#ironically a tried an true tip in itself

[spacebubblehomebase]

I've said this recently, but I now think others deserve to know this as well: Mistakes are normal. No one's perfect and human flaws will continue to exist because... well, it's human. WE'RE human. But the only time mistakes can turn truly bad is if we never learn from them and we don't do anything to fix it right after. To atone from them, correct them, and admit to them. We did this thing. It sucks as shit. But what can we do to make things right again? Even if things don't go back exactly the way they were, there's always something you can do as long as you want for it. As long as you try. You're allowed to feel bad for them as feelings are also an expected and integral part of our human nature and is not something you should ever feel ashamed off, but remember also that you must not allow yourself to be ruled over by the guilt for so long that you never do anything at all and if you can't do it alone? There's no shame in asking for help either. Everyone around you is a human too and they live, make mistakes, and learn just as you do. So who better to help each other than us? We can only keep moving forward.

lots of times if I tell my boyfriend that I am proud of him for dealing with a situation, or that I'm sorry he's having to deal with a situation, he will say "no it's my own fault." meaning that he feels like he doesn't deserve praise or comfort for dealing with a situation that is his fault. (for example a financial problem caused or exacerbated by him having been too anxious or absentminded to deal with the situation sooner.) and I tell him this and I will tell y'all this, that I don't believe that. I think you are even braver and stronger for taking steps to deal with a mess that is of or partly of your own creation, because you have to cope with guilt and shame on top of the thing itself, and because you're fighting against the same ingrained dysfunction in yourself that caused the mess. that's like the bravest and most constructive thing you can do and you should be proud and I am proud of you.

[talesofesther]

a touch of emotion

Connor x Reader

Summary: After the meeting with Kamski, Connor feels conflicted and lost, luckily you're there to hold his hand through it.

A/N: DBH is one of my main comfort games, and it was about time I wrote a little something for my favorite boy from it. If anyone would like to see more of Connor here, let me know. <3

Masterlist

"Why didn't you shoot?" Hank inquires, narrowing his eyes inquisitively.

"I just saw that girl's eyes… And I couldn't…" Connor answers back, his voice edging on desperate. "That's all."

A howling wind prickles your skin like tiny needles. It was such a cold day, no wonder you hadn't been keen on coming out here today. Leaning back on the hood of Hank's car and pulling your coat tighter around yourself, you watch from afar as Connor tries to justify his choice, even if it had been the right one to make.

He intrigues you. Because for someone who keeps saying he's just a machine trying to accomplish a task, he acts way more human than a lot of people you know. Even on the day you'd met him, he was already all curious and talkative, you couldn't recall meeting any android like him before.

Connor has changed ever since you started working together, you realize it now more than ever. He's becoming softer, personality starting to shine through the cracks as his decisions become increasingly emotionally driven.

"Cyberlife's last chance to save humanity, is itself a deviant."

Kamski's words echoed inside your mind, as did Connor's panicked and distressed expression when he promptly denied it. Ironic, you think to yourself; he shouldn't feel as troubled as he does if what Kamski said is not true.

And that same feeling now lingers. Once they were done talking, Hank took a few steps away to make a call, most likely to the precinct judging by the scowl on his face; and Connor can't stand still, he's pacing around, fidgeting with the cuffs of his blazer as the snow shifts under his feet. There's a permanent frown on his eyebrows, he looks almost… lost, his LED with an insistent yellow color and gaze unfocused on the distance.

You worry your lower lip between your teeth, torn between reaching out to him or keeping to yourself. The snow falls heavier now, and you can feel the tips of your fingers slowly going numb. You've always liked the cold, yet it seems the cold doesn't like you.

Between the snow, the frozen lake, and the white horizon of the frigid weather, Connor stands out. He's holding onto his own arms, hugging himself, and you find it endearingly human, as if he's subconsciously trying to find a way to comfort himself.

You lay your palms flat on the hood of the car and push yourself away, walking up to him before you can think things through. The snow crunching under your feet doesn't seem to call his attention. "Connor?" You say gently, reaching out to him with your hand but stopping short of actually touching him. You hesitate. When did he start making you nervous?

"You okay?"

Those warm and tender brown eyes of his regard you with curiosity, lips half parted as he struggles on what to say. The LED on his temple switched from blue to yellow and blue again. "I- yes. I think I'm fine." Snowflakes are clinging to his hair and falling softly onto the skin of his cheeks; they compliment his features, always so gentle.

You offer him a small, comforting smile. He's still figuring himself out. It was okay, you were patient.

"I'm… sorry," Connor begins again, avoiding looking you directly in the eyes. He purses his lips and closes his eyes for a moment longer, and you doubt you've ever seen any android be this expressive.

"I compromised our investigation," he pauses, "I should have been more efficient." And reprimands himself.

You're shaking your head before he's even done talking. "No, don't say that," you take a step closer to him as your heart holds your reasoning hostage, one hand wrapping around Connor's wrist to keep him with you. "Don't say that when you've made the right choice, Connor."

There was a beat, Connor's face does something complicated that you cannot read, and when he looks up at you again, his gaze is almost too much. The amount of emotion he looked at you with nearly made you choke on air.

"But… we didn't learn anything." His voice is quiet, barely there, as if he doesn't care for his own argument and is only looking for an excuse to hear more of your voice.

"I don't care," the words fall from your lips before you can debate if you should even be saying them out loud at all.

Connor seems surprised, caught off guard as his eyebrows raise just slightly at how fast and true you spoke. His eyes keep searching your face for… something. You couldn't be sure of what exactly he was looking for. Maybe even he doesn't know yet.

Your heart stumbles on your chest when you see Connor gulping and his eyes avoiding yours again. Only then do you realize that the hand you held his wrist with had drifted lower, your fingers now gently grazing his palm. His skin feels comfortingly warm and soft, a pleasant touch sending goosebumps down your spine.

It was all foreign territory to him, you knew it, felt it in the way he tried timidly closing his fingers around your own. His movements are slow, uncertain, and tentative, bordering on afraid.

How naive of you, to be having such feelings for an android. Yet when he's the most caring, honest, endearing, and gentle person you know, how could you not?

Hank told you once; "I think you're breaking our android huh." He'd said it right after Connor had gone through the trouble of finding an umbrella just so you didn't have to stand under the heavy rain, even if you tried telling him you didn't mind. And you'd taken it as a joke back then, not really understanding the hidden meaning behind your older partner's teasing look.

Yet as you hold onto Connor's hand now, feeling the way his thumb shyly brushes your skin, you wonder if he feels it too, if he's willing to feel the same as you do. If you could dare to hope.

"All I care about," you speak slow and careful, syllables heavy on your tongue. You clear your throat so your voice doesn't sound as tender as you feel. "is that… that you didn't let him manipulate you, that you followed your heart." You bring your free hand up to his chest, right on top of where you can faintly feel his thirium pump working overtime.

Connor looked to be about to speak, perhaps to try and correct you about your choice of words, yet all he does is open and close his mouth, eyes trained on yours and LED swirling with a permanent yellow color. For a moment you wonder if he's analyzing you, and worry about what he may find. His hold on your hand tightens ever so slightly; you don't think he realizes he's doing it.

"I'm glad you didn't pull the trigger, Connor. I'm proud of you."

It's barely a second, his LED flashing red before going back to yellow and eventually, slowly, blue; but you see it. He blinked a couple of times as if processing your words or how to feel about them.

"I-" Connor's eyes seem hazy, their tender brown only a thin ring around his blown pupils. His fingers now tangle with yours. "I feel-"

"Alright kids, let's go." Hank's voice sounds all too loudly as he unintentionally breaks the bubble that cocooned you and Connor. "Fowler wants us back in the precinct." The lieutenant speaks with an annoyed undertone as he stuffs his phone back in his pocket.

You're still caught up in the feeling of Connor's skin on yours, in how you're now so hyper-aware of just how close he's standing to you. Connor, it seems, isn't much different.

When there's no answer, Hank finally looks your way and gestures you over; "come on, get a move on, I don't wanna hear another lecture about arriving late," he insists, before plopping himself into the driver's seat, murmuring something about damn love-birds.

Despite the cold, you can feel a warmth coming up to your cheeks. Without mustering the courage to meet Connor's gaze, you focus on the way his hand fits so perfectly with yours. His fingers are awkwardly intertwined with yours, holding strong and gentle at the same time.

Connor seems reluctant to let go. It hits you that perhaps he won't. You could dwell on a thousand reasons of why, or not think at all and simply bask in the feeling. But right now time isn't on your side.

You take a deep breath, and risk a glance up at him.

Any words you were about to say suddenly feel clogged up in your throat. Oh, Connor tilts his head in that endearing way you're so fond of, yet the look in his eyes is one you've never caught before; you can't name it, it feels dangerous to try, but he looks as if he just realized something.

"Come on," you tug on his hand, just about managing the timid words, "we have to go."

Connor follows quietly, his hand steady on yours until you reach the car and are forced to part.

As Hank drives, you watch Connor through the rearview mirror; there's a newfound lightness to him, a warmth to his eyes that makes you feel fuzzy inside. And when he catches your gaze, and smiles, you know he feels it too.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Connor’s taglist: @milkiane@v1ci0us

[ariseur]

So excited to see a new DMC writer on Tumblr 🎉🎉 could I request just some domestic headcanons with Dante?

domestic dante hc’s 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

dante (devil may cry) x reader

┊ ˚➶ notes ｡˚ 🎼

thank you for this req!! saw the lack of dmc fics and decided to just make some myself lol. hope you guys enjoy my stuff 💕

┊ ˚➶ warnings ｡˚ 🎼

few curse words? just lots of fluff mainly

. ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄ . ˚◞♡ ⃗ *ೃ༄

❥ oh my gosh please take care of DANTE because he honestly neglects himself and his place

❥ whatever you do, don’t imagine you and dante doing dishes—an activity he absolutely hates—while you tell him all the gossip you find out

❥ he simply gasps and ‘ooh’s at everything, mouth occasionally dropping open at certain scandals

❥ he’s literally the perfect person to gossip with

❥ whatever you do, don’t imagine running your hands through dante’s hair as you lather the shampoo, the suds tinted a dark red and brown from all the blood and grime of his job as he throws his head back with a groan

❥ whatever you do, DON’T imagine dante placing his hands on your waist as he tugs you closer to him, feet coming down from their resting spot on the desk so you could stand between his legs as he looks up at you with gazing blue eyes

❥ i am feral oh my goodness

❥ and definitely don’t imagine tending to the bruises and scrapes that he comes home with

❥ even though dante’s body perfectly capable of healing itself, he loves when you baby him

❥ because he’s at work a lot or is tryna pay off his bills, he loves just coming home and spending time with you when he can

❥ honestly collapses on the couch (or bed, whichever’s closer) and encourages you to join, face still buried in the pillow as he beckons you over with an open hand

❥ if you wear makeup and fall asleep with it on, dante will try his best to clean it off for you

❥ except he’s like.. rlly bad at it lmfao

❥ but the thoughts there!! he’s trying his best 💔💔

❥ the type of guy to call you the cheesiest nicknames tho

❥ like.. babycakes? really 😭?

❥ also gives light swats at your ass if you bend over, i’m sorry but it’s true

❥ likes touching you with at least some part of his body, if you sleep then your legs gotta lock or if you’re on the couch his arms around you

❥ but good luck because this man is a FURNACE

❥ if you have anemia / low iron or like any other condition where you can get pretty cold, this man is your lifeline

❥ read a fic about dante carrying like tons of bags after he spoiled you and went shopping with you despite not even having money to pay bills at the devil may cry and let me just say i am an avid believer of that as well

❥ you’ll literally be walking away from a cute necklace or pair of shoes and then you turn around and think wheres dante?

❥ then you just see him hauling ass towards you as he tries to keep up with all the bags he has in his hands while you spot the small rectangular velvet box in his hands

❥ ugh

❥ i wont him

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈ ｡ﾟ

DANTE watched as soft snores fell from your parted lips, hair splayed out below you crazily. he knew those would be a bitch to comb out later, but he couldn’t focus on anything else on the fact that the sunlight was hitting you just right, your skin coated in a deep gold as it reflected off your body.

you could’ve told dante you were an angel, and he would’ve believed you in a heartbeat. he’ll admit, he was a sucker for moments like these. even if seemed odd in retrospect, he just enjoyed seeing you so serene.

his eyes flickered around the room, trying to find a way to occupy his brain without waking you up before they finally fell on the black plastic remote that lay under your head.

dante’s hand slowly inched over, fingers almost tip-toeing their way over to you as he touched the remote. he was careful to pull it from under you, tugging it very slightly despite the weight of your head resting on it.

you stirred, making dante’s eyes widen as he paused his movements and bit his lip, even making a point so as to hold his breath. you licked your lips, dry from sleep as your head turned over to the other side of the pillow, sighing as you felt the coolness beneath your face.

dante exhaled in relief, before grabbing the remote and turning the tv off as he made sure to turn the volume down so you wouldn’t awake. even if a few minutes later you did anyways.

your eyelashes fluttered open as you caught dante muttering something at the tv, his eyes glued to some crappy reality tv show as they cut to an interview of a girl on the show. he scowled when he saw her, to which you softly laughed, tone gravelly from the thick coat of sleep still layering your voice. dante turned his head, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear as he softly shushed you and coaxed you to go back to sleep.

“‘s alright, just go back to sleep baby.”

“can’t really go back to sleep when you’re shit-talking the contestants, dante.” you smiled at him as he admired you, gazing down upon you as you stretched your limbs and rubbed the sleep away from your eyes, attention turning to the tv.

“what season is this?” you asked. dante’s hand never left your hair as his hands ran through it, careful not to snag on any tangles before responding with a quiet, “three.”

and in that moment when you looked back at him, eyes filled to the brim with nothing but adoration, he could’ve sworn his heart had stopped. dante felt as if the sun favored you, because every time you stepped in it, somehow you looked absolutely ethereal.

yeah, dante thought, he liked these small moments you two shared.

myvampyrez™

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ this is my only account. there should be no works similar or identical to mine under any name on any other website. i am not on wattpad or ao3 or anywhere else, only tumblr. i do not give permission for my work to be plagiarized, translated, or shared anywhere else unless it is reblogged here on tumblr.

[jon-snows-man-bun]

By Turns

Chapter Nine

The closer Eris gets to his goals the harder he has to work to keep all plates spinning. Tensions simmer underneath his new alliances, pulling him into the Hewn City where the impact of Rhysand’s rule shapes the future.

Masterlist

Find this fic on AO3

A/N: Chapter contains explicit smut, reproductive coercion, references to murder and suicide, and some minor Rhysand slander.

Aisling didn’t know what happened. One second she had been consumed entirely by the stretch and delicious friction of Eris moving within her, the curtain of his red hair, the intensity in his amber eyes. The way the gold chain around his neck caught the firelight. Pleasure had been burning through, blazing to the tips of her toes, molten in her belly, when he had pushed her legs back to her shoulders. She thought it was a cramp for half a second, then it seized her heart and burned.

Worse than being hit. Worse than a whip. It felt like a hot poker laid to her chest. Everything she’d ever read about mating bonds said it was almost a holy experience, a union of souls; novels made it sound delicate and romantic. It felt like violence to her, like a finger had been stabbed in below her heart and hooked around her rib. Like the bond had been stitched into the bone itself, and she felt every pull of the needle.

But an orgasm had been barrelling to her like a falling boulder, undeterred by pain or fate. It slammed into her and she felt like a falling star, nothing but a wave of light and heat, the pain and the pleasure knotted up together. Eris had pressed his face into her neck as he reached his own end with a shuddering gasp, spilling inside her.

They were left panting for a moment as they came down, staring at each other like strangers. His eyes were running over her face, and he looked as rattled as she felt; as if his life had been flipped upside down and dropped.

Eris had flecks of gold and brown in his amber eyes, she noticed suddenly, and a very faint scar by the edge of his hairline. His thumb ran over the point of her ear softly, a shockingly tender gesture. Neither of them spoke.

His cock was still in her, still hard as an iron rod. Aisling remembered that as he shifted and felt shy suddenly, pinned down beneath him. Her face flamed red at the unbearable intimacy of it all. She felt completely bare before him, as if this absurd bond was more an invasion than what he’d just done to her.

She never expected a mate, in her small little City. She didn’t know what to do now that she had one. Just laying with Eris would have been fine, impersonal because of the transactional nature of it all. But now he was linked to her in a way that was soul-deep. Aisling didn’t want her soul to be known.

“Tell me,” Eris ordered her, studying the redness in her cheeks, the way she was suddenly unable to look him in the eye.

“You’re naked,” she whispered, making him huff a laugh.

“Is that objectionable to you now?” He murmured. His voice was thick and low, honeyed on the edges. It made her shiver with desire all over again.

Eris rolled off her, catching her when she tried to rise, pulling her to him. Aisling didn’t try overly hard to resist, some part of her compelled at the thought of nestling against him. She settled against the warmth of his lean, muscled chest. It felt right, even if she was caught between desire and distress.

Something in her was purring in satisfaction, golden and warm and content to be in his arms. He circled them around her firmly, amber eyes distant. But she couldn’t shake the uncomfortable vulnerability, as if she had shared too much with him accidentally. It was the same feeling of exposure as telling a secret to someone she shouldn’t have.

But Aisling had read that mates could sense each other’s strong emotions; she wasn’t sure what was true and what was a romantic fantasy. Was any of that anxiety coming from him? His heart beat under her ear, in time with her own now, tied together forever –

Eris hissed, shifting under her. “Don’t pull on it,” he complained, but one hand gently stroked her hair.

“I didn’t realise I had,” Aisling frowned, cautiously feeling the new magic in her chest, nestled beside her own, encompassing it.

“If you do it again, we’re going to have words,” Eris cautioned her, dark and taunting now. Some of the shock was ebbing away from him; she could feel him, the thing writhing in her heart. She touched her breast absently, almost expecting the skin to be hotter where she could feel his fire burning.

“I think we need to have words regardless,” Aisling said. Eris merely turned to study her, eyes blazing again. Whatever he’d been contemplating before, she had his full attention again now. His face was pale and blank, caught in the flickering light of his fire. She had no idea what he was thinking - either the touted bond was defunct, or he wasn’t feeling anything at all.

He was so handsome it was painfully unfair. What chance did she stand? How could she ever resist him?

“Later,” he said, and gave the golden thread a tug.

———————

Eris had never known his cock could be this hard, or that he could fuck so much in one night. He felt insatiable; all his desire for Aisling explained and intensified.

Aisling – his mate – pleaded for mercy sometime in the middle of the night, straddling his lap. She had whimpered into his neck even as she rode him to her finish, face a beautiful twist of pain and ecstasy. He almost took pity on her. If he thought he wanted her before, it was nothing compared to the well of desire that had been tapped in him now. He could feel it in her, too, responding to him, answering his call.

In truth, he didn’t know when or if he’d have her again. The anxiety of the choice that lay before him made him frantic. He had never wanted a serious entanglement, let alone a mate, because of the danger from his father. He had learned well from Lucien’s mistakes. Sure, he was the heir and the favoured son, but he’d be walking a knife’s edge to keep Beron happy lest Aisling take his place in the dungeons for any missteps he made. And the danger posed to him by her, by the way she would be held against him to manipulate him – it was unacceptable. Even as they made a wreckage of the bedsheets, Eris felt himself letting go.

It was a sliver of ash in his heart, a pain so acute that it drove him on ferociously to pin her down and lick her cunt until she came gasping his name again. It wasn’t so much Aisling – she was a stranger, really – but that she was meant to be his equal, someone who could have been his above all else, were everything different.

One person he could rely upon entirely. A fantasy.

He couldn’t see an immediate path forward. He wouldn’t put her at risk by bringing her to Autumn, let alone that he would have to beg fucking Rhysand to release her from the Court of Nightmares. He couldn’t even stomach putting her at risk by claiming her in front of her vicious, scheming shithole of a home; she’d be snapped up and leveraged against him by any number of his so-called allies in Night.

Aisling finally fell asleep after hours of begging him alternately for more and to stop, curled against his chest, sweaty and utterly wrung out. Eris couldn’t help the smirk as he stroked her hair back. Poor female – he’d taken her maidenhood and fucked her into absolute oblivion in the same night. He’d intended to be far gentler, to trick her that he was the sort of considerate male who wouldn’t pin her by the back of her neck before him and rut her like an animal. The mating bond was bringing out his worst impulses.

That was another thought. He didn’t want to be reduced to the sort of territorial, insufferable male that Rhysand and the bastard were, but he could see how quickly he could spiral into possession and obsession with Aisling. He recounted all the mated couples he’d known of, all the ones that ended in disaster for everyone but the gloating males. Rhysand’s own father came to mind, as did the previous High Lord of Spring. The odds seemed poor, in his estimation. He had grown up in a house where a father fashioned his love into a weapon and his entire family’s burden. Perhaps that predisposition was lurking in his blood, the mating bond potent enough to call it forth when his formidable willpower could have otherwise kept it down.

Eris idly wondered how Lucien had coped, all this time. Having Aisling near him was almost painful now, a longing to touch her and know her so strong it twisted against his ribs. Perhaps because his brother’s own mate was, by all accounts, an insipid, beautiful wallflower. He supposed that could be thought of Aisling as well, but he knew the truth. He’d seen her true temperament, the Unseelie in her. She’d been sired by a Court of killers and liars; her blood would hold true.

His brow furrowed anew as he watched her sleep. He would have accepted the bond, even knowing as little of Aisling as he did now. She was clever and could keep secrets; she would be merciless by his side if he could convince her to give him her loyalty. She was half of him. A rare gift, given to one who had nothing and no one. Through choice and through force, he was alone. In the house where Beron could take everything from everyone including their souls, it was far easier to have nothing to lose in the first place.

Eris watched the rise and fall of her chest, the way she had curled into him, already seeking safety in his arms. The golden bond glittered bright, still unfamiliar, still shocking. Having her asleep on him, naked and sated, utterly drenched in his scent, felt right in a soul-deep way. It soothed a jagged part of him, somewhere deep in his soul.

He kept turning the situation over and over in his mind, trying to anticipate all outcomes; trying to reason out what others would do. He would explain to her, keep her as safe as she could be here; run his plans for Beron’s assassination as quickly as he could get away with. He’d come back for her then, once he was High Lord. Rhysand couldn’t stand in the way then, couldn’t balk and threaten to sell him out to Beron if he insisted on taking her as was his right. He’d learned this lesson from Lucien, too; watching his little brother scrape his way across Prythian to rebuild Night’s tenuous alliances, only for Rhysand to topple any progress with his arrogance and self-serving nature when he decided he wanted something more than he wanted to appear like a misunderstood martyr. And all for a vapid doll of a mate who wouldn’t even look at him, by the reports he got. It was painful to watch.

Rhysand would have Eris dancing to the same tune, if he could. He’d managed to get Lucien on the hook by insisting that it was Elain’s choice; Lucien played along. Lucien also had no leverage against Rhysand, and likely wouldn’t have used it even if he did have it, trying to convince his own mate to want him.

Eris differed in both ways. He’d simply take Aisling if he had to, as was his right. He doubted Rhysand’s philosophy of choice extended as far as the Hewn City, anyways; if Aisling decided she hated Eris as so many others did and begged to stay, Rhysand would still send her to Eris if he could benefit from it. He was predictable in that regard. Morrigan certainly wouldn’t have been happy about Rhysand allowing access to Velaris, and still Rhysand had bargained it away, knowing it would hurt her. Aisling wasn’t part of his insufferable little family; there would be no silk gloves in her treatment.

He slept at some point, wrapped around Aisling, nose pressed into her hair to breath in her rose and mist smell. He woke to her trying to pry herself out of his arms carefully, as if she could escape without waking him. As if he could do anything now but be attuned to her every move.

“I tried not to wake you. You looked as if you were sleeping well,” she said, sitting up and pulling the blanket with her. Eris tugged it loose irritably. This shyness again? He had her half a dozen ways last night and her soul was bound to his. Eris knew she was no shy maiden under her dark-eyed, coy act.

“I had the most pleasant of dreams,” he said, rolling onto his back and propping his arms behind his head. He smirked when he felt her desire flare in her, sharp and hot, as her eyes darted to his bare chest.

“The moon has set,” Aisling said, looking away, a sweet little blush on her face. “Send your dreams away for the day.”

“I far prefer these waking moments,” Eris said, unable to look away from her. A lush slip of moonlight, here in his bed, belonging to him. His lovely stranger, his dark mirror. “How do you know the moon is set?”

She gave him a strange look. “You cannot tell?”

“No,” he said, sitting up now. “Is it a trick of the Solar fae? The rest of us are not privy to much Night Court magic. You’ll educate me in all its secrets.”

“A lady is entitled to her secrets,” she demurred.

“Not mine,” Eris answered with absolute certainty.

Aisling tossed her hair arrogantly over her shoulder. “A presumption on both counts, lord,” she said, and Eris couldn’t help the quirk of his lips. There was a fierce creature in there, buried beneath layers of Night Court bullshit. She’d be magnificent in Autumn, under his tutelage.

“Hardly,” he snorted. “You’re my mate, Aisling. You belong to me.”

Some complicated feeling ran over her face, through the bond, too quickly for him to identify. Annoyance and desire and hope and despair, all at once, then gone as she mastered herself. She turned to dress herself, trying to hide her feelings from him. She hadn’t yet learned that her heart was open to him, that he’d come to know her as she knew herself.

“And if I belong to you, do I also belong with you, lord?” She said, looking at him back over her shoulder. He began pulling on his clothes as well, considering his words. Of course she would want to leave here. She didn’t yet know that Autumn would be as much a prison for her as it stood currently.

“In time,” he said. “I have matters I must resolve before you can join me.”

Eris could see the crushing disappointment written in the way her shoulders dipped. She turned away swiftly, hiding her face from him. She desired privacy; he didn’t reach for her, as badly as he wanted to. She had so little agency, he could give her this.

“And when would your matters be resolved?” Aisling asked stiffly.

“I cannot say.” He wouldn’t – anything she knew endangered her, as well as him. Her shoulders set back like a bull, and she turned to face him, face a pleasant mask once more. She was angry, he could tell.

“Autumn is dangerous,” he said, pinning her with a stare so she knew he meant it. “Especially so for you, an outsider. I cannot focus on your safety with you there and so much in play.”

“More dangerous than the City?” Aisling asked, a hard edge in her voice. “There is no such. We are the worst that can be.”

She wasn’t necessarily wrong.

“A different danger,” he hedged. “You know nothing of Autumn. It is a cruel place and a greater risk to you than here.”

“Far more cruel for you to leave me here,” she said, twisting her hair back quickly, her harried motion giving away her frustration. “Far more cruel for you to come, have your use of me, and go.”

“You were bred for such a purpose, were you not?” Eris snapped. “What else did you presume your role would be here?”

Her eyes narrowed in fury. The bond between them strained with it. “To be in my lord’s bed at all hours, of course,” she said sweetly. “What other purpose could I serve? How else could I be a good mate?”

“I’ll tie you to my bedframe if that’s what you desire,” Eris said sharply, losing his hold on his temper. He struggled to keep control around her. “I’ll take you from here when I am ready and you can serve me all you like. For now, listen to what I’m telling you and mind yourself here, keep yourself safe.”

“My safety is not some small thing within my control,” Aisling snapped back, her own mask slipping.

“Enough,” Eris sneered, and the fire in the hearth danced to his anger. “It’s how it must be. Now, if you’d like to hasten your exit, you’ll be a good mate and tell me everything there is to know about the Night Court.”

“Of course, my lord,” she said, saccharine as she sauntered to the door. “It’s less dangerous than the Autumn Court and full of fair and gentle females. Our males are purring, toothless kittens. What else is there to know?”

“Aisling!” He barked, the firelight flaring brightly, but she had already stepped through the door and shut it softly behind her. Eris snarled at the closed door, only the knowledge that there would be others in the corridor keeping him from flinging it open and dragging her back.

Eris fumed as he got himself together, preparing to winnow back to Autumn for the foreseeable future. One night, and they were bringing out the worst in each other. He’d unleashed her, he supposed. He’d wanted her claws, to know who she was beneath her artifice. To reassure himself that he couldn’t trample her. He’d had a fantasy of her slotting in next to him, his ally and consort and confidante all in one, ready-made by the Mother. The idea was seductive.

As Eris stalked through the halls of the palace, winding towards the main gate, he carefully mastered himself. Aisling was young, he reasoned, and frustrated with her lot. She would obey – she had no choice – and once he was on the throne, he’d be able to give her whatever her little heart desired and fuck her whenever he desired. She’d come to hand when she realised that by playing patient, she’d get her freedom and become the Lady of Autumn. Surely she desired that.

As he left the Hewn City behind, winnowing straight to the gates of the Forest House, he carefully arranged his expression into aloof arrogance, a cruel little smirk. He had a mate to protect as well, now. It was time to begin moving.

———————

Aisling ignored the whispers as she walked back to her home.

The guards in the palace were utter professionals, used to worse comings and goings than her own, and ignored her. It was only when she was in the City proper that she heard it begin. Simply enough, with a courier looking at her twice. She bared her teeth and the boy scampered away. She passed a cafe table and heard conversation between the three males stop as she approached then pick back up, more sharply, once she was a few steps away. Two females walking with their armed guard looked at her, looked at each other, then giggled behind their hands.

It was all a test. She ignored it.

It was only once she was back in her room with the door firmly shut did she crumple, sliding to the floor. She had been so hopeful, so stupidly hopeful – he had played with her, had courted her, and then this stupid fucking bond –

Eris was a liar. He had encouraged her to think for herself, to make her own moves; now he told her to shut her mouth and stay put. She could guess well enough what wicked business he had to attend to, but he was five centuries old. Would it take another five hundred years, to create a so-called safe enough Autumn for her to leave this fucking place? She’d kill herself before then, or be killed, and her head would hang above the palace gates with the rest. There was no safe place. Not in the Night Court, not anywhere. He was naive for thinking otherwise.

Mate bonds were meant to be sacred. Aisling thought, staring at him after it happened, that he was her lifeline. Her mirror, showing her what she always knew, that she didn’t belong trapped in one place. The disappointment that the bond was nothing but a hindrance to him burned through her like his fire. She buried her face in her hands, and gave herself ten deep breaths to let the feelings run their course. She breathed them out, to join all the other misery and pain and sadness in this place. The stone walls here had seen so much, and they would see more – her little burden could join the rest. She carefully picked herself up once more, and undressed to bathe, to try to cleanse his crisp, smoky scent from her.

As she walked by her bed to her bathing chamber she paused, suddenly noticing that there was a gift, waiting for her on her pillow. One she had forgotten she needed, in truth.

Aisling picked up the bottle of contraceptive tonic delicately. She had never seen it before. Healers were forbidden from creating it in the City – every child was a blessing, they said. If the Mother and the male atop you willed it, then you would be the vessel regardless of your opinion on the matter. Little bastard males were destined for the Darkbringers if they had the gift, which Aisling suspected was really the priority.

You could get it, of course, if you had enough gold and were willing to brave the floating markets. Or if you knew a healer willing to betray the law. You could never be sure what you were taking, though. Aisling had known of a girl a bit younger than her who had fallen foul of a bad tonic. She was not quite as wealthy, so was not educated with her and Niamh and the others; the details of the story were hearsay. The girl had been courted by a male, some massively promising young warrior, and had begun laying with him before they were wed though her father had forbidden it and grown furious. When she continued, her father had either found the girl’s tonic and poisoned it or convinced a healer to do it for him; the story changed. Either way, she was dead as dead could be within the moon’s turn. Any idle daydreams Aisling had about compromising her own maidenhood evaporated after that, especially when she saw the female’s former betrothed courting again outside of a year, as if nothing had happened at all.

Which risk was worse? The chance of falling pregnant, or the chance of the tonic being tainted? Aisling considered it as she sniffed the tonic. It smelled faintly herbal but not unpleasant. A pregnancy after one night together was unheard of, but – she blushed thinking of it – the seed of mates was said to catch more easily and Eris had certainly taken his use of her throughout the night.

The Mother hadn’t particularly been her ally in all this, Aisling decided. She would not leave it to Her hands, lest she be betrayed twice. If she died, then she died, and Eris would be sorry he hadn’t taken her from here. Hopefully he would drown in his tears, if he was capable of crying. She drank the tonic and kept it down, which she hoped was a good sign the brew wasn’t counterfeit.

Aisling drew the bathwater herself and bathed entirely in the dark, soaking in her great carved obsidian tub for far longer than she needed to. She waited for tears, but they never came.

[bright-side20]

Ruhn & Lidia ✴️🔆

With a sparkle of Elriel because I can't not talk about them duh

While rereading CC2 I focused on Ruhn and Lidia because the last time I was focusing more on Quinlar and I've missed details.

Snow Queen:

I believe the retelling of The story of Ruhn and Lidia will be inspired by the snow queen story.First because of the story Lidia told Ruhn and that actually was about her :

there lived a young witch in a cottage deep in the woods. She was beautiful, and kind, and beloved by her mother. (...)

As she ran, she pleaded with the forest she loved so dearly to help her. So it did. First, it transformed her into a deer, so she might be as swift as the wind. But his hounds outraced her, closing in swiftly(...) But the prince was a skilled archer, and he fired one of his iron- tipped arrows.” “The forest turned the witch into a monster before she hit the earth. A beast of claws and fangs and bloodlust. She ripped the prince and hounds who pursued her into shreds.”

“ one day, a warrior arrived in the forest.(..) . She set out to slaughter him, but when the warrior beheld her, he was not afraid. He stared at her, and she at him, and he wept because he didn’t see a thing of nightmares, but a creature of beauty. He saw her, and he was not afraid of her, and he loved her.”.... “His love transformed her back into a witch, melting away all that she’d become. "

The Snow Queen is known as a villainous character, yet we don't know anything about her backstory or motives. What if she's also cursed? What if she also needs someone like Gerda who will truly see and love her to break the curse? That's what Ruhn did; he saw Lidia for who she truly is, loved her for it, and made her remember who she is. That she's not the person she's been portraying. Opened to her about his secret and insecurities they both saw each other. He'll accept her for who she is, even after discovering her true identity and job.

I really like that this is a parallel between them and Elriel, because they also saw each other for who they actually are and fell for each other for it. For me Elain represent Gerda's power, and the fact that Az thinks he's unworthy of her because of he's job, but she already called he's scars beautiful, she'll also accept him for who he is.

Second, descriptions of Lidia are all related to the Snow Queen:

"I think I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be myself. I think I’ve lost my true self entirely. To destroy monsters, we become monsters."

“You remind me of the wind.” He tried to explain. “Powerful and able to cool or freeze with half a thought, shaping the world itself though no one can see you. Only your impact on things.” He added, “It seems lonely, now that I’m saying it.”

(that's literally a description of the snow queen, powerful yet lonely)

“There’s no place for that in this war. The sooner you realize it, the less pain you’ll feel.” “So we’re back to the ice-queen routine.”

Mating Bond

First, it is obvious that Lidia and Ruhn are mates because he was able to reach her mind without the crystal. After the mental sex, their scents merged, though it remains unnoticed because they haven't accepted the bond yet.

This also shows that Az being able to smell the bond in Lucien's presence, to the point where he can't stand it, is indeed weird.

Secondly, Ruhn walking blindly to his death to save her is typical mate behavior, but the thing is this:

He’d kill him. Slowly and thoroughly, punishing him for every touch, every hand he’d put on Lidia in pain and torment. He had no idea where that landed him. Why he wanted and needed that steel-clad wall between him and Lidia, even as his blood howled to murder Pollux. How he could abhor her and need her, be drawn to her, in the same breath.

Isn't it interesting that he confirmed to Bryce that she and Hunt are true mates, and now, he's experiencing the same instincts but fighting them. The easiest thing to do is oh I know she's my mate I have to accept her, but No! This shows how Sarah writes about mates; the bond isn't the sole reason to love each other or choose to fight to be together. He'll take his time to process things, they'll talk, love, and accept each other for who they are, and then they'll come to the part of the mating bond.

That's why Lucien telling Elain she's his mate right after she'd been into the cauldron is enough to know they're not endgame. In fact, the plot of the mating bond suits Elriel better because with Az showing mate behaviors towards Elain, they also took time to get to know each other and fell for each other.

Power

_Ruhn:

I think he will learn more about his power, especially now that Bryce is with Rhys and Feyre. And he has already questioned if he can do more with his power:

If he were to follow her that way, would he wind up in her mind? See the things she saw? Look through her eyes and know who she was, where she was? Would he be able to read every thought in her head? He could speak into someone’s mind, but to actually enter it, to read thoughts as his cousins in Avallen could … Was this how they did it?

And he has already managed to slip into Lidia's mind:

Ruhn slammed into a wall of black adamant. Time slowed, bringing with it flashes of sensation. No images, all … touch. Bones grinding in her left wrist from where it was being squeezed tight enough to hurt; it was the pain that had awoken her, pulled her away from the bridge.

So I think there will be some development in his abilities. Like, bro, you've got a cool power break some bones, shatter some minds, manipulate the hell out of them.

_Lidia:

I think she might have also inherited some power from her mother, as she referred to herself as a witch in the tale she told Ruhn.

_The fact that she smells like hypaxia:

And her scent had been familiar from the start because Hypaxia was her half-sister, he realized. Family ties didn’t lie. He’d been wrong about her being in House of Sky and Breath—the Hind could claim total allegiance to Earth and Blood.

_Or maybe some fire power, Ruhn was veiled by stars, because of his starborn power, while Lidia was veiled by fire:

Had his mind instinctively shielded him? Or was this what he was, deep below the skin? Was this fire- being standing thirty feet down the mental bridge what she was, deep below her own skin? Or fur, he supposed.

The Hind paused on the threshold before she left, though. Peered over her shoulder at Ruhn, her silver necklace glinting in the sunlight trickling in. Her eyes lit with unholy fire.

That's it, I'm really excited to know more about Lidia and see how their story will unfold, and I'm so ready for January 30th 🌙

[house-afire]

drop of blood (Ed-centric, Ed/Stede, post-canon, horror)

Prompt: 100 words of becoming an eldritch horror

Fucking deck’s covered in blood! You do leave them dripping, don’t you, Eddie? Nothing quick and clean for you, eh? Good lad. But make sure to throw in a drop of your own for the kraken.

Ed’s marooned a fuck-ton of his memories on sandbars in his head. They’re supposed to starve there, wither away when he’s not looking. But they hang on like Hornigold—or Hornigold’s ghost, anyway. Braid their sandals, stir their soup. He sails by—or washes up on their shores, in worse times—and they’re all as round-cheeked and hale as he left them. They’re doing what they do.

He’s still killing his dad, on one of them. He always will be.

Most of his time with old Horny is stranded like this, and his mental map’s got a warning scrawled on it: Visit only with Jack, and only when you’re fucking hammered.

Jack’s dead, so Ed shouldn’t be thinking about Hornigold at all, really. Dangerous waters.

But he is thinking about him, sort of. About the old pirate legend Hornigold taught him, about how after you indulged in some splashy bit of bloodshed, you were supposed to prick your finger, too. Shake the red off your hand and onto the waves: a drop to feed the kraken.

He’d done it a few times back then. Trying out superstitions like he’d tried out kohl on his eyes (fucking love it) and letting Jack suck on his toes (eh, but he’d let Stede have a go if he wanted).

But when he’d really done it—when he’d bled on the water enough to get swoony from it, swoony when he’d had nobody’s arms to fall into (which Izzy, pasty from his own blood dripping into the deck, hobbling around trying to knot his cravat around a still-moving Ed’s hand, hadn’t thought was funny)—was when, well. During all that. When they were on a break. Plenty of islands for all that, too. He’s got nothing but forbidden isles and a dark sea, and he and Stede are in a rickety dinghy, but they’ll keep afloat. Ed knows boats, and Stede knows him. And they love each other. That’s all that matters: that’s the one fine thing you can’t buy or steal or be born into, and they wear it well.

And he ought to just think about that, on these clear, hot nights when he can’t sleep. He shouldn’t go sailing alone, even if it’s only in his own head.

It’s just that he fed the kraken a lot, during those months that are far away but not so long ago. And lately he’s been having these dreams. Like, what if all the blood he dripped on the waves knew it was his? What if it stayed together somehow? Kraken feeding the kraken. A drop of blood for himself. He sees it in his dreams—this black-red clot down below the surf, this new beast he’s made, its tentacles all whipping hair and severed limbs.

He dreamed about it during their break, too. Had dreams where he saw through its gore-glazed eyes, because it was him. It’d always been him. And it was comforting, cuddly and cozy as the knife and the storm and the gun: the sweet solution to every fucking problem he’d ever had, to every Stede-shaped wound gored into him. The monster was just blood and water, just salt and iron, and that meant it was everywhere. Its tendrils snaked through everything. If he could just be that, then he’d be in Stede like a vein, have Stede in him. And nothing would hurt.

You have weird fucking dreams when you’re on rhino horn.

But all that—he doesn’t have to think about all that anymore. He’s just Ed now, or so Izzy told him, and Ed wants to believe him. They never said too many nice things to each other, him and Iz, so it only seems fair to have one of them be true.

He doesn’t want to look at the white-tipped waves and think about what’s stirring beneath them, what patiently dragged itself to their island.

Doesn’t want to think about what might be everywhere he is. What might just be everywhere, since when Ed made a monster, made himself a monster, he didn’t fuck around.

Nah. It’s just his imagination. Never met an idea he couldn’t run away with, has he?

He’s fine. He’s good. He’s happy.

And if, this morning, he looked across the rim of his killer fucking mimosa and saw a broken blood vessel in Stede’s left eye, a cloudy, branching splatter of red—if he saw it move—then he can put that memory on its own separate shore too. Strand it too. There’s no shortage of islands.

Or so he hopes, on nights like this.

[dianakc]

The quest for peace

Fandom: The Hobbit

Read on AO3

Chapter 1

All he’d wanted was some peace. Well, he had it now.

He had to laugh; it was ironic really. He'd fought many battles, demons both real and internal, and even conquered Azog the Defiler. Yet the thing that was going to kill him, quite peacefully, was snow. Thorin lay prone, half covered in a deep drift at the base of a crevasse where he had landed when the ground beneath him had given way. During his lifetime he had been wounded many times and he was confident that his injuries were not mortal, however, he suspected his leg was broken and possibly some ribs. He couldn’t get up, and even if he could, there was no chance of reaching civilization; he must resign himself to his fate. No one knew where he was, would miss him or come looking. He was so cold, beyond shivering and could no longer feel his hands or feet. Thorin could barely keep his eyes open as sleep forced itself upon him. The blizzard had reduced to soft flakes now that settled gently on him as dusk fell on both Middle Earth and his life. Was it true that when you died a light guided you to the next world? He could make out a flickering light in the distance and, as he could fight it no longer, his eyelids finally slipped closed.

Juno was trudging back to her cabin on the edge of the woods, pulling a sledge laden with branches that she had collected. She’d been out longer than planned as it was so much harder to find fuel in the snow, and the sun was now going down. Holding up her lantern, through the half light, she saw a dark heap protruding from a snow drift in the distance at the base of a great fissure in the mountain. She decided to investigate this last potential source of wood before she gave up for the day and retreated to the warmth of home. As she got closer, Juno realised that it was the body of a man. Kneeling quickly and sinking six inches into the powdery snow, she shook him, “Hello, hello. Can you hear me?” Thorin's eyelids twitched. He’s alive. Juno knew she was his only hope as he would surely freeze to death out here. She would have to try to get him to safety. She tipped the wood from her sledge and pulled it up alongside the body. Using her gloved hands as tools she dug him out of the drift and crossed his left arm over his body. She struggled to heave his left leg which wore an enormous boot across his right. Then she pushed his left side until he rolled over landing mostly onto the sledge. She tied him on as best she could and started dragging the sledge with all her might.

It took twenty minutes to get home and she was exhausted. Despite the cold she was sweating with the exertion of hauling this heavy load. Once at the cabin she lit the lanterns that created a soft welcoming glow, and dragged the sledge with the body attached into the cabin. Come…on…you…great…lump. She tugged him off the sledge and onto the floor where he landed with a soft thud and a groan emitted from him. Well at least he’s still alive. She then set about lighting the fire; she needed to warm him as soon as she could. His lips had a bluish tint and his face was unnaturally pale.

Juno removed her coat, hat and boots that were soaking wet and freezing from the snow. The cabin was quickly warming up and a cosy orange glow was cast onto the room from the fire. She set a kettle of water on to heat before turning to give her attention to the man. She looked down at the body that was taking up almost half of the floor space. How on earth will I get his wet things off? Cut them off? The man had a large bag slung around his body. She removed this first and then struggled with his coat and gloves. The coat was leather with an animal pelt collar and she realised she couldn’t have cut through it even if she tried. She pushed and pulled until she could get one arm out which made removing the rest of the coat considerably easier. Under the coat he wore several layers with the uppermost damp and cold but not wet through so she left them alone. Next she tackled the huge, heavy boots that were constructed from animal hide and metal with leather strapping fastened with buckles. She undid the fastenings and grasped the right boot in her hands, and with her feet planted on either side of his leg she pulled, causing her to land on her bottom with it in her hands when it eventually came off. She was startled at the weight of the boot. She wondered how he managed to walk anywhere with his heavy boots and coat weighing him down. At least he would not blow away in a storm! She started on the left boot but found moving this caused more moaning from the man. It appeared to be causing him considerable pain. Well, pain or not, it would need to come off and perhaps better while he was unconscious. She tried to be more gentle and managed to remove the boot causing as little discomfort to the man as possible. She gently took off his thick woollen socks which revealed the left ankle to be dark purple and swelling even as she watched it. This was clearly the cause of his pain and to her untrained eye she guessed it could be broken so she immobilised it with some strips of material used as bandages and bound the ankle firmly.

Juno assessed the man laid out on her floor. From the size of his hands and feet and the runes in his hair she thought that perhaps he was a dwarf and not of man after all. He was tall for a dwarf with long dark wavy hair that fell beyond his shoulders. He had long black eyelashes and a short dark beard that was neatly trimmed and both sparkled with tiny icicles that were beginning to melt. His hair and beard were highlighted with silver grey streaks giving him a manly, distinguished appearance. He was broad and muscled as though he was familiar with strenuous work or perhaps a warrior. But the most striking thing about this dwarf was that he was beautiful and, with his deathly pallor, resembled a marble sculpture of some ancient heroic figure. She shook herself out of her daydreaming and, getting back to practical matters, gathered all but one of her home made woollen blankets and covered the stranger to warm him.

Juno opened the dwarf’s bag and found the contents to be all wet from the snow. It contained clothes, two knives, a parcel of what looked like dried meat and a canteen for water. She spread out his wet clothes over the furniture with hers to dry, having to step over the sleeping dwarf to move about in the cabin. As soon as the water was heated from the fire, she set about preparing some tea and sweetened his with honey to help revive him.

Gradually the dwarf was thawing. His lips and fingers were no longer blue and his face was pink from the fire. The tea was ready to drink and Juno felt it would do him good to warm him from the inside as well so she tried again to wake him, “Hello, hello?”

The dwarf’s eyelashes fluttered and opened to reveal a pair of sapphire blue eyes of such clarity that Juno was momentarily mesmerised. Thorin gradually came to, his eyes slowly focusing and becoming accustomed to the light. He looked up to see Juno with a glow from the fire illuminating her pale hair. An angel? Am I in the next world?

“Hello, my name is Juno. I believe you have been injured in an accident in the snow. You are in my cabin. You are quite safe,” she said to reassure him. “Can you sit up to have a warm drink?”

Thorin smiled ruefully. It appeared he had dodged death again. He was like a cat with nine lives but had lost count on how many he was up to. He struggled to sit and a searing pain coursed through the left side of his chest and ankle as he tried to get up. He slumped back to the floor. The girl, no woman, Juno , lifted and supported his head. She held the cup of hot tea to his lips and he tentatively took a sip then more; he was so thirsty.

When the dwarf had finished his drink Juno sat on the floor cross legged beside him and sipped her tea. “Can you tell me who you are? How did you come to become injured? Did you fall?”

“Thorin,” he whispered hoarsely. “I was trekking when the blizzard hit. I couldn’t see where I was going and think I walked into a ravine,” he said drowsily. He looked her in the eyes solemnly, “I thought I was going to die.”

“Now, now,” she said softly but briskly, distracting him by lifting his right hand and rubbing it to get the circulation going, “all will be well.” Juno smiled at the dwarf, “I have never met a Thorin. Tell me, what is it like to be named after a king?” At the look of surprise on Thorin’s face she said, “I am named after a goddess,” and laughed shyly. “I always feel that I would be a disappointment to my namesake. Perhaps sharing the name of a king is also a weight to bear?”

“I have thought of my name as a burden I suppose. But perhaps it is my duty and not my name….” he muttered, gradually falling asleep again.

Juno decided it best to leave the dwarf to rest and go to bed herself. She banked up the fire to keep him warm throughout the night and tucked him in; she put out the lanterns and retired to her bedroom. She would have a visitor for some time it seemed. Whilst Thorin had craved solitude, Juno was thankful that she would have some company for a little while even if it was only because he had no alternative. She felt a little guilty that this poor dwarf’s misfortune brought some relief to the crushing loneliness she had endured over the last six months.

[stargazer1932]

Black Dragon Prologue

Ok so this is my first post ever and I have no idea how this damn app works so fuck it we ball ya know. This is my first fic and I’m gonna post it here. If you have tips or criticisms drop em on me PLZ. Anyway enjoy this goofy prologue.

Content Warning: Blood, a knife, threat of death against characters

●•.✦.✧.✦.✧.•☾•.✦.✧.✦.✧.•●

It hurts.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in so much pain. Not even when I fell from flying for the first time. The pain is unmatched, it’s searing hot yet freezing cold at the same time.

It's wet too. Blood. It’s sticky and smells of iron and fire.

●•.✦.✧.✦.✧.•☾•.✦.✧.✦.✧.•●

It sounded like Mom was yelling at Dad over something, she was screaming at him, louder than she usually did when she got upset. I remember walking down stairs and peeking around the corner. I expected to see the same thing I usually saw when they fought, them both with angry faces and Mom eventually storming out. Only, Mom wasn’t there anymore, not really at least, it was definitely some sort of monster. Her eyes were wild and full of deranged hatred. She had a knife pointed at Dad, she looked like those villains I see him fighting on tv sometimes. I don’t think I had ever been more frightened in my life, it took everything I had to not freeze and shut down. I went to take a step back, hoping she wouldn’t see me but my claws just had to scratch the floor.

Her eyes. They were so cold and full of anger and hatred, the kind I’d never want to be directed at me.

“This-THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE PERFECT!! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE ME!!” She screamed in a way I had never heard. It was as if a demon had possessed her.

A feeling of dread and terror ran down my spine and into my toes. It was as if I had been grabbed by the darkest and coldest parts of the universe. No one to help pull me back into the safe and warm light of the sun. It was not a feeling a child should feel when looking at their mother.

Before I could snap out of it, she threw the kitchen knife with the force of someone who aimed to kill. It sliced clean through the top of my left shoulder, the gash almost deep enough to cause permanent damage, and embedded itself into the wall behind me. I don’t remember making a noise, but based on the hard flinch of my Dads ears, it had to have been a blood curdling scream. It felt like the world was moving in slow motion, my Dads head turning to look at me as I slid down the wall. His face, it flashed between so many emotions all at once, fear, relief, and then pure unbridled rage were the most profound.

I could feel the sudden shift of power, it was a pressure unlike any I had felt before. It was as if all the air in the room had suddenly become superheated. My Dads chest and back glowed a demonic orange, the glow and color similar to an exploding volcano. He was getting ready to release a breath attack that would blast the house clear off the block. His teeth were bared, sharp and ready to rip apart flesh. Scales had grown up his arm, all the way to his shoulders, his claws drawn and armored. The deep copper red of his tail lashing violently back and forth was nothing more than a blur. His normally small horns growing into a tall twisted crown.

‘I always told him they looked like a cooler version of a greater kudu..’

My Dad was ready to kill my mother.

This was a version of him I never saw too often. He always tried to keep his more battle hardened side distant from his home life. He never wanted me to see this side of him, not until I was older at least. He looked like a true dragon, the ones that raid villages and destroy kingdoms. Despite how he looked, I had never felt more safe. I knew without a doubt that he would do everything in his power to keep me from getting hurt more.

My mother took a step back, trying to put some distance between herself and my Dad. For a second, I think she actually feared for her life. The colorful wisps of her nebula quirk started to swirl around her. At one point in my life, I used to think it was the most beautiful thing, but now, it’s the most terrifying thing imaginable. The colors were dotted with stars, blinking in and out, morphing and swirling around her feet and arms. She looked as if she was trying to curl in on herself.

The roar my Dad let out was strong enough to shake the house, stray bits of fire spewing from his mouth in the process. He crouched slightly preparing to lunge for my mother. She took another step back, her arms raised in a defensive posture. He lunged for her, his right hand raised with the intent to swipe her across the face. Despite his anger, he was still a pro hero, this is what he did for a living. Protecting innocents and fighting off villains.

My mother really was a villain..

Just before his attack made contact with her raised arms, she blinked, her eyes flashing white. She thrust her arms downward as if she was going to launch herself upwards and right as my Dad was about to reach her.

She just vanished.

Nothing but a small wispy cloud of faint colors and pale stars was left in her place. A slight scorch mark was burned into the floors, an organic almost web like pattern left behind. Dad almost fell forward, he caught himself before completely falling. Turning in every direction, his senses searching for any sign of her, yet, nothing. She really was just, gone.

He turned to look at me, his panic still there. I was thankfully conscious the whole time, the adrenaline running through me enough to keep me awake. Dad ran to me, gently pulling me from the wall to look at my shoulder. I was still in too much pain to move my right hand from my arm, it felt like if I did my whole arm would fall off.

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna need ya to hold still so I can look at ya arm. If I don’t stop the bleeding now, it’s gonna hurt a helluva lot more later.” His left hand was on my head while his right was hovering near my shoulder. Truthfully, I had barely heard what he said, but having my Dads hand on my head was enough to help me calm down.

I simply nodded and closed my eyes as tight as I could. He pulled my head close to his left shoulder and angled my head away from my bad arm. His tail curled around my back and laid over mine, in an attempt to comfort me. The heat from the fire in his chest was also a comfort, it was warm and felt like home, it was safe there.

The pain that came next was thankfully not as bad as being sliced with a knife. My Dad had a super heated claw and was trying to cauterize my wound as best he could. Dragons are mostly blast and fire proof, but the pain of an open wound was still there. I was crying at this point, my Dad doing his best to comfort me. By the time he was done, I was so tired, it felt like I wasn’t in control of my own body. I felt slow and heavy, like my bones were made of cement.

I leaned back to look at my Dad, “I’m tired.. I want to go to bed..”. My Dad had such a sad smile, tears were pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“You can take a nap sweetheart, it’s all over now.” He kissed my forehead and held me close. I felt him pick me up, and he walked to the couch and sat down. I could feel him shaking, and I snuggled closer to his chest.

His features returned to normal, his armored claws grew smaller and his horns shrank back down. The blazing fire in his chest died down, his tail slowed, he was back to himself again. I looked back up at my Dad again, he was looking out the window, the most determined look on his face.

He looked down and his face softened, “Get some rest sweetheart. You deserve some rest after all that, I know you're tough and that you’ll be alright. I’ll be right here when ya wake up.”.

I yawned and winced a little trying to get comfortable, the adrenaline finally running out. I closed my eyes and had one final thought before sleep consumed me.

‘I’ll become a hero just like you Dad, that way she can’t ever hurt us again..’.

Prologue Word Count:1480

[calmlb]

<-prev: does Chuuya have accelerated healing or is it like a crazy high pain tolerance?

I do think Chuuya has a crazy high pain tolerance (most of the bsd characters do tbh, so I’ve just assumed it’s most likely plot armor that the audience is supposed to suspend their disbelief on). Because c’mon, there’s no way Chuuya could’ve just walked off that torture session in Stormbringer & then gone on to fight Guivre, right?

But from my interpretation, the evidence is all there that Chuuya has some level of physical immunity and/or accelerated healing.

Most of my evidence comes from Fifteen and Stormbringer.

Firstly, Fifteen…

In the fight against Rimbaud, Rimbaud and Chuuya himself make numerous comments about Chuuya’s strength.

"Hmm... So that didn't kill you. It appears Arahabaki has a strong vessel, albeit one not remotely complete."

The iron pillars were smashed by the powerful blows as well. Chuuya wouldn't survive a single hit. "Not even you can continue to run away from space itself forever," the previous boss said.

"Ha-ha!" Chuuya laughed. "You really think this is enough to defeat me?" "

I've never lost a fight in my life. I've never even been in real danger... But that's no surprise. After all, l'm not even human.

His clothes and flesh split open as he shot through the shock wave. Copious amounts of blood followed the many cuts that appeared on Chuuya's body, but he did not slow down…Chuuya left a trail of blood in his wake as his every bone cried in agony, but even then, he managed a ferocious smirk.

"Magnificent." Randou was standing on the other side of the dust cloud with not even a scratch on him, despite having taken so many hits. He didn't appear to be in any pain whatsoever. "Chuuya, you already possess strength and talents all your own, separate from Arahabaki. You are strong not as a god but as a human being."

Then there’s the incident where the Sheep stabbed Chuuya with a poisoned knife.

"The solution is to attack from outside your periphery the moment you let your guard down. That way you won't have time to manipulate gravity," Shirase said with a smile plastered on his face. "Right, Chuuya? I would know. We've been comrades for a long time, after all."

"The hell...was that for...?" Chuuya groaned painfully. He tried to get up, but his arms and legs were trembling and weak.

"I wouldn't squirm so much if I were you. The blade was tipped with rat poison." Shirase's lips curled into an even wider smirk. "Your arms and legs are gonna be numb for a while, so you won't be able to move like normal. I feel bad for you. It wouldn't have had to be like this if you weren't so strong."

"He threw himself off the cliff!" Shirase shouted. "The poison might've weakened his powers, but he ain't gonna die from a fall like that! Hurry-after him! Don't let him live!"

"Damn..it..," he grumbled, clinging onto the wet rock with both hands. "This wound's...deep..."

Chuuya focused on the wound on his back. He applied a weak gravitational force on the dagger and slowly pulled it out, then dropped it into the ocean. The poison had dramatically hindered both his skill and his physical strength. The Sheep knew all too well how to kill the invincible Chuuya. That was hardly surprising. Unlike with Randou, Chuuya never tried hiding his true powers around them. They were friends; he had no reason to hide.

Now onto Stormbringer…

Chuuya has this brief interaction with Doc.

"Not at all." The man called Doc smirked grimly. "Poison wouldn't be enough to kill you."

"How do you know that?"

"From experience." His eyes glowed eerily. "I've killed many with poison."

Then later, Chuuya has these interactions with N and Verlaine.

"I designed you. That's why I know all about you. I know how physically strong your body is, yet how you're just as weak to poison as any ordinary person."

Chuuya's skill hadn't completely disappeared, but it was extremely weak. They must have been constantly pumping poison into his body through the tubes in his back. His limbs were numb, and his head was in a daze. Electricity coursed through his body.

Even Verlaine, who was strong against physical strikes and bullets, was no match for electric shocks-just like Chuuya.

It was rare for him to get injured, so he wasn't used to judging how deep a wound was from the pain or the severity of his injuries. Even if he got a little hurt during a mission, the Port Mafia's extraordinary medical personnel had him healed within a few days.

Dazai's plan was thorough. Verlaine was weak to poison just like Chuuya, but of course, Verlaine had full knowledge of this weakness.

Most of these excerpts indicate that Chuuya at least has some degree of physical invulnerability (though obviously not complete).

As for the accelerated healing, my evidence for that mostly comes from what we’ve seen of post-corruption, as well as how fast Chuuya seems to recover from the fights and torture scenes I referenced.

There’s this scene in the main manga.

Specifically these panels that play it off more comedically— especially the last panel. This indicates to me that the after-effects of Corruption, while potentially serious, aren’t consistently serious. And that Chuuya generally just sleeps it off (literally or metaphorically).

And from the brutal descriptions of Corruption that we got in Stormbringer, that seems to indicate that Chuuya must have some degree of accelerated healing.

Furthermore, every attack tore through the other's flesh without fail, whittling away at their strength. The negative energy of the ergosphere's halo ripped into the demonic beast's body, weakening it with each hit. But Guivre's attacks were generated from the singularity's unlimited amount of energy; there was only so much Chuuya's physical body could take. Arahabaki's calamitous power was too much for its vessel, Chuuya. His body was bloodied and covered in numerous lacerations, his bones were shrieking in pain, and his right shoulder was dislocated. Both fighters were wounded and damaged-however...

"Chuuya's wounds are deeper," noted Dazai, clenching his teeth as he observed the battle. Chuuya floated all alone in midair, bleeding from head to toe. His body couldn't take much more. Not only would Guivre's attacks overwhelm him physically, but soon his frail body wasn't going to be able to withstand his own powerful gravity, either. Bruises, dislocations, muscle tears, and broken bones—he was manipulating gravity to keep his body together, albeit just barely. Chuuya fell forward, then continued accelerating. He flew toward the demonic beast's chest as if it were drawing him in, piercing its outer gravity- its outer armor- before reaching the turbid stream of time inside it. Waves of raging darkness immediately washed over his body, practically tearing it apart. Arahabaki howled.

Even the ending of that scene is light.

Dazai's ability to nullify skills activated the moment he touched Chuuya. The self-contradicting skill, which was supporting the energy of the singularity, started to retrogress, weakening the singularity's output. It wasn't long before it returned to its normal state, and the Gate closed. The crimson runes covering Chuuya's entire body slithered away. Eventually, even the gravitational field vanished as well, returning everything to still silence.

"Sleep well, Chuuya." Dazai faintly smiled at him. "I forgot to bring a pen with me, so I won't draw on your face this time. You're welcome."

Lastly, I’ll just include the scenes from Dead Apple, too, but my point is the same.

A voice suddenly called out to him from the shadows of the rubble. "The hell are you doin' here?"

Akutagawa turned his gaze in the direction of the crude voice to find Chuuya slumped over on the ground. He'd clearly been through a lot since Akutagawa last saw him, and his trademark hat was nowhere to be found. It must have fallen off somewhere nearby.

"Dazai's all right. Still an idiot, but all right," Chuuya lethargically uttered as if he could read Akutagawa's mind.

"..." Akutagawa abruptly straightened his back and bowed. But as he quickly started to walk away, Chuuya added "Hey" and stopped him. "Gimme a hand, will ya?" he asked, flashing a toothy grin.

And few days later, Chuuya was already back to work.

The Port Mafia leader gazed out the glass walls of his spacious, tidy office at the clear-blue sky. Chuuya stood with dignity in the room that most never even get a chance to enter.

"Were you aware of the mechanism behind the fog, boss?" he asked Ougai Mori, the Mafia's leader.

It was a simple question to which Ougai coolly replied, "I figured Dazai would require your help getting rid of the fog if he was indeed acting alone. He needed a forerunner."

"So I was just the opening act?"

"Dazai had the starring role." Ougai spoke as if it were a trivial matter.

"So what's my reward?" Chuuya asked.

A sharp light reflected in Ougai's eyes. "The return of order to this city," came his blunt response.

Chuuya's smile was unrestrained. "In other words, the city's peace, huh?"

An airplane cut through the clouds. Traveling seagulls could be seen out the window as well. Ougai shot Chuuya a sympathetic smile. "Good work."

"Don't thank me, boss," Chuuya casually replied. "I just follow your orders." His boots tapped gratifyingly against the floor as he departed. Only after the heavy door was closed did order finally return to the office.

PS: I’m also linking this post by @originalaccountname, especially for the tags.

TL;DR: Most (if not all) of my evidence for Chuuya having some degree of physical immunity & accelerated healing in the (hopefully somewhat intelligible) form of quotes from the light novels and panels from the manga.

Something I think about way too much is how Chuuya’s accelerated healing & (for the most part) physically invulnerability probably reinforced his beliefs that he isn’t human for a long time. And even now, it’s probably still a plaguing thought that he has to fight against.

The fact that one of the only things that causes him to sustain physical damage is the very power that he feels segregates him from humanity.

The fact that during one of the only times that Chuuya is physically vulnerable— for that short period after corruption— Dazai is the only one who gets to see him like that. And how it’s in those moments that Dazai is most tender with Chuuya.

[howtofightwrite]

Hi! Thank you so much for running this blog. Question: I want to write a novel in the superhero genre about a hero that doesn't have powers, and I tried to find other books like this to study, but I can't find anything other than Batman things, and none of them are novels. Do you have any general writing tips that I should keep in mind?

There are some Batman novels. Not many that I'm aware of, but those do exist. (DC was doing a whole series of prose novels a few years back, though I'm unsure if that's continued.) However there's a couple problems here. First, Batman has superpowers; officially he's described as being, “unpowered,” but, when you start to consider the actual content of what he does on a regular basis, yeah, the character is superhuman. Second: There's a cross thread here: Unpowered superheroes are, usually, still superheroes, it's more a measure of keeping their powers low key enough that the reader doesn't realize they're superhuman. Batman, Black Widow, The Punisher, and the entire cast of Watchmen (excluding Dr. Manhattan) are all prominent examples of this. Third, there are multiple genres that deal with, “unpowered,” characters who, much like Batman, stretch the limits of human prowess to superhuman levels. The action hero is the easiest example (while that's more often seen in films, it does have a strong literary tradition. Especially in pulps.) Finally, yeah, there's a lot of material in comics. So let's look at this in a little more detail.

As I mentioned, the vast majority of unpowered superheroes in comics are, in fact, superhuman. The biggest tell on this is injury management. Even when you're dealing with superheroes that are skilled enough in combat to avoid suffering serious injury, there's still going to be considerable wear and tear, from the violence itself, which would be debilitating after a few months. In the case of Batman, you're looking at a character who goes out patrolling every night, hunting down criminals, and getting into violent altercations fairly frequently. He returned to Gotham in his early 20s, and most of the comics are set with him somewhere in his 30s. Ten years of constant combat is enough to give you crippling arthritis, stress fractures, and generally reduce your body to a complete mess. (He also doesn't age, most of the time. The character has been around for 83 years, and spent most of that in his late 20s or early 30s. This is pretty common with comics characters in general, but, it is a, “superpower,” and it have even become an explicit superpower on occasion, like Batman: Year 100.) If nothing else, his ability to retain the title of, “World's Greatest Detective,” while simultaneously suffering enough cranial trauma to reduce his brain to the rough consistency of wet mashed potatoes speaks volumes to his superhuman resilience.

Since I mentioned him a minute ago, Frank Castle doesn't get off any easier here. Based on the sheer quantity of unsurpressed gunfire he's been hanging around, he should have a case of tinnitus so intense people standing near him would hear it.

Is this a problem? Well, no. It's not. It is something to be aware of going in, however. If you want a comic book that really digs into the idea of an unpowered character, Mark Millar's Kickass comes to mind (and, yes, I'm recommending a comic here.) The main gimmick is looking at the physical harm associated with being a vigilante hero. Ironically, there's a film example in the original Die Hard. The main hook for the film was tracking the injuries an action hero would suffer in the course of their adventure. (A theme that was almost completely lost after the second film.)

When you're writing a character into a superhero setting, a lot of those characters remain superpowered, even when they're not supposed to be. It's almost a genre convention. This is also true of most action protagonists.

With that in mind, almost any action adventure, particularly pulpy ones, will give you characters who are ostensibly unpowered, but are actually superhuman. I feel like I recently recommended him, but Robert E. Howard's Conan is an “unpowered,” superhero, in print. The only issue is that he's in a pseudo-historical fantasy setting, but it excellent prose.

You really do need to check comics, if you're wanting to write superheroes. If you're wanting some good recommendations, Alias and Planetary are both easy to recommend. Both are explicitly superhero comics, but they have their own perspectives on the genre.

The tricky thing about writing characters with superpowers (or a theoretical lack thereof) is keeping in mind how asymmetric power dynamics work, especially when you're mixing characters into a world where you have literal gods walking the earth, alongside normal people, and assessing the dynamics for how that would change things. One of the subtler elements of Watchmen, is seeing just how much Dr. Manhattan's existence transformed the world. It takes a bit of work now to fully parse out exactly how, “wrong” Watchmen's 1985 is in comparison to real world history. (This would have been much easier in '86 and '87 when the comic originally released.)

It's almost impossible to overstate how much Watchmen changed western comics. But it does check the exact boxes you're asking about; unpowered superheroes, and an examination of what that might look like. It's also excellently written. Alan Moore is an extremely skilled author. If you've never read the original comic series, you should. Finally, his epistolary prose excerpts between the issues, which are vital for fully understanding the plot. Technically, that's not exactly what you wanted, but it is there.

For prose superhero series, the first thing that comes to mind is George R. R. Martin's Wild Cards. I'm familiar with the series in passing, but I've never read them, so I can't tell you what you're getting into there.

Beyond that, I'm not sure what advice you'd need to hear. The superhero genre covers a vast range of material, and even if someone wants to try to reduce that down to a set of fixed rules, they're not as familiar with the material as they want you to think they are.

-Starke

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[redorich]

(Hermit Canyon AU)

Eventually, the Hermit seems to get attached to Puffy. It makes sense- it's been trading gifts with her for months now, and has even shown itself to her a few times, albeit while invisible.

The other SMPers don't think much of it at first. The more curious members ask Puffy questions about The Hermit sometimes, but she knows little, so they quickly give up. Occasionally someone will try to explore the ridiculously trapped town, but they give up once it's obvious they're not getting in.

The trades grow more and more valuable, and one day Puffy opens her barrel to find a beacon, and enough iron to fully power it. She's stunned, naturally. To think the Hermit is so capable it can kill a Wither just to give a beacon away- she can barely believe it.

(In actuality, they cheesed it on the Nether roof, but she doesn't know that)

She does try to hide it, but word gets around, and after another few failed raids on the town (and some rumours that the Hermit can teleport), things settle down again, as much as they can on the SMP.

Then someone steals Puffy's beacon. {You decide who, because I. don't actually watch DSMP, admittedly.}

Puffy, naturally, is devestated- she can't imagine the work the Hermit put into getting it for her in the first place (the most time-consuming thing was getting the Wither skulls, and it wasn't even that bad). But there's not really much she can do, so she carries on.

Except, the next day, the thief wakes up to find their house full of chickens, Puffy's beacon missing, and every single empty space in their chests filled with strategically renamed light grey stained glass panes.

They go outside to find the entire contents of a cave spider spawner on their front lawn. Alongside a ravager. With speed potions. Renamed Pamela's Revenge.

(Cue half the SMP trying to find out who Pamela is)

Puffy, meanwhile, wakes to find her beacon back in its rightful place, and a beautifully terraformed garden outside her house (Scar accidentally detonated a creeper and naturally had to fix the hole...and then went a little overboard. But it's fine.)

op i want you to know that i considered just posting your ask, because it’s already So Good and practically a fic on its own, but i really wanted even more content so i wrote it myself. ANYWAY here’s sapnap’s terrible horrible no good very bad day xD

It’s risky, doing anything on the wide open Nether roof where anyone can see. Hell, using a beacon at all is risky for the Hermits. Still, they’ve got all sorts of farms and copious amounts of materials at their fingertips. They’re past early game, stuck in mid-game while they wait for Etho to scope out more locations, while they build the second Upside Down (which Grian has named the Upside-ier Down), while they build their joint bases miles out from civilization. 

Having a beacon would make the process faster, they reason to themselves. They certainly aren’t risking being discovered just because they’re bored and getting a beacon is an excuse to do something. And hell, Tango made that giant, super-efficient wither skeleton skull farm right next to his double blaze spawner farm, so they might as well mass-produce Nether stars by killing multiple Withers. It’s not that difficult.

On another note, it’s after they gift Puffy one of their many beacons, in addition to a kit of iron blocks for powering the beacon that the Hermits realize that while their gifts are increasing in expense, Puffy’s are... not. So, if Puffy’s around average in the Dream SMP economy, they’ve figured out where most players meet their limit. She hasn’t stopped dropping by, though, which is nice. Her gifts become increasingly handmade, in lieu of upping the ante on material wealth. The Hermits suppose that hand-crafted items have a value that extends past money. Each and every one of them has something that she’s made for them, whether it be a shawl, a blanket, a set of earrings, a bracelet, or a pair of socks.

Apparently the beacon is more of a Big Deal than the Hermits thought. After all, the rainbow castle has several. However, the Hermits realize that they’ve been shortsighted. While it is true that the rainbow castle has several beacons, the castle is the only place that they’ve seen any beacons.

Sapnap steals the beacon. He doesn’t particularly need it, but he wants it, and stealing is fun. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll even start another minor war over it. He hasn’t fought Puffy very much. He wonders if she can put up a good fight.

Puffy’s-- not distraught, but she’s upset. That was a gift from the Hermit, a friend who she’s been pulling out of its shell. She doesn’t have much use for a beacon, but then again, neither does Sapnap; he’s just a dick. Just in case, Puffy leaves a note with the rest of the items she leaves in her barrel:

Dear Hermit,

I’m very sorry for losing the beacon you gave me. I made the mistake of keeping it in a normal chest instead of an Ender chest, so Sapnap stole it. I should have seen that coming. I’ll try to get it back, but if I don’t, please know that I didn’t throw it away.

Thank you,

Puffy.

Sapnap wakes up in the middle of a lake. His mattress is floating, and when he tries to paddle back to shore (once he’s done screaming), the mattress tips over and he receives an unpleasant fishy wakeup call. He trudges into his house for a shower, and finds that the showerhead, as well as all his faucets, have been stuffed with ramen noodle seasoning. 

He looks in his chests for a bucket of water. The first chest he checks is not only full of light gray glass, but also trapped. When he opens it, pufferfish fall out of the ceiling and bounce around. He dies to their poison twice before they finally die. The next chest he opens also has light gray glass, no water buckets, and a trap. This one, though, only releases a metric fuckton of chickens into his house. It’s fine. This is fine.

As he looks through his chests, he realizes something. They’ve got glass in them, sure, and they’ve been raided of water buckets, but... the beacon is gone. None of his other items, like enchanted netherite tools or literal diamond blocks, have been stolen. Just Puffy’s beacon.

Whoever pranked him missed a bucket, so he promptly dumps it over his head in an effort to smell less like pond scum and spicy chicken noodles. It takes the whole day to get his base back in order: he’s got to clean out all the faucets, empty all the glass from his chests, throw out all the dead pufferfish, and slaughter chickens by the dozens.

He can’t sleep. Are you fucking kidding. He can’t sleep. A soft hiss catches his attention, only audible now that the quiet of night has fallen. Is there somehow an unlit cave under his base?

Nope. As he steps outside onto his front lawn, he sees a daylight detector near the door that he missed when he came inside this morning. The daylight detector seems to have released approximately fifteen bajillion cave spiders onto his lawn, and they’re all angry, so he shuts the front door in their faces and goes back inside. That’s a problem for tomorrow’s him.

Horns spear the wall right next to where Sapnap was standing five seconds ago. He yelps. What the fuck is a ravager doing on his front porch? And why the FUCK does it have speed potion particles?!

<Sapnap was slain by Pamela’s Revenge>

<Sapnap was slain by Pamela’s Revenge>

<Sapnap hit the ground too hard whilst trying to escape Pamela’s Revenge>

<Sapnap was slain by Cave Spider>

<Sapnap was slain by Pamela’s Revenge>

<Georgenotfound> who is pamela’s revenge

<Sapnap> ;RVAER

<Sapnap> HELP

<Sapnap> RAVEAGER

<Sapnap was slain by Pamela’s Revenge>

<Georgenotfound> good night sapnap :)

<Sapnap> GEORGE OYU BITCH HLEP ME

<Sapnap was slain by Pamela’s Revenge>

<Georgenotfound> zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

-------

Puffy sees a whole lot of nonsense in the chat when she wakes up in the morning, and promptly decides to ignore it. She goes about her morning as usual, heading out to her front porch to sip a cup of coffee in peace. 

She... has a garden now. Hm. That wasn’t there before. And come to think of it, neither was the beacon she lost.

“Thanks, Hermit,” she says with a smile.

-------

Stress sips a cup of tea, having breakfast in Grian’s rustic sitting room with a few of her fellow Hermits.

“D’ya think we went overboard?” she says.

“...Nah,” Cub says.

[blackacre13]

Ahhh I’m loving the vampire au! Plssss do a part 3!

Part 3 is here; Here’s part 4:

“You do not live in a hotel,” Lou shook her head, her jaw clenched in disbelief as Debbie led her into the elevator.

“What’s better than hiding in plain sight?” The brunette shrugged, her lips pursed in a sly grin. “I thought it was cute. Ironic.”

“And it’s the penthouse, no surprise,” The blonde chuckled, clicking her tongue. “How long have you lived here?”

“The city? All my life,” Debbie smiled, thinking fondly of her home. “But the place itself, just a couple of years. I’ll probably move again in the next year or so. Wouldn’t make sense after a while. The never-aging, beautiful and mysterious woman living in the Penthouse for decades? Ridiculous.”

“To only live there for a few years is still ridiculous, honey,” Lou laughed. “But I like it. It suits you.”

“Just wait until you see inside,” the brunette smirked, clicking the penthouse button as the elevator whirred to life. “You’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg, darling.”

“You’re thirsty,” Debbie frowned, watching the porcelain skin of Lou’s neck closely as she swallowed thickly.

“I’m fine,” Lou lied, waving her off. “Let’s just stay in. I’m not leaving these amazing sheets or your amazing body all night.”

Debbie tried and failed to stifle a giggle as Lou’s fingers danced down her sternum, fluttering down her breasts as they teased at her nipples.

“They are beautiful sheets, aren’t they?” Debbie breathed, crawling over the blonde. “And I knew you’d like the place. Regal, isn’t it?”

“You’re beautiful,” Lou whispered, her hand cupping Debbie’s neck as she mewed. “You’re regal. If there were a queen of what we are…”

“I’d settle just for being yours,” Debbie hissed, her nails raking down Lou’s chest as she rolled her hips, thighs gripping around Lou’s own.

“You are mine,” Lou whispered, licking along Debbie’s neck. “Let me taste you.”

“After,” Debbie promised, biting at the blonde’s lip, trying to tug her backwards as she gripped her chest.

“There’s only one thing I’m craving, love,” Lou murmured. “And it’s not blood.”

“So, where do you hunt?” Debbie asked hours later after giving in to Lou’s sultry demands. Lou studied her as she watched Debbie’s fingers button her blouse, slowly covering up her skin button by button until her lace bra disappeared underneath the material and then the blouse disappeared into Debbie’s slacks.

“I don’t,” Lou sighed.

Concerned dark eyes fell on Lou’s light once as the blonde tried to duck away from the contact, focusing on sliding her own pants back over her skin.

“But you…but we…”

“Exactly,” Lou spoke, clearing her throat. “I don’t seek anyone out. And as I said, I only go after men. But I—“

“You wait until trouble finds you,” Debbie mused. “And then it’s too late. They never see you coming. Your thirst is quenched. Justice is served.”

“These violent delights have violent ends,” Lou mumbled, fastening her vest against her chest as Debbie gazed at her with wonder, unable to help her mind from questioning whether Lou was quoting the play from memory or study.

“Didn’t peg you as a Shakespeare woman,” Debbie hummed, holding a hand out for the blonde to take.

“I’ll read or study anything,” Lou shrugged. “And to answer the question your brain is asking? No, I didn’t see Romeo and Juliet in the flesh.”

“I would never venture a guess at your true age, darling,” Debbie chuckled, kissing her softly. “But you should know, I work a little differently.”

“I thought you only went after bad men?” Lou asked, looking intrigued.

“I do,” Debbie smirked. “But I like to do the investigative work and tailing.”

“What?” Lou snorted. “You sit around and listen to police scanners on the radio so you can spring into action?”

“I mean there are apps for that now, love,” Debbie grinned. “But precisely. Never know when there’ll be a prison break or a man on the run, do you?”

[lazarettta]

Misthios III

Characters (Mother Miranda, Alcina Dimitrescu, Reader)

Word count (2k)

Rating (T)

Warning (straight zooted, none)

Countess Dimitrescu takes you home.

Any mistakes you find, blame it on the herbs.

Only taking a few steps from your holding cell, you were startled with what awaited you.

You weren't sure what to expect when you were about to meet Lady Dimitrescu but what you got wasn't on the top of your list; her inhuman beauty or her height. She was taller than tall and for a split second you actually gawked at the woman before remembering yourself and thankfully your jaw snapped shut inaudibly but she'd already caught you.

“This is (Y/n), take her to your castle and keep her there until I call.” You frowned at her words, you weren't some goddamn pet to keep and she had another thing coming if she thought that you were just going to sit around twiddling your thumbs. Miranda stopped next to the tall woman near the door and a small torch light, “Not a scratch, Alcina.”

“Of course, Mother Miranda.” She seemed amused and she clearly wasn't as human as she portrayed herself to be. You'd place a bet wagering that she is one of the myths you haven't yet tracked down...but which one?

Miranda didn't spare you another glance and she was gone within a blink of an eye, leaving you two alone, you cleared your throat bringing the woman's honey eyes to you again. “But you will refer to me as lady Dimitrescu.”

Keeping up with Alcina's long strides down the dreary pathway wasn't an easy feature especially given that the hallway itself was narrow and you didn't really have any interest in touching the walls. They were wet but it did not look or smell like water. Eventually the woman came to a stop, right in front of an iron door that turned out to be an elevator shaft—a bit like the ones used when mining was still a thing.

Prison cells in some abandoned underground mining tunnels, Miranda? Always so dark and mysterious...

The silence between you both was thick and a bit awkward and you could feel her caution and curiosity rolling off of her in waves and you knew that she was occasionally glancing at you because you were doing the same thing while you both waited for the elevator shaft to come down. This place just continued to get more and more curious—what other wonders was this village in the mountains hiding away from the rest of the world? But you were quick to chastise yourself for the thought, curiosity always killed the cat, (Y/n)...

“Yes,” her voice was low and deep this time opposed to the thunderous tone she was using earlier, “but satisfaction brought it back.”

You hadn't been aware that you spoke out loud. Having allowed yourself to be distracted with your thoughts that you failed to take notice of how much more observant the other woman became towards you the minute you both loaded onto the old shaft. Though the old thing hardly made a sound under lady Dimitrescu's weight despite the fact that in order to enter she had to duck a little for herself and her large brimmed hat.

Shoving your hands in your pocket, you turned slightly to look up at her making sure to keep your eyes above those pearls wrapped around her pale neck and accenting that decolletage—no doubt purposely done. “Ah, I haven't had that recited back to me in a very long time.”’

“Then you’re not keeping the right company.”

Your mouth twitched around a smile before you schooled it away, “That would be true if I actually had any friends...or family.”

Lady Dimitrescu raised an eyebrow, not that you’d see it because of her hat casting a shadow over a majority of her face, “Handsome thing like you without friends or family? Doubtful. Surely you have someone waiting for you? You seem like the type to have a maiden or two at your feet.”

This time you couldn’t push back your smile, you knew that she was fishing for some answers about your character—and no doubt trying to figure out why Miranda thought you were special enough to be placed under her word of protection, as if you actually needed it.

But that was all fine because you’d do the same thing, in fact you already were but you’d give her something—an inevitable piece of information that will come to light soon enough. She was already suspicious so it really was just a matter of you beating her to the punchline.

“Nope, none of the above. People just have this pesky little habit of dying on me.”

She chuckled, low and deep and you felt it a bit (and fuck was this the longest elevator ride you’ve ever been on), “Oh I know of that nuisance all too well myself.”

“Do you now?”

“Oh quite dear.” There was a bit of a sinister flare to her tone behind that innocent smile and shrug she tried to sell you. “One could even say it's my favorite pastime.”

And right as you were about to press another question the shaft came to a screeching halt, oh…how convenient. You swore you saw Lady Dimitrescu outright grinning before she ducked out ahead of you, if you didn’t know better you’d say she read your mind.

The moment you stepped out of the shaft and through the opening of the alcove, you were severely unprepared for the harsh winter wind or how well into the evening it’s become and the conversation earlier was placed on the backburner.

Less than two hundred feet away there was a stagecoach waiting with four black horses attached. The stagecoach was all black with gold trimmings, a style fit for royalty—you’ve seen enough of them in your lifetime to know.

There was a young man half frozen next to it as he waited for Lady Dimitrescu’s approach, nearly stuttering out all of his teeth to greet her but she hardly paid him any attention, gracefully ducking inside. The young man gawked at you as you entered the coach behind his employer but was quick to close the door after you.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, the tips of your ears heating up when you had to brush past her crossed legs to sit on the bench across from her and she made no effort to move, only watching you while smoking from her cigarette stick.

The stagecoach had a bigger interior than the exterior let on, accommodating the dark haired beauty perfectly. Though she was sitting at a sideways angle she seemed very comfortable and she was easily dumping the ashes outside of the cracked window.

“Is there anyway to get my things back…it had a majority of my clothes in there.” Or get back to your camp—it was probably ruined by now, either by wild animals or nature itself.

“We will accommodate you at the castle.” Her gaze was on you again but you were busy looking out of the window down at the village, now that it was nightfall everyone had their lights on—it was bigger than what you expected. “I don’t suppose you like dresses?”

~~

As you suspected, the inside of her castle was just as massive and beautiful in it's antiquity as it was on the outside. The estate was kept in pristine condition and you were honestly impressed with what you saw. But it was really warm though not uncomfortably so. You two had barely stepped into the lobby of her castle with you mostly admiring how easily she was able to bend at the waist without batting an eye to get through a door that wasn't custom sized for her. She seemed used to it but you wondered why she didn't correct the doors.

“Hmm. Nice castle but why is it so warm? I might have to sleep with a window open.” you joked, still taking in everything and you had yet to notice how your words affected your host.

She stopped dead in her tracks and turned on you so fast you actually did run into the taller woman. Your entire face was lost in a world of firm fluffiness and your senses were filled with the very essence of Lady Dimitrescu. Though before you could scramble away with an apology on the tip of your tongue, Lady Dimitrescu was moving before you and she had reached down and she fisted the back of your parka and kept you right where you were, close and trapped.

You were forced to look up at her between her bust, or let them suffocate you, and she was already looking down at you with a hard look but you had no idea what the hell you did.

“You open a window in my castle and you won't be sleeping at all, guest to Mother Miranda be damned.” she snarled, her tone steely and you had no choice but to listen—even if she didn’t have you in a death grip, “The windows are off limits. Do not open them. Do not touch them. Are we clear?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, still struggling against her unyielding hold and against your rising temper, “What the—”

“Do you understand?” she tightened her grip on the back of your clothing, forcing the collar of every layer you wore to constrict around your throat at an alarming fast rate.

“Understood.” you gritted, your blunt nails digging her soft flesh beneath your hands that was her stomach but you doubted that your nails were as deadly as hers. You didn't bother to tell her that it was a joke and you were quick to straighten yourself out as you caught your balance when she released you with a bit of a pull against your parka forcing you away from her. You cursed her in your native tongue but her attentions were now focused on something to your left—no, on someone.

“Ah, good! Servant, come here,” a young girl no older than twenty quickly came over, bowing her head awkwardly.

“Y-yes Lady Dimitrescu, how may I serve—”

Alcina cut in quickly as if she had better things to do, and she did, “You're not serving me tonight, girl. This (Y/n). She will be staying in the guest room to the left of the wine room and you will be tending to her every need for the duration of her stay, and I do mean her every need.” though her tone was cheerful there was an undertone of a threat if her instructions went under-performed. Alcina winked at you as she hadn't almost choked you out in the middle of her foyer.

“Yes ma'am, I understand.”

The maiden nearly nodded her head from her shoulders. She was so terrified. If you were blind you would've assumed it was her first day, but a good portion of you knew that it was something else—you remembered quite well how Miranda preferred to run her own kingdom and you weren't surprised that this woman had similar tastes.

“Keep your pleasantries. Just show me to my room and leave me before I really lose my fucking temper.” you snarled at both of them, namely the Lady of the castle. You were able to physically restrain yourself from starting a brawl with this woman but your mouth has almost always gotten you into more than half the situations that left marks all over your body.

Lady Dimitrescu looked back to you, tilting her head back slightly as if she was just finally taking notice of how hard you were glaring at her. She did not know why as it could've been for a number of things that have happened within the last five minutes.

Alcina's eyes shifted from you to the trembling maiden between the two of you, then back to you again, “Are we going to have an issue, (Y/n)?” and clearly misunderstanding the reason for your ire.

You scoffed knowing when to pick your battles and how she handles her staff was not one of them. But how she handled you was, “Manhandle me again and we will.”

The maiden gasped at your audacity and flinched sharply when Alcina chuckled while setting her hand on her hip. She found more and more curious and she was starting to see why Miranda liked you so much before. There was a spirit that burned inside of you—strong and rattling in its cage, she could see it in your eyes even as you restrained yourself.

The maiden opened her eyes when she didn't feel the whoosh of Lady Dimitrescu slapping you through the wall, she was surprised to see you still standing there alive. The maiden looked at you in awe before bowing her head, “P-please follow me, ma'am.”

Alcina still stood there with her hand on her hip and another one of her cigarettes was lit, watching you follow the little maiden through one of the side doors when a familiar buzzing made itself known until Bela was standing next to her, snuggled close as she wiped the blood from her mouth with the sleeve of her black shift. It needed to be washed anyway.

“Mother, who is that? Another meal?”

“No,” Alcina answered softly, reaching down with her free hand to push back Bela's hood so she could comb out a few tangles in her eldest daughter's blonde hair, “But she is very interesting, isn't she?”

“Yes, but who is she?” Bela asked again, this time looking up at Alcina.

“Perhaps a friend, or foe, that has yet to reveal itself. But for now, go and collect your sisters dear and meet me in my study...I wish to talk to them about something more pressing.”

Bela was gone in an instant, the synchronized buzzing of dozens of blowflies disappearing quickly leaving Alcina alone with her thoughts.

Here is a link to the Ao3 version of this story...if it's easier than tumblr...

[angelguk]

this prompt: jock!jaykay and namjoon running into each other at a party or sth and namjoon being like ‘you finally grow a pair and ask oc out yet?’ and jks just like 😧 and joons like ‘seriously dude? 😑 i’ve been waiting for you to ask her out since before i even dated her’. but make it more angst!!! namjoon is kind of an asshole here. there’s smoking, drinking and jk getting a brief lapdance. oc is a LIAR. jaykay deep in his feels tbh. roughly 1.5k. listen to all i wanted by paramore

Jeongguk's crossed too many paths with people during his life to remember every face his eyes have ever seen. But there’s one he will never forget, no matter how hard he tries to scrub the memory from his brain, ignore the muted forlorn twang in his heart, the low ache that ebbs from the base of his skull. It sparks up again despite years of never seeing the individual who caused the problem. How could he forget those broad shoulders? The sharp analytic eyes. The man whom you’d attached yourself too for a good chunk of your joint high school careers. It surprises him, honestly, because Jeongguk’s got a girl grinding on his lap but his eyes are locked on Namjoon, ears trailing after the sound of his deep laugh instead of the sweet nothings Nayeon (or Naeun, or Nayoung — he can’t fucking remember) is murmuring into the hollow of his neck.

For one, he’s fucked out of his mind. Taehyung probably laced the joint; he liked doing that shit even when it messed up Jeongguk’s trip. He should have known not to take a hit, but he was already ten shots in and nothing sounded better than smoke in his lungs. Maybe not nothing. This girl feels good in his hands, responds to the lightest of his touches, moans in his ear like she wants him to fuck her.

He could. He has before. Probably. She knows exactly where to nip his neck for this to have not been a repeat hook-up. But in the haze of the low living room lights and the spinning headiness of the drinks he’d downed, he couldn’t make out her face. It’d shift and twist and turn into an image that almost makes him want to cry because, at some angles, when the shadows form right, he thinks he can see your face. It could be you in his lap, you whimpering whenever your crotches aligned just right, you clinging to him like the sun hangs onto the evening sky.

But it’s not.

And for some unfathomable reason, Jeongguk’s ruined mind recognises that sucks.

Because it should be you.

He doesn’t know how he gets that girl off. Probably some lie that he needed to pee. In reality, he needed to breathe, because those thoughts surface with malicious intent, purposefully drawing him closer to deep dangerous waters. If he’s not careful he could easily drown, suffocated by desires he can’t even string together into a comprehensible sentence.

The night air hits sharp, seeping through his loose shirt. It grounds him enough for his steps to stabilise, feet following a slow trudge to the edge of the balcony. He doesn’t even know whose house this is. Somebody he’s probably never met honestly. But he wanted you to come. Everyone was coming out tonight. Even your elusive roommate Sohee was somewhere in some bathroom with a head between her thighs. You probably are doing that too, to be far. Even the name evokes bile from his throat, bitter and violent, full of jealousy he’d never really learnt to contain.

Lee Eunwoo. A graphic design major. Slightly taller than Jeongguk (only when Jeongguk is having a bad day) and somehow he can make you giggle like he’s getting paid for it.

You’d mentioned it so softly that Jeongguk didn’t even hear it at first. But then your cheeks had heated up, that stupid sparkle melting through your gaze. You wanted to spend the night with him, take advantage of an empty apartment, perhaps watch a movie or two.

It's obvious that you were going to sleep with him. The thought itself irked something visceral inside of Jeongguk. But he’d given you an easy smile, laughed at the modesty of your demeanour and wished you well with a tight hug. The same low buzzing of frustration that he got when you were with Namjoon was already waning through his system as he completed his sets at the gym with more force than needed.

Which is why he can’t help but release a bitter laugh into the night. Ironically, Namjoon was here while you were getting your back blown out by another idiotic guy Jeongguk did not like.

“What’s so funny?”

He can’t spin around to face him, Jeongguk knows he’ll throw up if he does. But he can’t forget a timbre like that. Not when you nearly wrote a poem about how wonderful Kim Namjoon’s voice was. A poem which you recited to Jeongguk before he begged you to rip it to shreds and never talk about again.

(Subconsciously Jeongguk had adopted a deeper voice whenever he talked to you since then. It came out more when he was drunk, but it’s not like you paid any attention anyway).

“Nothing,” he returns. He hopes Namjoon gets the hint and goes away. The bastard joins him on the balcony instead.

“No, seriously, what’s funny? You look like you’ve got a lot going on in your head.” Namjoon was always so concerned in talking about emotions and putting your feelings into words. It’s one of the reasons why you loved him and probably reason one thousand why Jeongguk hated him.

“Hello to you too, Kim Namjoon. Don’t you think we should catch up on the pleasantries before you start psychoanalysing me?” He retorts, forcing his gaze onto the other man. Namjoon looks good; golden skin, broad shoulders and his hair cropped short. There’s an ease to him that Jeongguk could never replicate no matter how hard he tried. Perhaps that’s what happens when you’re born sure of yourself. Like Namjoon was.

The laugh he receives is empty. Namjoon is busy rifling through his pockets, fingers emerging with a joint and a lighter. “Nice to see you too, Jeon. Didn’t think I’d ever bump into you after high school but the universe works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it?” The jay slips between his lips, followed by a swift flick of the lighter before a deep inhale that Jeongguk swears he feels in his lungs. The smoke floats out pretty, fading into wisps of nothing but grey as the breeze sweeps it away. Namjoon offers it cordially, a simple raise of his defined eyebrows and even though Jeongguk’s legs are melting through the floor he can’t say no.

“You sure?” The doubt tinting his tone makes him take it. His overestimation in his maintenance capabilities leads to a rather rough inhale, and an even worse hacking cough that he wants to be mortified at because Namjoon fucking laughs. But he can’t when the world feels like air in his fingertips, slowly slipping away. Almost like you feel at times. 

“You should stop taking the shit Taehyung rolls. I don’t even know what he slips in there but last time I smoked with him I thought I was on Mars.”

“Taehyung offers, I never ask.”

“You never ask for anything to be frank.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Namjoon returns, smoke falling from his lips.

“Yeah, I fucking did. I was giving you the chance to pretend you didn’t say it.” Jeongguk’s all in his space in an instant, the itch to smash Namjoon’s face tingling beneath his skin. Namjoon doesn’t even back up, gracing Jeongguk with a quizzical look that leaves him bewildered. “You don’t fucking know me—"

“I do.” There’s a scoff that riles him up even further. Namjoon’s still incredibly unbothered as he talks. “You think being Y/N’s boyfriend I didn’t hear everything and anything about you? Jeongguk this! Jeongguk that! You know that’s the reason we broke up, right?”

That halts him, a lag in his brain as he attempts to process the words leaving Namjoon’s mouth. The older man just stares at him, the sigh that drifts in between them bordering on pity.

“She didn’t tell you that, did she? Y/N lies about a lot more things than you think, Jeon. Where is she by the way? I’ve seen all her friends but I haven’t seen her.”

“Why would you know her friends?” It’s a stupid question but in the jumble of his thoughts it’s the only thing his mind is capable of plucking out. A question that doesn’t leave him bare and vulnerable like the other one’s racing through his head.

“We don’t have each other blocked on everything. Sometimes we talk,” Namjoon supplies easily. And just like that Jeongguk crumbles. He’s not even aware of it but the first crack spears deep enough to leave the rest of him unstable, wavering as he falters away from Namjoon. You never told him any of this. As far as Jeongguk knew you ended the relationship hating him (a thought that briefly consoled Jeongguk if he’s being truthful). But apparently, you felt comfortable enough to share your life with the person Jeongguk thought hurt you the most.

“Man, fuck you.” It’s a release, to say it. Because honestly fuck Kim Namjoon. In the span of a few short sentences he’s tipped everything he’s ever been sure of upside-down, stomped on Jeongguk’s heart like it was bendable and ducked his head right into the ocean he was afraid of diving it, keeping it under until the water filled his lungs and Jeongguk ceased to function.

Namjoon shrugs, not even looking as Jeongguk stumbles back to the door. He needs to find you, ask how much of Namjoon’s words were true. He doesn’t care if Eunwoo is over he’ll kick him out if need be.

But then Namjoon opens his mouth one more time, the final nail in the coffin.

“You should have asked her out. I was waiting for you to it — she was probably waiting too.”

[iceeckos12]

time travel snippet

little time travel au oneshot. season 5 jon travels back in time to season 1. from the perspectives of tim, martin, and sasha. 3.5k.

i dont think i need to tag anything, but please let me know otherwise.

Tim wakes up that morning, and it’s just like any other day.

Well—no, okay, that’s a bit misleading. Today is his first day working as an archival assistant, so he’s one part nervous, one part that breathless, exhilarated feeling you only get when you’re about to do something unfamiliar that may or may not redefine your life for the foreseeable future. When he says “it’s just like any other day”, he means that he wakes up, and he’s a normal person doing normal people things like eating a healthy breakfast and going to work.

(So, no. In short, he doesn’t realize that today is the day when It happens, that big, life-changing event that you think will Never Happen To You.)

He gets out of bed, stumbles into the bathroom. Washes his face of whatever residue that’d built up during the night, tries to scrape away the evidence of his nightmares, smiles big and bright at the mirror to see how successful his efforts were. He’s betrayed by the traitorous bags beneath his eyes, but that’s okay. Sasha taught him how to wield concealer as a shield whenever his past wore down his armor.

He shoots twin finger guns into his reflection, making soft pew, pew! noises that are almost too-loud in the hush of the bathroom. Then he turns on his heel and walks away, sauntering and humming along with the chorus of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5.

He gets to the Institute twenty minutes before he’s supposed to—not because he’s trying to impress his boss or whatever (he and Jon have known each other long enough that there’s no point). It’s just, Jon will probably want to make some sort of game-plan before the actual workday starts. 

The poor man had been relieved to an almost comical degree when Tim had said yes, I’ll come with you to the Archives. It’s painfully obvious how out-of-his-depth Jon is with the whole “Head Archivist” thing. Tim’s honestly baffled as to why Elias had singled him out for the position in the first place, considering his lack of qualifications.

But, whatever. It’s fine! Tim and Sasha will be there to help him—although the third assistant is a bit of a problem, considering that they know absolutely nothing about him. There’s no guarantee that this Martin Blackwood won’t report inadequacies or mistakes back to Elias. If that’s the case, Tim and Sasha will have to be Jon’s safety net, which is partially why Tim is hoping to talk to Jon before anyone else gets there.

He also wants to talk to Jon because he just knows the man is probably working himself up over all of this. Maybe reassurances won’t do away with the source of anxiety entirely, but at least it’ll remind Jon that he’s not alone, and that he can count on Tim and Sasha.

As expected, when Tim gets there he can see a sliver of light pouring out from the cracked door of the Head Archivist’s office. He selects a desk and sets his bag on top of it, noting a set of strange gouges in the fake wood with a raised eyebrow, and then an internal shrug. The Institute issued laptop is near the far edge of his desk, and his collection of pictures are strategically placed so that he can see them all clearly.

His eyes linger over the image of him, his mother, and his brother. Their smiles are almost perfect replicas of each other, like someone took a mold of one of their faces and recreated it twice over.

Briefly, he closes his eyes. Then he shakes himself, releases a slow, steadying breath, and goes to check on Jon.

Tim’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he goes into Jon’s office.

(That’s misleading too, though. He’s not sure if Jon will be visibly calm or upset, if he’ll be on his laptop, if he’ll be picking at the skin around his fingernails, as he so often does when he’s stressed. He is expecting Jon as he is and always has been—a twenty-some year old going on sixty, who wraps his gruff, grumpy demeanor about himself to protect the soft, vulnerable core he likes to pretend doesn’t exist.)

He comes up to the door, and the soft rectangle of light that emanates from beneath the door paints the tips of his shoes gold. “Jon?” he calls softly, rapping his knuckles against the frame. There’s a soft rustling noise—papers maybe? but no audible response, so he shrugs and pushes the door open. “I’m coming in.”

Tim steps inside, a quip instinctively readying itself on his tongue—but then his gaze lands on Jon, and he freezes dead in his tracks.

Even years later, he still vividly, viscerally remembers the moment he saw Danny standing on the stage underneath the Royal Opera House, the way he’d looked...not quite right. The wrongness had been subtle, so much so that it had been unnoticeable upon first glance, upon second glance. The longer Tim had looked though, the more obvious it had become, exposing all the little faults in that almost-perfect recreation of his brother.

Looking at Jon now, it’s the first and only thing he can think of. Because—yes, there’s the long, silver-streaked black hair, there’s the rich brown eyes, there’s the pair of spectacles that make him look far older than he actually is. But that’s where the similarities between the Jon he knows and this Jon end.

Jon’s always been a small man, but his feigned haughtiness makes him seem much bigger than he actually is. Except—except this Jon looks smaller somehow, his shoulders curved protectively inward, like he’s trying to present less of a target. And there’s something about his face, too—his expression is too sharp, too much—

But the worst of it is his eyes. There’s something very wrong with his eyes.

Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Jon? He doesn’t say it out loud though, just keeps staring at Jon, a heady mix of terror and horror making any sort of reaction impossible.

After a moment Jon’s lips thin, contorted by some distant cousin of displeasure, and he rises to his feet. Tim stumbles instinctively backward, his breath escaping him in a sharp gasp that’s immediately swallowed up by the apathetic stacks of books and papers surrounding them. He’s struck by the fact that if he dies here, it’s unlikely anyone will notice; he’ll become just another set of marks gouged into the desk, willed away with an uneasy shrug.

Jon freezes, lips parting subtly, as though he were about to speak. Tim feels his breath catch in his chest, unable to shake himself out of the clouded stupor his mind has fallen into.

In the end, Jon says nothing. Just releases a long, slow breath of air and sits back down, pushing his chair close to his desk. The motion looks heavy, tired, as though it takes far more energy than it should.

“You—you should go,” Jon rasps, and there’s something off about his voice too, though Tim can’t put his finger on why. He can’t cobble together enough of a train of thought to make sense of any of this, all he can think of is that clown ripping Danny apart—

He stumbles out of Jon’s office, sits down at his desk. Stares down at the cheap, fake wood, at the gouges that have marred the otherwise pristine surface. Puts his head in his hands, and tries to will his heart to stop pounding in his chest.

-0-

Martin’s heard things about Jonathan Sims.

He’s not usually the type to pay attention or encourage gossip, as the vivid memories of his classmates tittering cruelly whenever he walked by still leaves a sour taste in his mouth.The problem with the Institute is that the employees get bored pretty easily. Though most would consider academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal to be fairly interesting, it’s still academic research. And the subject content can get to be a bit...repetitive. There’s only so many gruesome statements you can read without thinking, oh great, more meat.

So the employees gossip a lot, and while Martin usually tries to keep his head down and avoid it, it’s difficult not to overhear some things. And from what little he’s heard, he’s...a bit concerned. Rude and unsociable has frequently been mentioned, as have arrogant and unnecessarily finicky, and worst of all, a bit of a stuck-up know-it-all.

Normally he tries not to put too much stock in office gossip—he’s well aware that the grapevine tends to exaggerate one’s most undesirable traits—but if any of it is true, then he might just be in trouble. It was hard enough being a library employee when his boss wasn’t even paying attention most of the time. If Jon is as exacting as they say, it might be enough to expose the fact that Martin has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. And if that happens, then he might get fired, and he can’t get fired, he needs this job, he can barely keep up with his mum’s medical bills as it is—

Calm down, Martin tells himself firmly, pressing his hand against his sternum, as though that will be enough to quell the rising panic. It’s only your first day. Maybe he’s nice, and we’ll actually be good friends.

(With his luck? Yeah, right.)

The Institute looms in the distance, growing closer with every terrified, grudging footstep. A shiver runs up his spine at the sight of its imposing presence, a dark, ugly blot of a building against the backdrop of the iron grey clouds.

If there’s one thing he’s good at though, it’s keeping his head down and muddling through until he’s able to figure out what is actually expected of him. He can twist and fold himself into whatever role they need him to fill, as he has done so many times in the past. Not easily perhaps, but he has always managed. The alternative is untenable, after all.

So he takes a deep breath, and shoves his panic down as deep as possible. Lifts his head and forces a smile onto his face, like a good attitude will be enough to protect him from his boss’s wrath.

He could really do with a cup of tea.

Martin trudges down the stairs, giving the blank walls, the old-fashioned carpet, a dubious look as he does. The Archives themselves are as he remembers it—he’s been down here a couple of times when Gertrude made a request for something specific, but—

He pauses when he notices a man sitting at one of the desks, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders aren’t shaking and his breathing is even, so Martin doesn’t think that he’s crying? He’s just….sitting there, his stillness so perfect it’s almost inhuman.

“Hello?” Martin calls softly, cautiously, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

The man looks up, revealing a very handsome face and brown eyes so dark they may as well be black. His cheeks are dry but his eyes are bright and a little wild, and his mouth is pressed into a small, tight line. He doesn’t speak, just keeps watching, blinking dazedly in Martin’s direction. Martin gets the feeling that this person isn’t entirely there at the moment, like a house in which every room is lit, but there are no people inside.

He swallows and shifts nervously back and forth, trying to decide whether or not to call for some backup. Eventually he sets his bag on the floor and shuffles a bit closer. “Um—are you—is everything okay?”

The man blinks rapidly, some semblance of awareness creeping back into his gaze. He shakes his head slowly, pushes his short, gelled hair back from his head. His hands are trembling. “I’m...yeah, I’m fine. It’s—everything’s, it’s…”

But then his gaze lands on something over Martin’s shoulder, and all the color drains out of his face, his mouth shutting with a painful sounding click. Martin quickly spins around, searching for whatever could’ve scared him so much—

There’s someone standing in the doorway of Gertrude’s office.

There are so many things that one normally takes in upon first meeting another person: their hair, their skin color, all the little wrinkles and marks that give you the briefest insight into their life. Martin looks at posture first, tends to check if a person is intentionally looming, or if they’re making themself smaller.

But all Martin can see are the eyes.

There’s—two of them he thinks, but two is such an arbitrary number when the thing you’re applying it to doesn’t ascribe to human values (he’s not sure how he knows that—how does he know that—?). That horrible, terrible gaze is an unerring arrow, all-encompassing, all-consuming, piercing the deepest corners of his mind. It hurts in some distant, nebulous way he’s not even sure he comprehends—

Then he blinks, and the sheer terror, that feeling of the horrible, violating exposure of everything that he is, abruptly snuffs out. What’s left is just a person, wispy and small, his slight frame fairly drowning in a chunky, cable-knit jumper. He’s leaning against his doorframe, his eyes—two big brown ones, rich and unfathomably sad and more than that, human—drinking Martin in, his lips parted in a soundless gasp.

“Um—” Martin glances over his shoulder, and almost leaps out of his skin when a land falls heavily on his shoulder. The man who’d been sitting in the chair is standing just behind him, a strained but polite smile on his face.

“Hi Jon,” the man says, an undercurrent of a warning in his voice.

Martin glances between the two, his confusion growing with every passing moment. This is not what he was expecting when he first came into work today, and the uncertainty makes him feel strange and off-kilter.

The person in the door swallows once, twice, then straightens, one hand still gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. When he speaks, his voice is soft, tentative, a little ragged around the edges. “Tim. It’s, um...it’s good to see you.”

“Martin Blackwood, was it?” Tim continues, injecting a bit of cheer into his voice. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s being addressed, and he shoots Jon—this is Jonathan Sims?—an uncertain look before nodding slowly. “We’re happy to have you on the team.”

“O-Oh?” Martin squeaks, then grits his teeth and bodily forces his voice back into its normal range. “I’m—um, I’m happy to be here?”

“Good,” Tim says through a grin that looks more like a grimace, giving Martin’s shoulder a friendly pat. The look he shoots Jon is a dark, mistrustful thing. The look Jon gives him back is fragile, vulnerable, that winds the tension in Tim’s shoulders so tight it has to be painful.

Jon’s gaze flickers to Martin, just for a second—and then he disappears into his office, leaving the door cracked behind him.

Tim and Martin stand there for a second, staring at the door. Tim’s still tense as a bowstring, and his grip on Martin’s shoulder is almost uncomfortable. The air in the Archives feels stuffy and too warm, and there’s a strange prickling sensation on the back of Martin’s neck, like he’s being subjected to close scrutiny.

Then Tim sighs and lets go of Martin’s shoulder, a little of the tension bleeding out of him, and without it he looks small, deflated. He goes back to his desk and sits down, booting up his laptop without a word of explanation to Martin.

Martin stares at the back of Tim’s head for a moment, a number of questions clamoring around in his brain—what the fuck was that? What’s wrong with Jon? Why are you so obviously suspicious of him?—but the words won’t come. Breaking the silence feels...sacrilegious, somehow. Every breath of air sticks against the back of his throat.

In the end, he doesn’t say anything either, just sits at his desk and takes out his Institute-issued laptop. Stares blankly at the screen as the machine slowly, laboriously, comes to life.

-0-

Sasha’s not entirely sure how to interpret the tense atmosphere that has descended over the Archives.

The first day she’d arrived a couple of minutes before she was supposed to, prepared to follow Jon’s direction and help him adjust as best she could. (Her feelings about Jon’s promotion...didn’t matter. She didn’t like it, but it wasn’t his fault that Elias was an old-fashioned misogynist.)

But when she’d come down the stairs, Tim and the assistant she didn’t know, Martin, had been seated quietly at their desks. They’d both had the same distant, shell-shocked look on their faces, like they’d received some shattering, horrible news. Sasha had sent Tim a confused look, but he either hadn’t noticed it, or hadn’t wanted to explain.

She hadn’t even seen Jon that first day, just received a polite email asking her to start organizing the statements according to the system which he’d devised.

It’s been almost three days, and nothing has changed. Oh sure, they’ve all started organizing the statements as directed. Tim cracks jokes, Martin tiptoes around them and makes copious amounts of tea. That strange tension that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, like the world is holding its breath in anticipation, hasn’t faded though. And while she doesn’t know Martin all that well, she knows that something’s still up with Tim. He seems more subdued than usual, keeps sending uncomfortable looks in the direction of Jon’s office—

—which hasn’t been open since that first day. She hasn’t seen Jon at all either, no matter how early she arrives or how late she stays. The only proof she has that he’s still alive is the polite email she periodically receives, detailing some specific task that he wants for them to do.

Even then, his emails are...odd. She’s not sure how she can tell, but they feel...awkward? Stilted? Like he’s only half-aware of what he’s typing, or like he’s only asking them to do things because he feels like he should, not because he has any actual goal in mind.

Normally she’d be frustrated by this, would complain bitterly to Tim about Elias passing over her for someone who obviously doesn’t properly appreciate the position they’ve been given—except that she knows Jon. He’d made a point to explain the situation to her himself, an apologetic twist tucked into the corner of his mouth. More than that, he’d asked her to follow him to the archives, saying that he wanted the two people he trusted most, her and Tim, to come with him.

He respects her too much not to take this job seriously.

The strangeness of the archives is only emphasized by Jon’s complete and utter lack of presence within it, but she doesn’t—she doesn’t buy that. She doesn’t believe that he’d just suddenly decide not to do the job he’d been so anxious to excel at. 

More damning than anything is Tim’s complete, utter silence regarding Jon’s strange behavior, but whatever he knows about it, he isn’t saying anything. Martin is willing to talk, but he seems to be as lost as she is.

“I—that first day, Jon…” Martin shrugs, shooting a nervous glance toward the door leading to the archives. He’s been spending a lot of time hovering in the break room making tea, not that she can blame him. “He—I mean obviously I don’t know him very well, but he seemed...upset?”

“Upset,” Sasha repeats dubiously.

Martin lets out an exhausted sigh and turns away, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. He just—okay, so, bear with me for a second, but he reminded me of this guy who used to live in my neighborhood.”

Sasha backs off, folding her arms and leaning against the counter. “Okay?”

“There was this little old couple that used to live in my neighborhood. They were—they were really sweet! The husband used to give candy to us younger kids. But um—sometimes you’d see him sitting in the rocking chair on his porch, and it was like...he wasn’t entirely there? Like, he’d just sit there for hours, rocking and staring at nothing. That’s—that’s what Jon’s expression reminded me of.”

Martin gets more animated the more he talks, Sasha notes; his hands move in broad, sweeping gestures, his expression twisting into an expression of extreme concentration. The moment he finishes he deflates again, tucking his hands into his armpits self-consciously, a hedgehog curling protectively in on itself.

“So, yeah,” he finishes eloquently.

“Huh,” Sasha says thoughtfully.

She gets back to her desk. Looks over at Tim, who’s studiously working through a box of statements, his mouth set in a neutral, concentrated frown. Takes a deep breath, letting the taste of dust and old papers sit heavy on her tongue.

Then she opens her laptop and starts looking through the catalog of cursed items that are currently being held in Artifact Storage.

(She doesn’t think that she’ll find anything, but—but just in case.)

-0-

They all get the call the next Monday morning: Elias Bouchard was found dead in his office.

[sebbybooks]

Wreck My Daydream

Part Two

Sebastian Stan x Fanfiction

18+

Tagged🎄

@wayward-mikaelson

Cataglottism

(n.) kissing with tongue

I’m already wet and Sebastian barely even touched me.

I hardly gave myself a moment to be ashamed or even stir in the crass words I was using even if I had only thought them. Like a diary I suppose there was no need to lie to myself considering it was one hundred percent true. I, Nellie Lennox, was unabashedly met with unending desires that washed away my trepidations that led up to this moment.

In its place I felt this newfound sense of possibilities that I wasn’t actually making an ass out of myself with my sudden confession of feelings for Sebastian. In my defense I didn’t just wake up one morning after having some epiphany as to why I wanted to be with him. The thought of us together made itself at home in the back of my mind.

Almost like a what if. . .

However, I couldn’t help but be terrified of all the ways it could go wrong. What if I had made things weird between us forcing us apart? Life would be a bitter existence if Sebastian wasn’t around in some capacity. For the longest time I tried to find him in different relationships. It is a messed up philosophy, but it almost worked. Whenever things would get too serious it nearly terrified me. I was their someday and they were my maybe. I owed this last relationship that is still so freshly cut more than that.

I owed myself that.

On the unique and rare chance I somehow got lost in a very realistic maladaptive daydream, I’m pretty certain Sebastian wants this too. Just thinking about what he had told me seconds ago made my heartbeat drum to a dizzy rhythm. Imagining myself getting fucked to the beat of it was a completely different type of sensation.

Retraining my focus on the now I could see it in Sebastian’s face all the wheels going around in his head. Confusion? Uncertainty? Regret?

“You don’t get to do that.” I tell him. I felt like I was going to climb out of my own skin if he left me suspended in the silence for a second longer. Sebastian tipped his face closer to mine, our lips gingerly brushing against each other. Perhaps he was feeling ambivalent in regards of his feelings for me? After all this was sprung on him in the middle of the night.

Sebastian shook his head as if he was at war with himself. “I want to.” His voice was strained and dangerously low, like something was causing him utter misery being this close, yet not knowing exactly when to pull away.

“Then why don’t you.” I dared him.

I was growing impatient with this slow burn we had somehow started. I wanted to play with this fire. If I got burned in the end by his touch then so be it. At least I would forever be marked with a reminder of knowing that I at least went after something I wanted with no apology. I wanted to see how far he was willingly to go.

Sebastian removed his hand from the security of being wrapped around me. I feigned a disappointed sigh at the lack of contact. My entire body must have been on autopilot , because I didn’t recognize the position I was in. I practically sat in his lap with one leg wrapped around him and the other one mindlessly dangling over the bed. Of course the mind reader that Sebastian was naturally grabbed ahold of the side of my thigh and wrapped it around his back.

It wasn’t like I was naive to sex or never had my fair share of romantic conquest. Regardless of my experiences I still felt like a gigantic ball of nerves. The way he stared down at me with a heated look in his eyes as if he wanted to posses every inch of me. Hell, I felt like I could come undone from that alone.

The hand that was planted on my back slowly drifted downward trailing the curve of my backside gripping my ass through my thinly silk hunter green shorts that matched the top. Earlier I had berated myself for wearing scantly clad pajamas to bed. Now I am thanking my lucky stars I opted out of the option of wearing a red Christmas onesie that had polar bears wearing scarfs around their necks. They were ones my mother insisted the whole family wear.

If I had I probably would not have been able to feel his erection that was restrained in his sweatpants. Trying to situate myself closer I rocked into him slightly, massaging myself on him. My ears didn’t miss the subtle groan Sebastian let out from the feel of my weight pressing further into him.

His silence wasn’t lost on me and he still hadn’t answered my question so I did it again. I wanted him to say something. My nervousness abated at this point. I twined my arms around his neck, grinding myself against him again and again. All the while Sebastian watched my every movement with a hint of a star struck look in his eyes. The feeling was certainly mutual I was even shocking myself at my behavior.

“Nellie,” Sebastian finally says, voice husky. He usually only ever calls me by my nickname so I was more than sure that he was not fully himself.

“I’m a big girl Sebastian I can handle whatever you need to say.” I tell him, holding in my breath.

“Alright,” he said with uncertainty. “You and me, this, it’s not a good idea.” His tone was barely audible and even more so he sounded hurt. Everything in me froze.

“And why is that?” I asked him more confused than ever. Suddenly feeling absolutely self conscious as I over analyzed every intimate word I just shared with him. I was even more horrified by the fact that I was dry humping my best friend.

He let out a darkly laugh. “It’s pretty damn obvious Nells.” Sebastian says rather ominously.

“...It’s not actually.” For someone that wants nothing out of this, Sebastian was holding on to me like an anchor and I on the other hand just wanted to get away and sink.

Admittedly, I was losing this game of tug a war. There was only so much I was willing to endure even I had my limits. “You’re giving me whiplash Sebastian .” I tell him honestly, “ I’m not like those other girls you go for that are satisfied with you just dangling yourself in front of them like a piece of cake that I can’t have. I meant what I said when I told you I didn’t say it just to hear you say the same.” My voice could only rise so high in pitch.

I definitely didn’t want to wake up the upstairs guest that would love nothing more than to recap this conversation over breakfast. Then like an unexpected bolt of lighting startling you from a distance, Sebastian kissed me.

Sebastian

I am a selfish bastard.

My mind fell quiet when I looked at her. I wanted to swim in the serenity and peacefulness that was this smart, vibrant, sexy, and uniqueness this woman possessed. I only wondered even in the darkness could Nellie see my eyes as plainly as I can see hers. If so could she see the shame reflecting in them? I could feel the nagging weight of my conscience siting on both of my shoulders, arguing back and forth over what I should and shouldn’t do. It was kind of ironic that the devil in my ear insisted that I give in to the angel in my lap.

God knows I waited for her and that I would keep waiting if I had to in this lifetime or the next. It was always going to be Nellie for me. I wanted to tell her all of this, but the longer I held on to this slice of heaven I was given during this random hour. I also knew that this moment was fleeting. I basked in the way she looked at me, the way she held on to me like I was an object of virtue. I also got a sample of what it would be like to lose her the second she began to slip away on her own accord. So, I did what any poor fool would do in my position. I kissed her.

It wasn’t exactly suave or how I imagined it would go. My mouth sort of crushed against her unmoving lips in a rushed and unskilled manner. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what I was doing, I certainly could do a hell of a lot better than this. An yet, it was still like I predicted it would be, filled with pure unadulterated pleasure. Nellie’s lips were sweet and warm, exactly how I imagined forbidden fruit to taste like.

A perfect mixture of firm and softness that drove me wild. She flattened her hands on my bare chest as if to brace herself. Nellie pushed herself away, but her face was still so close to me. She didn’t speak and neither could I. I forced myself to look up at her and hoped that she could see I would do everything in my power to earn her forgiveness. That it was a mistake I will make right somehow.

“Nell,” I let out an exasperated breath. “ I have a need for you that goes deeper than just lust and I know that it will never truly be sated. The killer thing is I’m already at risk of losing you before I even had you.”

Nellie stared hazily up at me.“You already have me.” She whispered, our lips still grazing. Those four simple words set off a firework in me. This time when I kissed her our mouths came together like we needed to feed off of each other’s oxygen in order to survive. I’d suffer if I didn’t have it.

My mouth was greedy for hers, and I could imagine she felt the same. The moment I felt her lips slightly part open to let me in, less than a second our tongues slid together in a torrid and sensually slow pace. We kissed like a couple of eager teenagers. My heart threatened to leap from my chest when the tip of Nell’s tongue moved across my bottom lip. She tastes like gingerbread , mixed with some other divine flavor that I can only assume is Nellie. She arched herself closer into my chest and I could feel the points of her hardened nipples through her top. I seized the opportunity to press her body close because I needed more.

I wanted to feel the heat of her soft skin on mine. She returned her arms back around my neck tightly holding me in place as she angled her head kissing me back with the same ferocity. Deeply, and oh so thoroughly by the way she sucked on my tongue. I had a rough grip on her ass keeping Nellie steady as she straddled me. I was so damn hard for her. If my dick could get even harder it was bound to. Nellie did that thing again where she grinds down on my erection and I cursed at myself to not combust. I grabbed ahold of her hips guiding her to move faster, harder.

I kept telling myself to savor her, fucking take my time with this moment. I couldn’t just rip those tiny little shorts off and sink myself into her over and over until we’ve both had enough. But even then I would always need more of her. I wasn't a sentimental man, with Nellie I at least wanted to try. I wanted my first night with Nell to be a little less spontaneous than this. It wasn’t like I came prepared for festivities filled with endless fucks. Plus the added fact I couldn’t let things get too carried away especially since she still didn’t know what I have done.

Yeah, I am a very selfish bastard.

I didn’t want this to end. I wanted my mouth to explore every single part of Nellie. I wanted the taste of her to live on my tongue. I wanted to go as far as she and my consciousness would allow me.

“I need to touch you.” I panted, between every nip and kiss I left on the delicate area of skin under her jaw.

“You’re already touching me.” She says with a soft laugh, which was a melody to my ears. I was but at the same time I wasn’t. I needed to rid Nellie of any barrier that prevented me from branding her skin with my touch.

“This…off.” I tug gently on the bottom of her tank top before returning my hands to rest on her thighs, caressing them as I sucked on her neck for dear life. Going back and forth between grazing her neck with my teeth then licking over the area to soothe any imprint I’ve left.

Nellie crisscrossed her arms reaching for the hem of her top gracefully pulling it over her head. She purposely fell backwards onto the mattress aiming her shirt at my face. For as long as I’ve known Nell she was never one to be shy in her own skin.

“Imagine how unsexy that would have been if I hit my head on the headboard.”

“As long as you didn’t hurt yourself I would have just pretended that I didn’t see a thing.” I teased.

“Ah, to think they wonder where all of the good men have gone.” Nell scrunched up her nose pretending to be lost in critical thought.

I cock my head to the side. “Mm-hmm. Are you mocking me?”

“What if I am?”Her plump wet lips spread into a smile.

It was miracle I caught a word of what she said to me. I swallowed a groan as my eyes drift over the area of her body that was naked from the waist up. Nellie was clearly a stolen painting from the Louvre that I had no intention of returning. All I could do was stare.

With her legs still draped around me, my hands slide up the curve of her torso passing her ribs. I sensed that she was watching me, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off of her just yet. The pads of my fingers traced over to her breast and my mouth practically watered at the sight of them. She was ethereal.

“Don’t suddenly go mute on me Sebastian.” She let out a shaky breath.

I’ve heard her say my name a thousand times. Hearing her say it in this state created a feeling of warmth that filled my chest. I could only begin to imagine the different ways I wanted to hear her call out my name. My gift, my best friend, my Nellie. Those last words had a sting to them even as I thought them. Deep down I knew that was never going to be true.

I eased all the way down my tongue traveling around the dip of her navel. Creating a path up the center of her abdomen. I knew that Nell was extremely ticklish. The slightest form of contact would automatically turn her into a ninja. From the way she was pressing herself back into the mattress I knew she was trying her hardest not to flee. Of course I found it rather enticing so I made sure to spend extra time over the areas of her exposed skin I knew to be the most sensitive. Brushing the tip of my nose between her breast my mouth finally latched on to what I’ve been waiting for.

“So fucking beautiful.” I say as I graze my mouth over the stiff peak of her nipple. I was in awe over the ability that they simultaneously could feel hard yet felt extremely soft. I dragged the tip of my tongue around the bud of it in a languid movement before sucking it in deep. I loved listening to the sounds she made while I sucked and devoured as much as I could fit into my mouth. I wanted to hear a symphony of the noises that escaped from Nellie.

Going for one after the other not wanting to miss out on either. Nellie kept a limp hand pressed into my hair keeping me close as if I dared to stop.

Writhing underneath me Nellie gasped,“Touch me.”

Now she understood what I meant. My own body felt betrayed by my decision. I literally ached from pain and pleasure. Truthfully I wouldn’t opt for a better scenario than this. I would be more than gratified with giving Nellie an orgasm or two.

Still leaving featherlight kisses across her chest. With one hand I reach down and brushed along the dip of Nellie’s hip, then began to tug away at her shorts. To my surprise she was bare underneath. This was a new and uncharted territory we were crossing.

Tell me to stop, say that this is just the wrong time, tell me we would never work. Those words never escaped me, the sound of the goddamn doorbell intervened for her. My movements hesitated then shortly I picked up on inaudible chattering out in the hall. Nellie turned her head in the direction towards the door which I hoped like hell was locked. “Maybe we should go see what’s going on.” Her eyes widened.

“Or we could stay here and not shame the fact that I was two seconds away from wrapping your legs around my face while I tasted the slickness between your thighs. ” Nellie released a ragged breath and I meant every word.

To my dissatisfaction we were composed in under three minutes. I felt a strange sense of comfort and pride seeing that ever so often I’d catch Nellie looking in my direction smiling like she had some big secret she was bursting to tell. Which only made me feel like an even bigger asshole. The walk downstairs was surprisingly noisy. Someone had plugged the Christmas tree back up and there was a chilly wind breaking in as the front door came to an immediate shut.

Nellie’s parents were both moving around in a fast pace trying to find new spots to put a couple of suitcases. I had to swallow down a chuckle at the sight of their bold choice of pajamas. Nellie had already beaten me to the bottom of the staircase just as I rounded the corner of the spiral stairs.

“Cousin!” Vanessa squealed rushing over towards Nellie, who excitedly embraced her the same. They exchanged a few excitable words to each other that I tuned out. I was busy focusing on the six foot son of a bitch with a puppy dog expression on his face standing awkwardly behind them.

“Now you know Nells Bells you can’t have Christmas without good ole St. Nicholas can you?” She winked at a stone faced Nellie who just looked straight ahead at her ex boyfriend Nick. “I hope it’s okay I brought him over with me. I saw him at the airport dozed off in a chair.” Vanessa whispered as she leaned into Nell, like she just earned a gold star. Soon as Vanessa’s wild dark brown eyes caught ahold me I knew my bubble was about to pop.

“Something told me I was off the naughty list this year.” Vanessa bit at her glossed up lips and made a beeline towards me, wrapping her arms around my waist. She smelled like an overtly sweet perfume that tortured my sinuses. “Did you forget how to work a phone or what? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days. I miss you.” She cooed.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Nellie watching the two of us. This was my punishment.