#imagine this. a blanket that has sleeves. you will never be cold again

[heejinpilled]

it doesn’t matter what show or movie it is but i always love the bit when there’s a flashback to like many years ago and a character proposes an idea that is very much a real thing in the future and everyone is like “ur crazy that’s so dumb. no one would ever want that”. and the real thing is like crazy popular too

[imamotherfuckingstar-lord]

fate

opla!sanji x reader, fluff

a/n: gif request by @sweetheartlizzie07

The ship rocked steadily; waves quiet as the moon lit the small ripples. Staring out to sea, you thought of all the little steppingstones that lead you to this ship. To the crew that took you in like the lonely orphan you are. Were. A smile made its way to the corner of your mouth, and you wondered if luck finally was turning its head your way. A cool breeze sent a shiver down your spine and then a warm blanket fell onto your shoulders.

“You’ll catch a cold and while the idea of healing you back to good health is enthralling…” Sanji tightened the wool blanket around your body and smiled, hands falling to his side. “I’m sure Chopper would disapproval.” “I don’t know, a week in bed sounds great.”

A charming smile graced the cook’s face, and he angled you back toward the sea, the two of you quietly staring out into the dark abyss. For minutes, a peaceful silence played between the small space left between Sanji and you. Neither of you needed to say much, quiet company had often been what you offered each other. He’d be cooking in the kitchen while you read at the counter, occasionally looking up from your book to steal a mental imagine of Sanji. Sleeves rolled up, a concentrated fiery in his eyes, a relaxed pout on his face – it was your favorite painting.

“Can I ask you something, Sanji?”

His eyes drew away from the sea to you. “Anything.”

And he meant it.

“Do you believe in fate?”

“Not really.”

Your facial expression must have looked disappointed because he began to backtrack, but you stopped him with a laugh. “You’re allowed to have your own opinion.”

He relaxed and edged closer to you, shoulder against yours. Watching as he pulled out the small tin, he kept his cigarettes in, you waited patiently for him to offer one up. When he did, you took a slow inhale and gave it back, once again staring out beyond the waves. “I always felt like my life would always just be. I was stuck on this island, waiting to be married off to someone I would never love. Have children that I would try to love. Just like my mother but then, Luffy found me.”

Sanji nodded, letting out a low chuckle. “He sort of found all of us, didn’t he?”

“That he did,” you replied. Turning to face Sanji, you asked him if he thought this was his fate. “Being on this ship, with this crew? Do you really think this is where you’re supposed to be?”

“Yes,” he answered swiftly, his hand moving to find yours. When his fingertips touched the outside of your wrist, you held his stare. “We can think we don’t deserve better than what we had, but maybe the universe has a way of remedying things.”

His hand moved down to lock with yours and he crushed the cigarette into the ledge – freeing himself to grab a hold of both your hands. Sanji held them gingerly, rubbing his thumb against your skin.

“So, you do believe in fate then?”

He shrugged playfully with a grin. “If fate led both of us to this moment, on this ship, then I guess I believe in it. What do you say?”

The waves gathered some courage to make noise against the ship, rocking it ever so gently as you held your balance – hands in Sanji’s. The moon shined brightly; the smell of sea salt filled the air as you squeezed your palm against his. All your life, you had begged and pleaded for something more than you had. A life worth living for, a family worth dying for. A love worth loving…

“I say I’m all in, if you are.”

Sanji let out a sigh of relief, gathering you in his arms. He kissed your forehead, rocking you under the gathered stars and for what seemed like a wonderful lifetime – the two of you remained that way, enjoying the little moment fate had gifted you.

[obae-me]

Random Sibling Headcanons

I'm a wee bit sick, which is why I've put my more serious projects on a very short pause. That being said I still feel the need to write something, so why not get some ideas out in the form of little fun ideas? Featuring colored names this time because it's fun for my brain.

These are just some little headcanons I like to think the brothers have done, since I love thinking of their sibling/ at-home relationships with each other.

In the picture of Lucifer's office, he seems to have stairs heading up to a second-story loft of some sort. I've always imagined he has a "Pride" wall somewhere up there filled with memorabilia of his brother's greatest or proudest achievements. There's some photos, art pieces, awards his siblings gave up on keeping, etc. His brothers know about it but hate it, so they all never speak of it.

Mammon and Levi once both badly injured their hands, trying to outdo each other high-fiving. You know where you try to get that perfect smack and hurt the other person's palm? Yeah, like that. They whiffed it on the first try and had to do it again and just couldn't stop after that.

Belphie usually puts small portions of his dirty clothes into his brother's hampers so they can clean his clothes for him without them realizing. It drives them all wild having to sort it out each time, and Belphie thrives off of it.

One of Satan's favorite pranks was to quickly run around the whole house and use up every hot water source he can while Lucifer was taking a shower so his water turns ice cold while the eldest is still in it. It got to the point where Lucifer is actually fine taking cold showers now.

If a bunch of them are in the same room and one of them gets a call from Lucifer, the others will suddenly try to sound like something horrible is going on, more often than not trying to incriminate the person who picked up the phone, blaming them for some false scenario that never happened.

If Belphie gets woken up too many times in the same day, he'll find ways to wake his siblings up in the middle of the night. Once he managed to get into all their phones and set annoyingly loud alarms, another night he cursed the piano in the music room to play until morning. Now the brothers have an unspoken rule not to wake their youngest sibling up more than four times a day.

Asmo likes to barge into his siblings' rooms sometimes unannounced with his D.D.D. while he's live on Devilgram or Deviltube. He loves to catch his brother's doing something stupid, it's hilarious. Sometimes he's not even live, he's just recording so he can keep videos to laugh over later.

They trade chores often, much to Lucifer's frustration, but everyone has some chores they absolutely can't stand. They've even somehow come up with a bartering system of sorts. Laundry = 1 other chore like dusting, but something like Dishes = 2 chores like taking on laundry and vacuuming.

None of them have ever missed one of Beel's games. They always show up and sit in the same spots so Beel never has to look around for them in the crowd. Lucifer brings the bag of supplies and snacks should his siblings need it. Because they always end up complaining about something by the end of the night. Mammon always brings his megaphone that almost always gets in him trouble every time. Levi gives his brothers all glowsticks. Satan always secretly has tricks up his sleeve to use against the opposing team should any of them come close to harming Beel (although that's nearly impossible, but he has them as a precaution). Asmo made everyone the most beautiful signs to hold. And Belphie brings everyone blankets since it can get chilly in the stands. He also brings a big lunchbox of snacks for Beel to eat right after the game even though they always go out to eat right after.

Lucifer, Mammon, and Levi as the three eldest are used to giving their younger siblings things they no longer need. The younger four have plenty of hand-me-downs but more often then not, they don't really mind. Lucifer gives out anything he's not overtly a fan of which can be anything from books to cologne to jewelry. Everyone has a few old things of his. Mammon gives out a bunch of clothes quite frequently. Despite his greed, his room can only hold so much, and so he usually goes through a semi-regular purge. Anything his brothers don't grab he sells. Levi gives out old electronics since he upgrades to the newest stuff as soon as he can. Because of this, Satan owns a pair of cat-ear headphones.

On a trip to the human world once, Asmo bought Belphie one of those electronic toothbrushes that play a song in your head while you brush your teeth so the youngest no longer falls asleep during brushing. Yes, it was a Brittany Spears one. (Does this date me? Maybe. Do they even make those anymore?)

Mammon and Asmo have both sat Beel down and tried to give him a basic course on recognizing flirting to keep their younger brother from being so totally oblivious, but no matter how many times they try, he never notices. However, now if Beel is ever given a random phone number, he knows to take it to either of those two to sort it out for him.

Once, for Belphie's birthday he received the ugliest quilt made from little squares from his brother's t-shirts, pillowcases, robes, etc. They all worked together to sew it up and it's very, very obvious who did what parts. Belphie says he can't stand the awful thing but sleeps with it every night.

[luveline]

I am humbly requesting a steve zombie au where the reader gets hypothermia hehehe😌

ty for ur humble request babe ♡ steve zombie au —steve freaks when you show symptoms of hypothermia. fem!reader 2k

"Steve, I think there's something wrong." 

Steve raises his head to show he's listening, keeping his gaze on the map. You say it through shivers, sleeves pulled down over your makeshift mittens. "What's wrong, honey?"

He's noticed you aren't yourself today, and he thinks a soft tone is the least he can give you. The stupid map in his hand is tattered, creased down the middle from folding and unfolding. He thought getting to Michigan would be easy, walk in one direction and keep on, but you both need to eat and rest and the weather is too cold to go any further. He needs to find a residential, tonight. 

"I feel off. I'm tired and I…" Your mumbling drifts off. 

Steve shoves the map under his arm, "What? Tell me." 

"Cold," you say, slurred, offering your hands. "I can't feel my fingers." 

You're wearing socks over your hands, the best gloves Steve could offer. He takes them with a severe frown, unhappy when the cold of your skin permeates through. You're ice. 

"And you don't feel well?" he asks, feeling up your arm to your neck. 

Steve digs under the layers of your shirts, hoodie, coat, feeling for your pulse. It feels alarmingly slow. He'd never guess from looking at you how slow your heart is pumping. 

Steve doesn't know everything, but he knows you're not supposed to be this cold for this long. You shiver as his fingers warm your neck, a pained hum coming from the very back of your throat as he pulls you in for a hug. 

"Okay," he says, rubbing your back even though he knows it's pointless. "Don't worry. We can't stay outside anymore, huh?" 

Steve aches to have to drag you down road after road, stretches of streets littered with little protection to offer. The roadside stores here are rocked by the elements, windows smashed and ceilings caving in. You're stumbling by the time a crop of houses appear in the distance, lethargic. Steve thought it was bad that you were cold, of course, but this is a more primal fear. You're not cold, you're freezing, actively freezing. 

"You're okay," he says again, his gentlest reassurance. "Sweetheart, just a few more minutes. See that house, the big brown shutters? That's where we're going. Can you do it?" 

"I can do it," you murmur. 

"I know, but it's my turn to ask stupid questions." 

Dead trees line the street, a planter of flowers by the door turned to crisps. Steve props you against a beam of wood holding up the angled porch roof and opens the screen door. He tries the handle on the interior. It's locked, a good sign. 

He's admittedly feeling the adrenaline of your imminent demise. Furious with the world and circumstances and himself for letting this happen, Steve kicks the door down with three big kicks. The bang rings like a shot through the entire neighbourhood, he imagines, but there's no time to worry about it. 

"You have to–" little gasp, Steve's head hurts, "have to sweep the house," you say as he pulls you inside. 

If there's something in here, he has to risk it. Out of options. 

He's as softhanded as he can manage dropping you into a seemingly intact couch. The room appears untouched from whoever left it, rather plush, it's a room Steve would've liked to live in. 

He grabs your face. You meet his eyes, startled. 

"I'm going upstairs for blankets. If something happens, you yell for me as loudly as you can. You don't have to say anything, just scream. Seriously." 

"Yeah," you say breathlessly. The last street of walking and the few steps has exhausted you. 

"Don't sleep," he says severely. 

"No, I won't." 

Steve dumps his bag on the floor. He backtracks to the porch to grab yours and wedges the splintered door closed using your bag as a temporary stopper. 

You must be hypothermic, cold for days, too cold to sleep last night, and it's all Steve's fault. We can do it, he'd said, just another push. He hoped for better standing further out of Indiana. None of it will matter if you get sick. 

He spins to walk up the stairs, falls weak and rushes back into the living room to check on you. 

"Everything's okay," he says, taking your face again into his hands and kissing your forehead. It's purely selfish. 

You touch his elbow. "I know." 

Steve takes off his jacket and puts it over your lap. The house is vaguely warmer than outdoors but it's far from enough to make a difference to you. Heart in his throat, he bounds up the stairs and onto the landing, an L-shape with one bedroom straight in front and four doors on left. The smell of gore coming from the closed master bedroom explains how it could be this clean; it wasn't uncommon at the start of the apocalypse for people to lock themselves in, kill themselves and their families. He has no interest in seeing it, nor unleashing the mould spores that come with decomposition. Whatever blankets were in there are worthless now. 

He takes a left and opens the door with a slam. A teenage bedroom not unlike his own back home, a simple comforter on the bed. He grabs it and tosses it on the landing, dipping into the second room. Bathroom, nothing worth having. The third room is a utility room with a jackpot of folded sheets, towels, padded quilts, and a comforter rolled into a log. He throws everything onto the floor and forgets the fourth door, arms fit to burst with fabric as he descends back downstairs. 

"Steve?" you ask.

"Yep, yes. I'm here." He drops the blankets at your feet. "Are your clothes damp?" 

"I think… no." 

"I'd tell you to take off your jacket," he begins, shaking the biggest comforter out over you as he talks, "but I want as many layers as possible. Come here, sweetheart. Lift your back a little." He tucks you in like a pastry. "Good. Good, thank you, sweetheart." 

"You're being very nice," you mumble, your eyelashes twitching like you've dimes weighing down your eyelids. 

"I'm always nice." 

"No," you say, your head falling back into the couch cushions. It's a family couch made of soft fabrics, not the showy leather piece you'd expect in such a mammoth lodging. "You're okay, though." 

Steve piles blankets on top of you. The cold is eating at him too, his nose stiff, his hair standing on end as gooseflesh ripples over his arms. 

When you've been sufficiently sandwiched, he feels your face again. You're already warmer, his hand creeping down into your shirt to feel for your pulse. Ropey. 

"Sweetheart, I need you to try and perk up," he says, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. 

"Not feeling perky." 

"Ah, but you're always perky. You're my sun, 'cos I'm so awful," he says, panic lining his plea. "You are. I'm going to make you something hot to eat." 

"Hot air?" you ask, slinking further down into your hump of sheets. 

"I think we might be in luck." 

He speaks too soon, really. The cupboards are lackluster. The can of soup he'd been hoping to find doesn't materialise. But there's a small can of ravioli, enough salted fish to make any tom cat happy, and a jug of water beneath the sink. He looks at it and sighs in relief. You have two litres of rainwater in your bag, and that had been the rations. This is one less thing to worry about. 

Steve makes sure that there kitchen door and the patio doors in the lonely dining room are locked, taking a big cooking pot from the pantry (depressingly empty bar a bag of sugar spilled on its side and a sack of grain) and a saucepan from atop the stove. He checks the gass but he's never that lucky, resigning himself to a typical campfire when it doesn't work. 

"Steve, put it back on," you say as he comes back in, your eyes a little wider, slightly more alert. You've pulled your arms out from under the blankets, with his jacket in your hands. 

Steve has kissed you before. You haven't talked about it out loud —he'd like to think a lot has been said in hand-holding, in spooning, and in you hand carding through his hair. He's eager to kiss you again, dumping his findings to hold your wrists. "Thank you," he says, kissing you clumsily, your lips cold. "Now put your arms in. I'll pull the blankets up." 

"Can you kiss me again?" 

"I'm trying to make you some hot water." 

"I'm warm enough already. Please?" 

Steve kisses you again. This time, he closes his eyes, puts his hand against your jaw. The sound of your lips pressing to his seems loud in the quiet. 

He pulls away with a final peck. "Are you feeling warmer?" 

You blow breath up your face. "Bet so." 

Steve rolls his eyes and turns away to make a campfire in the stolen pot. He'll boil some water in the saucepan for you to hold like a risky hot water bottle, and make some warmed ravioli. It'll be sweet. And tomorrow, if you're feeling better, he'll scavenge for supplies in the neighbourhood. Tonight, he'll burn the kitchen chairs. They don't need them anymore. 

"Settle in," he says, opening his backpack for the fire starters and matches. "We'll stay for a while, okay?" 

"Yeah, okay. Sorry for the fuss." 

"Are you kidding?" He can't look at you. He'll probably cry. "It's cold. You were cold, and we didn't– I knew your coat wasn't good enough but I just thought… well, it's my fault. It is. And I– I care about you so much," —he says it in a rush, true but unused to admitting his feelings to you or anyone— "I can't do this without you. I'll take better care of you, I swear. It won't happen again." 

"You know what would really warm me up?" you ask. 

Steve turns on his heel. "Let me make you something to eat." 

"Not hungry, just cold." 

Steve tamps down a giddy smile into one more respectable. "Let me feel your pulse," he relents, lifting the heavy layer of blankets to climb inside. Its roasting, the warmest he's felt in weeks, and your arm is alive as he slides into your side. 

He puts his hand against your neck, waiting for a steady bump. 

"Am I cured?" you ask. 

Steve sighs in relief. "You're cured." 

You wrap your arms around him. Life with you and in this situation is an endless rise and fall. Something shitty happens, you scrape by, and, as a victory, he gets to hug you in the end. 

"Are you sure you're okay?" Steve asks. 

"You just said I was cured, Steve," you mumble, digging your face into his shoulder. "Just. Stay here. Keep feeling me up." 

"Not what I'm doing." 

[monstersinthecosmos]

Vamptember Day 1 - Experiment

{agnes obel - kamma}

Daniel’s thoughts don’t make much sense.

Like everything is a fragment, like nothing is in order. 

Sometimes, a sound has a taste to him. Some remembered flavor from his human life, that he’ll never really know again. Sometimes a color has a smell. Sometimes, the music in the background of a television ad sends him spiraling into a memory so deeply that he can’t remember where he is when he comes back up for air.

His thoughts shuffle together. Don’t make much sense. Marius tries to keep a respectful distance, to give him privacy, but checks in from time to time, just to know how he’s doing. It’s often hard to tell. His thoughts are like a kaleidoscope some nights, and the sound of radio static on others. Sometimes he’ll be tidy, in perfect working order, until some intrusive thing sours him. It can be a texture beneath his fingers, a scent, a painting. It’s like an ink bottle tipping over to ruin a half-written page. 

Perhaps, Marius wonders, to someone Daniel’s age it’s more like the electricity shorting.

Some nights Marius stares at him, and Daniel doesn’t seem to notice. The child of his child, unmoving for hours, curled into the corner of the sectional sofa. It’s hard to tell how much is his own bias, but Daniel always looks young like this. The Blood had restored the weight in his face, erased the human signs of age, but it’s how small he makes himself. Marius stares, and thinks that Daniel seems like a broken little thing. 

“I heard that,” Daniel mumbles.

Daniel rubs at his face. His hunger cramps through his thoughts, permeates the entire room, and the pain in his strained arteries somehow becomes a color in his mind that he can’t unsee. He squeezes the bridge of his nose and pats at the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, as if looking for something.

Old human habit, Marius imagines. Looking for cigarettes that he hasn’t touched in over a decade.

“Would you like to hunt?” Marius asks. 

Daniel just shakes his head. He pulls his knees close to his chest. Nails scratch against his scalp.

“You’re hungry,” Marius says gently. He leans into the door frame, crosses his arms over his chest, wondering the best solution here. 

Marius is old. He can handle hunger. Likes it sometimes, the way the pain can clear him out a little bit. But Daniel is too young. Shouldn’t go so long without feeding. The weakness brought on only makes his acuity worse, makes him less patient, more quiet. The bad kind of quiet, though.

Daniel’s thoughts race, imagining the next handful of steps it takes to go hunting. Changing his clothes, putting shoes on. The cold wind outside and then the sweltering heat of a bar. The noise. The bitter chemical taste of perfume on a woman’s throat. Cleaning up afterwards. Too much for tonight, and the thought of the swoon isn’t even enough to drag him off the couch.

It’s not good to let the hunger build like this, though. Not for someone like Daniel. 

Marius reaches for the light switch beside him, twisting the dimmer to bring the lights lower. He grabs a blanket from where’s it’s lazily thrown over the arm of the couch and brings it closer, drapes it across Daniel’s shoulders as he takes the seat beside him.

“Drink from me, at least,” he says gently, as he unbuttons his cuff, and rolls the sleeve up his forearm. 

Daniel turns in his seat. Leans his temple into the soft couch cushion. Rubs his cheek in the fabric for a moment, as if it’s soothing.

Armand’s child. Marius looks at him, really looks, and he can see what Armand saw, just for a second. 

Marius holds out his hand. The purple veins still show, just barely. Enough that Daniel’s breath hitches when he looks down and sees them. He shifts, crosses his legs, pulls the blanket tighter around himself. Marius waits, with all his patience. He lets his hand fall into Daniel’s lap, inviting his control. 

“I always thought I’d be afraid of you,” Daniel says. 

It’s the most he’s spoken in months, but Marius doesn’t point it out. Thinks Daniel might take it badly.

Marius doesn’t answer, either. A quiet Hmm in consideration, to acknowledge him, as he settles back into the cushions. He tucks one of his feet beneath the opposite leg, lifts his free arm to rest on the back of the couch. Snow is beginning to fall outside, and he watches as frost grows on the corners of the windows.

The cool grip, finally, as Daniel touches him. Fingers tentatively curling around Marius’s forearm, as if reaching for a slithering thing. Not real revulsion, though, Marius can tell. Just the exhaustion and curiosity, too fragile to deal with any surprises tonight.

And then his teeth, and the cautious wet-cold press of his tongue. The pain tingles pleasantly in Marius’s spine, breaking through the barrier of immortality for a moment. 

“My fledglings weren’t like you,” he says softly, as Daniel drinks. His eyes are closed and he moans, just enough for Marius to hear. Quiet little noise, sated for the moment. Marius wonders what Daniel sees in the Blood, and tries to think of beautiful things.

But my fledglings weren’t like you, he thinks again. Even at her most morose, Pandora still floated at the surface. Amadeo could be reclaimed by a game of the switch. 

Maybe Marius just never knew, though. Never saw into their heads like this. Maybe Amadeo was this disorganized, too, maybe that’s why he liked this one.

Daniel pulls away with a gasp, and his voice garbles around the blood in his mouth. 

“Armand thought of me as an experiment,” he says. He drops Marius’s wrist and falls back against the cushions. He licks the blood from his teeth.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not—”

“He told me once that he was an experiment to you, too.”

Marius rubs a thumb over the healed wounds in his wrist. Straightens his shoulders as he buttons his sleeve back up. 

His throat cramps, and his heartbeat is loud in his own ears. He glances at the snow outside.

“I need to hunt,” he says. He pats Daniel’s thigh as he stands. “Please don’t leave the house without me.”

[carnivorousyandeere]

Dorian with a Darling who does body painting and is determined😏 to make him their newest masterpiece..... although it might be a project best left for Darling's eyes only 🤭

Dorian’s fingers still over his phone at the work of art displayed on its screen. The painting is gorgeous, yes. He assumes the model must be rather attractive as well, but it’s obvious with your level of talent you could make anyone look ethereal. He’s not the least bit interested in the model, the canvas. He has to know more about the person behind the paintbrushes and air brushes, behind the camera. He has to know more about you.

( MDNI, No Age in Bio DNI )

CW: murder, smut, jealousy, praise kink, unprofessional work environment, technically Dorian is Darling’s employer;;; post-sex photography

Info: gn reader, no agab mentioned; switch/dom reader; switch/sub yandere

Dorian invited you to stay in his home to pursue your art more freely, but his bitterness at you bringing home “random tramps” to paint wears away at his nerves. He certainly doesn’t feel himself to be a prime candidate for artistic inspiration or photographs, but he can’t stand you spending so much time with other people. The curse of your line of work is that need for a living canvas; a need he cannot deny you, or else your art will enchant no longer.

He kills your models when you’re through with them. If you ever question why none return your calls to work with you again, you don’t mention it to him. You don’t talk much to him at all. It’s both comforting and frustrating. He wants to hear your thoughts, but he never knows what to say in response.

Imagine his surprise upon learning you want him to be your canvas— that you were even feeling a bit shy about asking him to sit for you.

“You’ve already done so much, I don’t want to trouble you more…”

“Nonsense! If anything—” Dorian seems to realize his tone is too passionate, too loud, and coughs self-consciously into his sleeve before continuing more quietly— “if anything, it would be an honor.”

~~~

Dorian is mostly bare, his last vestige of modesty a blanket covering his privates. He tries so hard not to squirm under your gaze as you evaluate the planes and curves of his body. He has to fight for that stillness even harder at the cold touch of paint on his skin, knowing that it’s you who’s adorning him like this, making him into art. Your art.

If you notice him trembling and breathing a little shallowly as cover his face, then arms, then chest in a base layer to protect his skin followed by swathes of deep blue paint, mercifully you don’t say so.

Dorian is beginning to relax, patting himself on the back for being so normal when he feels a swipe of primer across his hip and jolts away with a gasp, eyes shooting open.

You jolt back too, drawing your hands back to yourself, apologizing profusely.

Dorian swallows down the lump in his throat, willing his heart to stop sending so much damn blood down south. His ears are ringing. He clears his throat again, avoiding your eye. “I should be the one apologizing… you are only doing what we agreed to…”

He coughs again, hiding himself from you as best he can. “I-I’m afraid it’s just been… rather a long time since somebody has touched me… there…”

Oh. Here you were, so afraid to paint your handsome benefactor, and he was even more nervous than you!

Dorian cringes away at your laugh, beautiful though it is. He relaxes when you take his hand in yours, kissing the back of his knuckles.

“It’s okay to feel that way. It happens surprisingly often.”

Dorian frowns at the thought of other people in his spot. Did you hold their hands too? Kiss their skin, smudge the paint drying there? Dorian turns his head to kiss your hand in turn, watching the gentle laughter dry in your throat at his heated look. “And what do you usually do when that happens?”

“I…” you swallow harshly, looking away. “I usually leave the room so the model can compose themself…”

Dorian hums, kissing up your wrist and nipping at the skin when you answer. “And what if I don’t want you to leave? What if… I want you to stay?”

Your head spins with sudden heat as Dorian pulls you into a kiss, smearing blue paint all over your lips and nose. You’re out of breath long before he lets you go, sucking down air greedily and giggling a little at the absurdity of it all. Dorian pulls you even closer, guiding your hand to his cock.

You gently pull him out from under the blanket. He’s dripping already. You smear pre-cum with your thumb, licking your lips as Dorian shudders and tilts forward to rest his forehead against yours. His eyelids flutter with every stroke, soft whispers of your name leaving his lips like a prayer.

He’s beautiful like this, and you tell him so. Dorian whines. His gasps of your name only grow louder, his cock twitching harder as you continue to praise him— no matter how much he shakes his head in denial of your sweet words.

He cums hard, white splattering across his painted stomach. You coax him to lay back in a more comfortable position, petting his hair and reassuring him he did a good job for you, before taking out your camera and snapping some pictures to start a… private collection.

[agattthaa]

Anna's Effect

Paring: Anna/Lane

Word count: 1.130

Rating: T

Summary: Lane was a person that never had difficulty to understand people's feelings. What she had now was the difficulty to understand her own.

Tagging: @rc-catalog

Working on her bed was extremely impractical. Lane knew that. But the Siberian winter was colder on that day than it has been in a long time, and even with her room being one of the warmest in the manor, it was simply too cold to concentrate sitting on that small desk.

So she took one of Anna's long sleeved turtleneck and took all her books and notebooks to her bed and covered her legs with the thick woven blanket.

The translation was not progressing very fast. Actually, it wasn't progressing at all. Lane was sure that she needed whatever content the two missing pages carried but she had nowhere else to look for it. Soon Dimitry would start pointing out her delay, as if it was her fault that translating a book in a language no one alive knew and that the alphabet was a complete mystery was as easy as falling asleep.

She didn't even want to imagine his face when she told him she hadn’t made any progress.

-I don't want to see his face for a long time!

The slam of the door and the pacing woman took her out of any of her worries about her job. Anna was completely angry. Angrier than Lane has ever seen her.

She walked around the room completely mad, so displeased with whatever happened that she didn't even notice that Lane was staring at her. Her face completely red and her mumbling almost inaudible. The only words the woman could understand were “Dimitry” and “stupid”. They were repeated at least eight times.

-Did he catch you?

The woman jumped and turned around to look at Lane, making it completely clear that indeed her presence was unknown until that moment. But the surprise soon enough left Anna's face, the red started to subdue and she was visibly less upset than she had been when she got into the room, as if Lane’s mere presence would be enough for that.

As if.

Lane was sure that out of everyone that could have a calming presence, she would be the last. Of course, she knew how to calm people, she had to learn it fairly early due to her parents and the need for her to act like an adult when she should've been a normal kid. But her ability to calm people down came from her ability of understanding and analyzing human feelings, it didn't come from her ability to be a comforting presence, it didn't come from her being a friendly shoulder, it didn't come from her being a good source of support.

That Lane didn't know how to do.

And yet, Anna was no longer pacing around, she was now standing in front of Lane's bed, her breathing normal again, her face no longer red and her anger vanished. She looked down at Lane as if the translator had asked the wrong question and that she wanted something else. What, that Lane didn't know, so the two of them stared at each other for minutes or seconds or the entire eternity before Anna sighed.

-I tried to reach out to the girl in the cafeteria again, and out of nowhere the general showed up.

-I assume he was pretty upset.

-You have no idea. I don't know what he expects from me. There's people getting like that, we have no idea of why, of how they are contaminated or how to prevent the contamination. So he keeps a microbiologist on his squad just out of decoration? Am I supposed to sit still and drink some tea while there's people that I could help and that are simply dying?

Lane didn't know how to answer that. They both knew that in his stoic way, the general was protecting Anna by keeping her away from the locals, and they both also knew that Anna was right. That it was her duty to at least try to solve this mysterious pathogen just as it was the general's duty to prevent her to. So, indeed, what was Anna supposed to do? The silence came back while Anna searched for the answers to her questions on Lane’s eyes and searched for something in Anna's.

From the start, Anna had been the biggest mystery for Lane to understand. She had an extreme facility to understand people's emotions, including Anna herself.

What wasn't understandable was what Lane denominated “The Anna's Effect”. To stay sleeping close to Anna, Lane had spent an entire night listening to endless snorings from a man she didn't like and that didn't like her back, to be able to have lunch and dinner with Anna, she had started to eat with the entire squad and even participating on the cooking and the talking, and when Anna was sad or mad or displeased, like now, Lane felt the same.

She didn't want to calm Anna just because, she wanted because seeing Anna hurt caused pain to her.

“Oh.”

She knew it as soon as she thought of getting up to hold Anna in her arms. The need for human contact had never been a thought that Lane believed that she could have. But she also never believed that she would take someone else’s hurt to an extent. She was more upset at the general now that she has ever been before, and he had done a lot of things to make her upset. The sadness in Anna's eyes hurt more than anything she could remember, so it wasn't a life-changing realization really. It was more of the understanding of the matter per say.

That now it made sense that every time she got into a room, her eyes would immediately search for Anna's, or why she always prefered to take the closes Anna stored in her closet than that the ones she left out for Lane, it made sense because the scent of a beloved person helped to reduce stress levels, it made sense why the air left her chest everytime that Anna smiled at her.

-You could help me with my job.

Anna immediately smiled, once again taking the air from Lane's lungs, but at least now she knew her thought about having lung cancer was nonsensical.

-You mean watch you as you do your work?

Lane didn't answer, simply moving a few books away and lifting the blanket. The cold air got in, but so did Anna, so it wasn't that upsetting.

And the microbiologist wasn't lying when she said that she was just going to watch. Her head rested against Lane's shoulder and she watched and soon fell asleep. And as Lane moved the books away as quietly as possible and slowly laid the two of them down, Lane noticed that she wasn't the only one affected by an effect.

[intrepidacious]

a vague prompt for your first time writing for curtis!! 🫶🏻✨️💕

 “i’m wondering why i’m freezing and i see you’ve stolen the entire blanket.”

thawing | c.e.

a/n: believe it or not, this really is just seven sentences. i'm loving my curtis era.

You blink awake slowly at the rough sound of his voice, a low rumble just loud enough for you to hear over the sounds of the train moving; in the semi-darkness, Curtis is reduced to a silhouette, his eyes black shadows, his features hidden, but you can still catch his edges softening as you stir.

"Sorry," you whisper, trying not to hit your head on the top of the bunk in your attempt to quietly untangle yourself from the blanket you’d been sharing at the beginning of the night, which is easier said than done without waking everyone around you.

It’s not that you’re a secret, really, or at least you don’t think so; it’s not like there’s much to tell, anyway, because even though you swear he doesn’t look at anyone else the way he looks at you, whatever’s there between you has never been named, or pointed out, or acted upon. But whenever the night gets particularly cold in the tail section or you dream of sunshine on your neck and soft, solid earth beneath your feet, you sneak out of the cot you’ve been assigned to and make your way down the wagon, and when Edgar lets out a particularly loud snore, you gently tug at Curtis’ sleeve and he lets you squeeze in next to him, crammed between the wall of the train and his own warm body, and he’ll wrap his arm around you as soon as he’s drawn the curtain shut.

There’s something to be said about the way he changes when he’s separated from the rest of the world even by just a flimsy piece of cloth, when there’s no one else’s expectations placed on his back anymore and he holds you like it means something; but you don’t have the words to tell him how it breaks your heart in the loveliest way, and so you don’t say anything at all. You fall into a dreamless sleep while listening to his breaths evening out, and if you press a little closer, then, who’s to blame?

His hands are cold when he pulls the blanket over both of your shoulders again and it makes you shiver and catch one of them with your own, shifting to lay on your side, tracing his rough knuckles and wondering, not for the first time, how things could be, would be, might have been; before you drift off again, you imagine him shift a little closer still.

[altschmerzes]

i absolutely adore “something to hold onto” (and your writing in general) - any chance of a snippet from the next chapter?

absolutely!!! thank you so much it's so kind of you to say :') that fic is such a specifically fun and specifically nerve-wracking project and i'd absolutely love to share some of part 2 with you!!

clip under the cut, as well as specific content warnings for it, though of course you know what fic this is and that it's just. generally Rough Stuff going on here, though the immediate harm has stopped.

this is from the beginning of part 2, shortly after jack and company have found mac hiding in the supply closet in the office. jack's gone through a brief field exam to conclude that mac's injuries aren't going to be life-threatening if they stay here for a while, allow him some time to collect himself and calm down.

specific warnings are just that mac is in a really fragile place, he's really out of it and is having a hard time managing his reactions to things.

--

“It’s alright, they’re gone. It’s just us. Just you and me. Sam’s keeping everyone away, the tac team we brought is outside. Sierra’s coming to get us. They’ve been at the airstrip we landed at, but they’re bringing a car over. Don’t you worry about that just yet, though. If they get here before you’re ready, they can go ahead and wait.”

Jack keeps on talking, speaking in a quiet and steady register about not much at all. He talks about where they are - apparently it’s Northern Nevada - and about the snowfall outside. He talks about the snow a lot, really. Once he’s started on the subject he never seems to run out of things to say about it, and it’s familiar enough to bring some relief to Mac’s scattered nerves. He tips his head to the side, resting it on his knees and watching Jack, listening to his voice and imagining that the sound of it could wrap around him like a blanket.

After a while, Jack shifts where he sits in the doorway, getting a little closer. He carefully monitors Mac’s response and when he doesn’t see any kind of negative reaction he reaches out, slow and cautious. There’s a moment where Mac isn’t sure what he should do, if he should lurch away to avoid the contact or allow it to happen, lean into it when it does. It’s a warring set of instincts, fear grappling with a desperate need he hates recognizing in himself, and he settles on doing nothing at all. Jack’s hand touches his side, lightly at first and then in a more deliberate press when Mac doesn’t shy away from him. Warmth seeps slowly through the material of Mac’s flannel, and as soon as he feels it, he wants more. He wants that warmth to envelop him entirely, take him out of this cold little room and away from everything he’s feeling. He wants so badly to be safe.

Ducking his head to the side, Mac soaks the ceaseless stream of tears with his sleeve again. (It’s ruined by now, blood and tears leaving it a tacky, stiff mess that may never come all the way clean.) Jack’s hand, curved around his side at the middle of his ribs, bent towards his back to avoid the damage to his chest, stays where it is. His thumb sweeps up and down a few times, a soothing gesture that brings a hitch to Mac’s lungs.

“Sorry.” It’s hardly a whisper, but Mac has to say it. He needs Jack to know that he doesn’t want to be doing this, that if he could have forced his body to cooperate he would have gotten up and left already. It’s not that he wants to be wasting everyone’s time, it’s just the control he always keeps such a tight grip on, the composure and compartmentalization he prides himself in are out of his reach. Biology, psychology, sociology - a dozen different things spring to life at once in Mac’s mind like pop-up windows. He can’t sort through them, and it doesn’t matter anyway. He knows why people cry, he does, but it doesn’t matter. He’s supposed to be better than that. “Sorry, I can’t, I… Trying to stop. Promise. ‘M trying, but I can’t stop- stop-” Stop crying. Mac can’t get it out, just jams his squeezed-shut eyes against his sleeve again and tries to convince himself that Jack can’t feel the way his back shudders and jerks with his breathing.

Jack makes a muted sound that’s almost but not quite a snort. “Don’t know what on God’s green earth you think you’re apologizing for, there, Mac, but you ain’t done nothing wrong. I won’t hear you apologize for crying. Not now, not ever. You apologize for way too much shit you didn’t do wrong. Not enough for some other stuff I might wish you would sometimes, but, well, that’s beside the point.” His voice has gone soft and fond, just barely teasing, and then it sobers again immediately. “But not that. Don’t you ever say you’re sorry for that. Not one minute of my life am I ever gonna want to hear that.”

[rcguish]

a collection of snippets from some of the discord happenings ( silver and grusha threads <3 ) : first date ; day one, into the morning.

pretty cute is something he’d only heard blue say to him, years ago. that was different, this is different. instinctively, free hand rises to touch the thickest part of the scar displaced off of nose bridge, and he feels somewhat prepared to speak in rebuttal. but silver sees the pure sincerity in the depths of grusha’s eyes, like he spoke from his heart rather than in deception, and it felt real. like he couldn’t dare to argue, like it was anything other than fact to them. blue’s words ring once again in his mind. maybe even thinking of kissing them?

companion moves back, and he almost makes a noise akin to a whine — almost — before their gazes meet and heart skips its beat again. without a thought, eyes flit from eyes to lips, and back up again. there’s a beat of hesitation, movement before a pause that has silver holding his breath — would he? and when a hand clad in a mitten rests on the side of his face, silver hums again in a low, deeper note that really did sound like the slightest whine. maybe touch was quickly filling in some distant and forgotten about part of him, maybe some part of him he had to kill to survive. with grusha’s eyes closed and them unable to notice at that moment, silver lets his gaze fall to their scarf and hidden away lips once more.

he sees grusha work himself through something that he can’t see. notes the inhale / exhale, a conscious effort in releasing the tension that gripped their frame ; and just that alone brings a soft smile back to the ends of silver’s lips. i’m proud of you. self soothing was never an easy feat, it was a hundred year long war that took place in the span of minutes. maybe hours, maybe days. they did it in seconds, no matter how forced. it was a start. [ ... ... ] “i —“ no, that wasn’t right. the arms that had released grusha, now holding to the crease of their arm that was cradling his face, clench and unclench. from laying gentle, to fists above cloth, to a quiet uncertainty in movement. “…no, you.” the words that fall almost lamely from his mouth are enough for a quieted huff of air evolve into a soft laugh.

though chill had set in to his extremities, and conscious thought had started self-allocation towards subtly steadying his breathing, silver doesn't spend more than a second on the idea as it came to him. gently releases his grasp and reaches to the top of his jacket collar. pulls down the zipper, sliding off external warmth before folding it into a neat blanket and laying it on top of the scarf on grusha's leg. thankfully, successful planning ahead with knowing they'd be outside longer, had led to him layering two long sleeved shirts underneath. or else he'd be left with just the normal one.

his motion stills as silver’s caught up in his amusement, though — a slight raise of his eyebrows and a firmer sort of smile settling on lips. “gold’s dubbed my joints as ‘rice krispies’, if that makes you feel any better. i can only imagine what your groan sounded like ; mine was a prelude to him getting thrown into the nearby river.”

"though, i'd say being on a high-altitude and ridiculously cold mountain is hardly anything in comparison to being frozen over." slides layer off and holds it out to start folding -- frozen over? he really just said that? silver slows to a very quick stop, mid-fold, before he turns his face slowly to meet with theirs. the amusement fades to the glint of a grimace, hesitant to see / hear what they'd possibly react like to that simple fact that had been so casually thrown out. ( was he that exhausted? ) and just like that, suddenly it was hard to even try to recall semblance of normalcy in a social conversation -- but damn, did silver want so badly to keep holding on to that lightheartedness they shared all night since their first comfort. even if it did scramble his inner script somewhat. "i, uh -- yeah." awkwardly shuffles himself over to the couch in front of the larvesta, right in a fit of avoidance of one of his worst topics. "glaseado watcher's orders prove to be just right once again -- these little guys are also amazing."

grusha brakes in front of him and silver’s eyes snap open in a sudden defense in his awareness to another presence. they hadn’t snuck up on him, but it felt like it — and did his heart pound against his ribcage like it was desperate to escape, desperate to run away from his childhood and the memories that haunted him. ( escape what? escape where? ) no, no, not like this — there’s a coldness to the corner of his eye, that only after bringing a gloved hand to swipe at it does it pull away and he’d realize there was wetness on the tip of his finger now. not like this. not like this. how could he break so quickly? how could the simple resurfacing of that render him so wrecked to the point of almost / practically welling up? silver had lived those days over and over again since they happened, had it plague his mind like a weighted reminder to watch his fucking back, always. [ ... ... ] there’s a distant and subconscious part of silver that brings his hand to his belt, retrieving familiar pokeball of weavile so that he could materialize beside him and crawl right into silver’s lap — as he barely registered both presences. a stretch of quiet, save for the sounds of pokemon finishing their meals. he forces himself to breathe, those exercises he had once found and come to put into ( albeit, poor ) practice as soon as blue fur and red feathers grounded him back, slowly, into this home. a safe place, away from the torment of the past. he tries for a subtle wipe of the corners of his eyes when the burning dissipates, even if no tears had managed to spill over — but he knows damn well such a reaction wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. and so he rests his head back, exhausted, against the headrest of the couch when heartbeat starts to slow. weavile rumbled like a purr in his lap, a welcome vibration against his legs that bring platinum gaze back to multicolored. “…it’s… a long story.” quiets once more, letting hands absently run fingers over weavile’s fur. “i think it’d be better to tell you — another time.”

silver looks at grusha like he was the one thing tethering him to that earth in that moment -- and he was. "i was supposed to die, there… i should've died. so many times i was captive, i should've died, but i didn't -- and now that i'm here, living into adulthood…" his voice cracks, thick with sadness and fatigue. he was tired. "i feel like i'm living on borrowed time. i should've…" opens up his fist and takes firm hold of their hand properly. he doesn't have the strength to finish that sentence, and head turns / gaze drops to lose itself in weavile's fur. manages to breathe out a shaky whisper, "i'm sorry." [ ... ... ] and like he had read silver’s mind, he’s being pulled into the tender warmness of contact. a side hug. it felt reminiscent of the time silver had leaned over and done similar for grusha during his moment of vulnerability, and the faintest shadow of a smile plays at the ends of his lips. and those words only solidify something in his heart. home… a sanctuary away from what he’s survived. home could be a person. and maybe home was becoming grusha.

grusha equates him to light and silver feels like he couldn't breathe, somewhere in between wanting to speak to keep up rapport and wanting to turn around and finally kiss him. he tries to steady himself and his fluttering heart, instead, and prompts maybe that final push he needed. "i want to do this more. this -- dating you. i…" has to break a light chuckle at that, something stronger than just a huff of air. "i wanna keep dating you. i don't wanna let go, not if i can help it."

a slow yawn ends in the forming of a thought, " 'guess you could call me your boyfriend, then." and this time, not a single thought sets off any alarms or self-criticizing rabbit holes. this time, all that fills his mind is relief. the walls were coming down, and the weights on his shoulders felt noticeably lighter. like he had shed another barrier that kept him from fully interacting with the world. a small smile settles this time, and doesn't fade ; relaxation despite the butterfree running amok in his ribcage and the familiar ache settling in his head. [ ... ... ] though his timbre is deeper and edged with sleepiness, with words perhaps the slightest bit harder to fully enunciate, it's a thought he doesn't dare keep in anymore. "really... would like t' kiss you right now."

"i've never kissed anyone before, either." it's an unspoken thing but he wants to assure them, and himself, anyway. "so if we bump teeth, i'm sorry." but it's at that where silver breaks, ducking his head with a giddy / nervous laugh. ( it was too much to look grusha in the eye at that moment, with the intent of action right there! ) huffs out air in a lighter chuckle, bringing legs forward so that he sat properly against them, facing them rather than side by side. moment of time passes where he catches his favorite eyes in the world and holds that gaze, and silver's so sure the fondness and adoration lights his normally-dark eyes brighter than even the adrenaline of battle. ( windows to the soul, they truly were. ) "i'm stalling, huh?" he holds gaze, still, even when fingers begin ministrations of removing his gloves once again ; and when leather is set to the side, shaky hands slowly rise and hover just around grusha's cheeks. " i'm -- i'm nervous, too," voice cracks into a whisper but never once does silver's smile falter as he finally rests his hands so gently on their skin. and the intimacy from the moment alone, from holding his face with no barries in between, has trainer breathing out and closing the gap between their lips.

he leans forward and steals another chaste kiss from grusha’s cheek, right before moving to stand — ( hates how cold his fingers and cheeks feel without them touching him) and stretch with arms over his head. his head pounds for a second, but sleepiness dulls the pain without expression. but — the cacophony of joints cracking and popping from the time he’d been sitting and they all set into place is something he outright laughs over. “what was that about twenty four going on to forty?”

he moves around the chair to grasp the handles, beginning to push grusha forward and it's at that moment where it really, really solidifies for him just how much this gesture meant. for them to trust him, or maybe it wasn't about trust -- grusha had been warring inside of himself for a long time, that much silver had recognized from personal experience. there was something in their head that trainer couldn't quite understand fully, a meaning to their previous words that he was sure he'd spend more time ruminating on ; silver told himself, in due time, he would understand his puzzle. he just had to keep trying. [ ... ... ] grusha then points, and silver snaps his attention away to follow the direction to the vulpix sleeping so peacefully together. that's where he breaks and audibly gasps, a shaky and semi-muted thing as to not disturb them ( and the headache threatening to sour his excitement ).

he almost, almost begins to sit and lay down when he realizes that his pokeballs were still attached to his very-real and still-worn jeans. there's a moment where he contemplates several things at once : toss the jeans entirely and deal with the apologies he'll have to doll out to his pokemon as a result, or simply place them all on top of the thrown ( silver wanted to laugh at that ) clothes on the wheelchair and deal with the discomfort of ... sleeping in jeans.

grusha makes a noise also, shifting around that almost had silver daring to try opening his eyes again to take them all in, but then he stops. probably settling back down, or just getting comfortable again ; silver turns off of his back and to the side facing them, sleepily and blindly reaching out / feeling around for their arm or shoulder or anything. meets with something his brain barely registers as a distinct part of their body, but it's warm, so it's them -- and lets his brain focus on the sensation of rubbing small circles into the shoulder (?) of his ...

the pain's still very much present, but it's eased significantly now, with half-lidded eyes ; he's grateful for this moment to be as untouched as possible. grusha's face this close, sleep-addled and lightly imprinted from the pillow case set his heart beating quicker, and quicker, like he'd just gotten up and started running about. perhaps even more than he usually did. their voice, practically cracking with the first use, coaxes a quiet coo from silver as the smile takes its place on his lips. it lessens some after seconds of basking, but doesn't fade as his hand snakes around their shoulder and into their hair. "mornin', you..."

few hours... silver's eyebrows furrow somewhat, a quick calculation in his head had put their average amount of hours somewhere between seven and six... he's sure he's slept the entire time, too, if the heaviness in his bones is anything to go by. there's a way that grusha moves, where he starts suspecting something more ; but he doesn't dare bring the question up, not yet. his hand releases their hair in their turn, instead now resting over their cheek and thumb resuming a back and forth motion under eyes. "...'m sorry. did i move too much?"

there are beats of time, however long they may be doesn’t matter in the slightest to silver — where grusha is quiet. but their hand rests over his and all he focuses on is the feeling of their skin on his, all around something so used to only feeling glove lining. [ ... ... ] he almost, almost asks a question — amazingly enough, his mouth thinks better of it, and decides to stay quiet on the matter. “if you’re sure… but the pill-cutter won’t be needed, i think i’ll gladly take that dose.” he coughs at that, though, amusement lacing itself into his voice yet expression remained neutral in a practiced sort of way. “well, you see, they probably wouldn’t if i took them every time. i have the wondrous method of toughing it out, as they say.” there’s a humorous lilt to his voice, but it’s dry and almost erring on the side of self depreciating. “i’d just go to bed or keep trying to go about my day. but, i don’t really… feel like ‘just dealing with it’ right now, so — medicine sounds good.”

right hand clenches into a momentary fist in a contained physical reaction to thoughts so damn desperate to jump into a self-fulfilling rabbit hole. grusha's puff is enough to snap silver out of it, though, skin on skin contact a consistent reminder of what was right in front of him. what was real versus what his mind wanted him to believe. his hand loosens itself to relax, and a nerve catches fire under that released tension ; there's a slight wince that lands in a twitch of the eyebrow / wince in the crease of his eye. "i don't particularly feel like moving right now, myself, so... fine by me." if he lay here with grusha, nothing hurt ; it's the movement that got him. silver was not going to complain at the extra time to bask in the contact of his home. [ ... ... ] but that -- that's enough for eyes to fully open past a lazy / concerned half-lid, take in every aspect of their face while they bare their chest wide open for him. there are logistics here that silver puts thinking about on the back burner, atleast in this present moment. he glances down for a second at most to where their leg lay propped, though it's fleeting and he's magnetized back up to him. "i'm guessing..." speaks carefully, "that isn't really a recommended thing to do?" grusha's choice / correction of words is noted. the further concept of why? is pondered over while questions borne out of desire to help take the forefront of silver's mind. why could be a lot of reasons, though he's inclined to suspect some issues with self-perception, perhaps how silver might perceive him, it could be... a lot of things. it could be none of them at all.

there is hesitation, uncertainty in all of grusha’s movements and lack thereof that has silver’s eyebrows furrowing slightly downwards in anticipation. he’s grateful for their hand betraying everything they dared not say, a glimpse into their likely racing mind, and when jerky movements take over those fingers he leans forward to press a kiss against the heel of his palm. i've got you. so silver patiently waits and listens, following every gesture and movement, putting things together in his mind and letting pieces fall into place on their own. [ ... ... ] they had both shown each other, in what feels like so little time, almost the rawest parts of themselves ; and to that, silver knew deeply how important, special, this moment's become. how special he felt to be allowed to see grusha like this, to hear him, feel him. that overwhelming sense of gratitude and other emotions has silver scooting his body infinitesimally closer (despite that bone-deep ache of protest), hand reaching up to slide fingers through somewhat messed hair (adorably so) and come to rest against cheek once more. “…thank you. for — telling me about this. i know it’s not easy.” how special it felt to know him. he pauses for a moment, ruminating on all that grusha had divulged him. planning out what to say, slight anxiety and pressure on making sure he says the right thing. it’d be his worst luck to slip up just once, say / insinuate something, break all that trust that had been built —

here, silver tries to train his cognitions to override that negative feedback-loop -- that with enough time, he'd have a fully finished 'flow chart' for grusha, as well -- just in the way alone how silver watches him so keenly, and all that he does, so fondly. he'd meant it when he said he was here to stay, no matter how long. no matter if duty had called him elsewhere, no matter if the day came where pasts might reel ugly heads -- silver was sure that he'd find his way back to grusha, every single time. and so time would pass, just like in this very present moment : in every sour note, every little inch of bitterness, every eye roll, and every sigh. their foreheads meet, and though he's quiet in letting grusha speak free without judgment or pressure of time, silver finally kisses their fingers, featherlight and almost inaudible in the quiet. kindness... that was another thing he hadn't expected someone to recognize, let alone say he possessed. "we have all the time in the world." said not just in response to grusha, but a second meaning as a comfort to himself. a veiled double meaning that, verbalizing aloud, has his own frame melting just that littlest bit more.

when grusha disappears around the threshold, silver allows himself to roll onto his back and finally give in to a full body stretch. it's a slow thing, unravels first at his legs as joints creak and begin their sounds in all its glory, before arms reach up past his head and it's a euphoric feeling. euphoric, yet marred by the physical protest he feels start to seep in after that initial exhale / groan of contented pleasure. it's manageable enough that this would've been a 'tough it out' day, rather than a bedridden one. silver's grateful for that semblance of dignity to remain in tact, atleast for now -- while he's sure such a description or day would be met with good company, there's still that part so hellbent on keeping his pain a secret. dulled away and kept under wraps, only for him and his pokemon to witness and bear. [ ... ... ] "coffee." his response is immediate. "although, i'm not opposed to a good cup of…" trails off as the movement by his feet captures attention within the instant it happens -- but there is not a single threat in sight. except, of course, the threat to his heart. silver can't even dare hold or mitigate the reaction that follows ; jaw going slack and eyes blown wide with surprise, wonder, something almost childlike stirring in the pits of his chest. he looks back to grusha, then to the vulpix ; back to grusha, and the vulpix once more and this time the grin that splits his face, stays. he coos softly at the small fox, a somewhat giddy laugh exhaled in a shaky breath. and when he speaks, it's soft for fear of startling small creature, for fear of letting his excitement become too much. "hiii… i -- i don't have any treats right now, but…" slowly holds out his right hand, fingers gently curved as a presentation of scent. "well, i promise i can bring them and double next time, as compensation."

sterling eyes full of fascination, lips parsed somewhat to form an o of a silent sound he muted almost subconsciously when the fox sniffed and gave a tentative lick. silver had always possessed a love in his heart for the vulpix line, thinks maybe that it could've even been a possibility that he would've had a ninetales on his team had the cards not played out like they did all those years ago. if he ever took the time to go about finding something that had given him joy, hope, rather than allowing himself to forget about it / squash it down when the mission was the first thing on his mind. for years. when he'd punish his own self by disallowing any sort of reward to himself, meeting and befriending a vulpix included. it's when grusha lightly scolds and brushes his finger against orange fur that has silver finally taking his gaze away from the kit and to his person. he distantly registers the bite at that, a delayed sort of reaction before the amusement fills in with softness, adoration once again seeping through in his gaze. "it's alright -- it's nothing compared to the bite of a totodile or croconaw." though feraligatr didn't dare as he evolved into his final form, silver knew more than once that it's crossed his pokemon's mind in the early days. and… grusha in this moment reminded him of gold, even if just a little. this was the best part of the house that dexholder had grown up in, the baby pokemon that wandered and roamed freely to intermingle with older ones. the best part that had long ago twisted up silver's heart with envy. he thinks maybe he could ask, even if just for the notion of an assist, but that very same thought's swallowed down and dismissed when he remembers that he'd have to ask gold of all people. nah. [ ... ... ] "they're a rarity in johto, even if they are native." silver speaks almost absently, and those the grin on his face lessens somewhat it never fully disappears or drops from his face. "i don't remember details, but i do remember always admiring vulpix and ninetales when i was a kid. maybe it was an old children's book that stuck with me." maybe it had been something used against him. forced to bury.

grusha speaks, they laugh, silver snorts at that -- a poor attempt at trying to maintain his normally dry banter in return despite the pure lightness / happiness (!!!) he feels practically emanating from his chest. genuinely tries to recall the memories with a reflective look on his face, stroking warm orange fur all the while. “mmm, maybe. maybe something like how if you come across one, maybe your greatest desire comes true — like in the form of a ‘lonely, disabled dude on a mountain.’ one that has really pretty hair and is an amazing person to get to know.” he can’t help the development of snorts into warm laughter at that, amorous feelings leaving him feeling rather playful. flirtatious?

grusha had been changing him, in just the relatively small span of time they’ve both been in each others’ lives. silver had never once imagined a life where romance could exist, his cynicism / fatalism had deemed it unrealistic. and yet, here he sat faced with pieces of his childhood being brought back, handed to him with roses and joy that should’ve been associated with childhood in the first place, waking up in soft morning light to face… to face his companion. partner. home. compass, lighthouse to bring him back in the middle of a storm. and if grusha catches his eyes at the moment – right at the moment that silver had unfocused / reoriented to coo at the vulpix so happily eating up all of the attention by his hands, and back up to them again… they might notice the way how pupils in stark contrast to surrounding silvery-white, seem to dilate the slightest bit. “my advantage, huh… alright, i confess. what if i told you, my evil grand master plan is to keep saying the sappiest things like that so that i could keep seeing how it makes you react? snapshot it all into my mind to paint later.” to adore later. lugia below and ho-oh above, who was he becoming? “to relish in the string quartet i always hear when you blush like that.” ( silver kind of liked it. thought maybe the person he was becoming might actually be someone worth existing. ) [ ... ... ] would you be interested in adopting them, when they’re old enough? his entire body full on stops at that. eyes flit back and forth listlessly, reading, searching again all over grusha’s face. “…really?” he feels numb for heartbeats of time, however long passes – long enough that the two kits voice their displeasure at the lack of attention and he’s quickly (albeit, still absently) resuming the gentle pets. silver thinks of all the years spent learning that how he had raised his pokemon was inadequate, and unsustainable – all the years spent overcoming all of it, and changing for the betterment of each and every single team member. he swallows and there’s a sharp pain from the dryness in his throat. he swallows again and it still stings. “i… i haven’t raised a new pokemon in… years.” in an instant, with just a single blink, silver sees that mask across every centimeter and in the fullest depth imaginable across his eyelids. in the way that such a beloved pokemon / thing had been kept, hung above his head like he was an animal being forced to run, forced to act meaninglessly forever. all of his desires, dreams, wants, being squashed and beaten into the ground until silver had nothing left. nothing to cling to in the recesses of his own mind, and those lessons were taken all with him. from then on, when he constantly failed / deliberately chose not to find things to be happy in. and with the feeling of ice spanning across his skin again – all at once the pain lancing through his hand, his wrist, right into the knuckle of his ring finger and gripping all the way around into his palm is enough for him to hiss. for eyes to shut away for a moment as he lifts off from vulpix and clutches his hand, fingers pressing directly into the junction between carpus / metacarpus when those nuisances of nerves feel like they’ve been lit on fire. and just as quickly as it comes, it goes. slowly he opens his eyes once more, and they hone in on home and the way how he leaned against the bed. and silver releases a shaky breath. [ ... ... ] so instead, silver nods. and despite the overwhelming disbelief melting into a tentative joy, he finds himself leaning in close to their face. finds that same hand to find their cheek again, lured in by the pull they had over him. "you're… too kind to me. but i -- " inhales, breathes out, "i won't let you down."

grusha takes his hand and kisses it, and silver feels overwhelmed with it. he’d been somewhat more acquainted to touching pokemon without the barrier of leather, and thus feeling the soft fur hadn’t been too much of a shock to his system – but the skin to skin… the way how their lips felt against that ache, it had become nothing short of intoxicating. silver found he actively wanted this, all of them, so much more. but — what if grusha had found out about silver and how he used to treat his team? what if, in the face of all the ugly sins of his past, they decided he wasn’t as suitable as they thought he was? silver feels the weight of his own heart on the verge of breaking at that thought, something like a familiar old ugly grief rearing its head. right in the shape of solid carved ice and menacing black holes for eyes and a smile. no. he was better than that. the connections that he’s forged and nurtured with his team made them a proper team, rather than extensions of his own being – and silver would never, ever revert back to the way he was. a strange, unusual confidence fills his chest from the back of his neck, down, to shooting through his heart and filling him with warmth to all of his extremities.

“we have all the time in the world,” he repeats. and when he says it that time, certainty like steel weaves itself into his bones. it’s that time that the doubts hanging over his shoulder constantly, finally don’t dare to ruin this. grusha’s fingers release his, finding themselves fixing up silver’s unruly sleep-mussed hair and he feels warmth itself finding ears / nape of the neck first. almost feels himself duck in shyness, an impulse to hide away the less presentable parts of himself (especially his hair, especially when he’d learned that for so long he’d been a wreck of a kid). but silver doesn’t give in. instead he looks at grusha in that moment, his grounding force / reassurance, and sees his favorite eyes and all their adoration and, for the first time it’s enough for silver to just simply sweep away his woes. and when vulpix squirms herself free from his lap, silver doesn’t bother to hide the laugh in earnest that flows off of his lips. and earnest turns to sheepish / flattered, an insecurity shining in the light and met with praise instead. “i’m glad one of us finds it cool. maybe i could learn to like it from your eyes.” [ ... ... ] and almost on cue, that unusual slip of hair practically announces itself and all silver could hear was a deep, bassy melody. he’s filled with a deeper sense of calm in response, his grin softening as he leans up and kisses their forehead / twines fingers with that darker lock.

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

It's been a while! (Mainly because I went home for Christmas and didn't think to take the book with me!)

Chapter Forty-Six: Crozier

They're still going, as much as Crozier wishes that they could stop, that he could finally stop and that the bright flame of hope within him could die out "so he could surrender to the inevitable and lie down and pull the frozen tundra up over himself like a child under a blanket settling into his nap."

They've made camp once again, dubbing this one 'Hospital Camp'. and it's been a hard slog to get there across a large bay of ice. It's heartbreaking to read Crozier reminiscing almost fondly of their initial jaunt from ships to Terror Camp - as godawfully grim as we know it was, they made a "fantastic rate" then compared to the pitiful few hundred yards a day they're often covering now.

The dreaded tinned food is all gone at this point. They initially swore off the stuff after Fitzjames's death with Richard Aylmore being the only man to continue to consume them, at Crozier's behest. The rest of the men only began to eat from the tins again when Aylmore showed no particular signs of ill-health, although the same cannot be said for two other seamen who went against orders to sneak in some lead-laden tinned goodness. About one such man, who died in agony after eating a stolen tin of peaches, Crozier has this to say at what passes for his funeral: "Life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short" the captain had intoned "It seems it is shorter for those who steal from their mates."

This blunt eulogy is a hit with the remaining men who immediately rename the boats dragged during the dreaded afternoon/evening haul - the ones they have to go back for again and again - as Solitary, Poor, Nasty, Brutish, and Short. "Crozier had grinned at this. It meant the men were not so far gone into hunger and despair that their English sailors' black humour did not still hold a cutting edge."

Crozier doesn't smile for long though - there's mutiny a-brewing! And it comes, in part, from "the last man on earth that Francis Crozier would have imagined opposing his command."! The camp is quiet, with many men and loyal officers away hunting and scouting for leads so it's easy for Crozier to hear the gathering of men outside his tent. Lieutenant Hodgson is at the head of this group, alongside several other senior men - captains of foretops and forecastles etc. In total, there are 23 of them ("...punch 23 holes into his lungs with a boat knife" anyone?!) including, of course, Manson, Aylmore, and Hickey. "Hickey looked at him with eyes so hooded and cold they could have belonged to one of the white bears they'd encountered - or perhaps to the thing on the ice itself"

In short, the 23 men want to return to the ship in hopes of a thaw. Crozier chides them all - for believing such a thing is possible, for believing they can make it back north before winter starts to set in again, for believing that the ship will still be afloat and that they'll be able to make their way out to her across the water: "Even if you steal one of the whaleboats, that will only hold ten or twelve of you with minimal supplies. Or are you planning on having ten or more of your party die before you get back to the camp? They will, you know. More than that."

His rant seems to do the trick for the most part, cowing the men, encouraging them to reconsider or at the very least to back down for now. But not Hickey. He tugs Manson's sleeve and they both step forward, threateningly, "past an alarmed-looking Hodgson". Crozier thinks quickly and grasps at the pistol in his pocket, deciding to shoot Hickey in the stomach and Manson right between the eyes - "No body shot was guaranteed to bring Manson down."

But before he can act - a commotion in the distance! "Everyone except Crozier and the caulker's mate turned to see what was happening. Crozier's gaze never left Hickey's eyes. Both men turned their heads only when the shouting started." It's Lieutenant Little, returned from a lead-scouting party with Mr Reid, Peglar and others. Making his way off the ice and onto land, he is - hilariously - completely oblivious to the mutinous drama that's just been unfolding in camp. "Open water!"

[aaternum]

❛   caress .   gently  caress  my  muse’s  face .

A bag of freezer burned, assorted vegetables that had somehow fused itself into a singular shape. That was all she had. Inside her freezer the lone package sat unremarkably, and she hesitates pulling it free.  A simple zip-loc bag of ice would have been the normal option here, but somehow an ice tray never occurred to her in all her time spent shopping for home goods. (Which in hindsight isn't very much time at all, but that is besides the point.) So there she heads back to her living room, a frozen packet tucked behind her back as she crouches in front of her uncomfortable looking guest. Though she has a feeling his discomfort has more to do with her insisting on treating his wounds more than his current whereabouts,   “   So, just hear me out for a sec’ before you judge me. I don’t have ice, but I do have this–   ” She shows her hand, gently shaking the bag to garnish the reveal, “  Ta da! And some paper towels. I could wrap it up  and we can hold it over your it. Y’know? To get ahead of some of the swelling now that I’ve bandaged it.   ” A hopeful little smile curls at her lips, her hand tentatively tucking the sleeve of his shirt away to better reveal the canvas of his arm where the laceration had been as she sits down beside him, settling the package on her lap. The wound was largely concealed by the gauze and bandaging she'd tended to it with. It could be worse. It could always be worse. But that didn't make the quiet churn in her stomach ease.

“ I promise you won't hear me fuss over you again. ” She pauses, squinting. “ Er ..  for like, at least 72 hours. Same difference! ” She glances back over the bandaging, just to reassess her handiwork. Ryu feels the warmth of his hand before she sees it, her attention lifted back to his face where his had been caught in the swirls of blossoming bruises along her cheek. Her gaze traces the creases formed between his brows, watching the way they deepen and ebb; if he was going to say something she beats him to it, “  I swear, you're just one scowl away from premature wrinkles, Nezumi. It doesn't hurt, promise. Let me remind you that I'm not the one with a big gash over their arm.    ” Ryu teases softly, her hand blanketing over his wrist with the barest of contact. She searches his eyes a moment, the tender brush of his thumb against her cheek, so soft she briefly wonders if she imagined it. Her face leans against the palm to her cheek, just slightly, hand tentatively settling over his wrist. " Y'know, you're surprisingly gentle. It's nice. Makes me wonder if you're this careful with everyone or if you just want to be gentle with me. "

The cold of water seeping through her pants, pulls her from the moment a short gasp following when she immediately reels back, hand falling away to look at her lap. " Oh. We should probably hurry up and use this now before it melts. "

[cmon-butch]

27 HOME

TW:

“We’re gonna go soon, Addi, very soon.”

“W-want to l-leave.” Addi curls into a ball, careful not to squeeze her abdomen too tight. The stitches are extremely sore. She winces at almost every movement she makes.

“I know you want to leave, love. So soon. I promise you,” Hazel answers once again. She’s found that calling Addi, love, seems to calm her.

“N-no more.”

Hazel sighs. “One last round of IV medicines. After that, we can do it all at home. We’re gonna go soon.”

Addi groans. She doesn’t want the medicines anymore, but they do make her feel better. She can move better when she takes them. The girl they call Hazel talked the hospital staff into taking off her restraints and just letting Hazel keep an eye on her. She likes that.

Addi has been warming up to Hazel, as far as Hazel can tell. She’s less scared. She’s been talking. Not about where she was. Just about going home and not wanting to do things.

The doctors explained that her mindset has become very dependent and her memory has been altered. She will need supervision. She will need therapy, physical and emotional, and Hazel is even thinking of taking her to a speech therapist to fix that stutter she has developed.

She has already asked for reduced shifts at the hospital. David is even willing to help out.

Addi’s mother was heartbroken. Emily sobbed for days about her daughters missing memory. When it got too much for her, Hazel proposed that Addi could stay with her and David until Em had come to terms with reality. With little protest, she agreed.

“I dont w-want it, H-H-Hazel,” Addi whimpers. She can never say Hazels name without stuttering. Her H’s keep tripping her up.

“I understand that, Addi. Just one more treatment here, then we can go home. They make you feel better.”

“B-but I don’t want to.”

“I know, love. Just one more. Stick with me.”

The on call nurse enters with her med cart, rolling it next to the bed. “Good morning, Ms. Addi. How are we doing?”

Addison shoots a scared look into Hazels direction. She doesn’t answer. Hazel stands, whispering into the nurse’s ear. “She’s terrified of how the medications make her feel. Just be quick. I don’t want her getting up and hurting herself.”

The nurse nods, injecting the last round of IV pain meds into Addi’s system. They always make the patient very cold. Hazel gently lays a blanket on top of Addi, careful not to scare her.

“That’s it, love. All done.”

“G-go home now?”

“In a few moments. They have to get all this annoying stuff off you first.” To be honest, Hazel appreciates the fact that the pain killers make Addison more calm and docile. Even somewhat silly. That way, the car ride might not be too terrible for her.

“Off now?”

“Soon.”

…

The nurses enter an hour later. The meds have kicked in. Hazel watches as they maneuver the patients body in any way they want without her protesting. The pull off the leads, leaving the stickers. They replace the IVs with bandages. She is dressed in a few of David’s clothes. He came by earlier and brought them, Hazel wanted something oversized so she wouldn’t feel too trapped.

“You hanging in there?” Hazel calls.

“H-h-hanging,” is all she hears back. The sun is falling below the hospital window sill. It’s almost dark. They finally get to leave.

“Feeling okay? Not hurting anywhere.”

“Feels g-good.”

Hazel gives a sigh of relief. She has already picked up the prescription pills. She can’t imagine how she’s going to get Addi to take them. They’ll cross that bridge when they get there.

“Ready to go, love?”

The nurses finish, clearing out of the way. All that’s is left is Addi. She’s in oversized pajama pants and a large t-shirt. The short sleeves go down to her elbows. They leaned her back up against the bed. She offers a small, silly smile. Of course she’s not in pain.

“R-ready.”

Hazel brings the wheelchair over to her bedside. With some needed help, Addi slides her way into it. She laughs a slow, slurred laugh, probably thinking of something absurd. Hazel wheels her out, avoiding the larger crowds and louder noises. She doesn’t want Addi to be tugged out of this pleasant state.

The car has been in that same spot for five days. Hazel hasn’t left since her shift started. Before all this happened. Hazel lifts Addi into the passengers seat, setting a pillow down for her to lie on.

She sets her stuff in the back, taking the backpack filled with her clothes and a toothbrush and throwing it on the floorboard. She sighs, exhausted.

Taking her seat at the wheel, she puts Addi in a comfortable position. Leaning the girls back against the seat and letting her head rest on the pillow. “Still feel okay?”

“S-sleepy. Want to g-go h-h-home.”

“We’re on the way. Just rest. You need it.”

[peacekatniss]

Well, here is a snippet of a little something I've been working on. I've never written a fic before, so here goes nothing:

Sometimes I dream that my sister is alive. It always starts the same way. I’m looking out the back window, the one above the kitchen sink, and there’s a knock at the door. I make my way slowly across the house - I didn’t want to be disturbed today - and when I open the door I’m not greeted with the face of a stranger intruding, instead it’s her. 

And her eyes are as blue as ever. It’s a blue I’ve never been able to perfectly describe. Not sky blue, certainly never a blue that feels cold or piercing like ice, not the blue of an eggshell. One day Peeta and I spent hours mixing paint trying to find just the right shade. When we finally got it perfect, Peeta made a swatch, so that we would always have it, and labeled it Prim. 

And in this dream her hair is as golden as ever in the sunlight. And the corners of her mouth turn up in the beginning of a smile that I know will be radiant, and that I know will crinkle her eyes and the bridge of her nose. 

And then I wake up and the spell is broken. But the world actually feels a little bit warmer and a little bit brighter because I saw her again. Even though the visit is brief I cherish it like a gift. I wish she would say something in the dream, talk to me for a little while. To be honest I think I have forgotten her voice, and unlike her eye color it cannot be recreated with brushes and a little commitment.  

Late morning daylight streams through the window, blanketing me in warmth. Peeta’s side of the bed is empty, I can faintly hear him moving around downstairs in the kitchen. Outside the swallows have begun their chorus in the trees, and I can’t help but bask in the luxuriousness of the moment; the cool sheets, the summer sun, the gentle birdsong. I’ve been trying to appreciate the little things lately. It wouldn’t be fair to my sister if I didn’t at least try to embrace simple pleasures the way she did. I've spent so long building an indifferent barrier between myself and beauty, myself and joy. Or maybe Peeta’s appreciation for lovely things is brushing off on me. Either way, I’ve gone a little soft, but I think it would make Prim happy. 

My grumbling stomach pulls me out of bed and into some clothes. Jeans. A short sleeve shirt. My boots. In the kitchen, Peeta is diligently measuring ingredients for a lemon glaze. He’s been working on the recipe for a couple of days now but can’t quite get it to his satisfaction. I think that each batch tasted perfectly fine, not to mention exactly the same as each prior batch. But, he’s the baker, not me, so I trust his process more than his taste buds. 

I creep up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist before he can turn to greet me, plant a kiss between his shoulder blades where my mouth can reach. 

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says, turning around to face me. “I think I have just about perfected it this time.” 

He places his palms on the sides of my face, but holds his fingers aloft to avoid covering me in confectioner’s sugar. His eyes are so bright, so familiar. 

“I had that dream again,” I say and his face softens with understanding. 

“Any new details?”

I shake my head and move away from him to make my breakfast. He starts up a pot of coffee and explains how he has amended the recipe this morning. I can tell he’s trying to give me space and not press me about the dream, not make me feel like I need to say anything. I appreciate the language we’ve built together, it’s special and almost unexplainable. Sometimes we don’t need to say anything, and just a look on his face will tell me what he’s thinking, almost like magic. Maybe it’s just because our lives are so close together. I like to imagine that we are an unbreachable front, no one else can penetrate what we’ve built without both of our permission. 

My toast pops and I smear it with rejected lemon glaze #3. Peeta chuckles as he pours our coffees and fixes mine with a heap of sugar just how I like it. 

“You really will put anything on anything,” he laughs, gesturing to my lemon toast. “And that was by far the worst batch of glaze.” 

“I think it tastes great, actually,” I reply with a satisfying crunch. “But you’ll never know because I’m going to eat it all.”

“That is a fate I will happily accept,” he says. “I’m meeting with that contractor today about the bakery, so if I’m not here when you get back I’ll be in town. You’re welcome to join us if you want.” 

Peeta has been drawing up plans to reopen the bakery, and has been really excited to get to work with the contractor. He wants to integrate a lot of the original design of his family’s bakery that was destroyed, but also wants to develop it further to fit his own vision. Once he told me that the bakery was always meant to go to his oldest brother, but he always had ideas for how he would want it to be run that they would talk about together. I’m proud of him. It’s not easy to rebuild much of anything after so much loss, but to rebuild a multi-generational family business is even more difficult. 

“Yeah, I might stop by,” I tell him. “I want to grab a few things in town anyways.” 

... to be continued ...

I'm hoping I feel more motivated to work on this now that I have posted a snippet (it's nerve-wracking since I've never really shared any writing). But! Let me know what you think! It certainly is just a drop in the bucket of canon, post growing back together fics, but it's fun all the same :)

[mhysa-leesi]

𝕄𝕣𝕤. 𝔸𝕝𝕝-𝔸𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕟

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers 𝒳 (femme) Reader ⭐.

Summary: “Steve Rogers deserves nothing less than an All-American Apple Pie Life, with his Miss America. And he’ll stop at nothing to have it.” 

Word Count: 3,472 

TW‼: Drugging, Kidnapping, Non-Con, Smut, Minor Stockholm Syndrome, Minor Misogynistic Themes, and 1940′s Housewife Themes. 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI‼

AN: This story contains adult and dark themes, please do not proceed if you are under the age of 18 or if ANY of these warnings upset you! I am not responsible for your media consumption–you and only you are. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 

AN Cont.:  If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual violence, please reach out for help. I do not condone ANY of the actions described in this story, this is merely a work of FICTION. 

Steve Rogers is a hero who’s sacrificed so much for the greater good of the world. He’s been fighting his entire life, a constant cycle of getting knocked down, just to get back up and do it all again the next day. A constant blur of black and blue, of broken bones, and bloodied knuckles. Steve didn’t complain too often, he enjoyed waking up every morning and saving the world. He was grateful for the life he led, a life of justice and liberty. So, why did he feel so unfulfilled? Unaccomplished? Incomplete?

Steve would catch himself daydreaming during briefings, dreaming of his childhood. He dreamt about Coney Island, about the smell of popcorn, and the sticky feel of melting popsicles on his fingers. He was stuck in the past and he knew it, maybe he truly was “The Man Out of Time”. He’d journal his thoughts, sketching his memories in charcoal and faded colors. Mostly he’d sketch faces of his past, but there has only been one face as of late that lived within the thick pages. (Y/N). The newest Avenger, his Miss America.

He found himself fantasizing about her with every gentle curve of his pencil, imagining it was his hands running over her hips and not his graphite. The front of his jeans tightened as he shaded her breasts, and he wondered if they were as soft and supple as he made them look on paper. He captured her eyes, adding that sparkle and depth that seemed to become her. Her hair, the unruly hairs, and the ones always perfectly in place. He colored her skin, his heart skipping as he imagined running his lips over the skin of her thighs. Her star-spangled leotard left little to the imagination, so Steve found other things to imagine. The sound of her moans and whimpers, how she’d look as he took her apart one lick and thrust at a time, and how she’d look with him dripping from in-between her legs.

Steve groaned as he threw down his pencil, running his graphite-stained hands over his face in frustration before closing his sketchbook with a soft thump. He needed a distraction--and a cold shower…

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Today was Lila, Clint’s daughter’s birthday, and all of the Avengers were invited to the festivities. Steve sat next to Bucky, both of them donning bright pink party hats with the words “Happy Birthday” on them in glitter swirls. Bucky was telling Steve about a girl he had recently met at some café or something--truth be told Steve wasn’t listening to his best friend. His attention was elsewhere, across the room, to be exact.

You were in a green tonal dress that perfectly complemented your skin tone, with puff sleeves and floral print. Steve was entranced as he watched you bounce baby Nathaniel on your hip. And he watched as the baby babbled and yanked your hair, making you laugh and wince as you handed him back to his mother. He knew at that moment what he had been missing, what he had been deprived of--what he had deserved after all this time. A family, a white-picket fence… You.

It all suddenly made sense as if he had just completed a puzzle he’d been working on since he woke up from the ice. That was what he wanted--no… It was what he needed, what he deserved. All of his life he had made sacrifice after sacrifice, the world owed him this one thing, and he’d have it. No matter the cost.

You were perfect. A nice girl with a strong head on your shoulders and a good heart, who better to start a life with? There was no question, you’d be his wife, the mother of his children. You’d see it in time, but he couldn’t wait for you. He was a man out of time, after all…

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It had been almost a month since his revelation, but it was all due in good time. He had made the arrangements, he had been meticulous in his planning. He made sure to get every single detail right, his and your future depended on his perfection. The trap had been set, now he just needed to go hunting for his prey.

You were just coming back from training with Natasha, your skin sheen with sweat and kissed with soft purple bruises from sparring with the Widow. You were laughing at something she had said, giving Steve a small wave before making your way to the communal fridge. He patiently watched as you grabbed your water bottle, your name written in sharpie with stickers on the front. He fidgeted as you took three big gulps, smacking your lips as water dribbled down your chin and onto your chest.

Steve watched as you made your way to your bedroom, he smiled as he noticed a slight stumble in your steps. The drug took faster than he had expected. He waited until he heard the click of the closing door, but it never came. Like a silent shadow, he crept down the hall to the threshold of your room. You were splayed out on the edge of your bed, legs dangling, and your hair a mess.

He couldn’t help himself. He nudged your arm for a response and nothing; you were out cold. A dangerous smirk crossed his face as he knelt down above you, his shadow consuming you in every delicious way possible. He touched your cheek, tracing down to your jaw, and up to your lips. They were so soft, so plump, and oh, so kissable. He tasted you then, molding his lips to yours in a one-sided dance. Steve shivered as he explored your unconscious body, he groped, squeezed, and tasted your salty skin.

He stopped himself. He only had three hours to move you, six tops if his hunch about you skipping breakfast that morning was right. So, he picked up your unconscious body and began the next steps to his plan…

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When you awoke your limbs were stiff and mind foggy. You stretched away the stiffness and rolled onto your side, blindly reaching for your bottle of water. When your hand failed to meet your nightstand, you froze. What the hell? Confused, you reached out again; telling yourself you just misjudged the distance. But when your hand once again met an empty space, you sat up with a start. You looked around the unfamiliar bedroom. The walls were striped, the floor a godawful floral carpet, and the bed had a wooden frame and a blue blanket tucked into the corners. You blinked, thinking that this room would magically melt into your bedroom at the Tower, and when it remained the same, you blinked again for good measure. You stood on shaky legs and looked around the room once more, disbelief clouding your better judgment. The bedroom looked straight out of a 1940’s catalog.

When the lock on the bedroom door jiggled, you whirled around with your fists raised to meet your captor. You were prepared to see a HYDRA Agent or some other villain with a vendetta against you. What you weren’t prepared for was Steve Rogers. He stood dressed in his old military uniform, his hair neatly combed, and his face clean-shaven.

“Steve? What’s going on?” you asked.

“What do you mean?”

What do I mean? “This,” you gesture wildly with your hands in disbelief, “Where are we?”

“Home,” he said calmly.

“Whose home?”

“Ours, honey,”

You narrowed your eyes at the man before you. This couldn’t be your Steve Rogers, this wasn’t your Captain or friend. This was… someone else. You took a tentative step forward, searching for an eerie glow to his blue eyes, for an explanation for his weird behavior. This had to be mind-control, some elaborate HYDRA plot to disarm the Avengers. This wasn’t Steve, right?

“Steve,” you said carefully, “this isn’t our home. We live at the Tower, remember? With Nat, Sam, and Bucky?”

Steve’s frown deepened as you continued to speak to him like an incompetent child, “No. This is our new home, (Y/N). I made it just for us.”

You nodded along as you slowly crept forward toward the door. He shyly stuffed his hands in his pockets as he continued speaking, confessing. When you were close enough, you bolted past him. But you weren’t faster than Steve Rogers. He caught you by the ponytail and threw you back into the bedroom on the floor, kicking the door shut behind him. You scrambled to your feet and into a defensive position as Steve made another grab for you. You twisted and threw a right hook to his jaw, the strength of your powered punch was enough to send him stumbling backward, but it wasn’t enough to win against him. The same serum that made him had made you, too. But you’d be a goddamn idiot to think that you were stronger than Steve Rogers.

You made another run for the exit, but you didn’t get very far as Steve caught you yet again by your ankle. You kicked, punched, scratched, and flailed as he overpowered you. The man straddled your wriggling form and placed his hands around your throat. Squeezing and squeezing until the oxygen caught in your throat and your limbs began to relax. Your arms and legs went lax as your vision began to dot and blacken. When you let out the last wisp of air from your lungs is when Steve released you. You wheezed and gasped like a fish out of the water as you struggled to breathe, to fill your lungs with oxygen once again. You massaged your throat and glared up at Steve who was straightening and dusting off his uniform.

“I’ll only tell you this once, (Y/N). If you disobey me, in any way shape, or form, you’ll be punished. Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warned, “Now, get cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready.”

He opened the closet and pulled out a baby blue dress with silver embroidered star details around the off-shoulder neckline, and set it on the bed before you. You sat on the floor, just silently glaring and snarling as he knelt down in front of you with a small velvet box and diamond ring in hand. He grabbed your left hand and went to place it on your ring finger, but before he could slide the diamond on your finger, you wrenched your hand away and cracked him across the cheek. The slap seemed to echo throughout the room as his jaw ticked in silent anger. Before you could react, Steve pulled his hand back and returned the slap. The impact sent your head whipping sharply to the side, and caused your eyes to water with prickling, unshed tears. Your cheek stung when you touched it.

“I told you, (Y/N),” he sighed, “You made me do that.”

“I didn’t make you do shit, Rogers,” you spit.

You flinched as he pointed an angry and threatening finger in your face, “Language.”

He left you then after reminding you of dinner. Alone in the bedroom, you scowled at the dress that seemed to mock you. You threw it onto the floor and stomped out of the room, fueled by anger and hatred.

You found him in the kitchen, knife in hand as he carved a glazed turkey. His smile dropped as he took in your dress-less form. You were still in your gym clothes from earlier. Steve’s nostrils flared as he set the knife down, he stared at the turkey before turning his gaze to you.

“You’re not wearing the dress,”

“No,” you said flatly.

“And why not?”

You scoffed at him, “Why do you think, Steve?”

He moved his head to the side as he grumbled something under his breath. His knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. You smirked triumphantly, you didn’t know why, but getting under his skin was satisfying. You weren’t going to make this easy for him, and you sure as hell wouldn’t be wearing that damn dress.

As if he had read your mind, he looked back at you with an ominous smile. He rounded the counter and stood in front of you, his large frame so much bigger than yours. In any other scenario, it would’ve been intimidating--having your Captain looming over you so threateningly. But right now, at this moment, you couldn’t care less. You wanted to piss him off, to knock him down off his pedestal. You’d be damned if you bent to his sick will.

Your eyes darted behind Steve to the counter where the knife waited for you. Before he could track your movements, you made a dive for it. Rolling over the island as you quickly readied the knife. You slashed and stabbed at Steve, growling in frustration as he effortlessly blocked and dodged all of your attacks. In one quick and fluid movement, Steve grabbed and twisted your wrist; forcing you to drop the knife. Your heart breaking with the loud clatter as it hits the floor.

Steve dragged you to the table by the back of your neck and slammed your cheek down onto the wood. Empty wine glasses and plates clattered with the impact. You grunted and kicked out your legs blindly, settling for a shin kick--anything. Steve slammed your head against the table once more as you continued to fight against him. He did it again, and again, and again until your vision blurred and your blood splattered against the polished wood. You weakly clawed at the plates and silverware around you, desperately trying to cling onto something. When your fingers wrapped around on a fork, you didn’t hesitate. You stabbed Steve’s thigh and summoned all of your remaining strength to throw him into the wall.

You fell back as you panted for breath, arming yourself with another piece of random cutlery. You threw a steak knife, missing him by just an inch. Steve growled as he dragged you by your kicking legs, hauling you up, just to slam you down onto the table once more. He held your face down as he growled in your ear.

“You have a lot of fight in you, (Y/N). Breaking you is going to be so much fun, honey,”

Slam.

“I’ll beat that spark out of you, if you make me, (Y/N). So why don’t you just be a good girl for me, hmm?”

Steve took hold of your neck once more as he guided you up the stairs and into the bedroom. He shoved you down onto the bed, and you landed on your stomach with a bounce. Your head was throbbing with an uncomfortable fog that settled over your thoughts. You murmured weakly in protest as Steve began to undress you. You felt the blood from your head drip down to your ear and down your neck.

Panic set your heart in motion as you felt him tug your leggings down your legs. Your brain and body kicked into a desperate overdrive as you writhed beneath him. You tried to shove him away, you summoned all of your super strength and thrashed, but you were simply no match for him--you were utterly powerless and at his mercy. His hands explored your thighs, dipping between them and squeezing that soft, supple inner skin. You scrambled to your knees, inadvertently pressing and grinding your ass to his front. He groaned as he moved his hands to your hips, angling them up as he ground down onto you with a silent promise of what was to come.

His hand dipped down and he held his prize within his hand. He groped and you grunted as you clawed blindly at his forearms, grabbing his wrists as he yanked down your cotton panties past your knees. You screamed as he shoved his fingers inside you, forcing his knuckles past your folds. You kicked and cursed him, hoping your struggle would be enough for him to let you go. You screamed louder than you had ever screamed before, so loud your head ached and lungs burned. With an annoyed grunt, Steve wrapped his thick arm around your neck in a chokehold to shut you up. You babbled breathlessly as you slapped at his arm.

“Steve,” you choked, “Please…”

He gave you one last strong warning squeeze before letting you fall flat on your back, coughing and gasping for breath.

“All you had to do was be good for me, (Y/N). I told you, bad girls get punished,”

He withdrew as he undid his fly. You swallowed thickly, wincing as your throat burned from his assault. You grabbed at his wrists, but he just batted your weak hands away as he held you down with one hand. The other gripping his thick, swollen length. You saw the muscles of his stomach tighten as he parted your legs. His grip on the back of your knees was bruising as he held them apart, lining himself up to your entrance. You tried once more to shimmy away, but he had you where he wanted you; vulnerable and open to him. He bent over you, his eyes black with lust, as he invited himself inside of you. He pushed himself inside, agonizingly slow, inch by inch, just relishing in the grip of you. You were too dry, too unwelcoming, but it didn’t matter to him. You were perfect, warm, and tight. He moaned then, as he forced himself deeper into you, pushing and pushing until his pelvis touched yours.

“Steve, please,” you sobbed, “please, stop…”

He shushed your pleas as his face scrunched in pleasure with every shallow thrust. You gritted your teeth to keep yourself silent, you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. But he didn’t seem to notice as he tilted your hips up, finding his own slow, steady rhythm as he fucked into you. He cupped your face and forced his lips onto yours, his tongue swiping and exploring your mouth. You slapped at his head, but he never relented, never pulled back from his searing kiss. He moaned into your mouth as his hips skipped a beat. You took that opportunity, the falter of his hips, to bite down on his tongue. Then, did he finally relent.

He pulled away from you, his hips stilling inside of you. He carefully touched his tender tongue, scowling as he pulled away bloodied fingers. Steve drew back his hand and slapped you across the face. The smack of flesh striking flesh echoed throughout the room. You sneered at him and he frowned in disappointment before cracking you once more. You yelped as he held you down by your neck. Steve had found a new rhythm, and it was relentless. His tempo was fast, and he made sure to never miss a beat as he hammered into your abused cunt. He put pressure on your throat, but not enough to send you into a pool of cold unconsciousness. No… he wanted you awake for this, lucid, and remembering.

His groans and moans grew louder, duetting with the lewd notes of your squelching pussy and his skin slapping against yours. The repulsive symphony he had conducted finally reached its ungodly climax. You sobbed as you felt his warmth flood within you, as he shamelessly emptied himself deep inside of you. He sat back on his haunches, gently pulling himself from your wet grip. Your body instantly curled in on itself, shielding you from the man before you. The man you had once admired. You lay there, just shaking, whether it was from shock or anger, you didn’t know.

You felt as he dropped the baby blue dress with the silver embroidered stars next to you. You sniffled as you looked at the dress in defeat, silently dressing in the blue cotton. When you were dressed, Steve helped you to your feet, holding you against his chest as he gently swayed you. He caressed your head, embracing you gently as if he hadn’t just used your body, as if he was your sweet and loving husband, as if this was normal.

“Dinner is probably cold by now,” he sighed, “It’s okay, though. You can try again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” your voice was smaller now, weaker, afraid.

He hummed, “It’s a wife’s duty to cook and care for her husband, (Y/N). I think I’d like meatloaf for dinner, and apple pie for dessert. What do you think, honey?”

You hesitated, you wanted to spit at him, to curse, to smack, punch, and kick, but your body was frozen against his. When you didn’t reply, his grip on you tightened threateningly, making you flinch.

“Yes, that sounds good, Steve,” you whispered. He kissed your head as he gently swayed you, his warm release slowly dripping down your shaking legs.

[eunoiaastralwings]

Unexcepted Love - Chapter 9

chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven

featuring erestor x reader

fandom tolkien- the silmarillion lord of the rings

a/n surprise! ! ! - sneaky erestor ahead ;)

The elleth head was pounding – when the sun was high enough to come through the windows.

She groaned and turned into her pillow – it was probably past the time for breakfast and Erestor was going to pile her work for being late.

Tara whined hitting her legs and fists against the bed – she might was well face her doom sooner or later.

The clearing of someone’s throat in the room peeked at her interest.

With such care to turned to lie straight – her back against the bed and slowly blinked her eyes open.

Her blurred vision gave her the outline of a tall elf with exquisite black hair, silverish eyes and a sharp jawline clothed in dark green and black – she laughed humorlessly to herself.

There was only one elf she knew that dressed like that – her mind must be playing tricks on her.

But as her vision cleared and she could she more clearly – she frowned – cold silver-green eyes were really looking down at her.

“How much longer do you intend extend your scandalous behavior – and lay on my bed?”

The elleth gasped – she shot upright and held the blankets to her chest in shock.

“What? – Are you crazy? -What are you doing in my room?”

She shouted.

“Do not mean my room, lady Tara?”

Erestor raised an eyebrow.

It was then the elleth looked around the room – the bed, the covers, the windows and the furniture were all different – not to mention larger than the room she was given.

She gulped – then pulled her lose messy hair behind her ear and looked sheepishly at him.

What happened after she tried to retire to her room? – She remembered leaving Lady Taniara’s and Lady Arwen’s side walking – or slightly swaying to her room – how did she end up in Erestor’s room?

She watched through her long eyelashes and Erestor fixed his sleeves – then took the steaming cup of herbal tea from the bedside table and presented to her.

Quietly – she took the cup and blew steaming liquid and slowly began to drink it.

“Hurry up – it is almost noon. Taniara has already looked for since you had missed breakfast – it took multiple lies to steer her away!”

He grumbled and fixed his sleeves again – she wondered if it was a nervous act.

But Tara could never imagine Erestor – the usually cold and confident advisor and librarian of Rivendell being nervous.

“You lied more me?”

She meekly asked.

Erestor’s usual scowl had returned – then raised his eyebrow again – the elleth felt like a little elfling whenever he did.

“Would you rather I ruined your reputation? Declare you came drunk into a ellon’s chamber?”

Tara almost chocked on her drink – she coughed and tapped her cheeks trying to stop the coloring on her cheeks.

She was sure she was red in the face in embarrassment.

Drunk? – She entered his chambers completely drunk? – Oh only Eru knows what she was done – and the ellon in front of her.

“Drunk?”

Saying she was embarrassed was an understatement – she was horrified too.

The ellthe quickly brought her knees closer – could she even look at Erestor in eye anymore? – Would he even let her?

Was she that desperate of a love – that possibly could never happen?

The elleth was too focused on her thought – trying to get over her embarrassment first of all, she was so angry with herself and second trying to remember what happened – when suddenly, Erestor dipped to her sitting height, his hands on the bed.

He moved so fast, the elleth’s eye widened – leaning back quickly.

The elleth dropped her cup in the process – thankfully there wasn’t much left in it to soak in entire bedsheets, only a sip remained.

He was so close – oh Eru, there was only a breath’s space between them.

From this close she could see – his eyes weren’t silver at all, but a silverish blue, with hints of green – by the Valar, he was the most handsome ellon she had seen.

Erestor leaned in on purpose – he watched her intensely, her every move and every breath she took – she was a beautiful sight.

But it wasn’t her beauty he was currently interested – but her mind, he as trying to see if their closeness made her remember the words from last night – and when their lips touched.

“M- . . Master Erestor?”

She could smell his scent and his minty breath – and with her current state it only made her feel dizzy.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

It didn’t suddenly take long to understand he meant last night.

“Master Erestor, I apologize – for whatever ill behavior I have-“

But Tara’s sentence was suddenly cut off with her yelp – when Erestor suddenly pushed her down on the bed – his arm came around her waist too.

“Apologizing should be the last thing should be doing, meleth nin. . .”

Tara’s eye widened when he called her that.

“What – ? Nmph!”

Erestor suddenly dipped down and kissed her – his arm on her waist tightening.

It didn’t last long – he never gave her time to process the things happening.

“Mark my words, Tara – Am not letting go off you so easily. . . – not after what you told me last night. I’ll make you remember, meleth.”

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