through the years, capturing not just the characters you played but the changes in you—subtle at first, then more pronounced. The younger you, still full of raw hope and untamed energy, compared to the more seasoned version, who had learned how to navigate the treacherous terrain of fame. It felt like a snapshot of your life in fast-forward, as if you were witnessing your own eulogy.

You breathed in deeply, trying to stay present. It wasn’t the end, you reminded yourself.

The applause was thunderous as the montage ended, and it wasn’t until your name was called that reality snapped back into focus.

You stepped out into the blinding lights, the weight of the moment settling in as you approached the podium. The sea of faces before you blurred slightly in the brightness, but you could make out familiar ones. Peers you respected, younger actors looking up at you with wide eyes, veterans who had paved the way before you. And somewhere out there, you knew Pedro was watching.

With trembling hands, you held the award, the metal cool against your palm. You took a breath, steadying yourself before speaking.

“This is... overwhelming,” you began, chuckling, your voice breaking slightly from the emotion of it all. “I don’t even know where to start. Thank you to everyone who believed in me and to the people who supported me through the ups and downs. This means more than I can put into words.”

You paused, scanning the room, catching sight of Pedro for just a second, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that grounded you.

“When I started this journey, I was just a kid with big dreams and very little understanding of how hard this industry could be,” you continued, feeling the words flow more easily now. “But I learned early on that dreams don’t work unless you do. It’s not just about talent—it’s about determination, grit, and pushing through even when everything seems impossible.”

Your eyes drifted toward the younger faces in the audience. “To the younger actors out there, keep going. I know it can feel like the world is telling you no at every turn, like you’re not good enough or that you’ll never make it, but don’t stop dreaming. Don’t stop working. This industry can be brutal, but it can also be beautiful. Find the beauty. Hold onto it. Work for it.”

A wave of applause broke out, but you weren’t finished yet. You felt a pull, a need to say more, something from the heart. Something real.

“And through all of it,” you said, your voice softer now, “keep the people who truly love you close. In this business, it’s easy to get lost in the noise, in the hundreds of things that try to tear you down or make you feel like you’re not enough. But the people who love you for who you are, not what you can give them, are the ones who will keep you grounded. I’ve met some of my forever people in this industry, and for that, I’m grateful. Despite all the bad and all the heartache that comes with this life, it’s those relationships that make it worthwhile.”

Your gaze wandered again, unconsciously searching the crowd for Pedro, and when your eyes met his, something inside you softened. He knew what you were talking about. He knew the weight of those words better than anyone.

“I’m grateful,” you continued, your voice a little more vulnerable now, “because I’ve been able to hold on to those people. Even when things get complicated even when it feels like the world is pushing us apart. You have to fight for those connections. They’re what make this crazy, beautiful life worth living.”

You felt a lump in your throat but pushed through it, finishing with, “So thank you. To the people in my life who have stuck with me through the good and the bad. This is as much yours as it is mine.”

March 5th, 2020

Calgary, Canada

Life after the awards ceremony didn’t feel much different than before. It was still the same relentless rhythm—work, events, travel, more work. The brief moments of peace in between became rare and fleeting, like whispers in the storm of your career. Daniel’s season was supposed to start soon, and though you’d seen him twice after he flew to France for preparations, something between you felt... off. His distance was palpable, but you hadn’t allowed yourself to dwell on it too much. It was easier to stay busy, keep moving, and brush it off as a phase. After all, the both of you were pulled in so many directions—when was the last time anything felt normal?

A quiet dinner in your NYC apartment, one of the few times Daniel managed to swing by in between training sessions. The table was set with takeout boxes instead of a home-cooked meal—neither of you had the energy for anything more.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said softly, watching him as he absentmindedly poked at his food with a fork. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I miss this,” you added.

“Yeah, me too,” Daniel said, but the words were like dust on the air—insubstantial, weightless.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been quiet," you trailed off, unsure of how to breach the distance you felt growing between you.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind with the season coming up. It’s…you know, a lot of pressure.”

You reached across the table and placed your hand on his. “You’re going to be great. You always are.”

He gave you that familiar smile, but it still felt like something was slipping through your fingers.

•••

By March, you had flown to Calgary to shoot a horror-adjacent film. The setting—a desolate cabin in the snow, miles from anywhere—was perfect for the kind of chilling atmosphere the director was aiming for. You’d always loved working with indie directors; their stories had depth, innovation, and a sense of grounded reality that the big-budget productions sometimes lacked. It was a reminder of why you fell in love with acting in the first place.

On set, things moved fast. Between takes, you found a quiet corner of the cabin and pulled out your phone to FaceTime with Taylor. She was mid-ranting when she answered.

“There’s a potential shutdown happening, babe. Something about a virus…COVID, or whatever they’re calling it. Have you heard anything about it?”

You’d heard whispers from the crew, but nothing had been confirmed. “I’ve heard some talk around set, but no one knows what’s happening yet.”

“Well, I’m telling you now, it’s serious. This might be the last project you get to work on for a while. Everything else is likely to be delayed. Keep your eyes open.”

You sighed, looking around as the crew moved around with their usual buzz of energy.

“Guess I’ll enjoy this last bit of freedom while I can.”

Taylor chuckled. “Yeah, enjoy it while you’re in the middle of nowhere. Call me if you hear anything else.”

You ended the call and pocketed your phone, the unease settling into your chest. Everyone around the set seemed unfazed, but the air had undoubtedly changed.

By the final days of production, the world was different. Everyone wore face masks, and hand sanitizer became the reigning deity on set.

•••

Reality hit hard. Flights were cancelled. No one could leave. You were stuck in the cabin, snow piling up outside like a barricade against the world, while the virus barricaded you from returning home. You made a grocery run the minute things got a little hectic, filling the place with more supplies than you’d ever seen yourself buy—just in case. The panic in the air was contagious, and chaos reigned for those first two weeks.

You FaceTimed your mom as you unpacked. “I’m stuck in Canada,” you said, laughing softly despite the anxiety that gnawed at your insides.

“Are you serious?” her voice was a mix of worry and exasperation. “You should’ve been back by now. What about New York?”

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back. Airports are closed.”

She sighed heavily, the sound crackling through the phone. “Just take care of yourself, honey, alright? Don’t be reckless. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be fine."

Her voice softened. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will, Mom. I promise.”

•••

It was a particularly dark, cold afternoon. The kind where the sky hung low with thick clouds and the cold crept in through the cracks of the cabin no matter how many layers you wore. You had wrapped yourself in a blanket, the silence of isolation pressing down heavier than usual when your phone buzzed on the table.

Daniel’s name appeared on the screen.

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer button, but you couldn’t ignore him. Not yet. So you swiped to answer and brought the phone to your ear, forcing a soft, casual, “Hey.”

His voice on the other end was calm, but there was an undercurrent to it—a kind of distance that had been growing for months. "Hey," he replied, his Aussie accent tinged with something heavy. "How’s it going over there?"

You shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. “You know… same. Snowed in. A lot of waiting.” There was an awkward pause. You filled it with a half-hearted laugh. “How about you? Everything alright?”

He cleared his throat, and you could feel the shift before he even said it. “Actually… I don’t think we should keep this up.”

The words hit you like the cold outside, seeping into your bones, but not with shock—just a kind of muted inevitability. There it is, you thought, the final crack in what was already falling apart.

Your brain hummed with white noise after that. You don’t remember what you said in response, something vague like, “Yeah, I get it.” The words came out on autopilot, and you weren’t really listening anymore. It wasn’t traumatic; it wasn’t the kind of breakup that destroyed you. It was like slowly waking from a dream and realizing it had already ended before you even opened your eyes.

His voice was kind, soft—too soft. “You’re so great, you know that, right? This just… it wasn’t working anymore. For either of us.”

You nodded, though he couldn’t see it. Your mind was elsewhere—on the conversations with Pedro, on the way your heart leaped when you heard his voice instead of Daniel’s. You had known, deep down, for a while now where your heart really was.

“I guess we knew this was coming,” you finally managed, voice steady, as if you were discussing something as simple as the weather.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But still… I didn’t want it to hurt.”

The niceties and the polite words that followed hurt more than any fight ever could have. It was the kindness of it that made it sting—the acknowledgment that neither of you had it in you to fight for something that had already drifted away. There was no anger, no raised voices, no accusations.

Just two people who had loved each other briefly, now saying goodbye like they were parting ways at an airport terminal.

“Well, take care of yourself, alright?” Daniel said softly.

“You too,” you whispered, already feeling the weight of finality.

And then it was over. The phone went silent in your hand, and you stared at the screen as if it could offer you some kind of closure that you weren’t sure you needed.

•••

The days began to bleed into one another. You were alone in that cabin—snowed in and quarantined from the world. The only connection you had was through your phone, through calls with Sarah and Oscar, who checked in on you daily.

Most days, you found ways to pass the time. You read, you cooked—burned some things, too—and found yourself sitting by the old piano that had come with the cabin. Your fingers brushed against the keys, unsure at first, after so much time spent focusing on acting. But the music came swiftly, like muscle memory. The songs poured out of you, stories in lyrical form, shaped by the silence and solitude around you.

But some nights, the quiet was too loud.

The breakup with Daniel lingered in the back of your mind like a dull ache. You had been okay with it for the most part; you knew it was coming, and neither of you were in it anymore. But there were nights, like tonight, when the weight of it crashed down and the loneliness felt too heavy to carry. You lay in bed, tears wetting the pillow, thinking about how everything had ended in polite goodbyes when maybe you needed the screaming.

•••

One day, in the middle of baking—flour dusting your hands and a bowl of half-mixed batter sitting on the counter—you received a text: “I hope you’re doing okay.”

You stared at it, your heart skipping a beat. You had thought about him every single day and wondered how he was coping and whether he was safe. Anytime Sarah called, you asked about him, telling yourself that it was enough to know from a distance. But now, with that simple text, you caved.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

His reply came almost immediately. “Not really. Mostly lonely.”

Your heart broke for him. You knew how hard it was for him to be alone. He thrived off people, off energy. And now, the world had gone still.

“Wanna talk?” you typed, holding your breath.

“Would love to hear your voice,” came the reply.

So you called him, and the hours melted away as you both talked about everything—about the virus, about work, about how isolating it all was. He asked, finally, “How’s Daniel?”

You hesitated. “We’re no longer together. Haven’t been for a while.”

There was a pause, then a soft, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

You quickly changed the subject, but it lingered between you, the unspoken acknowledgment of what that meant. After that, you spoke almost every day. The isolation became less suffocating, and with each call, you both felt a little less alone.

•••

On Pedro’s birthday, you baked a cupcake in his honor, lighting a single candle before FaceTiming him. When he picked up, he laughed, “You made me a cupcake?”

“Of course I did,” you said with a grin, holding up the tiny treat. “Now, pretend to blow out the candle.”

He played along, puffing his cheeks and making a ridiculous show of it. “Thank you for this. It’s not much of a birthday without people.”

“Well, you’ve got me,” you said, singing an off-key version of Happy Birthday. His laughter filled the space between you.

Later that night, he posted a screenshot of your call on his Instagram story, and the internet lost its mind. Comments flooded in—"Omg, she baked him a cupcake!"—“My favorite best friends!”—and you laughed at the attention it brought.

•••

One evening, as you sat at the piano again, your phone propped up with Pedro on FaceTime, he listened quietly as you played a new melody. “I think the lyrics need work,” you said, biting your lip.

He smirked. “Let me hear them.”

You hummed the first few lines, fumbling over the phrasing. “See, it doesn’t quite flow.”

“Let’s try this,” Pedro suggested, offering a line.

By the end of the night, the song felt whole, and you felt lighter.

The days passed—isolated and cold—but your connection with Pedro was alive and warm again. And as the weeks stretched on, you couldn’t help but wonder: How long until you fucked this up again?

October 5, 2020

Budapest, Hungary

Pedro had always known loneliness. It was a quiet, persistent companion, but in Budapest, it had taken on a new form. The city was beautiful, its streets old and layered with history, but none of it could distract him from the hollow ache in his chest. The early mornings on set, the long hours of filming—the work was steady. But outside of that, the hours stretched endlessly.

He had been filming in Europe for months, and though he loved his job, the thrill of creating something special—the distance—both physical and emotional—was wearing him thin. He had been keeping in touch with you, his constant thread of connection. The texts, the occasional FaceTime calls, were easy and comforting. But he could never shake the weight of what he hadn’t told you. What you didn't allow him to say. It felt like a brick in his stomach.

You lived strangely in his head.

He still hadn’t found the courage to say the words. I love you. They haunted him—a truth he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Every time he thought he was ready, he backtracked, swallowing the confession whole. His cowardice infuriated him. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d been in love with you for years, the feelings growing stronger and deeper, but now… now you were thousands of miles away, and he was stuck in this self-made purgatory.

His thoughts often drifted to his mother lately. She had always known how to comfort him, her voice soothing, her advice simple but profound. What would she have said about you? About his inability to speak the truth? He could hear her in his head, telling him to stop being such a fool, to just go for it. But she wasn’t here anymore, and he felt lost without her, more than he ever let on.

The days on set were repetitive but engaging. The crew was tightknit, and the project was exciting. He threw himself into work, hoping it would distract him. He laughed with the cast, bantered with the director, but when the camera wasn’t rolling, his mind was elsewhere. It was with you.

•••

A few weeks later, after wrapping up in Budapest, he found himself in Switzerland alone again. He didn’t know why he’d come. The scenery was breathtaking, the mountains vast and quiet, but the isolation magnified the emptiness he felt. It was as if everything had come to a standstill.

The stillness weighed on him. The quiet, once a solace, now felt oppressive. He spent his days wandering the small towns, drinking coffee in hidden cafés, trying to convince himself that the solitude was a gift. But he felt shattered, more broken than before.

One night, the loneliness became too much, and he called you. Desperation tightened his throat as he waited for you to pick up, his mind screaming at him to just tell you. The phone rang, and when you answered, your voice was soft, familiar, and full of comfort.

"Pedro," you said, and it was enough to stop him in his tracks.

His breath caught, and the confession lodged itself in his throat again. He had been ready, so ready, but hearing you—he thought better of it. What could he say that wouldn’t ruin everything?

"Hey," he replied, his voice rougher than intended. "Just wanted to hear your voice."

You chuckled softly on the other end. "You good?"

"Yeah, I’m good," he lied, the words heavy on his tongue. "Just…miss talking to you, that’s all."

"I miss you too," you said, and it broke him a little more. The call went on, but he had already retreated into himself, too afraid to say what needed to be said. He listened to you talk about your day, your laugh filling the silence on his end, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was failing—failing himself, failing you.

•••

The next day, he went for a walk. The air was cold, biting, but it didn’t bother him. He needed to clear his head. He walked along the cobbled streets, past quaint houses with shuttered windows, and let the weight of his feelings wash over him. It was overwhelming. His history with you, all the unsaid things, all the moments when he should have acted and didn’t. It crashed over him like a wave, leaving him breathless.

He found a bench and sat, his head in his hands. One day, he thought. One day, I’ll tell her.

December 31st, 2020

New York, NY 

The phone call from Oscar came two weeks before New Year's Eve. His voice was warm, as it always was, but there was an unmistakable edge of hope in it, the kind that crept in after months of isolation.

“It’s just something small,” he had said. You could hear his smile through the phone, that charming grin he always wore. “Not a lot of people, you know. Just family and close friends. After the last few months we've had… I think we need this.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar in person in what felt like forever, and the idea of being with people—Oscar’s people, your people—sounded like a balm to the soul. You agreed before he could finish the invitation, the excitement bubbling up despite the world still not feeling quite right.

You got tested later that week, making sure you were safe to attend the gathering.

When you arrived at Oscar’s apartment, the city had an eerie quiet to it. New York was never still, even during the pandemic, but tonight it felt subdued, like it was holding its breath for something more. You headed for the entrance, and the soft sound of music spilled out the moment the doors opened.

Oscar met you with his arms wide open, pulling you into a tight hug. “Look who finally made it,” he teased, his face lighting up in that familiar way. “You look good.”

“You too,” you said, stepping back and taking in the warmth of the room. It was intimate—just the right amount of people to make you feel at home, but not so many that it felt overwhelming.

Before you could take another step, Sarah swooped in, stealing you from Oscar’s embrace with an exaggerated squeal. She enveloped you in a hug so tight you could barely breathe.

“I missed you so much!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight. You hadn’t seen her in ages, and the reunion felt like a weight lifting off your chest. The two of you spent the next few minutes catching up, your laughter blending in with the soft chatter around the room.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him. He had arrived a little late, typical of him, but the sight of him sent your heart into a dizzying spin. It had been almost a year since you last saw each other in person.

He moved through the room, and when he finally made his way toward you, your breath hitched. He wore a simple black t-shirt, the fabric clinging to his toned chest. His hair was longer, fluffy from the months of lockdown, and his big brown eyes—usually so full of light —looked tired.

But when he saw you, the weariness seemed to lift for a moment.

He said your name softly, stepping close. His arms opened, and you fell into them without hesitation, wrapping yourself around him in a way that felt too familiar, too safe. He held you tight, his grip lingering longer than necessary, like he was afraid to let go.

“Hey,” you breathed against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—pleasant, familiar, grounding. The world seemed to fall away for a moment, leaving just the two of you. You pulled back slightly, looking into his face, wanting to say something—anything. You couldn’t live without thinking about him. He consumed your every thought, and somewhere along the way, you had come to terms with how you felt about him.

But the words stuck in your throat.

“At last, we see each other,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, his hand still on your back.

“At last,” you repeated, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You both opened your mouths to speak, then laughed in unison.

"You first," Pedro said, his eyes twinkling with amusement, though there was something deeper there—something lingering just beneath the surface.

But before you could say anything more, Sarah reappeared, her arm hooking through yours as she dragged you away. “Sorry! I need to steal her for a sec,” she said with a laugh, oblivious to the quiet intensity of the moment she’d interrupted.

Pedro smiled at her, though his eyes flicked back to you. "What I wanted to say can wait," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise that sent a jolt through you.

You promised yourself you’d find him later.

•••

In the kitchen, you and Sarah were rummaging through cabinets for more drinks when you heard Oscar’s booming laugh. Turning, you spotted him and Pedro, who now had a ridiculous pointy birthday hat perched on his head. You burst into laughter at the sight, unable to resist.

“Cute hat,” you said, pulling your phone from your back pocket. “Let’s document this moment.”

He grinned, grabbing Oscar by the shoulder and pulling him in for the picture. Pedro tilted his head, drinking from his beer, and Oscar looked up at him with a puzzled expression as you snapped a photo.

“Perfect. That’s going on Instagram for sure,” you teased, and Pedro groaned.

Before anyone could respond, Oscar’s wife walked by, eyeing the hat on Pedro’s head with mock suspicion. Pedro took his cue, unlocking from Oscar and jokingly attacking her with the pointy hat, poking her side with the plastic tip. You snapped another picture, laughing as she swatted him away.

“Send that to me,” she called over her shoulder, and you nodded, tucking your phone back into your pocket just as Sarah handed you a drink.

•••

The night continued, the energy in the room bubbling up as the countdown to midnight approached. Karaoke had started in one of the rooms, and you couldn’t resist.

Pedro avoided it at all costs, standing in the doorway with a bemused expression. After your rendition of Losing My Religion, he caught your eye.

“That was something, huh?” he said, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I was extra terrible just for you,” you shot back, walking over to him. “I know how much you hate this.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” he said.

Just as you were about to respond, a woman’s voice broke through the moment. “Oscar said you were in here,” she said, stepping forward. “Hi.”

You turned to see her approach Pedro, and before you could fully register what was happening, she leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips. A casual, intimate gesture that sent a shock of realization through your entire body.

You blink, dumbfounded, as Pedro shifted slightly to make introductions. “This is Julia,” he said, his voice a little too calm for the turmoil suddenly spinning inside you.

Your mind raced, trying to place her. And then it hit you—she was in the group photos he posted from the crew of the movie he was filming in Budapest. One of the producers, you think.

Oh.

Julia greeted you happily, oblivious to the terrible ache now pooling in your chest. You felt your throat tighten, the words you had wanted to say earlier were now swallowed by this unfamiliar wave of jealousy and disappointment. You went mute, unable to find words that wouldn’t betray how much this hurt.

Pedro’s voice broke the silence again, almost too nonchalant. “This is what I wanted to talk about earlier.”

Your stomach twisted. “Oh, great,” you managed to say, forcing a smile that you didn’t feel.

“And you?” Pedro asked, clearly trying to keep things light. “You said you wanted to talk, too.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and your mind screamed for you to say something—anything—but all you could muster was, “No, um, it was nothing, really.”

Something stung deep inside you. It was a dull ache, gnawing away at your resolve. You needed a way out. Fast.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” you said to her, your voice tight. “If you’ll excuse me…”

And before either of them could say anything more, you slipped away, making a beeline for the kitchen where Oscar stood.

“Hey,” you blurted, pulling him aside. “He’s fucking dating someone? And you didn’t say a thing?”

Oscar looked at you, taken aback. “I—it wasn’t my news to share.”

You pressed your fingers to your forehead, trying to swallow the embarrassment. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I just… I can't believe I was about to confess my love for him and make a fool of myself. Again.”

Oscar stared at you, his eyebrows raised. “You were what?”

You laughed, though it was tinged with bitterness. “Yeah. But now? I mean, clearly, it’s just another sign. The timing’s never right. Never.”

Was it punishment? you thought.

Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly uncertain of what to say. Instead, he walked over to the counter and grabbed another drink. “Here,” he said quietly, offering it to you.

You took it, staring at the liquid swirling in the glass.

"It’s fairly new, you know," Oscar said softly, his voice tinged with hesitation. "Like two weeks or something. It’s not serious yet."

“I just don’t get it,” you muttered, almost to yourself. “I don’t.”

Oscar sighed, his hand finding your back, a comforting weight that helped ground you. “I know. I know.”

You knew there was else nothing you could do right now, so you poured the drink down your throat, feeling the burn as it went down.

•••

“There you are,” Pedro called softly, his voice muffled by the cold air as he stepped through the glass doors onto the backyard patio. The wind hit him immediately, sharp and biting, but the bitter cold felt fitting, almost poetic.

You stood there, your back to him, a silhouette against the frozen horizon. For a moment, he was transported back to the first time he saw you in this very spot, under a much different sky. That night, the air had been warm, filled with the kind of anticipation that crackled with every glance exchanged. You had stood just like this, dressed similarly too, arms crossed against the world, hair cascading down your back like a curtain he desperately wanted to pull aside.

But tonight was different. Tonight, your shoulders were tense, hunched against more than just the cold. When you turned around, your face wasn’t full of curiosity. It was distant, your eyes heavy with an emotion he couldn’t quite name, but that he knew he was responsible for.

"You bolted out of there," Pedro said, his voice strained as he tried to sound casual, but the worry leaked through.

You gave a soft, bitter hum, a sound he couldn’t decipher but felt in his bones. "I was a bit shocked, honestly."

He swallowed, suddenly nervous, fumbling with the words he had rehearsed in his mind so many times but never managed to say. "I know. I wanted to tell you about her, I just... I don’t know. It’s new. I didn’t think it was important enough yet. I thought I’d find the right moment, but it never felt... appropriate. And I didn’t want to make things weird, you know?"

Pedro kept talking, words spilling out as he tried to explain. He mentioned her name—Julia—said they had met on set, that it wasn’t serious yet, that it had barely even begun. His voice grew quieter, more unsure with every sentence, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

See, Pedro hadn't planned on getting into a relationship, not when his every thought was consumed by you, not when he knew he loved you, and yet here he was. He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

But your expression had already changed. He could see the way your face shut down, the way your gaze hardened, and it twisted something deep inside him.

“Don’t apologize to me about your relationship,” you said, the words sharp and cutting. “That’s the kind of thing that makes me feel like I’m some kind of Machiavellian villain.”

Pedro winced, his breath catching in his throat. He hated this. But before he could say anything, you spoke again, your voice lower, more controlled.

"Our time never seems to align, does it? It never has, and it never will. It's funny, even.” You paused, looking away, your voice a strained whisper.

Pedro wanted to scream. He wanted to tell you that he felt trapped between his own heart and the razor-sharp edge of what was right, what was fair. The guilt and longing were choking him, twisting his insides until all he could feel was the jagged ache of wanting something that was always just out of reach.

You took a deep breath, the cold air clouding in front of you like smoke.

"Are you happy?" you asked, your voice barely audible. A mirror of his very own "Do you love him?" from last year.

Pedro looked at you, his heart hammering in his chest. “I’m trying,” he said quietly, the truth in the words landing hard.

You nodded, your lips pressed together in a sad, resigned smile.

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

It was an unspoken agreement—a quiet acceptance that, once again, you were not meant to be. That your lives had written this story long before you’d ever had a say in it.

a/n: enough sadness, their time will come soon ;)

a like, reblog or comment, anything is very much appreciated <3

[malleusfucker]

general lilia kinks & headcanons

lilia fuckers we rise because chapter 4 came out and i never wanted to clap a man’s cheeks so hard WE ARE SO BACK *edit* currently writing a malleus fic so look out for it!! warnings: smut/nsfw, overstimulation, biting/bleeding, spanking, oral (receiving), asshole lilia (we all cheered), reader is afab but no gender or pronouns are explicitly specified words: 700+

let’s get one thing straight, the main difference between lilia now and general lilia is that general lilia is an asshole who won’t hesitate to whoop your ass back into your place. unlike the kind and eccentric caregiver we know, this version couldn't be more of the opposite.

overstimulation ~ nothing gets lilia off more than when he sees your spent figure sprawled out in front of him, your face contorted as the sound of your pleas and whines echo in his ears all through the night. when he decides to overstimulate you, he's not kind, nor is the same while you're in bed with him. as befits a general of his stature, he will be nothing short of merciless in his treatment of you. using all types of tricks on you, lilia wants to explore how many ways he can make you cum with a single wave of his finger. as the tears cascade down your cheeks, you find yourself desperately begging him to stop even though his touch has yet even to grace your skin. crawling towards your legs, demanding you to wipe your pathetic expression on your faceーhe won’t stop until he’s satisfied enough to finally use his own body to further ruin you. and when he decides to do so, he’ll only want to prove that he can do all the same with the skills of his fingers and tongue.

biting ~ while not of the possessive nature, that doesn’t mean lilia won’t be flamboyant with his display as he sinks his fangs into you. big, bruised marks scattering your body on a constant basis, with one fading only to be replaced by another a moment after. flashy and dramatic can only describe how he bites youーletting his teeth sit in your skin as he watches the blood trickle down your curves. it’s painful, and if he’s feeling particularly lenient, he’ll lap up each drop that seeps out of you before carefully kissing each cut he left behind. don't fool yourself into thinking he'll be generous enough to lay those marks on places hidden from the public eye; rather, it’s the opposite, with your neck always being his favourite spot to snack on. not even having to deny that he was, in fact, the one who did it to you, with his reputation always surpassing you and being used to his advantage.

oral ~ even in the days of being a general, lilia was no stranger to experience. if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’ll be how he ties you to the bed, spreading you open with his fingers as he lays his deft tongue upon your aching folds. seconds pass, and you feel yourself already succumbing to the skills of his tongue, making a mess of his sheets that only spurs him on to have your body shaking even more. cold and cruel, lilia won’t let you touch him as he works his magic on youーyour ankles bound to each corner of the bed; he forces you to feel only his tongue as each orgasm blends into the next.

degrading ~ not only a tease but a cruel one at that. feeling the heat on your face and between your legs spread as he continues to demean you with his words. he takes far too much delight in abusing and calling you names, pushing you to embarrass and shame yourself for his own sick enjoyment. slapping and spanking your thighs, brutally digging his claws into your skinーeach hit is accompanied by a cascade of cutting words, etching themselves into your mind until the morning after. he’s arrogant and knows it, only continuing to display this cold front as he immediately sensed it turned you on just as much.

hate sex ~ on particularly rough days on the battlefield, he won’t take lightly not getting what he wantsーto satisfy himself after a long day of stress. if you happen to feel just as frustrated as him on that day, he won’t hesitate to shut you up and take what he wants from you. with your face buried into the pillows and your hands tied by the straps of his uniform, his ruthlessness only increases tenfold. gagging you so he doesn’t have to endure the abuse you reflect onto him; each thrust and slam of his hips filled with malice.

can't believe this short little fruit got me off of my writer's block i'll hopefully be writing some more shit now

[dogwithrabies]

【★】 gn reader but described as afab, kinda mean scara, reader is a masochist lol

【☆】 ignoring the fact that i disappeared for like 8 months, hi, new thingy (reup)

word count: 4.3k

There’s no coming back from those offices. Everyone knows that, it’s like an open secret between the ranks of the fatui.

One gets called in for a “little chat” and then just disappears, there are no deserters allowed in an organization like this. Too many secrets.

The lower ranking soldiers always gossip about whoever the next one is gonna be, it keeps everyone on edge, just one measly mistake in front of a general, or worse, a harbinger and it’s over. It doesn’t help that other privates will often turn on eachother, reporting their comrade’s mistakes to get on their supervisor’s good side, in a sense, the fatui has eyes everywhere.

Your days of walking on eggshells are long over, thank the Tstaritsa, but it doesn’t mean you’re completely safe either. Being a general yourself, you’ve been faced with many hard decisions, sometimes covering up the mistakes of a soldier, sending back touched up reports hoping no supervisor will notice any discrepancy.

“Your empathy will come back to bite you in the ass”.

It’s a sentence the Balladeer threw your way once, it wasn't advice out of the goodness of his (non-existent) heart. Matter of fact, he didn’t even spare you a glance before walking past you, on his way to scold another soldier. How stupid, he must've thought, sharing your already scarce meal with a tiny bird that sought refuge under the shadow of your feet.

But you just can’t help it. In your early days you could only pray someone spared you the same kindness you give out now.

But that was a long time ago. You went on many other expeditions in the Balladeer’s team, somehow always managing not to fess up and prove yourself worthy of your role. It was a noteworthy achievement, after all his bad temper was notorious to anyone who spent even a few minutes in his presence.

The Balladeer does not go out of his way to compliment anyone, flattery is not his style. Just the absence of any reprimand is more than enough to tell you you’re doing good.

However, that does not stop you from wasting time fantasizing about such scenarios.

“You’re doing good.” What a dream it would be to hear that. “You’re being good.”

But the image you have of him in your mind is a far-fetched, rose-tinted version of the one in front of you now. You’re not as stupid as to warp his essence into anything even remotely kind. You know of his temperament, sometimes you’d even go as far as to think he’s not even human.

During an expedition, he slapped a soldier once. It was late in the evening and some soldiers decided to let out some steam with a few drinks. It just so happened that one of them got a little too… feisty.

But the Balladeer did not let go of his face. He just kind of stared at the red mark his hand left, squishing the fat of his cheeks in some weird torturous ritual, moving the skin around to admire the shape of the coagulated blood under his skin. He was so close he could feel the shaky breaths of the poor guy fanning on his face.

He relented only once he was satisfied. He enjoys the fear in people’s faces. No, fear is just an expression, it’s the pure terror that spreads in someone’s whole body that excites him.

He can tell the exact moment when someone switches from being scared to dreading losing their life.

It’s something you’ve seen several times yourself, never hesitate, to end someone’s life. Hesitation makes you waver, staring at someone’s eyes makes you acknowledge that they’re scared, they’re human.

He never wavers. Hm. He’s either incredibly cruel… or just above your kind? You take a mental note of that.

The first thought excites you, that tiny familiar buzzing feeling running down your spine.

It’s so unfair.

No, that’s not right, you quickly shake that thought off. Who would ever dream of being at the receiving end of the Balladeer’s ire?

It’s not the first time you find yourself spiraling that same line of thought. But he’s just so pretty.

You suppose that in order to make it out alive of his squadron one needs to grow tough skin, tolerating his humiliation tactics and aggressions. You just never thought you’d develop a liking to that.

How the mighty have fallen. You used to be so respectable.

You can’t even begin to picture his disgusted expression if he found out that deep down, a part of you hoped he would lay his hand on you.

Or if he knew how many sleepless nights you spent rubbing your thighs together, trying to get rid of a heat that just wouldn’t go away.

Or, additionally, if he knew that the first thing you did in your new private (perks of being promoted) room was to disregard your clothes and immediately push your fingers in your aching needy cunt. Thinking of him.

How absolutely shameful. You wonder if your stay in the fatui awakened something in you. Or maybe you were always like this.

But you’re always so composed. And your fatui mask covers any blushing on your face;

No one would be able to detect your attraction to him based on your behavior.

After all, it was very common to hear creaking sounds at night. That’s just what happens when you force young adults in a shared room together. People just turn the other way. Ignore the sound and go to sleep.

You feel yourself getting warmer at the sight of him walking towards your squadron.

It’s another of those annoying training sessions, you don’t have to participate, just surveil the cadets. It doesn’t fall within your assignments, it’s your Lord Balladeer’s job, but he so kindly sacked you his responsibilities. After all, he’s above watching insignificant men stumble in knee high snow.

But you’re just so distracted.

He’s sitting on a chair with a tiny table in front of him, quickly skimming through huge piles of paper. The huge fur of his coat shields his face from your view (a shame, he looks so cute when concentrating), but he’s not covering anything else. His tiny shorts slightly hike up his legs as he shifts to put one leg over the other, revealing even more skin.

Just how is he not getting cold?

You huff, your breath crystalizing in front of you, forming a tiny mist as if proving your point.

It’s freezing. And he’s out there with his usual attire. Not that you’re complaining, you always had a thing for his legs. Always looking at the way they crease and shift on his thighs every time he crouches to look at something. You always watch him with such an intense gaze.

It’s not weird. It is your job to ensure his safety after all.

Not that he needs it. You’ve seen him in combat, not many enemies survive after the first shock of electro.

It’s scary. It’s exciting.

He also uses it to correct small mistakes. He’s shocked you once after you almost tripped while serving him tea.

It was tiny and barely audible but your finger spasmed in an uncomfortable position, and then it was over.

He let out a humorous hum at your shocked expression, then quickly dismissed you.

You spent the rest of the day thinking about that small encounter.

Thinking about all the other ways he could use his shocks on you. Maybe they could simulate the effects of a vibrator (just a slightly painful one). You’re not allowed to bring anything with you when you join the fatui. And using your hands or humping your pillow always leaves you yearning for more.

So lost in thought. You didn’t even notice the way he was staring at you, an unreadable expression on his face. Not anger, not disappointment, something more akin to… disbelief.

He knew you would cover up your underling’s mistakes sometimes, he couldn’t be bothered to call you out on that. But to let so many incompetent cadets trip on the same wall, face-planting on the snow and mud without even taking note of that? Right in front of him?

Were you hoping he was too busy with his papers to not notice that, or are not even paying attention?

Your tendency to sometimes space out is something he was very aware of. But you never actively slacked off on your tasks. This is new, not unexpected but new. You were bound to disappoint him, after all, it is in your nature as a human. He needs to stop this before it becomes a habit and gets in the way of his work.

He quickly calls some other general to take your place. You barely register when he calls your name. His voice makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up in shivers.

“Come.” He firmly says before walking off the training grounds.

You hesitate for a second, your eyes focusing back on the view in front of you. Your lord wants a word with you? Just how deep in thought were you to not even notice him staring holes in your back? It can’t be any good.

You follow after him, catching up with him and watching the back of his coat sway with each step.

The inside of the palace is just as cold as the outside. The only relief a fatuus gets is the mercy of being shielded from the icy winds. It’s only when you set foot inside his office that you finally let yourself breathe.

The whole walk to his private office is full of agonizing spiraling thoughts. Surely this isn’t one of those “little chats”, right? The soldiers guarding the door don’t even spare the two of you a glance, their masks covering your expression, but you’re sure they pity you in some way.

The Balladeer is not known for his kindness, but even through his hate filled vision of humanity, he knows the intrinsic need of every being for validation. Not that he’s going to give them any, he has no interest in building any amicable relations in this organization, lest it serves him to reach his goals the future. But it would also be very troublesome to replace even more of his subordinates. Were he in an altered mood he would’ve just electrocuted on the spot.

Recognizing when one of his useless soldiers actually has a shred of potential is not something he’s very keen on doing, but the alternative is to put up with more incompetent fools, and that’s not on his agenda.

He sits on his chair, moving papers around on his desk. You watch him as he smacks his lips and lets out a silent huff as he finally rearranges the papers to his liking.

You’re shacking, he attributes it to the cold. Humans have always been so much weaker and more vulnerable than him. His skin is cold, glacially cold, but it’s not a feeling he registers.

Even his coat is just for show.

Your cheeks are red, but it’s (at least partially) not from the cold. Now that his coat is off you get a full view of his face. His dashing red liner perfectly contours his eyes, giving them a sharp intense look. He begins talking to you, his voice is calm and smooth, at least he’s not mad at you.

It’s about your zoning off.

It’s not something you do on purpose, but it’s just so hard to focus when you're so damn horny.

Frankly, you’re more surprised he didn’t just slap you on the spot, not that you would’ve minded. Maybe your Lord is showing you his mercy? The thought of him showing you any form of kindness makes heat slowly creep up your face. The cold slowly leaves your body as warmth replaces it, the overwhelming feeling leaving you to fiddle with the hem of your clothing.

“My deepest apologies, it will never happen again, my Lord”.

This is to be expected, addressing him with the right honorifics and apologizing is the correct (and preferred) outcome. He blinks slowly, at least he saved himself a migraine.

What he doesn’t expect is to not see you when he opens his eyes. He didn’t dismiss you. He gets up from his chair but stops when he finally spots you, on your knees with your forehead touching the ground.

“I want to make it up to you, my Lord”, you say, still not moving from your position.

This. This he likes. Usually, he’s the one forcing his subordinates to kneel in front of him, and not in a kind way either. Pressing their face on whatever unfortunate surface they were standing on, purposefully applying more pressure than needed, hoping his boots would leave a heavy mark on their face. Sometimes they would do it out of their own volition, but it doesn’t stem from an urgent need to show him their worship, it was out of fear.

“Hm.” He makes his way to the couch on the side of his desk and sits crosslegged. “Come here,”

But he interrupts you before you can push yourself on your feet- “No, stay like that.

It takes you a second to process that he wants you to crawl your way to him. You awkwardly move your body, trying not to trip on your own coat before settling in front of him.

He puts his hand on your cheeks, lightly squishing them before raising his fingers and taking your mask off, leaving your expression bare before him. It’s no different than any other fatuus mask, but he slowly examines it regardless.

“Go on, show me your devotion, (Name),” he says, shifting so his knees are on each side

Just the fact that he knows your name makes you shudder. You’re not sure of what exactly he wants from you, but you’re already in a bizarre enough situation, so you decide to follow your instincts.

You slowly wrap your hand around his boot, raising it until you can comfortably lower your face, letting your lips come in contact with it. His eyes widen for a moment, as you continue rubbing your face on the side of his boot. Their surface is clean, that bit of snow remaining gets smothered on your skin, melting away.

“Hah”, moving to other boot, you repeat the same motion “At least you know where you belong.”

His voice has a layer of malice to it, like he’s elated by this outcome. Your hand comes in contact with his skin, it’s so cold, like touching freshly piled snow. Opting to rub his legs in a meek attempt at warming them up, you press your lips to his knee, savoring the moment.

Any other person would feel humiliated in this situation, worshipping at your Lord’s feet, but this, it’s like a dream come true to you. Being so close to the object of your attraction makes your head go spinning. It feels unreal just being able to lay your hands on them. You shouldn't press your luck. but it’s so tempting to just reach over and grope him all over.

He would probably kill you.

Maybe.

Perhaps if you’re slow and methodical about it you can manage to get a tiny bit closer to his thighs. Masking your need as devotion.

You place your lips just above his knee, your hands moving under it, rubbing at the soft skin. He’s also curious about how far you’re willing to push yourself. He’s no fool, he knows you’re scared of crossing a line you’re not even aware of. He could be kind and point you in the right direction, but watching you struggle to restrain yourself while mindlessly mouthing at his skin is a show too good to pass on.

Eventually, he widens his legs, just enough to allow you to sit deeper in between them. This new position allows you to reach further. It stuns you for a moment, hesitantly putting your hands on his thighs, looking at his face for any sign of vexation. When you don’t find any, you deem it safe to push further, lowering your face to latch your mouth on the exposed skin. Leaving a slightly wet trail everywhere you go.

He’s let you get this far, and if the way he moves his legs giving you even more access is any indicator of his enjoyment, it encourages you to try your luck.

Your hand slips under his shorts, slowly pushing them up. You lock eyes, and for a second you fear you’ve overstayed your welcome, luckily that’s not the case.

“No markings.” His hand now rests on your head, slowly moving your hair out of your face.

Would it even be possible to leave marks? His skin shows no imperfections and it’s so smooth it makes you want to lose yourself in it. But it also feels… tougher? While rubbing it with your hands, it felt robust, like if you sunk your teeth in it it wouldn’t break even the upper layer. Maybe just leave a mark. A sign you were there.

But now is not the time to get lost in your imagination. Not when the real deal is in front of you, inviting you to have your fill.

You pinch lightly at the flesh of his inner thighs, you’re so close to his crotch, if it wasn’t for that piece of armor around his waist, the side of your face would be squished in it.

“Enough teasing,” He says, and almost as if he was reading your mind, he rids himself of the armor and other superfluous frills attached to it. “Get to work.”

Now that nothing is blocking your view, you can see the bulge that formed under all those clothing.

The sight makes you drool, as you immediately reach a hand to slightly squeeze it. Your eagerness amuses him, but he’s grown impatient. His grip on your hair is much tighter now, dragging your face until it’s directly flush with his clothed erection.

“You better not waste my time” His tone is harsh and firm, and it just makes the heat between your legs worse. When his grip relents, you push yourself away just enough to pull down his shorts. He shifts his hips up, aiding you in sliding them off.

Now that his erection is free, it bounces slightly as your breath fans over it. The tip is a cute shade of pink, beads of precum leaking from it. But he doesn’t give you the time to admire it any longer, grabbing himself from the hilt to slap it on your face a few times. The sound of skin slapping against skin is the only audible thing in the room. It makes your head spin. To think you’d have the privilege of being the one he unleashes his sexual frustrations on.

He pulls your head up, tapping his dick on your lips. You open your mouth, letting him rest his tip on it, and your lips wrap around him, tasting him.

Were it any other situation, you’d take your time in savoring this moment, slowly sliding your tongue around his girth, letting his desire grow. But this is different, like if your performance doesn’t satisfy him he might just kill you on the spot.

And the thought shouldn’t turn you on, for a second the thought of biting him just to piss him off crosses your mind. What a way to go that would be.

Alas, not wanting to keep him waiting, you make an effort to take as much of him as you can, until your nose is flush with his pelvis.

He lets out a satisfied sigh and that slight expression of annoyance leaves his face, your mouth is warm and wet, and the movement of you swallowing around sends shivers down his spine.

“That’s it,” his grip on your hair tightens, holding you in place. “That’s good.”

The mere hint of him praising you makes you shudder, you’re so soaked your underwear is sticking to your cunt. You want to thank him, but speaking with him in your mouth proves to be difficult, it comes out as an unintelligible hum, whether he understood you or not he seems to appreciate the vibration of your throat.

He pulls your head back, urging you to start moving, seemingly done with just enjoying your throat. You drag yourself back until his tip is once again resting on your tongue, and then push it all back in, as far as you can go. You manage to work up a steady rhythm, one that leaves small moans escape from his mouth. They’re breathy, but every time you manage to wring one out of him is like a win to you. Each little noise of his spurs you on further. One of your hands reaches up to grab the rest of him, moving up and down in synch with your mouth, while the other reaches down and inside your uniform pants, rubbing at your clit.

“F-fuck… You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Your eyes trail up to look at his, his flushed face looking back at you.

“Me using your mouth turns you on.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and to put more emphasis on it he shifts his legs until one of them is resting between your own.

“You’re doing a good job… I guess I should reward you.”

He shoves his boot up, as if kicking your hand away. He wants you to…. oh.

Complacently, you shift lower until your full weight is resting on him, the absence of your fingers replaced by him. It takes you a moment to adjust to this new position, but once you get back on your rhythm you resume your ministrations on him, while slowly grinding on his leg.

His other hand reaches your head, threading your hair before settling a firm grip next to the other, you’re given a moment of reprise before he shoves his hips forward, roughly, holding you in place.

His thrusts are fast and merciless, each one reaching deeper inside your throat. You close your eyes, trying not to gag when he reaches a bit too deep, not that you have the ability to complain, all you can do is try your best to accommodate him as he uses you to get off. Your hips start moving a bit faster too, the thought of you being a mere means to an end in his eyes is turning you on more than you’d like. And he notices.

His cock throbs in your mouth and he lets out a breathy laugh, “So pathetic. Humping my leg like a dog in heat.”

You open your eyes for a moment to look at him. He’s grinning at you, looking at you as if you were something truly beneath him, pushing his hips in rougher as if to accentuate that. The sounds of saliva and cum smacking around your lips are so obscenely loud, you’d have half a mind to almost be embarrassed by it, but there’s a knot tightening in your stomach, and it grows tighter and tighter with every thrust of your hips. It doesn’t help that with every thrust his leg moves slightly up against you, coaxing you into an orgasm.

Your hands clamp on his thighs, hard, the shuddering of your hips slowing down as you unwind on him. You let out withered moans, barely audible but still sending pleasurable vibrations up his length.

You’re straight up drooling around him at this point, saliva sliding down your chin and on his balls. He’s sounding a bit breathier above you, and you can feel him twitching with more vigor inside your throat. Your body limp on his makes it easier to thrust deeper.

He pushes in as far as your throat allows him and stills there. You’re prepared to feel him coming down your throat, but he pushes your head back suddenly, so far back his dick slides off your mouth with a wet pop.

He’s stroking himself above you for a moment until there’s a brief pause, interrupted by a breathless curse as he finishes on the top of your lips, riddling your face with his come.

He sags back down on the couch, basking in the aftermath of his orgasm with you still in between his legs. His chest heaves up and down, catching his breath, but his moment of peace is short lived as he speaks up.

“I guess you did prove yourself,” he says as he slowly tucks himself back in his pants. You squint up at him. You don’t move from your position, still sitting even as he removes his leg from underneath you, breathing slowly and deeply now that his dick occupying your airways.

When you come to your senses you start searching around with your gaze for a tissue or even some rag to clean yourself up, you’re truly in an unpresentable state. Your hair is messily pulled out of its ties, strands flying everywhere and some glued to your face. Your face… Awkwardly, you wipe your lips, trying to at least dry up the saliva but there’s nothing you can do to hide the very evident cum sticking on… everything else. You can’t just walk out in this state- you do have a reputation to uphold. And rumors travel fast- by the end of the day every cadet would know of the shameful state you left the Balladeer’s office in, and it wouldn’t take long for them to put two and two together-

“Oh. This belongs to you.” He says holding your mask, seemingly noticing your inner monologue. “You’ll be needing it out there.” He adds as he puts it back on your face, squishing that bit of cum on your cheeks.

“You can go now. I’ll call you again when I need your… assistance.”

[madaqueue]

Practice Makes Perfect | Chapter 1

synopsis: you and yuji have been best friends basically as long as you can remember, and you made a promise to each other to stay friends and help each other be the best versions of yourselves for your future partners. but will things change when yuji finally starts looking for a relationship?

pairing: yuji itadori (18+) x f!reader

themes/content: modern college au (characters aged up to 18+). fluff, angst, language. kissing, mention of over-clothes grinding. 18+, MDNI

word count: 2.3k

a/n: baby's first multi-chapter fic, please be nice or i'll cry :) thx. also this will eventually get more intense, but we're starting light teehee

series masterlist | next chapter

You and Yuji Itadori have been friends your whole lives. You remember the day you first met on the playground in elementary school where you both insisted on racing each other to decide who got to use the tire swing first, and when you came in a dead tie you both refused to concede and ended up sitting on the swing together for the rest of recess. You stayed close as you grew up, often having sleepovers at each other's houses every weekend and spending almost every day together in and outside of school.

On one of these sleepovers while you were both sophomores in high school, you got around to discussing your first kisses and realized neither of you had had yours yet. You both agreed it wouldn't be weird to kiss each other and went for it; the only problem was that it was awful. From that day forward you both vowed to stay friends, but help each other practice all that romance stuff for whenever either of you wanted to actually date someone.

It was a miracle when you both ended up getting accepted to the same college, since one of you (*cough* Yuji) definitely slacked off a little more in high school, but you were so excited to get to spend the next four years with him.

The first semester of college went by quickly and you didn’t get to see each other too often since you came in as an engineering major and he was slowly working his way through business classes. Even though you hadn’t spent as much time together, you’d still get texts from him every few days with some stupid meal concoction he’d made in his dorm kitchen and you’d send each other TikToks that made you laugh. You let yourself fall into a rhythm between classes, homework, and exams, until one Wednesday evening you get an unexpected notification lighting up your phone:

Yuji: “heyy, come over? got a question to ask you”

The message sent butterflies through your stomach for some reason; you two hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks, and his text was much more direct than you expected. Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you think of how to respond.

You: “okayy, be over in 5. should I bring anything?”

His response almost immediately appears under yours:

Yuji: “just yourself, sweets ;)”

The nickname caught you a bit off guard and you questioned what to say next before another text came up:

Yuji: “sorry, don’t know why I said that lmao. see you soon :)”

You sigh and lock your phone, setting it down on the bed beside you before standing up and sliding your shoes, tossing on a sweatshirt on top of your leggings and cropped t-shirt before heading out.

—

You stand outside his dorm, looking at the “Yuji” name sign made out of construction paper taped to his door. Below it was a mini whiteboard he had put up that had some less-than-tasteful drawings and the note “Itadori + Fushiguro” written on it surrounded by hearts. You rolled your eyes as you knocked, the door immediately swinging open as you were greeted by the pink-haired boy wearing his standard red hoodie and jeans combo, looking down on you with a huge grin on his face.

“Welcome, welcome!” he said with a smile, ushering you inside. You looked around and realized you had never actually been in his dorm before - whenever you hung out last semester it was always at cafes, the library, or a party, but never in either of your rooms. You look around and appreciate that he actually managed to make the small space kind of nice. You smirk at the dark blue bedding on his twin size mattress and pinup posters adorning his walls as the LEDs lining the room cast a blue glow across everything.

“You like it?” Yuji asked, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

“It’s very…hmm…how do I say this…you,” you say with a smirk.

He giggles as he flops down on the bed. “Well, you did always know me well.”

You kick off your shoes and sit down onto the bed next to him. “So, what’d you have to ask me?” you question as you turn to face him.

“Right!” he exclaims, hopping off the bed to stand in front of you. “Remember when we were younger and we promised to help each other practice all the romance stuff so we’d be ready for when we get in a real relationship?” You nod as he continues. “Well, I think I might finally be ready to kick things off, and I sorta need your help with the whole practice thing.”

You freeze. This was the last thing on your mind when you came over. You hadn’t even seen Yuji in almost a month, and this is the first thing he says to you? How could he even remember that stupid deal you had made after your horrible first kiss with each other?

Your thoughts suddenly come to a halt as you realize what this might mean. “Wait,” you start, looking up at him from the bed, “does this mean you have a crush on someone?”

Yuji’s face turns red as he breaks eye contact and looks down at the ground, one arm reaching up behind his head to scratch his undercut. “Um, kinda, I think so,” he says as he grins sheepishly. “There’s a girl in one of my classes, and we’ve hung out a few times for this group project, and-“

“And you want my help making sure you know what you’re doing, right?” you cut him off. He looks back up at you, cheeks still red, and nods slightly. “Wait,” you think out loud, “does that mean you haven’t kissed anyone since then?”

His face flushes again and his eyes shoot back to the ground as he mumbles “No.”

You chuckle softly as you get up to meet him in the middle of the room, throwing your arms around his neck and tilting his chin so you’re making eye contact. You’re not sure where the sudden confidence comes from, but it just feels natural for you in that moment. In all honesty, you actually hadn’t kissed anyone since then either - you just hadn’t seen the need - but Yuji doesn’t need to know that. You gaze into his soft brown eyes as he nervously bites his lip, waiting for your response to his confession.

“Don’t worry Yu, that’s okay,” you whisper, your lips nearly grazing his, “we can practice together.”

Yuji nearly squeals with excitement, dissipating any tension or romance that was building between you two. “Yay! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he exclaims as he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you up in the air and spinning you around. He sets you down but his hands don’t leave your hips as he looks down at you expectantly. “Okay, where do we start?” he practically beams down at you.

You pause to think for a moment before responding. “Well, we should probably figure out where you’re starting so we can work on what actually needs to be improved.”

“Works for me!” he says, picking you up again with ease as he walks towards his bed. Your legs wrap around his waist for stability as he sits down with his back against the headboard and you in his lap. The position also gave you butterflies for some reason, which was odd since the two of you used to sit like this all the time - you in Yuji’s lap during car rides when there wasn’t enough space, your head laying across his chest while you watched movies, or even his head resting on your stomach while you tried to braid his hair. But for some reason, this time felt different, maybe because you knew what was about to happen.

“Ready?” he asked with a smile. You nod, trying to mentally prepare yourself for what you expect is going to be a repeat of your last horrible kiss. “Okay, let’s do this,” Yuji says with a soft sigh, still smiling, and you try not to laugh at his lack of seriousness about the whole situation. But before you can react, his hand reaches up to your cheek and his eyes flutter closed as he leans towards you. You let your eyes shut as his soft lips press against yours. He holds himself there for a moment before beginning to gently suck on your bottom lip. The unexpected action causes you to open your mouth slightly in surprise, and he takes the opportunity to gently slide his tongue between your lips. Your tongues meet as he gently explores your mouth with his. His hand moves from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you close to him. At the same time, one of your hands slides up from his hips to the back of his hair and you run your fingers over the softness of his freshly-trimmed undercut.

You start to feel yourself get lightheaded as the kiss gets sloppier and Yuji shows no sign of letting up. You begin to pull yourself away to catch your breath but just as you feel the air hit your lungs he uses the hand on your neck to gently push you back towards his slightly parted lips. It’s almost as if he couldn’t stand to spend a second separated from you and you willingly lean back in as he gets more eager, his tongue effortlessly slipping back into your mouth. The action elicits a soft moan from you, and you feel heat building between your legs. Your hips almost start grinding against the boy beneath you before you remember who it is - your best friend. You open your eyes suddenly and pull away from the kiss, Yuji loosening his hold on the back of your neck as a thin thread of your shared saliva temporarily connects your lips. You are met with those sweet, brown eyes, his cheeks flushed and lips pink from the intense kiss you suddenly pulled him away from.

As your brain clears, the first thing you’re able to say to him is “What the hell?”

“What, was it alright?” he hums back through a smile.

“That was m-more than alright, there’s no way that’s only your second time ever doing that!” you stutter, trying to get the words out.

He shrugs, “What can I say? Sometimes I’m just a natural.”

You start to sit up more and lean back off his lap, when there’s a sudden noise at the door. “Dude c’mon, hop on Discord, we’re gonna play some ranked matches.” The door handle turns as the sentence finishes, and in steps a man dressed in all black with his short black hair fanning out in every direction. He takes in the scene in front of him with you and Yuji sitting on the bed and he immediately covers his eyes with his hands. “S-shit, I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t know you had someone over and I-“ he stutters as you watch his ears turn red from embarrassment.

“No need to apologize my dear friend!” Yuji proclaims as he hops off the bed, clearly no longer thinking about the intense moment you two just shared. He turns to you while gesturing towards the clearly distressed man in the doorway. “This is Fushiguro!” he yells, almost too loudly, with a smile plastered on his face.

Once the man in the door realizes that Yuji has no plans to provide any more information, he removes his hands from his eyes and politely waves at you from across the room. “Um, hi. Yeah, I’m Megumi Fushiguro, but you can just call me Megumi. I live across the hall from Yuji,” he explains, pointing over his shoulder at the door to his room.

You introduce yourself and give a little wave back. “Oh, wait a minute, you’re the Fushiguro that’s on Yuji’s sign on his door, right?” you say with a little laugh, remembering the whiteboard you saw on your way in.

“That's the one! Isn’t he charming?” Yuji sing-speaks as he practically skips towards Megumi. 

The boy in black seems less than impressed with the situation and rolls his eyes. “Yep, that’s me. Again though, you can call me Megumi. I don’t know why Yuji insists on calling me by my last name, I mean we’re basically the same age-”

“Because I just loooooove your name!” Yuji exclaims, now standing next to Megumi and batting his eyelashes dramatically at him. Megumi responds by holding a hand out to his side and gently shoving Yuji, who dramatically pretends to slide down against the wall with a pout.

“Anyways, I was gonna play some video games, but if you guys are busy we can do it another night,” Megumi explains.

“Nah don’t worry, I should probably head home anyways and make some dinner, I’ll leave you boys to it,” you say as you stand up to put your sweatshirt back on, trying to ignore the pulsing between your legs.

Still sitting on the ground, Yuji chimes in, “Aww, you don’t want me to make you dinner here?”

“I don’t think I want to eat the things you make if they’re anything like the meals you’ve been sending me over the past semester,” you preempt.

“Oh man, he’s shown you those too?” Megumi responds with a smirk as he reaches a hand out to help Yuji off the floor.

Yuji stands up proudly, stating “You guys just don’t understand my culinary genius.”

“I wouldn’t call a strawberry Poptart with cheese on it ‘culinary genius,’” you say with a chuckle as a pout returns to Yuji’s face. You put your shoes on and slide past the boys in the doorway. “Anyways, goodnight Yuji, and it was nice to meet you Megumi!” you wave back at them from the hallway.

—

When you get back to your dorm, you’re finally able to process the events that just took place. All you’re left with is more questions.

When did he learn how to kiss like that? How did he learn how to kiss like that? And why do you want more of it so badly?

series masterlist | next chapter

[mikimakiboo]

Time Travelers AU - Chess and Feelings

Just so ya'll know I have like four to five tabs constantly opened just for the translations and historical info

And also I found a better site for Old Norse lmao so Horror won't be speaking in runes anymore hopefully unless I can't find translations and there is only runes available

Also I don't know how phrases are constructed in Old Norse so I just take the English and translate word by word

But yeah I'll make it work lmaoo

First

Prev

Next

Also I actually wanted to write more but it's taking long because I'm inexplicably tired so I decided to cut the part here so ya'll don't have to wait too long :') so yeah excuse the shortness

@ancha-aus pspspsps come here pspspsps

There was a V on today's date on the calendar. V for vacation. Dust had vacations this month, and he completely forgot about that. He should have guessed it, he usually never had a day off on a Saturday unless he was on vacation the next week, and vacations meant being paid less, which also meant he'll need to buy less to save more because the bills would be the same price, which also meant that what he was going to buy now would have to be his last spent of the month.

He had found an English to Old Norse dictionary on one of his town's bookstore website and if he bought it online now he could go get it from the store the next morning.

Dust was staring at his computer screen when he heard Horror sit next to him.

- Hvat ir sá ?

He asked, pointing to the screen. Dust wondered for a second if he was talking about the computer or the dictionary, having guessed that the viking asked what it was with his tone.

- It's, uh... to understand you ? Uh.. wait.

He went back on his other tab, and typed "to understand" before translating. "vita".

Horror nodded, he didn't know how an image was going to help Dust understand anything but he guessed it might be a sort of sacred thing that Dust could look at and receive answers, maybe it was from the gods ?

- You, uh.. wanna do something ?

Dust asked. Everyone was occupied: Cross was as usual guarding the door, Nightmare was reading a new book on the tablet, and Dust had found his old kaleidoscope he gave to Killer and that he hadn't let go off yet, the only one not doing anything was Horror.

Horror looked at him, and looked at the computer, waiting for Dust to translate. He didn't know what that thing was, but Dust could make it talk his language. Dust tried different words to have the best translation possible. "Tafl, háttr, tefla", "game, activity, play". Horror nodded and pointed at "game", he could play games, he was good at table games.

- Okay uhhhh wait a sec.

Dust went back on Google to look for the kind of games vikings used to play, and apparently they played chess, their own version of chess of course, it was called hnefatafl and was played by two people, fortunately the game became popular enough to be commercialized in Dust's time, which meant he could easily find the rules as well as apps to play.

- Okay wait, I'll grab my iPad it'll be easier than on the computer.

He said as he got up and quickly left to go in his room, looking through his nightstand to find his old iPad with a cracked screen. He turned it on and installed the app on his way back to the table where Horror was waiting for him. He put the tablet down on the table, between the two of them, with the rules on his computer.

Horror looked at it curiously, recognizing one of his favorite games, but finding the board quite weird. Was it how boards looked like at that time or was it another magical device of Dust that could replicate board games ?

- Oookay, so uh.. you have to touch the screen to make the pieces move.

Dust showed him by moving his first piece. Horror looked at it for a while before slowly pressing a finger on the screen and dragging it to where he wanted his piece to go, and to his surprise, it went there. He smiled as he looked at Dust, proud to be able to make the magical device follow his orders. Dust smiled back.

- Cool, so, uh, my turn I guess.. ?

He checked the rules again, and moved his piece. Horror moved his after him, and the two could soon enjoy a nice game of ancient chess, not aware that they were being watched.

Cross was looking at them, or more precisely he was looking at Dust, his words running in his head over and over again: Dust thought he was doing a good job, he smiled at him and told him he did good ! Was he proud ? He wanted him to be proud, he wanted to make someone proud for once, he knew he wasn't the best knight, he was too emotional, too anxious, he talked either too much or not enough, he was even one of the very few knights who didn't come for a noble family, so having someone tell him he did good and smile at him brought so much warmth in his soul. Dust was nice, he welcomed them in his house, made great efforts to communicate with all of them, he was so smart, and he didn't let himself succumb to panic or despair, he didn't think twice before making them come inside his house. He was impressive. Cross... admired him.

He wanted to talk to him but he didn't know how, as he had to stay by the door in case someone broke in and even then he shouldn't be distracted from his work by chatting, so he looked at him from afar, he watched him play some game with Horror. Horror seemed nice too, he looked strong but he wasn't aggressive, Cross could tell he perfectly controlled his strength, he was rather calm. He was warry of him at first, but the viking never showed any signs of being a threat. As for Killer... he couldn't quite tell what Killer wanted. The way the roman often looked at him with his big wide empty sockets always sent chills all along his spine, how he often checked his blades in the moonlight, but he didn't seem to want to attack and looked more curious about his surroundings than anything. Nightmare of course wasn't a threat, it was clear he was a noble and took too much care of his appearance to engage in a fight, and even so Cross wasn't even sure he knew how to fight, at least not in a real fight. None of them seemed dangerous, but Cross still had to be prepared, and so he couldn't lower his guard to go and talk to Dust even though he quite wanted to. He had to stay here and watch, that was his job, and hopefully if he did it good then Dust would smile at him again...

- Damn you're good.

Dust admitted to Horror, having lost three times in a row against him, but he still put on a good fight, he was really close to winning !

Horror smiled, Dust was a strong opponent, he liked playing with him, he liked the simple fact that he choose something from his culture, that he tried so hard to integrate him, he really was a nice guy. He gave him a pat on the shoulder, with much less strength than the previous night, he didn't want to launch him across the table after all.

They looked at each other for a minute before Dust got up.

- I, uh.. I'll make food, uhh... matr.. ?

He tried hesitantly before relaxing when seeing Horror smile and nod at him, he felt quite proud of himself for catching a few words.

- Cool, so uh.. I'll go.

He quickly went to the kitchen. He hated how awkward he sounded all the time, and it seemed to be stronger around Horror, probably because he couldn't use the vocal command with him and had to look on specific sites, so he actually had to search for the correct translations and he was always afraid he would say something totally incorrect or possibly rude, but so far Horror only smiled at him and gave him time to find his words... he really wanted to do good for him, to at least try to establish some amical bond with one of them, in case they would stay in his apartment for a while...

It would be good to have a friend in this mess.

Really good.

[defectivevillain]

like a villain

pairing: Shota Aizawa/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors used.

summary: For a few seconds, Shota and you stare at one another. From strangers to friends to partners to ‘enemies’… the two of you have a long history. At UA, you frequently talked about where you may end up after school. But neither of you pictured yourselves here, standing at opposite sides of a rapidly growing chasm. There’s a war on the horizon, and those who don’t take a firm side will be left to the dust and rubble.

word count: 2.1k | ao3 version

author's notes: The reader and Aizawa decided to become heroes after graduating from U.A. But somewhere along the way, the reader grew too powerful: and other heroes started to fear them. Before long, the reader was declared an enemy. Years later, the reader—fully embracing their prescribed villainy—runs into Eraserhead, the vigilante.

The reader’s villain name is Havoc; their Quirk is something to do with blood. I didn’t feel like fleshing the Quirk out too much, I’m not going to lie, so imagine that however you’d like. 

I can't lie, I wrote this with the intention of focusing on Aizawa/Reader. But it morphed into a character study/commentary on heroes and villains, with some allusions to their past relationship. There is no explicit romance, ultimately. Also, this is not a happy story! You have been warned :3

The title of this fic is from Like A Villain by Bad Omens. I never said I was good at titles, lol.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, societal inequities, prejudice

You’re standing in the shadows of an abandoned alley, your nose scrunching in distaste as the pervasive scent of garbage and rot hits your nostrils. You make your way down the cracked pavement quickly, turning a corner and escaping the foul scent. Your every sense is waiting for what you know will soon come. Each minute sound is enough to make you survey your surroundings warily; each blur out of the corner of your eye makes you turn your head. 

This will likely be the last time you meet with Shota Aizawa under amicable circumstances. And things have certainly taken an unpredictable turn since your prior encounter, all those years ago. After all, Shota and you promised to do everything together. You had plans to graduate from UA at the top of your class and build enough experience to form your own hero agency. And while you both graduated with top marks, your other goals never came to fruition. Despite the seemingly countless nights spent staring up at the stars and thinking about your shared future, your paths diverged. After that fateful day—the one you promised yourself never to think about ever again—Aizawa became a vigilante. You bite your lip as you’re forced to process everything that occurred between you—and the subsequent years of radio silence that dominated what used to be an unbreakable friendship. 

You’re slightly doubtful that he won’t even show up tonight. It would be frighteningly easy. The thought distresses and comforts you in equal measure. Before you can fall down that slippery slope of logic, you’re drawn out of your thoughts by a familiar voice. “Havoc.” 

You turn around, a maelstrom of emotions hitting you all at once as you lock eyes with the vigilante you’ve been waiting for. Eraserhead stands at the mouth of the alleyway, every part of his posture speaking to his wariness and apprehension. You feel a sardonic smile rising on your lips at the thought of your childhood friend regarding you in the same way an enemy would. 

“Come on, Shota,” you say, making a show of removing your hands from your pockets and gesturing to the dirtied brick walls around you. “It’s just us out here. You don’t have to pretend.” You implore him. 

Shota is silent. For several moments, he stands entirely frozen and unmoving. You’re mostly amused by the show he’s putting on; yet a small, traitorous part of you is sickened by the thought that the one person who knew you better than anyone is regarding you with such discomfort. You silence those whispers in the back of your mind and watch as he slowly takes a few steps towards you—closer but still a ‘safe’ distance from you. “You betrayed me.” Shota says, a note of something unreadable and uncharacteristic in his voice. You raise a brow, your throat burning at the accusation. 

“I betrayed you?” You hum, maintaining a cool aura. Your blood is thrumming beneath your skin, an ever-present reminder of your Quirk and the pathetic justification for how you were treated all those years ago. After all, you were a hero, once upon a time. And your departure from that work was not your choice. “The hero commission wanted me in a cell in Tartarus.” You remind him pointedly. The thought makes you grip your upper arm tightly, desperate for an anchor to reality. Unsettlingly realistic images invade your thoughts, sending you to rot in a blinding white cell surrounded by some of Japan’s most dangerous villains. 

“It was for your own good,” Shota recites. You regard him for a long moment, surprised that he still believes the lie he was spoon-fed. After all, Shota was there for you throughout your training at UA: he knew how well you were able to control your Quirk. The hero commission was not trying to protect you—they were trying to contain you. 

“You would have me locked away for the rest of my life,” you say hollowly. “I was nothing more than an experiment, a liability.” 

He shakes his head, a minute slip in composure hinting at his frustration. It’s gone in a flash. “We used to have the same dream.” To save those who can’t save themselves, you recall. To protect those in danger. “This isn’t the way to achieve it,” Shota gestures towards you. 

“And heroism is?” You scoff wryly, unable to resist a broken laugh at the irony. “Come on, Shota. You’re barely a hero yourself.” The air falls silent at the accusation.

“Right, because I’m too self-serving.” Shota then recalls, with the practiced ease of someone who has constantly been questioned and unfairly scrutinized. You’re not surprised by the admission, but you are disappointed. 

“You know I don’t believe that,” you squint at him. Shota blinks for a second, seemingly surprised by your argument. “But everyone else does. I don’t understand why you let them treat you as some sort of monster.” 

That remark hits home. You see him flinch. You’ve uttered nothing slanderous—it is all the horrible, uncompromising truth. Yet he refuses to acknowledge it. “You’re the monster.” Shota says. You notice that he’s been steadily breaking the distance between you. You take a few steps forward, until you’re only one step away from him. You’re close enough to see the emotions warring in his eyes, the tension pulling his shoulders tight, the helplessness clenching his fists at his sides. 

“Oh, Shota,” you whisper, reaching out to trace your finger along his cheekbone. He shudders. “You don’t even believe that.” You hum, studying his expression. Indeed, the remark was deflective, rather than accusatory. You both know it. But you’re not the one denying it.

The vigilante grabs your wrist roughly, pushing it away from his face. You let your hand fall back to your side, but make no move to enforce the distance between the both of you. Shota doesn’t budge either; you can’t help but wonder what he’s trying to do. Maybe, just maybe, your words are getting to him. 

Suddenly driven, you continue speaking. “You’re many things: a hero is not one of them.” You remark. Coming from you, that statement is a compliment; to him, it is a great offense. “You’re an outlier, an outcast. You don’t subscribe to the politics of it all. You think that refusing to play will win you the game.”

There’s a constant, low hum from the cars driving past on nearby streets and the electricity powering the city’s brightness. The warmth is a contradiction, a façade that hides the griminess of the shadows threatening to weigh the city down. Beneath the starless sky, there are countless people suffering. Yet heroes are so quick to romanticize it—to look up at the sky as if existence is a gift. Perhaps to them, it is. 

“But you won’t win,” you say with a sad smile. The night air seems to fall still around you, hanging in suspense as it awaits your words. “You can’t change the system by working within it and bending to its rules.” 

Shota frowns. “Can’t I?” He argues. You squint and attempt to see things from his perspective. Sure, Eraserhead has made an impact. But one vigilante isn’t enough to change an entire society’s structure. Currently, Japan relies on Quirks to survive—it relies on heroes to serve as figureheads and villains to serve as enemies. Such a polarizing binary won’t bend to the whims of one single person, regardless of how determined that person may be. 

Moreover, is his unrelenting vigilantism even sustainable? You both know it isn’t, even if Shota doesn’t wish to recognize it. You just shake your head, your chest heavy as you slowly start to come to terms with his stubbornness. It’s almost a lost cause. But something in you refuses to give up on him. It’s foolish, maybe. But you don’t want to see him break under the pressure. “They’re going to eat you alive, Shota,” you warn, “Bleed you dry, until there’s nothing left for you to give.” Your voice is deceptively calm. 

“Poetic,” Shota remarks dryly. His voice is ever so slightly strained. If you didn’t have a long history with him, you wouldn’t have noticed. But you do notice, and the slight break of his voice only pushes you to continue. 

“You know it to be true,” you assert. For a few seconds, the two of you stare at one another. From strangers to friends to partners to ‘enemies’… Shota and you have a long history. It’s ironic to think back to the conversations you had about life after school. Ultimately, neither of you pictured yourselves here: standing at opposite sides of a rapidly growing chasm. There’s a war on the horizon, and those who don’t take a firm side will be left to the dust and rubble. 

You reflect on his words from a few moments ago. “I may be a monster.” You acquiesce after a few seconds. Shota’s brows drift up his forehead as he stares at you in poorly hidden surprise. You bite the inside of your cheek hard. “But at least I’m not lying to myself.” 

Shota’s eyes flash a brutal crimson. For a moment, everything in you seems to fall still. The constant feeling of connection threading you together is fading. You stand there with your arms crossed over your chest, silently challenging him to do what he’s been told to do. Eventually, Shota sighs and deactivates his Quirk. 

“Heroes only arrive after the damage has been done,” you murmur, trying to get through to him. “They don’t attempt to heal the society that has wronged many people—the society that has pushed them down and preyed on them until they have no other option but to resist. Heroes protest the existence of the same villains they create.”

Shota is quiet, but you can see the accusatory gleam in his eyes. You frown. “I don’t have a penchant for cruelty, Shota,” you maintain, sensing his argument even if he doesn’t utter it. “I only want justice.” The city bustles with life around you, yet in a nondescript alleyway, you are invisible to all. The heroes never venture this far south, and it doesn’t take long to realize why. The filthy walls, the discarded trash, and the disadvantaged people crowding the pavement are all a living contradiction to their comfort. 

“But, maybe you’re right,” you admit. Shota’s eyes snap up to yours. A light breeze rustles your skin, blowing through Aizawa’s jet-black hair. Your hand twitches with restless energy. Your blood runs along your veins, crawling up your skin and threatening to burst. Even with your exceptional control over your Quirk, you feel its energy pushing back against you. “I have changed.” You admit.  

Shota is silent. He has not spoken in several minutes. You can only hope he’s digesting everything you’ve said. You take a slow breath. “I grew up,” you state. Your next statement is spoken with an eerie tranquility. “You didn’t.” Indeed, past Shota’s lean stature and mature outlook, a naive hope for peace remains. The vigilante inhales sharply. The stiff air almost seems to ring in your ears and prickle along your skin. 

You study him for a long moment, scrutinizing him. Shota looks exhausted—plagued by a fatigue that sleep can’t fix. He is often tired, but there’s an unfamiliar weariness clinging to his form. He isn’t tired from lack of sleep; he’s tired of fighting for a society that ostracizes him. He’s fighting a battle he was destined to lose. And even if he does manage to win, he will receive little to no gratitude. Shota is drowning in the expectations of others, forcing himself to fit into a black-and-white world. But he has always been overwhelmingly grey. 

“When they push you past your breaking point, they will discard you and leave you to die,” you continue. Indeed, in a society filled with countless people with powerful Quirks, heroes are more than expendable. They are treated as tools and weapons. The moment they malfunction, misfire, or break… they’re scrapped. You stare at Shota, unable to stop yourself from noticing the signs of a hero who has overworked themself. Scars crawl across his face; his knuckles are bloodied; his eyes are shadowed by prominent dark circles. You swallow past the inexplicable urge to reach out to Shota, instead dragging your eyes to meet his gaze one last time. “And I’m afraid I won’t be there in time to pull you from the wreckage.” 

Despite the unsettling quiet, there’s a buzzing feeling assaulting your ears and weighing your shoulders down. It feels remarkably similar to grief. Yes, you’re more than familiar with the feeling of horrid, inexplicable anticipation—death is always following on its heels. If Shota pushes himself too far, there will be nothing left to heal. You stare into Shota’s eyes and see nothing but his own demise reflected in them.

thanks for reading! <3

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[oncewhenalongtimeago]

hiii i just wanted to say i really like how each of the protags in your fics have different personalities!!! adds a lot of flavour and depth i think to how hiccup interacts with each version of reader in different contexts :)

 The Jealous One pt 6

Pairing: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Fem!Reader

Words: 1,964

You’re caught off guard in the woods. Hiccup might have a thing for rejection… Or you. He’s really not sure. 

Tags: fem!reader, silly, ambiguous timeline, Snotlout Jorgenson, Ruffnut and Tuffnut Thorston, Jealous!Hiccup, Post RoB/DoB, Pre-RTTE

<Previous - Next>

You wanted to kick as you braced your foot against a rock, pulling your cup up to your face again, shoulders pressing painfully into the bark of a tree, curved so that the center of your shoulder blades felt as if they were being dug into by two very thick thumbs.

You wanted to say that you were getting good at keeping it all stuffed inside -your emotions, as it were, not necessarily your lunch- but if you’d been good at that, you wouldn’t be here dealing with this with a large, leaking barrel of stolen mead. Day drinking.

Though you hadn’t participated, soon after you’d left your table, a fight in the hall had broken out and taken a lot out of you, having devolved into a full-on brawl that the majority of the Riders hadn’t been too pressed to join in on.

By the end, you were sure most of the busy folk, the ones who hadn’t been knocked out, had left, most of the Riders had either fallen asleep or had drunken themselves into a stupor and the more studious ones, being Astrid and Fishlegs, had already long made of in the night either to chase off another poor Viking with a sharpened axe and clenched muscles or to hide and cower until the night had been done.

For you, the distraction had made it much easier to make off with a barrel of mead, and you’d dragged it, half bent over, into the woods, arms straining at the heavy weight.

And just in time, too. It was usually after the first fight that the mead-ladies and cup-bearers always began to charge coin for each pint.

Your arms were so sore. But it was worth it.

You weren’t too far off from the bridge separating you from Berks main village, you and your tapped barrel hiding somewhere off in the trees just after the foliage began to grow thicker, so even now, from a distance, you could hear the stormy rocking of the ocean against Berk’s sturdy shores.

You shook off a light buzz as the sound of crunching leaves grew louder, louder than what was appropriate between the mingling of tiny forest creatures, in which case you meant the Terrors scrabbling through the trees as there weren’t so many woodland creatures close to Berk’s main village.

You rested the bottom of your mug on one of your knees, your legs spread apart so that you could lean forwards whenever you wanted to fill your jug, thinking slowly and taking the time to try and listen harder.

You wanted to groan, then. Many different vikings on Berk with prosthetics, peg legs and the like but what you’d figured for sure was an approach came packaged with the slight spring of metal against metal, which you knew could only belong to one Viking.

You debated trying to hide the evidence of your night spent out alone in the cold dangers of the woods but decided against it, instead pushing yourself up, palms against cold bark, the divets between strips pressing imprints into your palm.

You didn’t give yourself much time to loiters, legs placed slightly farther apart than what was comfortable as you stumbled, dropping your mug against wood roots and grass and upturned dirt with a clatter just as a familiar face made its way past the treeline.

You resisted the urge to grumble, nearly stumbling over a shallow tree root as you brushed past him, your shoulder checking his in your distraction.

“Where…” Hiccup asked, stopping slowly behind you, now shivering himself, the head of his hair wild and on end, “Where are you going?”

You were slightly drowsy, the hands on your arms working overtime in an effort to scrub away the cold. The wind did a great deal to help, brushing through your skirts as you made your way down towards flat ground.

“...To bed,” You mumbled, eyes nearly closed, buzzing with your sudden need to sleep and the weightful urge to drop, all the muscles in your lid looser than they’d be if you had any control over your own body.

You blinked sourly into the canopy of pine above you, the light glaring brightly through the spindly leaves against trees.

You didn’t keep time, not particularly concerned as early early morning turned to brighter still early morning. 

You sighed, more a breath than a chirr, blinking groggily, turning in half as Hiccup moved to catch up with you, at a steady pace yet not fast enough to be called anything but a strong walk.

You stood on a small, flat rock, poking out of the ground like a tiny boat in the middle of a storming, wide ocean of grass, trees and shrubs, mimicking still, titanic waves all around you.

A Terror called out in the distance and a wind rushed past, nearly causing you to slip.

“Wait-”

You jerked as you felt the feel of hands grabbing onto either side of your upper arms, craning your neck awkwardly to face the one who held you aloft as your tilt neared the diagonal.

You grunted lightly, shaking him off with slow movement, burdened by many things and turned to face him.

The way he stood was easy, compared to you who was subtly off kilter, swaying with the breezes.

“I… I was a poor sport,” Hiccup said finally, voice thick with tension, reaching out for you in tone and hand; you felt a gentle tug on your tunic sleeve, the brush of a callous against the soft skin on the inside of your wrist.

He didn’t need to explain any more.

He was eager to apologize.

“Right,” You said, as your stomach dropped again, the beginnings of guilt prickling its way up the lining of your stomach like the sharp sprout of a plant bursting through thin soil.

He seemed much more awake than you, but the faded bags under his eyes implied he might not have slept as much as he’d… Liked to have implied, most likely.

A while ago, you would have forgiven him instantaneously. Now, you realized you didn’t feel that pull, the need to wait and languish. You still stewed, but it wasn’t with that simmering loneliness fueled desperation lying underneath a wave of discomfort.

It was a bit of a relief.

“I shouldn’t have...”

That wasn’t. It was awful.

You wondered how many times you could reject him before it became unreasonable.

You didn’t know what you wanted to say, but you knew he got it all wrong. You hoped he felt regret, though.

“You said things just fine,” You grumbled, shaking him off and letting your arms loosen, “I don’t care.”

He hadn’t been so insecure about his cousin since you were younger teens. You didn’t like him enough at the moment to try and find out why.

“And I’ve been thinking-” Hiccup continued anyways, grumbling slightly, “and I really- maybe I deserve it.”

“Right,” You said shortly, though not short enough to really imply that you’d been holding a grudge, still intent on leaving, feet shifting. The two of you were on the same step, practically standing toe-to-toe. 

Of course you still held a grudge. Or, maybe grudge wasn’t the right word. Grudges were for things that were old, that had been long since made up for and pushed under the rug, then brought out and dusted off and looked over at night when secrets were best kept.

You’d had half a mind to let it pass. Not because you wanted to be the better person- no, because ‘letting it go’ didn’t always mean being the better person, not when you were still so upset, anger lying like a poised snake in your stomach, but because you wanted him to squirm.

To think about it just as much as you’d had to.

In this instance, however, you didn’t particularly think that holding to your anguish made you a worse person. It made you a wronged person, for sure.

You remembered how you woke up early to see him, to be the one to say ‘hi’ first. How he’d greet you, then how he wasn’t there. And again and again and again you checked, your heart soaring each time, only to be left sorely disappointed.

 It was silly. And selfish. And something only someone a few years younger could do- keep their hopes up so innocently high and without any real expectation only to be disappointed each and every time by a result that through pattern they must have known to be sure. 

You grumbled, shaking him off and turning to leave anyway. “Fine. Save your apologies.”

“-No, you’re right.” Hiccup folded quickly, “I-What?”

Of course, it would be just like him not to see your worth. 

“...You haven’t paid this much attention to me since we were kids.” Seriously, why? You said sternly, pushing past the slogging fog clouding your mind.

“What?” Hiccup paused.

“Of course,” You scoffed, stepping your way off the rock and kicking your way past a large pile of leaves.

As you stalked- or, stumbled, more like- out the treeline and up to the wooden planking lining the wide floor of the huge bridge leading back to Berk, dark boots dirty and scuffling loudly against the wood, Hiccup watched you.

Hiccup watched you and he paused with mounting horror as his eyes followed you, whose long gray skirt was falling down to your ankles.

At this point, you’d refused two of his apologies, both times with a gloomy, stormy expression on your face, shoulders hunched and miserable.

You had asked him why.

And, well, there was a reason why. 

He was a bad friend.

Deep envy, spiked as thorns in chest twisted as a friend of his became the friend of another, attention that had been allotted for him lost like spare coin. As what he knew to be a feeling or certainty became pangs of hurt when you became someone he couldn’t any longer recognize, fast speech becoming a slow, morbid, familiar prose becoming, dare he say it, ribbing.

Even now, he wanted to keep it up leave still, to escape off into the sky with the other riders in an effort to keep running away in part from a feeling he couldn’t name, a thing that grew and writhed as he realized that he’d mistaken the value of one friend for a group of a few others when he really should have made an effort to have kept all of his sheep in line.

It was a feeling that was familiar but that he hadn’t paid much mind to, even as he’d grown more distant from you, even as his eyes began to linger and as his heart pounded and eyes widened. 

It had become unavoidable now, especially after you’d fallen over him, looking wonderful and fine and shining with the sun pressing into your back and glinting around your head like a crown made for you by the very Gods.

It was a feeling he hadn’t felt since… He was a teen, when he had been very much into... -But, it was slightly different; a little bit of want-to-see mixed with a heaping pile of desire-to-impress mixed with something a little bit more like ‘I-know-you,’ which, in hindsight, had always been there, at least for a while though it was a slight weaker now and had not always paired so brightly with the previous two.

And all of it was twinged by something else, wrapped up in a twisting, bitter, covetous cage, locked and keyed by a budding, intense resentment for his cousin.

Even in your drunken state you were so, so pretty. And now you were mad at him. 

He had to wonder how he always got himself into these situations.

[samofmine]

thank you anon i had a wonderful time writing this

Sam is Dean's. One way or another, that's pretty much the only thing Dean is certain of now.

Now.

It hasn't always been like this.

Back when they were younger, Dean was always anxious, always worried Sam would leave him one day. He was too different, too silent, too much in his own little world and as much as Dean prouded himself in being the only person Sam would allow to enter his world, he also knew one day this would change and he'd be locked out forever.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when he announced he was going to leave. Stanford.

But even though he saw it coming, it still felt like something died inside of him, a light going out.

And later when they eventually found their way to each other, Dean was certain Sam would leave again. He never wanted the life, never wanted to be part of a fucked up family. He wanted to be normal.

Now, Dean knows Sam has forgotten about that. He finally understands he's never gonna be normal.

Most importantly, he understands Dean is as much of a freak as he is. They're in this together for life.

And, yes, Dean knows Sam is his. In every way he wants him.

This... Thing between them, the thing Dean never knows how to name, has only started a couple years ago. Yes, Dean still feels a longing for his brother rooted deep inside his chest that will never go away, even when Sam is in his arms, moaning his name, panting against his lips, he still longs for him. He thinks this is the result of all the years they lost trying to fight against... this.

Last night, they were bored out of their minds and decided to get hammered together, like they hadn't done in a long time.

Dean loves to see Sam drunk, loves how easily he laughs, how carefree he seems. They could talk about anything and laugh it off.

So, these are the only moments Sam really talks about his time in Stanford. Dean doesn't complain, really, talking about that time only makes the longing grow inside him, but he can handle it from time to time.

Yesterday Sam started to list the people he hooked up with while at college.

At first, Dean was laughing it off.

But then he mentioned someone. A guy.

Dean doesn't care to remember his name. But he does remember what Sam said about him.

The guy was the first one to fuck him.

Sam lost his virginity to a college no-name boy.

And Dean couldn't laugh about that even if he tried.

Which brings him to where he is now.

He found a spell in one of Rowena's books and spent the entire day getting things ready. If it all goes according to plan, Dean will go back in time.

He will reclaim what's his.

He finishes drinking the purple, oddly glowing liquid that tastes like metal and cheap grape juice and says the magic words.

He feels dizzy at first, like he lost consciousness for half a second and came back, and when he realizes... It worked.

Hell yes. Now he has to go find Sammy.

-

Sam is in bed, it's been an overwhemingly long day with too much to do and he really needs to rest.

But, of course, not even this goes according to plan.

He hears a loud noise coming from the apartment's kitchen and jumps out of bed.

He's terrified, hands shaking, and a million thoughts run through his head as he tries to remember what he should do. What he was taught.

He enters the kitchen with a baseball bat in hand, but, before he can see anything someone tackles him to the floor.

His eyes finally adjust to the darkness and he sees him - Dean.

"Easy, tiger!" He says.

Sam frowns.

"Get off me!"

Sam frees himself from Dean and walks to the light switch.

Now, with the lights on, he can see the boy - well, the man - clearly.

It's him, but it's not him as Sam remembers him.

"What the hell?"

"Missed you too, little brother." Dean smirks.

"How the- You-" Sam blinks, trying to gather his thoughts.

Did he fall asleep? Is he dreaming?

What kind of a weird ass dream is this? An old version of Dean breaking into his apartment?

As he thinks, Dean starts going through the kitchen's fridge, grabbing two bottles of beer.

"When you're done freaking out," Dean says, walking to the living room, "Come have a drink with me."

Sam takes another five minutes before he gets himself to follow Dean.

Dean explains everything to him. He explains how he came from the future. How Sam left Stanford, for a reason he won't mention, and they're together a few years from now.

Sam sips on his beer, feeling dizzy.

"But- why? Why would you come here talk to me?"

Dean's eyes darken.

"I know a secret of yours, Sammy."

Dean's voice is so different, even deeper than it already was. His eyes are still a green that seems to spark like a gemstone, and the crinkles by it only make him more good looking.

So, Future Sam probably still hasn't gotten over his crush.

"What secret?" He asks skeptically.

Dean smirks and scoots closer to him, throwing an arm around his shoulder.

He leans in to whisper on his ear.

"I know you've been thinking about me. In ways you shouldn't."

Sam widens his eyes and backs away from Dean on reflex.

"W-What?"

Dean's eyes are even darker now and he looks so sure, so confident, it makes Sam shiver.

"I have a secret, too." He says. "Few years from now, we're gonna be all over each other. I can't get enough."

Sam blushes at the words. He swallows dry, thinking of what to say. Dean's hand finds his thigh, traveling up, stopping on his hip.

Dean pulls him closer.

"Tell me, Sammy." He says, "Tell me how much you want me."

Sam takes a deep breath. Dean starts to kiss down his neck, pulling his hair lightly in a way he only now realizes he likes it, and yeah, there's no way this isn't a dream.

Sam lets out a whimper, getting lost in the feeling. He has wanted this for so long, so damn long, and he hated himself for it.

And now, Dean - older Dean, but still Dean - is right here, giving him everything he always wanted and more.

"Dean..." He says, blushing harder over how needy he sounds.

Dean nibbles on his ear.

"I want you, little brother." He says, "Want you so bad."

He turns Sam's face to look at him and Sam gets lost inside his eyes before he leans in, kissing him with so much desperation he feels himself losing his breath.

He straddles Dean's lap and of course Dean holds him, urging him to take his shirt off and attacking his nipples as soon as they're bare. Sam is already a mess, whimpering and gasping and moaning Dean's name, painfully hard in his pants.

Dean's hand touches him through the sweatpants.

"Tell me." Dean demands, and Sam can't even think of not answering.

"Want you." He breathes out. "Always wanted you, Dean. So fucking bad."

That turns a switch inside Dean and he groans, lifting Sam's body and laying him on the couch, taking off his pants and hovering over him as he takes off his own.

Dean steps back and looks at Sam, naked on the couch. Sam feels his entire body burn.

"You're so beautiful." Dean says, closer now, his hand travelling Sam's body with adoration. "So damn hot, made me lose my mind back then. Still does."

He kisses down Sam's torso and oh, finally, he touches Sam's cock, pumping it twice before taking the head in his mouth, eyes locked with Sam's the entire time.

Sam feels like his brain is melting, he can't do much other than whine and moan Dean's name, so he leans back and watches Dean, leaking precum inside his mouth.

When he's getting close, Dean lets his cock go with a pop. He whines louder.

"It's okay, baby brother. I'll make you feel real good."

Dean rubs the head of his cock, squeezes more precum out and coats his finger with it.

Sam knows where this is going.

Dean starts rubbing his fingers against his hole.

Sam lets out a gasp.

"De- Dean!"

"Shhh, it's okay, baby. Let me take care of you."

"No, Dean, I- I never, I mean, I haven't-"

Dean lets out a groan, tip of his finger entering Sam, and Sam shivers at the feeling.

"I know, Sammy." Dean says, "Gonna be your first. Gonna be the first cock you take in your virgin, tight little hole."

Dean's words are dripping with want, hunger even, and Sam all but melts under his touch.

His finger is all the way in now and he's thrusting it in and out, slowly.

"Ask for it, Sammy." Dean says. "Tell me you want me to take your virginity. Tell me you're mine."

Sam feels shivers running down his body as Dean starts to lick his hole while he thrusts his finger, overwhelmed by how gentle he's being.

"Want-" Sam mumbles. "Want you. Want you to be my first. Please, De-"

Dean adds another finger, this one covered with spit, and starts thrusting in harder. Sam feels weird at first, stretching around his brother's fingers, the burning pain too unfamiliar, but then Dean hits something inside him that makes his body jolt with pleasure and Sam hears himself begging for more of this, more of Dean.

Three fingers in and Sam is almost crying, hips moving trying to meet Dean's thrusts, wanting more of that feeling.

Dean takes his fingers out and leans down to kiss Sam, this kiss filled with passion and want and Sam feels the safest and most loved he's ever felt all his life.

"Gonna fuck you now, baby brother."

Dean says, and Sam feels him coming in, stretching him so much more, he feels like he's going to break, but Dean goes slow and kisses him the entire time until he's fully in.

Sam feels so full his body is taken over by an overwhelming bliss.

He wraps his legs around Dean's waist and pants against his mouth.

"Fuck me." He whines.

And oh, Dean does.

He thrusts inside him, slow but increasingly harder, groaning and giving Sam kisses and bites down his neck.

Sam can't put his mind to understand what Dean's saying, but he gets bits and pieces of it, like "So tight, so fucking tight" and "So perfect for me" and "Made for my cock".

Dean starts thrusting harder and Sam's cock is throbbing against his stomach, almost painfully. He reaches to touch it but Dean stops him, grabs his hand and lifts it, holding it on top of his head.

"Please- I need-" Sam whines, Dean hitting the spot inside him hard with every thrust. He feels like he's going insane from the feeling, too overwhelming, too new.

"You can come like this." Dean pants on top of him, "Come on my cock, Sammy."

Sam whines at the words because fuck, this is too much, Dean fucks him even harder and Sam feels it building up inside him, painfully slow with his neglected cock twitching and leaking, and then it hits him. He lets out a broken sob as he comes all over himself and Dean.

"That's it, Sammy. So good, such a good baby brother for me, fuck." Dean fucks him through his orgasm, groaning as Sam clenches around him, and it's not long until he's spilling inside him, warm and deep and Sam whimpers at the feeling.

When Dean pulls out Sam feels incredibly empty, and he grabs Dean's arms and pulls him down towards him, kissing him passionately, like he's still hungry.

Dean's hand finds his cock while they're kissing and Sam flinches, too sensitive, but his cock is twitching on Dean's hand.

He pumps it slowly until Sam is moaning against his mouth.

"That's it. You did so good, came so good just from my cock." Dean praises him, "Gonna make you come again, baby."

Sam is thrusting up in Dean's fist before he realizes and he comes with a scream this time, entire body shaking.

He falls asleep right after, exhausted.

He doesn't see Dean licking him clean afterwards, and he doesn't see Dean kissing his forehead and saying goodbye.

When Sam wakes up, he wonders if it was all a dream, but his body is still sore and he doesn't know how this is possible.

Years later, when he's back on the road with Dean, older Dean's words still haven't left his mind.

"Few years from now, we're gonna be all over each other."

So, Sam waits.

And he knows damn well it will be worth the wait.

[fanby-fckry]

Thinking about UH3!Alastor’s feelings on cheating and adultery.

Content Warning: implications of period-typical racism for the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, brief mention of saneism/ableism

…

Alastor was born out of wedlock. Mainly because interracial marriage was illegal; his father was white and his mother was not.

His father eventually got married to a white woman Alastor has never met, and as far as Alastor is concerned, she’s the other woman. His mother was there first. It doesn’t matter that his parents weren’t married; the unfaithfulness was committed with his father’s new wife, against his mother, and not the other way around. (And honestly, he’s right.)

Meanwhile, his mother likely felt ashamed anyway, and I think he picked up on that. I think he hates his father – for many reasons, and this is one of them – and his step mother, and their perfect little family built on secrets and lies.

And then the Morningstars come along.

Because remember, when Lucifer first starts hitting on Alastor, he has no idea Lilith is in on it. He assumes, up until Bloodlust and Butterflies Chapter 6: The Pride Before, that Lilith doesn’t even know, and up until Metamours, he’s still somewhat convinced that it’s an open secret that Lilith tolerates the way his mother and stepmother did – each vaguely aware of the other’s existence, with neither being too happy about it.

What I’m saying is, Alastor spent SEVEN YEARS thinking he was Lucifer’s affair partner. Or at least that he was playing at being one, when he was still messing with Lucifer during the 6 year failed seduction.

He spent 7 years putting mental distance between himself and Lilith, because if he thought about her too much, he’d run the risk of comparing himself to the woman who stole his father from his mother. (He didn’t even like his father, but it’s the fucking principle of the thing!)

And Charlie adds a whole other layer to things.

Charlie is an only child. Just like Alastor (not including potential half-siblings he never met; I haven’t decided whether or not his father had other kids, but his mother never did).

If Alastor had been Lucifer’s affair partner – as he assumed he was for 7 years – he would’ve not only been stealing Lucifer away from Lilith, but stealing him away from Charlie.

I don’t know if he would’ve felt remorseful, exactly – remorse is a complicated emotion for Alastor, and one he very rarely experiences – but I think it would’ve been devastating all the same if he dwelled on it long enough.

All that anger and hatred he felt for his father and stepmother would be reflected back on himself. His ego would take a huge hit, which – if you’re not familiar with the realities of NPD vs the ableist armchair psych version – could lead him down a self destructive spiral because that’s his coping mechanism, that’s his shield.

So he couldn’t allow himself to think about Lilith or about Charlie. Even more than he couldn’t think about his feelings for Lucifer, he could not under any circumstances think about what that would mean for Lilith and Charlie.

I mean, it’s no wonder he reacted the way he did at the prospect of being under the same roof as them:

A record scratch played from behind Alastor’s head and static hung over his words as he spoke, “At the palace? Where your wife and daughter live?”

“Yes, well Charlie will be out with her friends, so we-”

“And now I’m questioning your sanity,” Alastor snapped, cutting Lucifer short. “Because that still leaves the matter of your wife. I can't imagine she'd be all jakealoo seeing her husband in a romantic setting with another man!”

Hey, how many times do you think Alastor had to consciously ignore Lucifer’s wedding ring?

Mans didn’t take it off when his wife left him in canon; there’s no way it came off during Lilith-sanctioned rendezvous while they’re still happily married. (The Lucilith divorce is NOT canon in UH3.)

Lucifer wouldn’t think anything of it – he’s not doing anything unfaithful; he’s not going against Lilith’s wishes; he has no reason to feel guilty or conflicted about wearing it – but to Alastor, it’s a symbol of the union he’s intruding on.

Gods, I wanna write this so bad. I have so many stories I want to tell in this universe.

[littlesparklight]

Read a paper on the third Homeric Hymn (Aphrodite's long hymn) the other day, and I've been musing on Aphrodite, her ability to 'cast sweet desire' into the hearts of people, and agency. Not sure this will have any insight, I'm just trying to think out loud, basically, but -

On the one hand, obviously the instances we know of where someone or other gets cursed/deliberately struck with desire is a specific and forcible/foreign sort of experience.

On the other, where does the line (is there a line?) go between Aphrodite as the origin and cause of all sexual(-romantic) feelings and desire, in general, and Aphrodite as deliberately forcing someone to fall in love/desire with another person?

Is each and every case of such a spell a wholly foreign-to-the-person desire, something they wouldn't have at all felt otherwise, or is it (sometimes) bringing out what could be/is there and making it impossible to ignore?

In the hymn, Zeus first strikes Aphrodite with desire for Anchises, and then Aphrodite herself does the same to Anchises, for her.

The layers to the question of agency and consent and whatnot are of course many, here, if we should strictly look at this from a modern lens (at the very least Aphrodite commits rape by deception). On the other hand it'd be somewhat wrong to look at it in such terms, I think.

Neither Aphrodite nor Anchises are turned into unthinking sex beasts who fall upon the object of their desire with the need to screw, and nothing more. Aphrodite plans out her approach, and goes to very deliberate effort to gain what she (now) wants in a way that will be as free of stress/fear for Anchises (in the moment, before her revealing herself) as it possibly can be. Anchises, in turn, also takes steps to assure himself this strange "girl" is someone he actually is "allowed" to have sex with - that is, that she is mortal, and not divine. (Even if we allow that he does want the answer to be 'yes', and thus is probably an even easier target for Aphrodite's deceptions than he might otherwise have been.)

The paper I read points out that we have a possibility that Anchises is actually asking for immortality (and thus to be able to keep having a relationship with Aphrodite), and that Aphrodite might want this too (and thus mirroring Anchises desire) but then steps away from that. And this is after they have satisfied each of their love/desire "delusions". And the Bibliotheke gives her and Anchises a second son, who, given that Aphrodite names only Aeneas in the Hymn, must have been conceived at a later date if we acknowledge this variant, so they clearly still desire each other. Is it natural, at this point, then?

Zeus' part in this is his act of turning Aphrodite's powers against her (the paper suggested he might be able to do this not just because he's the current ruler of the cosmos, but, as the Hymn uses that genealogy, because he's Aphrodite's father), as revenge for her doing the same to him, many times. This is probably meant in a general sense, but - later tradition had Zeus be forcibly induced to at least some of his liaisons, as the Dionysiaca shows.

But is he helpless, someone who is being used and have no agency?

I think I can begin to see what is meant by that even if a character is under divine compulsion, they have responsibility for themselves. What matters is what they do, not whether the desire is entirely natural to them or not.

We're not talking sex pollen or omegaverse-levels of heat/rut need to have sex, really.

Basically all characters we see impelled in this way still have agency to (attempt to) resist, to reason with themselves and to decide how to act.

Phaedra in (the surviving version) Euprides' Hippolytus' play has been suffering for months, maybe more than a year, before the tragedy goes down - and this because Aphrodite meddles more, not from her initial awakening of that desire. (And, as a side point, considering that Euripides has Hippolytus raised by Pittheus, so Phaedra hasn't even spent every day for however many days around a small child who's grown up into a beautiful young man. She's seen him only briefly, if at all, until the moment she sees him when she's struck - is it impossible that even a sliver of that attraction is her own entirely?) Seneca's version of this play has Phaedra shameless instead of struggling, already having given in, and that does lend a different look, but given that we know it's perfectly possible to resist and even choose death (Phaedra is just pre-empted out of her chance to do this before tragedy strikes and she still also goes through with it).

Pasiphae does not launch herself at the bull, either. (Though here it's usually Poseidon, and not Aphrodite, striking her with the desire.) She may have resisted, and we don't know how long she might have been thought of as doing so, since we don't have any (surviving) text that touches on this. If one wants to look at it that way, she even makes sure her indiscretion might have gone unnoticed, thanks to Daidalos' contraption. Unfortunately she sleeps with an animal sent by a god, so it's not odd her precaution is foiled by a result that would otherwise be impossible.

We don't actually know how the oldest sources that did/might have touched on Helen and her meeting with Paris portrayed this. We don't know what sort of influence Aphrodite exerted, or in what way, and this is quite necessary to be able to say anything about it. The later sources that actually show this either have no gods involved (because it's "realistic"), or if the gods still exist, no obvious divine interference (like Ovid's Heroides and Colluthus' Abduction of Helen).

Helen talking of delusion/madness in the Odyssey doesn't really tell us anything, since this could be either actual forcible influence of some kind, or just a generalized way to talk about love-desire given the way the Ancient Greeks conceived of it. The Iliad is ambiguous on the matter, and there is certainly no divine influence of the sort we're talking about here at play in Helen and Aphrodite's scene - at best, simple wingmanning and flirting-by-proxy, in the way Aphrodite presents Paris and Helen acknowledges this is exactly what it is (seduction) and she reacts to it, too.

Going back to Zeus and the Iliad, where he unquestionably actually is under a forcible influence that cannot be denied (Aphrodite's belt/girdle), that is one of the closest of "unthinking sex beast" reaction we have. He is singularly focused on getting Hera to sleep with him right then and there, and while it shares some similarities with the versions where Phaedra has abandoned her inhibition/shame, she's more aware of that than Zeus is, while under the influence of the girdle.

The possibility of self-awareness and resistance, and ability to reason and plan, even in the grip of being struck by a deliberate influence makes the whole thing a lot more nuanced than we might first think it is, I feel like.

(Not really touching on Medea here in the versions of the Argonautica we have; I have no idea if we should categorize Eros/Cupid's influence as somehow different in kind/degree/ability from Aphrodite's or not, first of all. Second, the fact that Aphrodite seems to "lose" the ability to strike desire into people by herself and needs Eros/Cupid to do so in later sources is curious, and, again, feels like it'd be needed to be looked at as a separate thing.)

[stayteezdreams]

First Dates with Ateez (Hyung Line)

Headcanons: First dates with Ateez (Hyung Line)

(Maknae Line Version)

Pairings: Kim Hongjoong x Reader; Park Seonghwa x Reader; Jeong Yunho x Reader; Kang Yeosang x Reader - all Gn!Reader

Warnings: Brief mentions of a kiss (in Hongjoong's and Yunhos)

A/n: Yeosangs came out a lot longer than I intended but whatever lol.

Hongjoong (day at the beach)

Hongjoong wanted to take you somewhere you hadn't been before.

So after he kidnapped you picked you up for your date (you didn't know this was happening, he just decided the wanted to take you on a date)

You drove for a while, you weren't quite sure how long, as the conversation (and karaoke) kept you preoccupied.

Finally, you saw the ocean come into view and you beamed in excitement.

This made Hongjoong even more glad he decided to do this, and it was hard for him to keep his eyes on the road when you looked so happy.

When you got to the beach, you watched Hongjoong pull out a blanket, umbrella, and bag of food from the car.

He grinned at you and you felt yourself swoon, and beam with excitement.

As you walked to find a spot on the beach, he pulled you along by your arm, and you had butterflies.

He seemed so proud of his surprise date, you couldn't feel angry that he had sidelined your day even if you tried.

After finding a nice spot to sit, Hongjoong set up the umbrella and blanket before patting the spot beside him.

Between eating, talking, playing card games and a surprisingly competitive game of catch, you and Honjoong had spent the whole day on the beach.

As the sun began to set, you and Hongjoong took a walk along the beach after packing everything up.

You took photos together, and a cute older couple asked if they could take some of the two of you.

When they made a comment about how cute of a couple you two made, you and Honjoong gave each other shy smiles and he couldn't stop giggling.

When continuing on your walk, Hongjoong was walking close enough that your arms were touching. Eventually his hand slipped into yours.

You glanced at him and saw a cute smile on his face, which caused you to break out into your own.

He brought up the older couple, and asked how you would feel about actually being a couple with him.

You were of course very accepting of the idea, which only made Honjoong more giddy.

After the drive home, he walked you to your door, and asked if he could kiss you goodnight.

You said yes, and he kissed you softly, yet quickly, with a promise of taking you on another planned date soon.

-

Seonghwa (garden cafe date)

Seonghwa knew you loved cafes, and wanted to take you to one for your first date.

But he didn't want to take you to any ordinary cafe.

So, after doing some research, he found a garden cafe, and decided it was perfect.

When you arrived, you were shocked you had never known it existed.

After exploring briefly and checking out the beautiful scenery, and taking some photos, you sat down and went over the menu.

Neither of you could decide what to get, and one of the servers, seeing this, told you that you can take unfinished food home with you.

So you and Seonghwa then decided to order probably way too much food. (The others were happy though as they had their own tasting party after Seonghwa brought back the left overs.)

The cafe was surprisingly not crowded, so you and Seonghwa had your own private little corner. It felt much more romantic than Seonghwa expected, but he had no complaints about this.

Seonghwa couldn't keep his eyes off you the whole date. Every time you got excited about a new drink, food or dessert he couldn't help but stare at you with his adoring sparkly eyes.

Slowly he inched closer to you, wanting to be right beside. You noticed this, and smiled, butterflies heavy in your stomach.

You can't tell me wouldn't try to feed you either. He'd think it was cute how you'd get kind of embarrassed by it, but that would only want to make him do it more.

Then you'd retaliate by doing it to him and he'd crumble into giggles.

When you finally left the cafe, Seonghwa rested his hand on your back, and kept you close to him.

This was not the last time you came to the cafe, and you ended up being regulars to the point where you befriended the staff.

-

Yunho (Exploring)

Yunho couldn't decide where to take you on your first date, so he decided why not everywhere?

You were relatively new to the city so he took you around, showing you a bunch of unique places

You walked around a shopping center and markets, you even stopped and did karaoke for a while, before going to a nearby arcade.

At the arcade, Yunho won you a giant teddy bear.

Afterwards he dragged you into a photo-booth, and the two of you ended up with half a dozen sets of pictures.

After walking around a bit more, the two of you found a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, where you got some of the best food you'd ever had.

Eventually the two of you ended up in a park after the sun had begun to set.

Seeing Yunho, the giant golden retriever trying to slide down a children's slide, definitely became a core memory for you.

And yes you got a photo of the exact moment when he got stuck.

You swung on the swings, with Yunho pushing you, up until he pushed you too hard you thought you were going to fly off.

Once the sun had set, the two of you laid on a nearby picnic table and looked up at the sky.

Looking over at Yunho at one point, your breath hitch when you found him already staring at you.

You smiled bashfully and looked away, only making him grin.

Suddenly, he took your hand and sat up "Wanna go get ice cream?"

You giggled and nodded, before yelping as he dragged you off the table, as you quickly made your way own the road.

Yunho didn't let go of your hand the rest of the date, until he finally had to when he walked you to your door.

You thanked him for the amazing date and kissed him on the cheek. He pouted and teased you.

"Was it only worth a kiss on the cheek?"

"What were you expecting?" You asked back, your heart pounding.

He smirked before he suddenly kissed you on the lips.

When he pulled away, your eyes were wide in shock and he chuckled, a smile broke out on your face as you smacked him playfully.

Going out on these little adventure dates became a regular thing for you two.

-

Yeosang (Nami Island)

Yeosang didn't want your first date to be just an ordinary date.

So when he recalled that you had talked about wanting to visit Nami island, he thought this might be the perfect opportunity.

He kept what you were doing to himself, but told you it required a journey.

You were nervous yet excited, you trusted Yeosang, so you went along for the ride.

You tried to guess a few times, but he simply put his finger against his lips and smiled.

You soon figured it out soon enough when you heard the train announcement about your destination being Nami Island.

When you heard this you looked over at Yeosang with wide eyes and he chuckled.

You got so excited you did a little dace, and he smiled adoringly at you, already knowing this was the best idea.

You had left fairly early in the morning, so you had all day to explore the island, which is exactly what you did.

You took photos in the famous maple lane, you had lunch together after exploring the riverside, you walked along the glass sequoia bridge.

Yeosang's favorite moment was the face you made when he said he was taking you to zip-line.

You were nervous, yet determined to do it. Yeosang was proud of you, and your anxiety made him feel a bit braver about his own.

Even if you did yell out in surprise at the beginning of the zipline, you quickly got used to the feeling as you soared through the air.

Looking to your left, you spotted Yeosang who had a wide smile on his face.

You made eye contact as you both laughed.

As fun as the zip-line turned out to be, your favorite moment though was when you explored Dodamsambong Garden.

As you made your way through the garden, Yeosang took the moment to slip his hand into yours.

When you looked over at him, he avoided eye contact, trying to act casual, but you saw a shy smile tug at his lips.

You smiled to yourself as you continued down the path, your heart beating heavily.

Yeosang loved the way your face lit up as you admired all of the beautiful flowers and plants.

Pointing at one, you grinned "It's so beautiful!"

"You're more beautiful"

You looked over at Yeosang whose face had gone blank as you realized he hadn't meant to say that out loud.

You giggled and wrapped your arm through his as you tugged him along, allowing him to suffer through the embarrassment without adding more on top of it.

After you ate once more, you made the long train journey back.

During the ride you talked about all the things you had done, before you relaxed in silence, resting your head on Yeosang's shoulder.

At one point, you felt Yeosang rest his chin gently on your head and you smiled.

When you finally got home, you parted ways with Yeosang after giving him a kiss on the cheek, and leaving him grinning at you as you said goodbye.

xx

[silverfoxstole]

New Dark Eyes jacket progress report #2!

I’m happy to say that the back went together without a problem (wish I could say the same about the sleeves, but more on that later). When I made my first version last year i had no idea what the back actually looked like so I opted to take out the princess seams on the pattern and forgo the belt as I thought it would be too much of a faff to do in pleather. This time, having finally seen a couple of pics that (sort of) show the back I decided to be more accurate, which involved making a belt with a buckle. Fortunately I had some practise with buckles and eyelets when I made the belt and gaiters for my NotD cosplay so I knew what I was doing. On the gaiters I made the mistake of punching holes which ended up being slightly too big so I had to secure the eyelets with fabric glue; this time I just made small slits with a seam ripper and pushed them them through so that they fitted snugly. The belt came together quickly, and I was very surprised that with the help of a handy knitting needle I could actually turn two tubes of this fairly thick fabric the right way out!

When I cut out the pieces I was intending to place the belt at the existing point on the pattern, between the back side panels. Looking closer, however, I realised that on the original coat the back is just two pieces and the belt actually starts at the side seams so I just measured the extra distance and extended the belt pieces accordingly.

I made a few small adjustments to the fit when I stitched front and back together, taking the sides in and curving up towards the underarm seam to give it a bit more shape as I don’t like garments to be too boxy; I’m on the small side so I tend to get drowned in fabric otherwise.

Back and front together I attached the collar…

…and took it off again. This pattern has a collar and stand, which I junked and drafted a soft collar when I made my first version last year. Looking back at photos afterwards, however, I realised I’d made it too long and narrow so, wanting to rectify this, I - you guessed it! - shortened and widened the collar piece. After I’d tacked it on I still wasn’t happy as it was a bit too pointed so off it came and I ran up another one having taken some off the end. Left is the first attempt, right the second:

I’m happier with it now!

Yesterday I spent wrestling with the sleeves. Setting in sleeves is not my favourite job and in this sort of fabric it’s especially tricky. There’s no way to do it without using pins so I just have to accept holes around the sleeve. I’m not expecting anyone to get close enough to see them!

As you can’t press faux leather because it’s essentially plastic, the only way to flatten seams is to topstitch them. This is fine as long as you can get the seam under the sewing machine, but on a sleeve it’s impossible to do both because once you’ve sewn the second seam you have a tube. So, I topstitched the outer seam and tacked the seam allowances of the under seam to the sleeve. It’s not as flat as the topstitched seam, as you can see here, but it’s not as bouncy as it would be otherwise:

It was something of a fight to get the sleeves into the armholes but I managed it eventually with just one very small tuck! For all the other seams I pinned inside the seam allowances as I hate working with quilting clips, but here that went out of the window as when you’re easing in sleeves you need a lot of pins! Fortunately as I needed to take an extra centimetre at the top they didn’t make much of a mark. I did though make the mistake of deciding to topstitch the seams and had to unpick when I realised I needed the seam allowances to attach the sleeve heads. This means I’m left with holes all the way round but as I said above, I’m hoping no one will get close enough to notice! I can live with it; I’d rather have a properly-fitting coat with needle holes than one that looks wrong with none.

Et voila: one inserted sleeve:

Once the sleeves were in it was time for shoulder pads. The first coat and jacket I made had no tailoring in them (I grew up in the 80s and connected shoulder pads with power suits and Joan Collins so left that part out) and it showed. I don’t go for full-on pad stitching and hair canvas but you do need both shoulder pads and sleeve heads to make the sleeves hang properly and I as I’m hollow-chested I always add a shield made from wadding as well so that the front doesn’t collapse:

And that’s the shell completed!

Now I have to do half of it all over again to construct the lining!

[hanzajesthanza]

a few of the most witcher plot-relevant and interesting things i learned from reading more interviews with sapkowski:

he originally intended the witcher pentalogy as a trilogy, but when he came down to it, he realized the time spent between the release of each book would be too long (causing people to lose interest in and age out of the series), and that each book would be very, very big. so he decided to structure the idea as a pentalogy instead, and wanted it to be called the Witcher Pentateuch, however the publisher wanted to put the Witcher Saga. and thus it was known as the saga, a name he does not like…

the events of the short stories “sword of destiny” and “something more” were initially intended to be part of the cycle—not bound with the rest of the short stories. this is owing to the fact that they are about ciri and her bond with geralt.

sapkowski was planning the witcher cycle around the time “a question of price” was being published (‘89). it was maciej parowski (as well as a fan at the time) who noticed the rising action and pointed out the idea of a hero (heroine!) being born as geralt’s surprise child, and a cycle about this hero born to the witcher. sapkowski hadn’t actually considered this before it was pointed out to him; however, he then developed the idea from there, and allegedly began to develop the cycle in this year. the very first idea of which that he had was the fight between of bonhart and the rats—a scene which would only appear in print almost an entire decade later in ‘97.

the fish soup geralt’s company makes is real and actually one of sapkowski’s specialties, something he has made a lot when he goes fishing. the recipe is genuinely his, including cahir’s hauberk which they use to strain the soup—in real life, he used gauze to strain the soup, because a colander was too much to carry with him in his equipment. this all is not particularly surprising because it is known that he fishes a lot, but it is somewhat interesting to me because he has said he usually practices catch and release. in another interview, he attests to his own cooking skills and says out of everything he cooks he’s best at making soup, particularly fish soup.

(i’ve known this one for a while, but while i’m at it!) the deaths of the characters which die in the last book were all planned, no dice-rolling involved (sapkowski often rebukes the accusations that he writes by “rolling the dice,” as if he were DMing a D&D game (which he did, actually, by the way, back in the day) ridiculing the idea that: “snake eyes popped out, so i killed them”). the deaths of the members of geralt’s company at castle stygga were very intentional as a rebuking of the “black citadel” trope. but at the same time, he says, “it was more difficult with the vampire, i admit” and there were versions of the last book in which regis survived. however, it is necessary that regis dies because it takes all of vilgefortz’ power to kill him (… so, logically speaking (although this is not D&D!) regis’ death is the primary reason why vilgefortz can even be challenged by geralt at this point—which makes me think, had regis not pulled such a stunt, vilgefortz would have killed geralt and yennefer! … this makes the line “though i mainly owe my life to…” make a lot of sense.)

[desultory-novice]

heya dess!

about ten million years ago i sent you an elaborate ramble about galacta knight's moral status. this isn't calling you out for not answering (i literally sent you a wall of text) and my opinions have since changed anyway, but i remembered this recently and got morbidly curious about your own take on gk's moral status. dw though... if you don't want to answer this one either, that's ok!

I pride myself on liking every Kirby character. That said, I never loved Galacta Knight. Curse of the over-hyped character? He was too cool. Too beloved. "When's Galacta going to become canon??"

And, just to be petty/salty for a moment, that he had no concrete persona except "See something; kill it" but has been frequently (?) made into the softiest, gentlest woobie amongst the cast next to Kirby (also his existence influenced a lot about Kirby's portrayal in the fandom, ie: "When's he gonna get HIS wings???", and he and Meta together became the template for what everyone's Knight-sonas would look like, meaning that being a cool orb in armor became more commonplace than rare) just caused me to get bored with him real quick, I think? </SALT>

COUGH!

...But I did some looking back at Galacta for this ask and... I can see the charm! I still don't see the "wooby" part (Which I assume has something to do with the "wrongly framed" theory) but I'm growing to respect Galacta as a character of interest. With that out of the way, let's tackle some of the things you brought up in your old ask as well as my own feelings on where the Aeon Hero sits as "a hero!"

...

It's all very interesting, isn't it? One thing that stood out to me, doing some research on this matter for this ask is that Hyness's speech implies (at least, it implied to me) that one of Galacta's other great deeds alongside helping seal Void was defeating Nightmare.

("Nightmare of a Galactic Crisis" just seems too potently worded for me to believe otherwise. The Japanese even matches up.)

But if Galacta defeated Nightmare... what the HELL was Parallel Nightmare thinking by summoning him to fight on his behalf?! (Ignore the fact that Galacta immediately destroys him. The key is that Nightmare either thought he could control the Aeon Hero or that the Aeon hero would share his goals. Which is FASCINATING~!)

I can't help but think that Galacta's story has some serious twists...

There's another thing, that may be referring back to the "destroy a planet or two" thing and that's Galacta's sealing. He's sealed in crystal and of course some people have made the connection between Galacta's crystal cage and the fairies of Ripple Star. (Usually with the queen of the fairies having a MUCH bigger role than anticipated.)

But like, there's a thing I just realized was in his Planet Robobot flavor text that isn't in the English version. (I know it's a matter of the pause screen text not having enough room for the twice-as-long English but why's it always gotta be Planet Robobot XD )

"Records remain of his being sealed in many different eras."

One could argue that it's all the same sealing but why would multiple different eras need to record the same guy getting sealed if he were only sealed away ONCE. So, that's interesting. Galacta's seal was never permanent.(1) In fact, it seems to be frequently un-permanent. So they have room to cause villainous havoc between freeings.

(For a borb who looks like an angel, he's doing a really good job acting like your classic "Sealed for 100 years but never destroyed 'Demon King.'" I guess that's what makes him and Meta Knight such interesting compliments. The noble devil and the demonic angel? Well, we still haven't decided if Galacta's demonic yet.)

And speaking of the strength of Galacta's seal, I found a weird little detail looking up his fight in RtDL DX. (I had to watch a recording because I spent my whole fight with him screaming in terror and spamming guard because I had exactly one HP left and didn't want to die before reaching Magolor Soul. Thank you, Sand ability!)

In RtDL, the Crystal descends and Galacta slowly opens one eye and then the other. But this changed for DX! Galacta descends with both eyes open. Which shouts consciousness to me.

...I'm rambling away from the topic of whether Galacta is a hero or not. Don't mind me. I'll try to pivot back in good time.

Actually, let's pivot back a little now, because in USDX, he's not summoned from his crystal state, he's just summoned. Which makes sense because like... going entirely by the cutscene, it looks like Galactic Nova actually transports Galacta through time to fight Meta Knight. Like, Galacta in the middle of their villain phase!

We do see Galacta sealed in crystal immediately after this image is shown, but the Nova doesn't bring the sealed Galacta before Meta Knight. Star Dream does. I wonder if that's a difference in power between the two clockwork stars? But I think this "where Galacta was snatched from" is probably the real reason Gala utterly demolishes Star Dream but doesn't attack Galactic Nova. The Gala that Star Dream summons has already been sealed/betrayed/etc.

They don't trust anyone. The Gala that Nova summons is at the height of their "feared across the galaxy" phase but has not yet been captured or has reason to fear capture/re-capture.

...And then you have the Galacta that Morpho Knight absorbs. What's funny about that Gala, and kind of tragic, is that Gala seems to be the calmest of the three. I say this because they actually pause when Morpho comes near. They even look...cutely (!) confused.

So, did Hyness summon a Galacta that was even earlier in his timeline than the one Nova summoned? Which was earlier in his timeline than the one Star Dream summoned?

Although where in Gala's timeline is RtDL?? Galacta appears before us in crystal, is then released, and actually FLIES OFF after defeat without being resealed. Is this the Galacta that "destroys a planet or two?" The opening of the RtDL rift after the crystal prison reforms suggests that it was the Planet Robobot Galacta that would go on to appear in RtDL, who then flies off and... maybe it's that Galacta that appears in Star Allies, to meet his end at Morpho's hands...

By the way, I totally forgot that Morpho does the "friend heart"/"friend move" thing to Galacta before absorbing him! (Dess is beginning to think that maybe the reason I didn't have strong feelings for Galacta Knight is because I just never stopped to pay attention to all the little things that make them interesting!)

So Gala has an interesting timeline and we can see that their level of aggression really depends on where in the timeline you find them. I don't think they were a planet destroying monster when they were first sealed. At least, their most "murderous" incarnation (Robobot) is implied to have gone through some ~stuff~ even AFTER the sealing.

But the fact that (Parallel) Nightmare considers them a potential ally suggests that they were...hmm, "problematic" to certain people toward the tail end of their "Aeon Hero" phase. Those people probably being the Ancients.

La la la~ I smell a cover-up~ la la la~

And so, we're back to the "Galacta was framed?!" theory. To be honest, I don't know what was up with the image Galactic Nova shows us above of Gala in the smoking wreckage but it's important to note that we don't see WHAT it is that Galacta has destroyed.

And while the Magolor epilogue implies Halcandra was destroyed in a great meteoric firestorm of some kind, I would just like to note that Halcandra at that point would have also been potentially ruled (?) by a monarch who quite possibly wore The Master Crown. An object that has been as much as stated to have been poisoning/poisoned by the previous bearers so, yeah. I don't think Halcandra would have been in a good place, if a crown-bearer sat on the throne.

(And wouldn't killing a king and destroying their country/planet be considered something worthy of taking Galacta's title of "hero" away from them and labelling them a galactic level threat?)

So, yes. I think Galacta's "moral" status depends on where in the timeline you are. I don't think they were ever "evil" but I think they probably a dangerous sort of "good-hearted extremist" era in the past and in their later years, that devolved into an aggressive and paranoid "As far as I'm concerned EVERYONE is an enemy and you'd better believe I'm not letting them strike the first blow!"

There's some Gala thoughts to chew on!

Happy Birthday, Galacta Knight!

--

(1) Honestly, I wonder if the crystal thing is less of a "seal" and more of a curse? :Dess's mind hears "fairy curse" and starts vibrating: It could be something that affects them intermittently? We've seen Galacta be "destroyed" in USDX (amusingly, their wings "pop" off. Although that is the only time that happens so could be retconned) Anyway, it's not their destruction that causes the seal. Sometimes they just fly off after defeat too! (To destroy more planets??)

This implies there's another trigger for when they become crystal...

But speaking of the "crystal," RtDL DX in Japanese specifically mentions that their seal is actually made of "gem" - the same "gem" used in "Gem Apples." Which going by the Magolor Epilogue, gem apples appear to represent either a) magic power b) the soul or c) the Master Crown. I don't think it's made clear which exactly, because all three are kind of muddled together in Magolor's case. But the fact that there ARE those connections with "gems" + Galacta's "gem" seal activating intermittently is all just VERY interesting to me.

Now go and speculate away, my pretties~!