#is he too polite to flip the bird .

[2129888]

second nail polish abe has hit the woke trade center

[ervotica]

pretty little bird

vampire!azriel x fem!reader – blood, feeding, rhys watches (more on him soon!). approx. 600 words.

Azriel's ears perk at the shuffling of bare feet in the next room, both his and Rhysand's heads turning curiously as you stumble into view, eyes teary.

You're rather akin to a newborn deer, unsteady as you creep on the balls of your feet, shivering and cradling yourself for comfort.

Rhys doesn't think he's ever seen Az soften with such urgency, his steely countenance turning on its head as that first fat tear rolls over the swell of your cheek.

"My angel," he coos. "Come to me, baby."

You seem to hesitate, but you're quickly enticed closer by the roaring fire at the edge of the room, lulled into his arms without much protest at the crackling promise of warmth. Hues of gold and orange split into dappled rays that climb the expanse of Azriel's bare chest, the milky skin stark against the dark of the sitting room. It's an incentive for you to venture closer, a reward for spending your days shrouded in cold and darkness with this creature that calls you mate.

Rhys quirks a brow. "Who's this?"

It's as though those two words have set every fight response Azriel's body possesses alight, his temper flaring; a growl rumbles through him, his grip tightening as he snatches you up to his chest as though somebody will attempt to steal you away. Rhys lifts his hands in surrender.

"She's mine," Azriel snarls, baring honed canines. "Mine."

You go soft, submitting in an attempt to placate the vexation that crawls through his every vein like molten lava. Your head spins, fatigue weighing down your every limb as though they're filled with molasses. He grazes the edge of a fang along your pulse point. Just enough to break the first layer of skin.

He watches the drop of blood well, ooze and drip, settling in the hollow of your throat.

You sniffle, stomach flipping. He knows what you want; he just enjoys the desperation lacing your tone. You need the release of the feed as much as him. "Please."

Onyx strands of hair sweep over his eyes as he dips his head low to flatten his tongue across your throat, humming lowly at the tang of copper that bleeds over his tastebuds. He nudges your jaw with the tip of his nose.

"So polite, little bird," he hums. "Lean on me, baby. Az has you."

You hiccup, pushing closer into his space. A scarred hand brushes the hair from your throat, fangs entirely unsheathing as the tips of his teeth pierce your tender flesh.

You whine and thrash like a wounded prey animal, but you're quickly subdued as his venom seeps into your bloodstream. Euphoria bursts behind your eyelids, skin buzzing with the high that a feeding always brings you.

The other male's voice is muffled as though your ears are wadded with thick cotton. You sigh when Azriel slips his arms beneath your shoulders and hikes you upward with frantic urgency as he takes longer, dragging mouthfuls, squeezing as though the blood will pour from your wounds more rapidly.

"Az, you should stop. You'll kill her if you feed for much longer."

Azriel pulls away just enough to pant and growl, "She's fine."

The twin puncture wounds pulse and gush when Azriel tilts his head to watch his brother, irises entirely engulfed by inky darkness.

Your head drops, limp against his shoulder. Your limbs are flooded with warmth, body heavy like treacle and sated with the venom that twines around your veins like ivy, burrowing beneath your skin. Azriel's tongue flattens against your throat to clot the blood, sealing your seeping punctures.

"Shall we get you to bed, pretty bird?" he coos, mouth tilting upward blissfully. Your nose scrunches and you mouth at the bare skin as his silk shirt falls away from his form.

You're simply too tired to open your eyes, or protest, or even respond.

[directdogman]

Each Dialtown cast member shares their favourite Muppet!

Idea: Characters from the cast of Dialtown are asked to share their favourite characters from The Muppets, in order to get the Muppets fandom on board with DT, which winds up being a largely fruitless ordeal.

Gingi insists that Grover and Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street are Muppets when asked, and takes it badly when Gingi is instead asked to name a character FROM The Muppet Show. The ensuing discussion that follows is much too rancid to be published online, making the time spent trying to calm Gingi down entirely in vain.

Karen's comments are not published as she refuses to do ANYTHING other than vent frustrations about Kermit the Frog, making her comments unusable as they would undoubtedly piss off a large section of the Muppets fandom, who largely venerate Kermit the Frog.

Randy tries to make an argument for Scooter being the 'best one', feeling that he, himself, is the scooter of the Dialtown cast, and thus, must stick up for one of his ilk. This answer is NOT published because the internet would tear him to shreds for playing devil's advocate for the worst Muppet.

Randy is then given another opportunity to pick a favourite Muppet, provided he selects a different Muppet. Randy picks Pepe the Prawn. When asked why Pepe is his favourite, tears well on his screen and he asks if he can leave to get a glass of water. Upon leaving the room, Randy never comes back. The answer isn't included in the article, as it's impossible to discern whether Randy feels that Pepe the Prawn is truly a kindred soul or if he was simply put on the spot and felt pressured to simply name the first Muppet he thought of.

Oliver answers by explaining Gonzo is his favourite but every time he's given an opportunity to explain why, his explanation inevitably transitions into a rambling endorsement of anarchism. Each time, after he's been given an opportunity to explain himself, Oliver is asked to rephrase his answer to be less political and he accepts, apologizing for his mistake and swearing that he understands what the blog is looking for now. Oliver then proceeds to somehow transition back into an endorsement of anarchism until the interviewer gives up and decides to leave him out of the article.

We're not actually sure who Norm likes the best from the Muppets cast because before we could get to Norm, Gingi (irate that Grover/Oscar the Grouch were rejected as its answer) told Norm about Big Bird dying in the Challenger explosion (which happened in DT's timeline), prompting Norm to get really upset and leave before his turn came up. Norm's favourite character is PROBABLY Sam Eagle, but now, we'll never get to know for sure. Thanks, Gingi.

Mingus, when asked, declined to answer out of sheer disinterest. Upon being shown a photo of the extended Muppet cast, she arbitrarily pointed to Robin the Frog and said "That one, I guess." Upon being asked why she would pick Kermit's nephew of all characters, her response was: "It's no business of mine who this frog is related to. Nobody is well-connected enough to ensure they'll live if I deem them a threat to my success." After being reminded that Robin is canonically a child, Mingus retorted by pointing out that Robin is, in fact, a fictional frog puppet. Not sure what to do with this answer, but we certainly can't include it.

Stabby + Shooty are asked for their favourites and they pick Statler and Waldorf respectively. When asked why, they explain it's because they're cool, wear suits, deliver CUTTING jabs, and each hang out with their best bro all day, not unlike themselves. The blog operator remarks: "Oh. I figured it was because, like you guys, they're kinda interchangeable and are pretty much overlooked by everyone", causing Stabby to angrily flip a table and storm out of the room. Shooty apologies meekly for his outburst and leaves to calm his companion down. The answer is not published as the interviewer had no clue which was Stabby and which was Shooty, thus being unable to accurately attribute the answers to either of them.

Bigfoot's favourite character turns out to be Animal, and this is the only answer that ends up being published.

Here's the finished article:

DIALTOWN ARTICLE, EACH OF THE CAST'S FAVOURITE MUPPETS: BIGFOOT'S IS ANIMAL.

The article only gets 3 likes.

[starlit-typewriter]

Genshin SAGAU, Creator of Teyvat, but not Humanity Part 5

This chapter was like pulling teeth, I swear I switched POV's like 3 times.

Thank you guys so much for reading! Just as a heads up future chapters will be much much slower to update since real life hast decided to reassert it's presence. That being said, enjoy!

Warning for Spoilers up to 4.6

Masterlist | Prev Part | Next Part

~~~

The sharp edge of a sword hovered extremely close to your face. Its wielder's furious golden eyes stared you down.

“Who are you, how did you get here?” They demanded, their floating companion hovering behind their shoulder anxiously, watching this exchange.

For some reason, even though your life was being threatened, you struggled to feel any sense of fear or urgency. That’s probably something you should revisit when you didn’t have a sharp weapon pointed at you.

But you did, so you should pay attention to that, shouldn’t you.

Oh, but you haven’t, you’ve probably been silent for a while, getting lost in thought.

You redirect your attention back to your current situation. 

You are in this fancy bedroom you don’t recognize, whilst being threatened at sword point by a pretty teenager you don’t recognize.

Great, go brain, you can do things!

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for an explanation.

“I don’t mean any harm,” you say, slowly. 

The teen in question didn’t seem to believe you. They narrowed their eyes further, actually they were really pretty. Not just the teen themselves, though they are quite pretty, but their eyes sparkled like molten gold, not a common eye color at all.

Now that you think of it, are golden eyes even real? Don’t you need contacts to get golden eyes?

Oh wait, you’ve gotten off track, you’re being threatened.

They were saying something, their mouth was moving and you missed all of it.

You blinked, “sorry could you repeat that I didn’t hear it,” you asked politely, hoping they wouldn’t get mad at the request.

Oh looks like they did, considering how they’re clenching their teeth, they don’t look particularly pleased with you.

Well, you suppose it is rather rude to ignore someone mid confrontation.

Why were you in a confrontation anyways, you weren’t a particularly confrontational person, you liked to avoid drama whenever possible.

You probably shouldn’t be here, you realized. It’d be nice if you were somewhere else, like a nice park or a meadow or something.

Just as you finished your train of thought your surroundings changed.

The chirping of birds and the warmth of the sunlight distracted you from your earlier train of thought. 

You were in a lovely meadow, with beautiful golden flowers and a gigantic tree with blue crystalline branches.

It seemed rather empty though, which was a bit of a shame considering how nice it is, but you were hardly going to complain about having the entire place to yourself.

You started walking through the meadow, when a slight pain in your foot distracted you.

You checked to see that you were pricked by a rather sharp piece of gravel. 

That’s weird, why are you barefoot outside? Now that you think about it, your clothes are rather strange.

It’s this white flowy garment, reminiscent of the clothing worn by Ancient Grecians. 

But you weren’t cold at all, it was honestly quite comfortable. 

Wait, what were you thinking about again.

Oh right, you’re talking a walk in this pretty meadow!

~~~

The Wanderer, or well, Hat Guy as people now know him sighed as he flipped through a tedious book about the Origins of the Production of Wood Lacquer in Inazuma and its Effects on Weaponry. 

Unfortunately for him, I was there, does not count as a citable source if he doesn’t have the receipts to prove it. Now he has to sort through all these old books to find one with the information he needs to prove his point.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a familiar figure examining the shelves.

It seems that they noticed him too, judging by the white haired fairy’s flailing. How troublesome.

“What are you doing here,” she whispered fiercely, at least she had enough decency to not raise her voice in a library.

He looked over at his piles of books and papers covering his workstation, and then back at her, wondering if she actually expected an answer to such an obvious question.

She seemed to realize that too, considering the sheepish look she adopted. “Well, you can’t blame me for being curious. You don’t seem like a big library kind of guy.”

“I’m not,” he replied curtly, turning back to his workstation. “Trust me, if I had it any other way, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Yet somehow, him turning his back to them and ignoring their presence wasn’t hint enough of his lack of enthusiasm to engage in conversation with the two, since they ended up hovering over his shoulder, attempting to read his papers and more importantly, distracting him from his work.

He swears, if he could get a headache, he would. He ends up slapping his hand on top of his notes, disrupting their reading and whipped his head back to give them the most annoyed glare he can.

It doesn’t work, because of course it doesn’t.

Instead the Traveler just gave him a smug smirk, they did this on purpose to annoy him, which makes it worse because he fell for it.

“What do you want,” he gritted out, knowing they won’t let him have his peace until they’re satisfied.

“I need to speak with Nahida,”

Wanderer scoffed at that, “then why are you bothering me? Did the Matra turn you away at the door and now you're begging for my help to get you in?”

“Not at all,” the Traveler smiled, “I just wouldn’t mind your insight on the topic as well,”

“Plus we couldn’t find her in the Sanctuary of Surasthana, ” Paimon chimed in.

He couldn’t stop himself from pulling a face at that inane statement, “Why would she be in the Sanctuary of Surasthana?”

“It’s where we’d meet up with her before,”

“That’s because she didn’t have any rooms or offices of her own,” he explained slowly, like he was talking to a child, well he probably was considering the intellect of the white haired one. “Why would she willingly go back to her prison of 500 years when she now has the resources of all of Sumeru to build herself a new place.”

The white haired fairy in question made an exaggerated face of revelation that he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at.

He looks at his notes longingly, well not quite longingly, it’s still quite annoying, but its bound to be less troublesome than whatever the Traveler has planned.

Sighing to himself, he gathered up his notes and research and headed to the exit of the House of Daena, the Traveler and Paimon hot on his heels.

The three made their way up the winding paths of the Akademya. The puppet ignores all the glances and whispers garnered by the students and visitors alike, and moves as fast as he can without breaking into an outright run.

It doesn’t take long for them to arrive at The Dendro Archon’s new residence. Designed by the Light of Kshahrewar himself, its a beautiful structure with many windows and balconies, designed to be everything the Sanctuary was not. 

He headed straight in, the Matra having long gotten used to his frequent comings and goings with the Dendro Archon. He honestly doesn't know what reasoning they’ve decided on to explain why Lesser Lord Kusanali spends so much time with him, and honestly he couldn’t care less. It’s simply the fact that they couldn’t keep their mouths shut and now he has to deal with complete strangers coming up to him in an attempt to learn more about her.

He could hear the other two, awing at the architecture as they made their way in. Privately he did appreciate the architect's tact in designing this building. Whilst still made in the classic rounded Sumeru fashion, he managed to avoid any references to the Sanctuary of Surasthana, ensuring that there weren't many large empty spaces or darkened ceilings.

He knew she still avoided the building whenever she could, even though she rejected his proposition to have it torn down. It’s a curious relationship, for whilst it was her prison for so long, it was also the only place she knew and could call home.

Regardless of the matter, it wasn’t for him to pry.

Before long he had reached her office, offering a cursory knock before barging his way in. If she had a problem with his way of entering her rooms and offices she would've long told him to stop, but she didn’t so he didn’t.

It was a lot messier than he’d seen it last. Papers and reports scattered around the office, stacked in messy piles on her desk.

Lesser Lord Kusanali blinked up at him from where she was seated, before breaking into a smile when the Traveler and Paimon walked in.

She greeted them with enthusiasm, moving out from behind her desk to talk to them properly.

He tuned out the rest of their small talk, it was nothing more than empty pleasantries to fill the air before they got the actually important parts that were relevant to his presence.

“-ject Stuzha,”

He blinked, focusing back onto the topic of conversation. 

“Hmm, I must admit I haven’t seen many records on this project before,” the Dendro Archon said, her expectant gaze turning to him. 

He couldn't help but bristle slightly at the attention. “I’ve already given you most of the information I have about the Fatui.”

“Most is not all,” she replied simply, “and besides, from what the Traveler just said it seems to be something they’re mobilizing all their forces on.”

Logically he knew that it would be in everyone’s best interests if he told them all he knew about the project, but old habits die hard. The Tsaritsa’s court was nothing more than the world most extensive chess game. Every action and movement had to be calculated to give the player the best advantage, every scrap of information hard won. 

As much as it rankled him to admit, he was only the 6th Harbinger and the Director only gave out as much information as was strictly required, no more no less. But he did have some information, some he was given, some through sleuthing and others through his own conjecture.

He warned them of that before launching into an explanation of what he had seen and figured out.

“From the timing of things, it is clear that Project Stuzha is related to the gnosis, especially since the only one of the seven that they’re missing is the Pyro Gnosis.” His audience nodded at that assumption.

“It’s also related in some way to the state of things in Teyvat and the survival of humanity as a species. As things stand, Teyvat is becoming more and more inhabitable for regular humans. With ley line disorders, abyssal energy and dead godly remains lurking about. Project Stuzha is supposed to fix that, permanently.”

“But how,” Paimon interrupted, her head darting back and forth in confusion. 

“No idea,” he shrugged, “All I know is that it has something to do with the Abyss.”

“The Abyss? I thought that place had nothing but monsters and dead gods?”

Wanderer shook his head at that, “That’s just a common misconception. There’s actually the remains of an entire world down there. A human world.”

Both the Traveler and Paimon looked shocked at that statement. 

He’d already shared this information with Lesser Lord Kusanali so she didn’t look surprised, but she was deep in thought.

“I didn’t know that there were entire realms banished to the abyss, and I thought Enkanomiya was creepy.”

“It wasn't banished,” he refuted, “From my investigations, it seems that the civilization was built and founded there.”

There was a moment of silence as they contemplated his words.

“That brings up more questions about the origins of humans,” Lesser Lord Kusanali commented, “Irregardless of that, I believe you had another question for us Traveler?”

“Oh right!,” Paimon chimed in, looking over to the Traveler who stepped forward.

“We’re looking more into the blessings that keep happening and we'd like to hear your opinion of it.” They paused, looking between the two of them.

“Ah,” the Dendro Archon paused, looking at Wanderer.

“The thing is, we've already tried,”

“And failed.” He couldn’t help but add, to quash any hope that the duo may have.

“What do you mean by failed!” The fairy gasped.

“Well, that’s not exactly the case,” she tried to reassure. “It’s more like, there weren’t any results where we were looking. ”

“That’s just another way to say you found nothing!”

“Actually Paimon, finding nothing gives you a lot of information about where it is found!” She explained. “The thing is, the blessings we experienced aren’t connected to Irminsul in any way, so we can conclude that it originated from somewhere outside of Teyvat.”

”Does that mean that it can’t be tracked?” The Traveler asked, 

”Hmm, well from our experiences, it’s quite easy for those who’ve been blessed to recognize each other since they can feel each other’s blessing, but the range for that is no more than the size of two Sumpter Beasts.”

That was an irritating experience, having to stand in the middle of Sumeru City for hours as that annoying forest watcher had to try to find him through only his blessing. It took over half the day before they concluded that the energy of the blessing was far too weak to use as a tracking mechanism.

Thankfully, any experiments they had were benign and didn’t involve anything close to what he imagined that damned doctor attempted to inflict on Tartaglia before being shut down by the Tsaritsa. 

If that were the case he’d probably have hated the flame flickering in his hollow chest a lot more. 

Well, hate is a strong word. He didn’t deny that having the blessing made him a lot stronger than he ever was previously and on some level is grateful for its calming warmth. But a private part of him wished it had appeared to him sooner.

Logically he understood that the blessings were in some way connected to the Traveler and that they hadn’t appeared until well after his appointment as a Harbinger.

But the other small quiet part of him wonders just how different his life could’ve been had this blessing appeared before that. 

Would he have been able to save Niwa, or that little boy. Maybe even the Sho-

No

He can’t go down that train of thought.

What’s done is done and all he can do now is attempt to make amends and move on.

He tuned back into the topic only to find them talking about some kind of dessert they had in fontaine. Ugh.

He waited,

And waited,

And waited some more.

…

This conversation was taking too long.

And he isn’t even in it!

“Can I leave,” he butted in, realizing that their conversation is never going to go back to anything useful.

“Oh I’m sorry, are we interrupting your incredibly important work about glazeworks or something,” Pamon mocked.

Ignoring her he turned to the Dendro Archon who looked delighted. 

“You’re still working on the new essay?” She exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight. 

He felt his eyebrow twitch in irritation. “I would’ve had it done a week ago, if someone actually let me use accurate sources,” he snapped.

“Oh come on, it’s not so bad. Besides, how are you going to explain how Hat Guy knows so much about ancient Inazumen weapon crafting techniques that have been lost to time.”

“You could vouch for me,”

“But that wouldn’t be fair to all the other students now would it.”

He took a deep breath, remembering how he’d already tried and failed to argue his case a week prior, “so can I go or what?”

“Oh course, what kind of Archon of Wisdom would I be if I prevented learning and research!”

He took that as his cue to leave, stomping out of her office, faintly hearing the fairy commenting about how she’s surprised that he’s actually doing his schoolwork.

As if he’d let some inconsequential mortal get better grades than him.

Besides, being the top of his class means that he won’t have any irritating students come up to him and ask if he needs help or offer tutoring.

Of course, being top of his class also means that there are now people coming to him to ask for tutoring or help. 

But at least those are easier to turn away.

Hopefully he doesn’t get interrupted anymore today, if so he should be able to finish this reference by tonight. 

~~~

Masterlist | Prev Part | Next Part

Things are heating up huh!

I wonder where our dear creator has found themselves. Oh and don't worry too much about their state of mind, that will come up again soon!

Taglist: @bunniotomia,@lucid-stories, @ymechi, @chocogi,  @ra404, @ash1, @esthelily, @tottybear, @mmeatt, @quacking-simp, @reemthetheme, @universallyenthusiastsage, @resident-cryptid, @fantasyhopperhea, @thedevioussmirk, @etherisy, @naynayaa

Once again, my ask box is open if you'd like to join the taglist or just leave comments or questions. I promise I don't bite!

[safination]

Partners in Death…And Life

Part 4: The Radio Stars’ Co-host Just Wants To Do The Dishes

|Part 3: Not Everything You Hear From the Radio Should be Trusted| Part 5: Glimpse of Me and You| |Masterlist| Ao3| Taglist| Parings: Alastor x wife! Reader. Tags: fem!reader established relationships, hopefully not but just in case ooc!Alastor (I'm trying my best, guys) Reader is in hell for a reason, Warnings: Very brief dissection of the human body. Kidneys Summary: After a seven-year absence, you find the man you were married to in life, not only back in town, but also helping... *checks notes*... the Princess of Hell run a hotel aimed at rehabilitating sinners who were sent to the bad place for a reason. It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem. It’s me. I am sorry :D. These past *checks notes* three weeks (yikes) have been really busy for me. But I’m finally posting?

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

The light from the bus stop illuminates Alastor’s block handwriting. Smiles are drawn on the edges of note with different colored ballpoint pens. Dear God, it was like looking at kindergarten art, but you appreciate it nonetheless. Alastor’s instructions tell you that his house is a ten-minute walk from the bus stop.

You flip the note, studying the map Alastor drew.

A bird caws from the patches of trees across the road. There’s no living soul out here besides your own for miles.

You tighten your grip on the straps of your bag, and walk until you find yourself standing before a wooden gate. The hatch unlocks easily, and you hike up the path until you’re stepping on to the porch.

Alastor’s house isn’t much—well, it’s much more than the tiny apartment in the city that you call home, but besides that, he has a very normal looking house. You don’t know why you expect anything different. The flowers on his windowsill brighten the place, and the rocking chairs by the edge makes it homier.

You smoothen your hair, fiddling with the note. A deep inhale, and then another deep inhale, and then another deep inhale, and then another deep inhale, and then another—

Fuck it. You knock on the door.

A beat passes, and then another beat passes, and then another. Oh God, did he not hear your knock? Should you knock again? Your father always said that it was rude to knock twice, but you’re sure the knock should have been heard. Alastor was probably at the back of the house. You’re just going to knock again.

Alastor swings the door open, smiling at you. “You are right on time!”

Soft music plays behind him. The lights inside make his living-room look warm. “You said to be here by eight  . . .  so  . . .  Here I am!” you say with a light laugh. It doesn’t come out as you hope. “I’m very fond of being punctual.” Okay . . . hmmm . . . why did you say that?

You smoothen your hair, and fiddle with the straps of your bag.

 “I admire punctuality.” Alastor smiles at you.

You smile back.

He opens the door wider. “Would you like to come in?”

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’

‘Of course I would!’

All proper responses to his question. It’s a shame you don’t say them. You reach into your bag instead, and shove a paper bag into his arms. “It’s raw.”

Alastor lifts the paper bag, studying it with careful eyes until they flicker to the wet patches at the bottom. “ . . . I’m almost afraid to ask who it came from.”

You step through the door, and take off your coat. “My father, actually.”

Alastor tilts his head. “This is your father—am I supposed to cook him or something?”

“It’s venison!” you say, and run your hand through your hair. “Dad went hunting last week, and he gave me a bunch of meat and well . . . well, I thought you'd appreciate it more than I do. There’s too much for me to eat alone. And it’s always polite to give a gift when you’re visiting a home.”

Alastor secures your gift around his arms, and takes your coat. He’s smiling. You think he’s being genuine—you can’t really tell. “Thank you.”

He hangs your coat on the rack, and ushers you deeper inside his home. Alastor disappears into what you think is his kitchen, but you stay planted in his living-room floor. His house is nice for someone who lives alone. Things all have a place, they’re not necessarily organized, but it’s neat. It makes you smile.

It’s easy to see Alastor between the walls.

This is a home that’s been lived in. You count at least three portable radios in the living-room alone. There are books on the coffee table by the window, and the spines are creased as if it’s been read over and over and over again.

There’s a chair next to the window as well. It has stains, and the cushions sink as if they’ve been loved for decades. You can practically see Alastor in that chair, a warm drink in his hand. He’ll reach across, and twist the knob of the radio that already has his favorite station tuned.

Alastor strides out of the kitchen, your gift probably inside his freezer. “Follow me,” he says with a wave of his arm. “I have something to show you.”

“Oh . . . okay.”

There are photo frames lining the wall of his stairs.

You observe it as you follow deeper into this house. Some are photographs of what you’re going to assume is Alastor, and some are certificates. You don’t have time to poke around and read each and every one of them.

Alastor opens his arms, shaking them as he presents you with a door.

A single door . . . One door at the back of the house. A door you don’t know where it will lead.

You stare at him, and take one single step back. “You’re not going to kill me in your basement, right?”

Alastor laughs at you, wiping a tear for the sake of showing you. “Good heavens no! Why would you ever think that?”

“Because I’m inside a man’s house, and he’s currently leading me to the basement. A man, might I add, dumps bodies in the forest,” you tell him with a wonky smile. “I hope you don’t go around asking every lady to your murder basement.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“My goodness, you really know how to make a lady feel extra special.” You fiddle with the straps of your bag, tightening your grip to stifle the urge to smoothen your hair. “So, how do you want to do this?”

Alastor tilts his head. (It’s kind of cute.) “Do what?”

“You know . . . uh . . . . You’ll  tell me to run,” you say, then motion to the china vase behind. “Then I’ll grab this really nice and expensive looking vase and smash it over your head.”

“Please don’t.”

“And then I’ll make a run for the door.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You weren’t interested in running last time.”

“And I’m still not,” you say. “So there’s no point in killing me.”

He chuckles a bit and his glasses slide down his nose. He pushes it up. “Think of this as a gift! Or more like an offer of partnership.”

“A gift of death?”

“I've already told you I wasn’t planning on killing you anymore,” he says, sighing. “Just . . . just follow me, and you’ll see!”

You huff and cross your arms. “I detest being lied to.”

Alastor opens the basement door. The hinges creak. It appears as if darkness itself lives inside, swirling and eating up whatever light that passes through. “Yes, that’s good to know.”

You take another step back. “That’s a really creepy basement.”

“You haven’t even been inside yet,” Alastor says. He places a light hand on your back, practically pushing you down. “Now, now, don’t be so stubborn.”

You grab the door frames, and push against him to resist. “I’m not going without knowing what’s down there.”

Alastor presses on your back. “If you go down there and see what I’ve prepared, you will feel very silly for causing such a ruckus.”

You push back harder, using the door frames as support. “As first dates go, this is giving really mixed signals,” you say, trying to smile. “I hope you don’t treat all ladies like this.”

Alastor rolls his eyes. “Just the stubborn ones.”

You and Alastor are at a stalemate. He pushes. You push back. The classic dilemma of an unmovable force versus an immovable object. “If you kill me, I will haunt you,” you say, digging your feet into the wooden floors. “I will haunt you, and hide all your tacky bow ties.”

Alastor stops pushing, and you fumble backwards from the lack of his opposing force. He points his nose to the air, straightening his bow ties. “It is not.”

You frown at him. “Oh . . . I’m really sorry.”

“You should be.”

Taking this opportunity, you press against the wall like a hissing cat. “I’m sorry you actually believe that!”

Alastor pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes one deep breath. He strides to you, and the world goes upside-down when he flips you over his shoulder. Alastor carries you like a common sack of worthless potatoes.

“I really don’t like this!” you shriek, angling your head to glare at him. Alastor has a surprisingly really nice back. Like . . . a really, really nice back.

Alastor meets your eyes and smirks. “You’ll like it in a second.”

He tightens his grip around your hips, and his boney shoulders dig into your stomach. You keep your eyes ahead. “You have a really flat butt.”

He pauses for a second. “Stop looking at it.”

“I will do as I please,” you say with a huff, and go limp in his hold as you accept your fate. “It’s just all pointy. Maybe some squats will be helpful?”

“If it’s such a horror to you, stop ogling my buttocks like a pervert.”

“Now you’re just putting words into my mouth,” you say with a weird giggle. “These pants suit you well.”

He shakes you like a wet noodle. “I will drop you.”

“Please don’t.”

Alastor flips you, and your feet land safely on the ground. His basement is totally not creepy, totally not creepy at all. The fluorescent light bulb swaying around totally does not add to general horror. The blacked-out windows, and the spiderwebs on the wood make you not want to sprint to the top.

The cadaver bag on the table makes you stay.

It’s filled. You walk to the table, and observe the lump. Grasping the zipper, you pull it until the face of a dead man greets you. He’s fresh. Killed less than a day ago.

Alastor opens his arms, wide, as if to present to you. “Your studying can all be done right here!”

You stare at him, accepting the smile that creeps on your face. “Really?” you say, and trace this man’s nose with your fingers—his skin is cold. He is cold and dead, and full of organs you can poke around and observe. “You’re going to just allow me to dissect this body?”

Alastor smiles at you. “See?” he says. “You were making all the fuss, and now your smile could light up this very room.”

The laughter starts as a soft giggle that builds into excited glee. “I could kiss you right now.”

Alastor takes a step back. “Please don’t”

You roll your eyes then observe the person lying on this table. He wasn’t as big as the one before. This man still has the colors on his face, a bit pale, but he looks like he could just be in a sickly sleep. “Did you like this person?”

“Not at all,” he says. “He’d be alive if he was.”

“Then do you like me?” you say with a grin, placing a hand on your hips. “All this to get my attention, I see. I prefer being dined first, but not the worst first date I’ve ever been on.”

Alastor glares at you as he makes a face. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

“So quick to answer that it’s almost insulting,” you say. “Well, it was your decision to keep me alive.”

There’s a glint in his eyes that pierces your very core. The lightbulb makes a shadow pass over his eyes, and you swear his eyes glow. Every single cell in your body screams as Alastor looks down at you from his glasses with a smile and darkened brown eyes that match his well-kept brown hair. “And I’m currently debating my choice,” he says. “I do not like being mocked. I can still change my mind if I find you a weak link.”

“Oh . . . I . . . oh . . . .,” you say dumbly, coughing a little bit.  The words aren’t doing their job.

“Do you understand me?”

Basements are supposed to be cold—you definitely don’t feel cold right now. “I’m sure you can—I don’t doubt that at all.” To break your gaze on him, you turn to the dead man between you and Alastor. “This man didn’t suffer.”

Alastor’s eyebrows raise. “And?”

“I’m not a total idiot when it comes to . . .  uh . . .  hunting,” you say, tilting the dead guy’s chin to see his neck. It was a bit stiff. “There’s a single deep slice on his neck. He was probably still high on adrenaline when you killed him, but with the other body, you took your time. That guy suffered—this one didn’t”

He crosses his arms. “I don’t see your point.”

“Nevermind . . . just . . . ,” you start and smile a bit. “Thank you for preserving this body so well, but unfortunately, I think I’ll have to refuse.”

Alastor’s eye twitches as he takes a step closer to you. His shadow towers over you. “You’re refusing?”

You zip the man back into his bag. “You don’t need a partner,” you say. “If anything, bringing him back into your house is risky. If it’s my silence you want, you already have it. There’s no need for all this.”

“I never asked for your silence.”

“Yet it’s yours nonetheless,” you say. “Thank you for the gift or offer for partnership, but I’m not interested in going into business with you.”

“Is this not beneficial for you?”

“It is . . . it really is, and every fiber wants to give in but it’s not wise for me to get mixed up with you,” you tell him. “I think you’re mistaking my sin for gluttony. I know trouble when I see it, and I’m not afraid to flee from it.”

Alastor’s face twists as his smile turns into a snarl. “All you could ever want right here.”

“You obviously want something from me,” you say. “I know you’re not above using tricks to get what you want. Although, I don’t understand why you take such time out of your day to do such consuming things.”

He glares at you. “There’s always the chance that you’d say no,” he says. “And I can’t have that happen.”

“I decide if something is worth my time or not,” you say. “I will only ask once: what do you want from me?”

Alastor exhales, and pushes his glasses. “I’d like to watch you work. There’s something I want to confirm.”

You study him for a second. “That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Then hand me a pack of gloves please,” you say. “I can show you all the things I’ve learned.”

Alastor tosses gloves to your face. It whacks you and lands on the table. You curse at him, and roll your eyes.

There’s a large container of formaldehyde under the table. You don’t know where he got it or how, but still, you take a stray brush forgotten on one of the tables, and brush the skin with chemicals. The sharp smell stings your eyes, but you’ve learned to tolerate it. Alastor scrunches his nose, taking a step back.  

Opening the window would probably be wise, but you could do that later. Your father always did hope that you’d grow out of your bad habit. But with such an exhilarating opportunity, caution is at the back of your mind.

The scapple fits into your palm as if it was made for you. Throughout this Earth, no . . .  not just Earth, but Heaven and Hell as well, nothing will ever be as perfect.

Alastor laughs, not the breathy and light kind, but in a loud and triumphant way. His eyes bulge out, looking like they could pop out any second “It seems I was not wrong,” he says. “You have the most precious smile I have ever seen.”

“Okay?”

Alastor leans closer to you, jerking your chin to face him. “All this time I’ve seen you; I have never seen your smile as true and honest as now.”

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The bristles of the brush tangle on your feathers. It’s a struggle to smoothen the feathers at the back of your head now that you live alone.

The clock strikes an hour past noon, and work will call for you soon. It would be nice to be one time if this motherfucking brush would do its fucking job! You tug on the handle, cursing when it jerks your scalp. The smack of your forehead on the vanity table echoes around the room. The feathers bundled on the floor make you screech. That’s it. It’s over. You are not taking another second of this.

Discarding the brush, you head to the kitchen.

You grab two mugs, and take two spoonful of coffee ground and feed it to the coffee machine. With only a press of a button, you make the most perfectly perfected perfect cup of coffee. You take both mugs and take a seat on that little side table inside the kitchen.

The second mug steams with coffee.

You plop your chin on the table, unable to draw your eyes aways as you stare at it. Making a second cup is a waste of your money. Deep down to your very core, you’re aware that it’s a waste. It strikes you with the gentleness of a plane crash every single morning you make it, and every single night you have to throw it away.

Silence is your companion in this empty house. Where are the days when soft music plays on the radio? Where are the days where light footsteps walk around the carpeted floors? Where are the days of stories over dinner?  These days watching television is the only way to fill that silence.

A knock breaks your pathetic moping.

The knocking starts out soft and hesitant, until it’s replaced with loud banging.

Swiping your mug from the table, you stride to the front door and swing it open. Charlie and Alastor stand in front of you, big smiles on their faces.

Your husband pushes a small ugly statue right up your face, presenting it to you with a self-satisfied smile. “I was told it was polite to bring a gift to a person’s home,” Alastor says. “Do you like it?”

“Oh no . . . ,” Charlie says, frowning a bit. “I didn’t bring anything.”

Alastor places a hand on her shoulder. “No worries then! This gift shall be from the both of us.”

The mug slips from your hold. Charlie catches it, not a single drop spilling, and plops it back on your hand. You blink at Alastor and frown. “Why are you knocking?”

“We’re here on super serious business talk,” he says, wrapping an arm around Charlie’s shoulders to bring her closer. “Charlotte here has something to ask you.”

Charlie smiles. “Just Charlie, actually.”

You shake your head, tightening your grip on the mug. “No.”

Alastor tilts his head. “No?”

“No, this is your home,” you say, opening the door wider. “There’s no need to knock.”

Alastor and Charlie step inside, and you take a sip of your coffee—a long, drawn out sip. Alastor walks to the shelf nearest the door, placing your ugly little statue on the shelf that’s meant for all other ugly knickknacks. It blends in with all the other gifts Alastor’s given you.

Charlie’s eyes bounce around the walls, eyes wide as she looks around. “Wooooaaaaah,” she says. “This is a really nice house you guys have!”

Alastor glares at the television. “Why, thank you!” he says. “I put in a lot of care into how it looks. It seems you’ve redecorated—I don’t like it.”

“Oh, you never do,” you say. “Let’s move to the kitchen, shall we?”

Alastor’s ears straighten. “The kitchen?” he echoes. “Oh yes. Let’s go the kitchen.”

Alastor hooks his arms around yours, pulling you to the kitchen. There’s determination set in each step. You and Charlie take your seats by the kitchen table. Charlie continues to look around. You see it in her eyes as they flicker around to count each radio.

It seems you’ve made a mistake.

Alastor goes straight to the refrigerator, and swings it open.

With horror, you watch as his gaze observes each level meticulously, humming as he does. There’s not much to look at, considering the only thing inside are a couple of eggs, empty plastic containers that you’ve been too lazy to wash, last week’s takeout, and a couple of sauces and condiments.

When he finally closes it, your shoulders sink as you exhale . . . until, of course , Alastor wraps his fingers around the freezer’s handle.

“Would you like anything, Charlie?” Is the first thing that comes out of your mouth. “I think we have juice or lemonade—”

“We don’t have any of those,” Alastor says, and his gaze bears down on you. “It makes me wonder what will be inside our freezer, my love.”

Charlie smiles brightly. “I don’t need anything,” she says. “I had tea with Rosie this morning, and Alastor and I had lunch on the way here.”

“That’s wonderful to hear,” you say, chuckling nervously. “You know what? It’s such a hellish day today, and it would be a waste to spend it here. Why don’t we move to the garden?”

“No.” Alastor crosses his arm. “We are staying right here.”

You sulk in your seat, drooping a little. “ . . . okay.”

Finally, Alastor opens the freezer door. His twitching eyes and pursed lips tell you everything you need to know about how the next fifteen minutes will go. Carefully, with the tips of his fingers, Alastor pulls out one of those microwave meals you buy at the grocery. He glares at the frozen chicken nuggets and pork cutlets, and all the processed frozen food you store there for easy meals.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say, giving him your most innocent smile. “And I barely eat those anyway. Those microwaved meals are just there for the occasional meal, I swear!”

Without uttering a single word, Alastor opens the cabinet under the sink where the trash can stays, and pulls it out. Empty microwave meals fill the brim. He raises his eyebrows at you.

“Oh dear . . . ” Charlie winces. “That’s a lot, even for me.

You sulk deeper into your chair.

Alastor inspects the cabinets above the sink. The only things that greet him are a bunch of pots and pans. Relief pours into you . . . until of course, Alastor grabs the largest pot at the back of the cabinet and opens it, smashing any sense of relief with a metal bat.

Alastor pulls out a large pack of instant noodles. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asks. “I remember telling you that I don’t like you eating these.”

“But they’re delicious,” you say, pouting a bit.

“These aren’t healthy,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They’re full of chemicals!”

“Everything is full of chemicals!” you counter. “And I only had a few. The dosage makes the poison.”

Alastor opens the trash can and tosses what was supposed to be your dinner. “The plastic said it was a pack of twelve?”

You cross your arms. “And? I don’t see your point.”

“There’s only two left.”

You fiddle with the handle of your mug. “I . . . I was busy . . . ?”

“We’re all busy,” he says and you could pick out the faintest sound of static. “Not a single fresh fruit or vegetable, or any proper meats. Have I taught you nothing?”

Your pout deepens. “Do we have to do this in front of Charlie, my deerest?”

Charlie raises her arms in surrender. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “Aren’t you a doctor?”

“Yes, one would think . . . .,” Alastor trails off. His eyes land on the second mug of coffee on the table, and his neck tilts to angle until it snaps. Static scratches that air until it warps. His eyes darken to reveal radio dials. “Expecting a guest today?”

You blink at him a bit dumbly, and take a long and drawn-out sip of your coffee to try and compose yourself. It doesn’t work. “I don’t make coffee for guests.”

Charlie panics a bit. “There, there Alastor,” she says. “No need to get all crazy!”

Alastor’s antlers grow. “I’m aware you don’t. So, who is it for?”

“Oh . . . .” Dumbly blinking at him continues, and the words don’t seem to be doing their job.

Alastor leans closer, his voice morphing a bit. “I’d appreciate an answer, my love.”

“It's yours,” you find yourself saying. “ . . . If you want it, that is.”

He blinks at you. You blink at him. Charlie blinks at the both of you.

Gone are the growing antlers, and the static that buzzes your skin. Alastor stands before you with that never ending smile, perfectly normal—well, as normal as he can be. “You weren’t aware I’d be visiting.”

You frown at him. “It’s not a visit if it’s your own home.”

“I didn’t tell you I’d be coming home,” he says. “Why make one for me?”

The heat on your face makes you turn away. “Just take it, deerest.”

“Taste lovely as always!” he says, taking a swig. Your frown turns into a soft smile as your watch him drink. “But don’t think you’re getting away from this conversation.”

“It really isn’t my fault.”

“Oh, really now?” Alastor raises his eyebrows. “I’m positive I taught you how to cook nutritious dishes.”

You flick the mug, and a soft clink echoes a bit. “I still cook proper food for myself,” you tell him, showing him your saddest smile. “But . . . I find myself hating the dishes.”

Alastor twirls his microphone, and it strikes the ground with a soft thunk. “And you think saying this will get you off the hook?”

You stick your tongue out. “Is it working?”

Alastor sighs at you, and turns to the ticking clock. “We’re wasting time—go talk to Charlotte.”

Charlie smiles awkwardly. “Just Charlie, actually.”

With a triumphant smile, you turn to Charlie. “So,” you begin, “what business are we going to talk about today?”

It’s Charlies turn to sulk into the kitchen chair. “Extermination is a month away,” she says. “And Adam is heading straight to the hotel first! It’s just one bad event after another because Heaven refuses to listen, and I’m running out of options.”

Alastor steps behind you. Suddenly, a brush combs through the back of your feathers, smoothing those parts of your head that you’ve never been able to reach by yourself.  Sometimes, you think Hell gave you feathers so someone could brush it for you. A part of you warms at the fact that you didn’t even need to ask your husband to smoothen your feathers. It’s a job he’s been doing since you first spawned in hell, and it seems it’s work he’s keen on continuing.

“Extermination,” you echo. “I love the extermination. There are so many desperate and poor souls who want to keep their limbs. I get rather busy—prime deal making opportunities right there.”

Charlie winces a bit. “Oh dear . . . um . . . okay. That sounds fun? And a little violent.”

Alastor speaks up from behind you, still running a brush through your feathers. “We can from Cannibal Town! Charlie was able to convince Rosie’s people to take arms.”

“Then, what brings you to me?” you ask, stiffening your back as you try not to lean into the brush that combs through your feathers. Alastor always was better at preening you. “I’m not much of a fighter.”

“Alastor suggested that I ask for your help,” Charlie says. “He said you’re one of the few people who knows how to fix wounds that come from Angelic Weapons.”

You bat your eyes at Alastor. “Spilling all my secrets, I see.”

Alastor glides the brush over your hair, leaning close to your ear. “Oh, not everything.”

You laugh and glance at Charlie. “In front of a guest, my deer?”

Charlie cringes with the most hilarious frown.

“It’s just a matter of counteracting the holiness of their weapons,” you say, clearing your throat. “After that, it’s purely medical.”

“How is that even possible?”

Alastor trails through your feathers, and it tingles and flutters. You keep your expression emotionless. “I’m surprised you don’t know this,” you say. “Did Belphegor never tell you?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Well, eons ago, Belphegor found out that angelic weapons are considered holy, and that’s very bad for a Sinner,” you explain. “So, she and a bunch of her team found out that if you cut off the holy site or embed a large amount of Sinner energy, one will be able to treat it.”

Alastor leans closer, butting into the conversation. “I prefer it when you cut it off.”

“Of course you do,” you say with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“Embedding the wounds with your magic takes too much energy from you, and because of that you always come home to me with sunken eyes. That is, if you don’t pass out before you reach the front door,” Alastor tells you. “I don’t understand why you go out of your way when they’re not worthy.”

“Worthy?”

“Yes, worthy,” he says. “Had they been competent, they wouldn’t need to go to you in the first place. It only proves that they’re weak.”

You smile at his words. “I guess I never thought of it that way.

Charlie rolls her eyes at the both of you. “So, you could help us?”

You twist, turning to Alastor. “I think you’ve gotten all my feathers straightened out,” you say. “My love, can you do me a favor?”

Lightly, Alastor taps your head with the tip of his cane. “Of course, how can I help?”

“I think the plants need some watering.”

The brush on Alastor’s hand dissolves with a poof. He leans closer once again, trailing your cheek with his finger until they hook on your chin. He captures you with his stare, and you allow him to trap you. He presses his lips on your cheek, and disappears into his shadow.

You take an even longer sip of your coffee.

Charlie massages her forehead, eyes twitching. “Dear Satan, it’s like watching my parents all over again! I can leave, you know,” she says, snorting. “Give you two a little privacy?”

“Oh, don’t bother,” you tell her. “There wouldn’t be enough time.”

Her brows furrow. “Time?”

“After all, extermination is in a month,” you say, brightening your smile. “We’re going to need at least two.”

“ What the fuuuuck,. ” Charlie whispers underneath her breath, her voice a pitch higher.

“Every couple of years, there will be certain seasons where it takes six!” you say. “Sinner bodies are just so exhilarating.”

Charlie chokes on her spit, and her eyes bulge. “Are you serious?”

“Hmmm, I could be—who knows?” You raise your mug to toast, and take a drink.

“You’re joking,” Charlie says. “ . . . Right? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“My dear, is that a question you would want an answer to?” you ask. “Would you be prepared if the answer happens to be no ?”

Charlie sinks deeper into her chair. “Okay, then! Moving on, now.”

Leaning on your palm, you laugh. “My deerly beloved husband wouldn’t give all this information for free,” you say. “What did he ask for?”

“We made a deal.”

Your hands drop to the table. “Oh Charlotte,” you say. “That was a foolish mistake. You don’t know what Alastor does to the so—“

“I still have my soul!” Charlie exclaims, balling her fist. “From Vaggie! From you—his own wife! I did what I needed to do to keep my people safe . . . Sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be so reliant on Alastor,” you tell her with a small smile. “You can’t trust him.”

“He’s given me no reason no to trust him, and . . . ,” Charlie trails off. “And Alastor is my friend.”

Your smile brightens a bit. “Friend?”

“Yes?” Charlie says. “Everyone at the hotel is my friend, and he’s been a tremendous help.”

You place your hands over Charlies and give it a squeeze. “Convince me to help you.”

“W-what?”

“Alastor isn’t asking me to go play medic in the middle of a warzone.” Your brush your feathers out of your face. “If he was asking, I would say yes without a second thought because that’s who we are, but he isn’t asking me, Charlie, you are.”

Charlie hums, placing a finger on her lips as she thinks. “I heard from Angel that you and Alastor got married whe—“

CRASH!

She grips the table, eyes wide as she looks around. “What was that?”

You take a long and drawn-out sip of coffee, contemplating your choice for marriage. “Nothing to be worried about,” you say. “That was just my television.”

“Your Tv?” Charlie frowns a bit. “Did . . . did Alastor just throw away your Tv?”

You laugh, swatting your hand in the air. “Not at all!” you say. “It probably tripped out my window—those picture boxes are always so clumsy.”

Charlie raises her eyebrows. “You’re saying that your Tv . . . just tripped out the window.”

You smile at her. “You were saying something?”

She sighs, massaging her forehead. “You got married when you were alive, but continue to stay together. It’s very rare for Sinners to do such a thing,” she says. “And with all of that . . . uh . . . Alastorness.”

“It’s alright, you can just say bat-shit crazy.”

“I’d prefer not to,” she says with an awkward laugh. “So, how were you able to stay together for so long

“Are you . . . ,” you trail off, blinking. “Are you asking me for relationship advice?”

“A bit? If that’s okay,” she says. “Rosie already helped but, well, she did eat her first husband.”

“I don’t think I can be of much help.” Your lips purse. “Alastor and I don’t exactly have the most conventional marriage.”

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1927

“Do you like it?” Alastor offers you a spoonful of the simmering sauce.

You lean closer, shifting from your seat on his kitchen counter. Alastor dips the spoon in your opened mouth. “It’s spicy,” you say, lips twisting when you cough. “Is it supposed to be like that?”

Alastor tilts his head. A lock of his hair falls to the side. “No . . . it’s not.” He takes back the spoon and dips it into the pan. Alastor coughs as soon as it hits his tongue. “How many peppers did you add?”

Your legs sway, and the heels of your foot tap the cabinets below you. “I added what was written on the recipe! Exactly twelve peppers.”

Alastor twists the stove’s knob, killing the fire. “Take a look at the notebook again,” he says and reaches over your legs, grabbing his book full of recipes. “If you use these things called ‘eyes’ and ready, you’d be able to see that it says, ‘one to two’!”

“No, it does not!” you huff, grabbing the notebook from him. You read through the list of ingredients. There, near the bottom, pass the four cloves of chopped garlic, half a shallot, and a pinch of pepper, ‘one to two peppers’ is scribbled with blocky letters. “Oh . . . that’s my bad. Yeah, that’s on me.”

Alastor adjusts his sleeves, pulling it back up his forearm. (Hmm, not a bad look.) “There’s no point in teaching you how to cook this if you don’t know how to read!” he says, eyes twitching. “Go . . . Just go over there and let me fix this.”

“I already said I was sorry!”

“No, you did not!” Alastor says, throwing his hands into the air. “What you said was,‘Oh . . . that’s my bad. Yeah, that’s on me’, actually.”

“Yeah, that’s on me,” you repeat with a snort. “That’s my bad.”

“Get out of my kitchen before you ruin dinner.” He leans on the counter, crossing his arms. You hum to yourself. Alastor should pull his sleeves up more. “Go set the table or something. And wash your hair when you get home—it smells like chemicals.”

With a huff, you do as you're told.

You slide off his counter, opening the cabinet and grab two bowls with one arm and reach for the table placemats with the other.

Two sets of utensils, glass cups, and paper napkins. It’s one more set than what you prepare when you’re at your own home. Two . . . Two. It’s becoming quite the word in your vocabulary.

There’s a proper table waiting to be used in the other room, but this smaller one you’re setting, with its fraying edges and turmeric stains suit the both of you much better.

Three ice-cubes bobble at the top of Alastor’s water. It’s how he likes it. It’s funny. You don’t remember Alastor disclosing this particular information. It’s just something you noticed one day, and you’ve never stopped noticing. What else have you unconsciously learned about him, and what have you unconsciously taught him about you?

Alastor walks to the table, a large steaming bowl in his hands. He places it between the bowls, and you reach into the drawer for a ladle.

The taste tingles your tongue. It’s good. Better than anything you could possibly make for yourself.

You reach into your pocket and toss a handkerchief at Alastor’s face. It lands on between his hair. He tilts his head, shaking it, and the cloth slides on the table. “It’s yours,” you tell him, taking a spoonful of your food. “Thanks for dinner.”

Alastor studies how his name is embroidered in near letters, thumbing the music notes framing it. “Dinner was a way to thank you for this week’s meat.”

He tosses back the handkerchief. It smacks your face.

You peel it from your skin, and trace the letters you’ve threaded during your very scarce free time. “I can’t go around with a handkerchief that has your name on it.”

His smile widens. “Why not?”

“People would think I’m a fan.” You hand Alastor the handkerchief this time. “Just take it as a gift then.”

Alastor takes it from you, and places it into his pocket.

You hum into your spoon with a pleased smile. “Hey Al,” you say. “Tell me what you did today.”

Alastor takes his time chewing and swallowing his food. “As you can see,” he tells you, “I’m eating.”

“I’m bored,” you say. “Eat while you talk.”

He reaches across the table, and his fingers catch on the knob of the radio to turn it on.

Classical music plays out of the speaker. It was correct to assume that Alastor pre-sets radios to play his favorite stations. Although, you didn’t imagine that each of his many radios would have their own specific station. A different radio for different stations. You questioned Alastor about it, but he didn’t say much.

Once the bottom of the bowls has been scraped into your stomachs, you take the dishes and go to the sink.

Your nose scrunches at the sight of the piled dishes. Alastor watches you with a smile. You turn away when you notice.

Alastor takes a container from the cabinet above your head. He’s warm. Always warm.

He takes two containers, placing the leftovers inside. And there it is again, that word—Two. Not one, but two. One for him. One for you. You didn’t ask for leftovers. You’ve never asked at all. Alastor will just hand you the container like it’s the most automatic thing in this world for him to do.

You take the first of many bowls, and rinse the stubborn pieces with your hands. “There’s too many dishes,” you say. “It’s like you have one for every ingredient. Did you really need to use separate ones for each and every ingredient we used?”

He leans on the counter, slotting himself next to you.  “I don’t like mixing the flavors until it’s time to add them.”

Alastor adjusts his pulled sleeves and crosses his arms.

The bowl slips from your grip.

“Oh . . . I . . . uh . . . sorry,” you say, picking up the bowl. “I mean, you really didn’t need one for the salt and pepper. They already come in containers—why couldn’t you just, I don’t know, eyeball it?”

“Eyeball it?”

“Yeah, or feel it with your soul or something,” you say and pick up the measuring spoons to show him. “You had to measure three pinches of salt instead of actually just pinching it.”

Alastor laughs, and strands of his hair slide down to his eyes. “And how did it taste?”

Your shoulders slump when you sigh. “Good.”

He bumps his shoulders with yours. “That’s just the way I was taught.”

“Well,” you start, “your way creates more dishes for me to clean.”

Alastor pivots from the counter, and takes his place in front of the second sink. He grabs the dish you’ve already rinsed and sponges it with soap. It’s quite the system you’ve created. You grab a dirty dish, rinse it, and pass it on to Alastor who cleans it with a sponge.

The next minute goes something like this:

Alastor flicks water at your face. You ignore it.

Flick. Ignore.

Flick. Ignore.

Flick. Ignore.

The water damps your hair. You kick his leg. “Stop that.”

Alastor drenches his hand under the faucet, letting his fingers accumulate water. He flicks it at you.

The grip you have on the plate tightens. “I am going to smash this on your head.”

Alastor raises his eyebrows. He glares. You glare back. He cups his hand under the faucet like a bowl. The water pools between his hands. He throws the water at you. It hits your eyes, blinding you. That does little to stop you.

You grip the plate, swinging it in his direction.

The plate doesn’t connect with anything . . .  Sadly. You rub the water out your eyes, and find Alastor kneeling on the floor with a triumphant smile.

Alastor stands up, brushing dirt from his pants. “You missed.”

“You ducked.”

“I can’t believe you actually did that,” he says. “What if you actually hit me?”

You pass the plate to Alastor before you scratch the urge to swing at that smug smile of his. “Hey Al,” you say. “Tell me what you did today.”

Alastor closes the faucet. “You always ask me that.”

“That’s because you say it in entertaining ways,” you say. “It’s boring to wash the dishes without something to distract me.”

Alastor soaps the dish. “Your lessening attention span worries me.”

You roll your eyes at him, and flick water at his face. “Please?”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he says. “I find myself having no reason to deny you.”

Alastor’s glasses slide down his nose. He leans close enough for you to smell his perfume. He’s warm—always warm. It takes a second for you to understand. You dry your hands on a stray towel and fix it in place.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

1928.

The metal bench cools the back of your neck.

The sun blinds your eyes, but you keep a steady gaze on the afternoon beams. When was the last time you felt the heat of the sun kiss your skin? As the seconds tick by. As the birds fly above you. As the leaves fall from their stem, melting on this bench seems like a heavenly idea.

But as the clock will eventually strike. But as the birds will eventually find their nest. But as the leaves will eventually land. So, too, must you eventually go back to work.

A shadow blocks the sun.

It takes a second for your eyes to adjust. Alastor’s upside-down face smiles at you. “Good morning to you!”

With a yelp, you swing your forehead forward.

Alastor leans backwards, narrowly missing your head by centimeters. “Not the greeting I imagined, but hello to you as well,” he says. “The receptionist said I could find you here.”

You twist, turning to him with a frown. “Are you okay?”

Alastor slides over the bench, and takes the free seat next to you. His legs cross. “Why would I not be, okay?”

There’s some bag slung over his shoulder, but that’s not important right now. Your eyes trail his body. Hair? Fixed. Smile? Wide. Clothes? Perfect. “You’re at a clinic.”

Alastor swats his hand. “I was in the area.”

That classic city stench attacks your nose, but it’s just nice to feel the way your hair sways from the breeze. “You’re not going to kill me, right?”

Alastor nudges his leg with yours. “You say that every single time!”

Your smile turns smug. “I’ll stop saying it when it stops becoming funny.”

Alastor rolls his eyes, showing it off to you. “It never was.”

“It is to me,” you say and wave your hands in the air. “Just imagine this, the great Alastor had to stalk me!”

“I am great, but remind me again,” he begins, propping his arm on the bench to lean on it, “how long did you have to follow me?”

Sighing, you lean your head on the backrest to count the clouds. It’s nice to be able to see actual clouds for once instead of the drawing of children who wait. “ . . . Three months.”

“Exactly,” he says, and you hear the smugness in his words. “And I didn’t need to do any stalking—you led me straight to your house.”

You blow a raspberry at him. “Why are you even here then?”

Alastor props his legs on your lap. You push him off. He brings it back. It’s not worth fighting him right now. “I actually was in the area,” he says, and hands you the bag slung over his shoulder. “The director thought it would be a grand idea to bring the staff out to lunch.”

You unzip the bag, and packed lunch greets you. And there it is again. Two. Two. Two. One for you. One for him. Maybe both for you? “Al, tell me why I’m currently looking at two packed lunches?”

Alastor beams at you, and slides his legs off your lap. “I accidentally cooked too much today,” he said. “I thought it would be a grand idea to share.”

Your frown. “But . . . you already ate.”

“Oh . . . I was already planning on dropping by,” he says. “It was quite the stroke of luck that you’re only taking your break now, and that we happened to have lunch nearby. I thought I’d bring you a treat.”

Questions bubble on your throat. “Thank you, Al,” you say instead. You open the container and take a bite, savoring the taste. “It’s delicious.”

Alastor leans closer, and picks a leaf off your head. “That’s because I actually followed the recipe.”

You point your spoon at him. “That was just that one time!”

He smiles at you, chuckling softly. “Three actually.”

Before the clock strikes, it will tick. Before the birds find their nest, they will fly. Before the leaves hit the ground, it will fall. And before you eventually go back to work, you will eat on this bench, Alastor to your side.

He stares ahead. As you eat, you watch his eyes flicker. It goes from the kid then to a plant then to an old lady. This, you don’t question. You’ve stopped wondering what he could possibly be thinking years ago.

Alastor leans closer to your ear. “Do you see that lady?” he asks, voice low. His breath tickles your skin. “That one over there with the feather on her hat?”

You scan the people around the area, spotting the lady old enough to be your grandmother. A scarf wraps around her neck, despite the sun beaming with the afternoon heat. She lazily walks around. “What about her?”

“Do you think her name could be Edith? She looks like an Edith,” Alastor says. “She probably had three children, and married young when her parents forced her to marry this ugly but rich man she could never love.”

Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. It’s like a mantra that plays in your head. There’s no reason not to play along whatever nonsense he’s spouting. “Sure, why not?”

“But no!” he exclaims into your ear. You jerk away and shove him with an elbow. “Oof . . . .Edith just had to defy all expectations, and she chose to elope with her childhood sweetheart. He’s not the richest man, but they survived.”

“That’s sweet.”

“And to this day,” he says, “everyone still calls her, ‘Edith the Penguin’.”

“Edith the penguin?” you echo. “Now I’m just confused.”

Alastor’s eyes shine. “Because she walks like a penguin with their ass on fire,” he snorts. “Your turn, now.”

Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. And you would love to be brought lunch again.

“Fine.” You place your spoon down, and look around to the first person who grabs your attention. “That little kid over there—His name is Thomas, and he likes balloons.”

Alastor blinks at you. “And?”

You take your time chewing and swallowing your food. “That’s all.”

He gawks at you, and rolls your eyes. “It must be so boring to be you.”

“It is not!” You huff at him, and kick his leg. “I am a very interesting person, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh really, now? Thomas, and he likes balloons?” Alastor says,and points at the kid with twitching eyes. “He’s holding a balloon!”

You wave your arms, the spoon still in your grip. “So, he probably likes it!” you say. “Thomas wouldn’t get a balloon if he didn’t like it.”

“I pity your sense of imagination.”

Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. Alastor brought you lunch. And you would love to be brought lunch again.

You swallow what remains inside the container, and pack it up. “Is this what you do when you zone out as I’m tal—and you’re doing it again, aren’t you?” you say. “You are an incredibly judgmental person.”

“It’s called using my imagination. Something you apparently don’t have,” he says with a snort. “So . . . tell me what you did today.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “That’s my question.”

Alastor shrugs, taking the closed container and zipping it inside his bag. He hands you a tissue. “Well, I’m asking it now.”

You prop your arm on the bench, leaning on it. Alastor’s hair spikes out in odd places today. It must have quite the trek to the clinic. “I’m not as good a storyteller as you are.”

He props his arms on the bench, mimicking your pose. His eyes stare straight into yours. “ I don’t need a story,” he says. “I just want to know what you did today.”

You press your palm on his face, pushing him away from your face. The sun’s heat is really getting to you. Alastor’s nose crinkles as he rubs it. “Why would you even want to know what I do?”

Alastor props his elbows on his knees, observing the people around him. “You always ask me what I did,” he says. “I want to know if there’s something special about it.:

“There’s nothing special about it,” you tell him. Was there actually? You’re not sure. “I just like knowing, and it always entertains me.”

Alastor meets your eyes with a wide smile. “Then tell me what you did today,” he says. “Entertain me.”

The clock ticks closer. The birds are already close to their nests. The leaves are already floating to the ground. You are already close to going back to work, closer to this moment becoming nothing but a distant memory. “That was my first meal of the day.”

Alastor’s eyebrows furrow and his lips twist into a hard scowl. “That’s not healthy.”

You shut your eyes and sigh. “I never said it was.”

“How would you live without me?”

Remember, Alastor brought you lunch, and it would be nice if he could bring you lunch again. “I’m going to hit you.”

Alastor bumps your knees with his. “Lovely,” he says, and you can hear the smile he’s wearing. “I’m sure it will be very painful because you’re so full of energy right now.”

Eyes still shut, you bump his knees back. “I’ve been busy,” you say. “And don’t roll your eyes at me.”

Alastor hesitates for a second. “First of all, we’re all busy,” he says. “Second, I didn’t roll my eyes.”

“You did—it was audible,” you tell him with a soft chuckle. “Anyway, there’s nothing new with my day. It’s just the usual, people to see, files to file, blood to draw, pee to get on me.”

Alastor digs his finger into your cheek, twisting it as he presses down. “Wow, you really are a horrible storyteller.”

You know what, maybe you don’t need Alastor bringing you lunch. You peek open an eye to stare at him. “I’m going to smash a plate on your head once we start doing the dishes.”

Alastor mashes your cheek like some button. Over and over and over and over again. You swat his hand, and he rubs it with a grimace. “Were you planning on dropping by today?”

You place an arm over your eyes, blocking out the sun. “Will I have to do the dishes?”

“You don’t have to specifically do the dishes.”

You comb through your hair with your fingers. “That wouldn’t exactly be fair to you.”

“If you're so insistent, we can find something else for you to do,” he says. “I mean, if you hate it so much you don’t have to do it.”

“I don’t hate it,” you say with a sigh. A church bell sounds. It echoes through the buildings and through the trees. “Al . . . I’m tired.”

“I know,” he says, and you hear how softly he chuckles. “Your eyes are drooping so low I could fill the entire ocean in them.”

“I want to sleep, Al.”

“I know.”

“I hate this job.”

Alastor pauses for a second, and he bumps his shoulders with yours. “You don’t.”

The clock hasn’t struck yet. The birds haven’t flown to their nests. The leaves haven’t reached the ground. And so too will you stay in this moment of time.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

1929

Footsteps creak on the wooden stairs. The sound is ignored, just like every other thing that isn’t relevant to you.

The dead cadaver under you has weird kidneys. The one on your palm is too small for a kidney that belongs to someone of his size. You take your scalpel, slicing it to observe the cross section.

“It’s time to stop,” Alastor tells you. Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. Him and his smile is not important right now. “You’ve been here all night.”

“Leave me alone,” you mumble. The human body continues to be amazing. The medulla is clearly outlined. The colors of its cells were so different from the cortex. “ . . . Kidneys, Alastor. He has weird kidneys. Hehehehe weird kidneys . . . ”

Alastor says your name in a way that forces you to listen.

“ . . . Oh . . . yes?” you say a bit dumbly.

“It’s nightfall,” he says, and the tone of his voice buzzes your skin. “Come on now, do as you're told. Be upstairs in fifteen minutes.”

It’s not an easy task to do as Alastor says, especially when this man’s left kidney is a whole different size from the right. However, with a frown, you slot the kidney from the opened chest cavity, and pack up the body.

You step out of the basement, and walk to the kitchen.

There’s a plate waiting for you on the table. It’s still hot. Muffled music plays from the porch, and you see Alastor’s outline through the windows. Taking your plate, you step out the front door and into the outdoors.

(Something you really need to start seeing more.)

And oh . . . he’s not listening to the radio. Alastor plays the recording of his show. It was a present you got him a few months back.

You take your seat on the matching rocking chair.

Alastor watches you settle into your seat. He turns the volume down. “Tables were invented for a reason.”

The chair rocks when you swing your legs. “It’s nice out here,” you say, and take a bite of vegetables. “The sky is much clearer. It helps that there’s no stench of piss.”

He turns to you with a small smile. “That’s because you live in the city.”

The wind blows your hair into your face. You push it out of the way. “Hey, Al,” you say slowly. “Tell me what you did today.”

“Why should I?”

You lean back into the chair, letting the rocking sway you. “Well, you got home late,” you say. “I had to use my keys.”

Alastor leans back on the chair, using the tips of his shoe to rock himself. “Yes, that was the point of the keys,” he says, humming. “It would be a shame to come home to another broken window.”

The taste of the vegetables mixed with the meat makes you smile in delight. “Are you still holding on to that?”

“Always.”

“I paid you back, eventually,” you tell him, pointing your fork at him. “Why are you still holding a grudge for an honest accident?”

On his cheek , where it’s always been and where it’ll always be, his smile strains. “You expect me to believe that a rock smashing my window was an honest accident.”

You offer him your most innocent smile. “Yes.”

“Well, I hope your windows are much sturdier then,” he says, mimicking your smile. “One of these days, I might cause an accident.”

The stars twinkle in the sky. There’s a vast amount of knowledge those gassy balls hold. Maybe your life would be less horrific if you were interested in the stars instead. “In my defense, you were late.”

Alastor pinches the bridge of his nose. “You couldn’t wait fifteen minutes?”

You take another bite of your meal, and sway happily to do a little dance. “Just . . .  okay? Just tell me what you did before I finish my meal.”

Alastor reaches into his pocket and tosses a keychain at you. It lands between your legs.

You set the plate on the coffee table between you, and hold the keychain to the light. It was a cute, little cartoon alligator. “What’s this?”

“It’s yours.”

“I can tell that much,” you say, twirling the gift between your fingers. “You never give me nice knickknacks. It’s always the ugly ones

Alastor huffs at you. “That doesn’t sound like my problem anymore,” he says. “I thought you would appreciate something that looks halfway decent one and for all.”

“I find the ugly ones really charming, actually. They’re very funny to look at,” you say. “So, where did you get this?”

Alastor clasps his hands, resting it on his stomach as he rocks himself. “Saw an advertisement. Went to the zoo.”

You scrunch your face. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“Go finish your meal.”

You pocket his gift, and grab the plate on the table. “Master of storytelling right here, ladies and gentlemen,” you say, barking a laugh. “I figured you would love the excuse of hearing yourself talk.”

Alastor ignores you, reaching for his notepad instead.

You watch Alastor as he writes on his notepad. The breeze sways a strand of his hair. His lips twist when he thinks, just like he’s doing right now

Your eyes fall on your plate, to where vegetables and meat were carefully tossed together. Alastor cooked today—he always cooks.

When you finish, you’ll grab the plates, and begin the mountain of dishes. Even when dish soap stings your fingers, even when the feeling of wet food grosses you, and even when thousands of dirty dishes wait for you . . . it’s something you don’t mind.

Once this meal is finished, you and him will step inside. He’ll properly tell you about his day, and you’ll take the pan and scrub it.

Ah . . . there it is again. That word—Two.

But it’s not two of anything. It’s simply just two. You and Alastor.

“You’re frowning,” Alastor says. He stares at you from the corner of  his eyes. “Why?”

It’s weird.

Very weird.

You don’t . . . You don’t understand. How do you say the words you do not know how to explain?

It’s almost as if . . . “We should get married.”

Alastor’s laughter rings across the open land. “No.”

The inside of your cheek stings from how you bite it. You turn away to hide your flushed cheeks. “I . . . It just came out, okay?” you mumble. “I’m really trying not to be offended that you turned me down without a second thought, and with a laugh as well.”

Alastor turns back to his notepad. “Don’t be,” he says. “I’m nothing you want.”

The moonlight reflects off his brown eyes.

“Sometimes . . . ,” you begin, and a small smile appears on your lips. “Sometimes I wish you see yourself the way I see you.”

Alastor laughs at you again. “You’ve been having such thoughts about me?” he says. “What an absolute honor! I’m deeply flattered.”

“And then you say words like that, and I immediately know it’s not worth it

Alastor lifts his eyes from his notepad to peek at you. He fixes his eyeglasses. “You don’t actually think we should get married.”

To be infuriating, you take a bite from your plate, savoring each flavor with drawn out chews.

“I have no idea,” you say. “But . . . I mean, why not? There are many good reasons for me to marry you—it’s advantages for me, and everyone already thinks we’re dating.”

Alastor turns back to his notepad, shaking his head. “That’s the most absurd idea I’ve ever heard.”

“What, being in a relationship with me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s twice you’ve managed to offend me.” You laugh to hide your frown. “But that friend of yours. The feathery one from the lounge you like taking me to.”

Alastor tilts his head. “Mimzy?”

“Ah yes, her,” you say with a hum. “She asked me if you um . . . uh . . .  well, if you liked vanilla or hot and spicy.”

“If I had to answer, Id say hot and spicy?” Alastor says, and you laugh at the confusion on his face. “I got a bottle of this pepper flakes infused with old. It was quite the treat.”

“That’s exactly what I figured you would say,” you tell him.“Unfortunately for you, Mimzy was talking about sex.”

Alastor scrunches his face.

“Oh don’t make such a face, there is absolutely no need to be afraid of the prospect of such activities.” The final bite of your meal bursts with so much flavor that you revel it for a second. “Al, let’s get married.”

Alastor glares at you. “No.”

You place the plate on the coffee table. It can be  washed after this conversation. “Why not?”

He points his pen between you and him..“We aren't even dating,” he says. “And . . . I can’t express such passionate displays of affection.”

You rock the chair with your shoe. An owl hoots from somewhere beyond the trees. Huh, you weren’t aware owls lived in this area. “Don’t be a child—just say sex.”

Again, his face scrunches. “I will not.”

“It’s a really good thing,” you say, sighing, “that no one’s asking.”

Alastor searches for your eyes. He holds it. It was only ever his to hold anyway. “I’m not even sure I’m interested in romance.”

You look around, whipping your head. “I think I’m missing the part where someone asked.”

“Be serious.”

“Okay fine. This is me being serious because I am when I say that all I don’t need your romance—Al, you accepted me for who I am, and to me? That is enough,” you say with a soft smile. “You are all I could ever ask for.”

Alastor stares at the stars, his eyes capturing each one. “I can’t love you like a husband should.”

The stares are really beautiful. Each shines in their own way. Alastor sees the beauty in them, but you aren’t going to be beaten by a gas ball.

Tonight, you will be the only star Alastor should keep his gaze on.

“Alastor, look at me.”

He keeps his eyes on the stars.

Huffing, you stride to his chair, and block his view of the night sky.

You plant your arms on the armrest for support, and inch your face so close that you are the only thing he will see. “Alastor,” you say his name, voice oh so soft, “look at me.”

Oh . . . his eyes are browner than you thought. It’s a deep and dark brown that pulls you in.

“You can love me in ways that matter.” You press your forehead against his, and close your eyes.

There are more words to be said, but right now you and him stay in this moment of time. Just . . . for . . . a second.

“I will never force you to love me in ways you cannot,” you whisper. The ends of his hair brush against your skin. “Alastor, I could never reject the type of love you can offer me. I can never deny you.”

Alastor caresses your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Friends don’t get married.”

Impulsivity was such a bad habit of yours. It’s a fact that makes you bear the consequences, but consequences be damned. You take his hand, holding it in yours. The pads of his fingers have different textures. Some are smooth. Some are rough. But the whole thing warms you to the touch.

It’s unfair. He’s unfair. How could something as simple as taking his hand intoxicate?

Your lips hover over his skin, brushing it a little. Alastor doesn’t pull away. With a smile that Alastor always seems to put on your lips, you plant a soft kiss on his ring finger.

“We aren’t normal people. There’s no reason to force ourselves into a conventional relationship.” You meet his eyes with a smile. Every word you utter brushes your lips yo his skin. “This marriage will be defined however we want. You offered me a partnership in death . . . .This is me offering you a partnership in life.”

You press your lip on the back of his hand one final time, and return to your chair.

Alastor doesn’t speak.

You rock yourself with your foot, enjoying the sway of the chair.“There is that added benefit that the police won’t be suspicious of a doting husband.”

Alastor scrunches his face. “Doting husband?” he echoes. “I thought we wouldn’t be having a normal marriage.”

“That doesn’t mean a lady doesn’t want to feel special,” you say, snorting. “I’ve always dreamed of a doting husband.”

Alastor rips a page out of his notepad. He folds it with his hands.

His vets match his shoes today. The hair on the back of his head sticks out and curls. Did he take a nap today? “I could be like this every single night,” you say softly. “You and me. The two of us under the stars until our hairs turn gray.”

Alastor’s gaze stays locked on the piece of paper he’s folding. “Why me?”

You stare at him with a smile, and lean your face on your palm. “Does it need to be said?”

Alastor glances at you with those brown eyes of his. “I’m asking.”

“It’s because . . . It’s . . . I . . . ,” your trail off. How do you summon the words to describe something you don’t understand?

There’s a smug smile on Alastor’s lips. “What, is it because you love me?”

“Would it be so bad if I did?” you say, chuckling into your arm. “But . . . well, I don’t exactly know how to properly say this.”

“Just open your mouth,” he says, rolling his eyes, “and let the words do it’s job.”

“I wouldn’t mind doing the dishes with you for the rest of my life,” you tell him, and your cheeks tingle. “Maybe even past life. Can you imagine that? You and me in hell, doing our dishes together.”

There’s an odd look on his face. “Sure.”

“We can listen to the radio,” you say. “And I’ll ask you about your day, and you will tell me the wildest and most grandiose story while we clean a pot.”

Alastor smiles at you. “You hate doing the dishes.”

“I do not.”

“You do. I see it—I always do,” he says with a soft chuckle. Alastor taps his nose. “Your nose scrunches every time, yet you never ask for help.”

What expression are you making right now?

You bring your legs to your chest. “I’m willing to give up everything for dirty dishes if it means I have you as a companion for the rest of my life.”

Alastor turns back to whatever he was folding.

You hide your face in your legs, face flushed and warm. “Say something . . . please,” you say, whispering. “I just poured out my heart for you

You hear Alastor rise from his seat. He places a hand on your head. “Today’s dinner . . . ,” he says, and his voice is the softest it’s ever been. “Did you like it?”

You smile even if he couldn’t see it, and lean into his hand. “It was one of the most delicious thing I have ever tasted.”

“I wouldn’t mind making it for you for the rest of my life . . . if you’re willing to wash the dishes with me for the rest of yours,” Alastor says, and you think this is the most honest thing he’s ever told you. “It’s yours. Even if you don’t want it, this is yours now.”

You peek out of your knees. Alastor’s smile is soft. He opens his palms and your eyes flicker to them. He shows you what he’s been folding. It’s the paper of his notepad folded into a ring—a paper ring.

“Do it again,” you say with a beam that could rival the stars. “Ask me again.”

Alastor caresses your cheek, the back of his finger brushing down your skin. “Doting husband?”

“Exactly,” you say with a laugh and lean into his touch. “You catch on very quickly.”

Alastor takes your hand in his, and his thumb brushes over your ring finger. Does he feel your skin the way you feel his? He kneels on one knee and the paper ring is presented to you. “Would you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

You insert your ring finger into the paper ring. “The honor would be mine, my dearest.”

Alastor stares at you.

You stare back.

 The moment your eyes settle on one another, laughter echoes across the land. It’s loud and breathy, and it echoes so far that the local wildlife gets disturbed. Alastor settles back on his chair, rocking himself.

Alastor calms down first. “Oh . . . uh . . . Should we share a passionate kiss?”

The stars shine above you. Not a single gas ball can beat the brightness of your smile. “Do you want to?” you ask. “Be honest, my dear.”

Alastor hesitates for a second. “Not particularly—Do you?”

“Maybe? Sometimes?” you say with a shrug. “I could live a happy life without such passionate kisses.”

“Really?” he says, and the surprise in his voice makes you laugh. “You would be fine without one?”

“Well, since you’re so insistent, I’ll allow a kiss.”

Alastor snorts into the air. “And where and when would you want such a kiss?”

You hold him in your gaze. There’s so much to learn, so much to figure out. It’s alright. There will be time. “Anywhere and anytime, you want, my love.”

“You’re going to give me control?” he asks. “Is this not something you would want as well?”

“I’ll make this easy enough for you to understand,” you tell him, tracing the paper ring around your finger. “I demand a kiss whenever you are completely and perfectly and incandescently happy.”

Alastor hums, looking away to study the woodcarving on his chair. He picks on them. “I supposed if you need anyone to fulfill your needs I only as—”

“Just say sex, my dearest,” you say, and Alastor sinks into his chair with a huff. “That will never happen. This isn’t a friendship, my love. I am entering a relationship with you. No matter how unconventional, it is still ours.”

Alastor locks your eyes with a pleased smile. “Good.”

The rocking chair rocks you into a small lull. “My dear.”

“Yes?”

“My love.”

Alastor sighs. “Yes?”

“My dearest,” you say. “Would you want to share a bed?”

Alastor stays silent. There’s hesitation on his face. You see it in the way his lips twist. You see it in the way his eyebrows furrow. You see it in the way he leans back on his chair to stare at the stars.

“Okay then, we can circle back to that later,” you say with a soft chuckle. “How about a room—Do you want to share one?”

Alastor raises his eyebrows, staring at you with silent judgment. He is a book that you are allowed to learn. There’s so much to read, and so much still left to be read. That’s okay. There’s time. No matter how long. You have time.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, we can share a room without sharing a bed,” you exclaim, throwing your hands into the air. “We can even have bunk beds. That would be cool. I’ve always wanted a bunk bed.”

Alastor rests his face on his palm to look at you. There it is again, the breathy and light laughter. “We are not sleeping on a bunk bed.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Charlie’s smile slowly morphs into a frow that you cannot decipher. It makes sense that you can’t. Afterall, she is not the book you’ve spent your life learning to read. “You . . . You don’t actually love each other?”

There’s a frame hanging on your kitchen wall that says otherwise.

It holds an art piece you embroidered for the sole purpose of giving it to your husband. The color of the wooden frame compliments the colors of the thread as if it was carefully chosen to match. The one here in the kitchen is but one of many frames around the house. Alastor keeps every single item safe beneath the glass to to be admired.

There’s a shelf standing on the living-room carpet that says otherwise.

It holds ugly knick knacks that Alastor bought for the sole purpose of giving it to his wife. It’s a pain to dust the shelves, but not a speck of dirt touches its surface, as if it was carefully taken care of. The one in there in the living-room is but one of many shelves around the house. You keep every item spotless to be admired.

“We’re not heartless,” you say. “Alastor and I don’t have the same relationship you and your girlfriend have.”

Charlie sways in her seat, a hand rests on her chin when she hums. “ I am so sorry,” he says. “I think it’s great and all that, I’m just having trouble understanding.”

“It’s not exactly for you to understand.” You take a sip from your mug.

“So it’s not a relationship,” Charlie says. “Sooooo, is it like a really really deep friendship?”

“The lines between us are so blurry that it’s become deeper than friendship,” you admit with a small smile. “I just know that my soul is connected to him in ways I do not know how to tell him.”

“Is that really possible?” Charlie asks. “To just . . . love each other so differently?”

“Can our relationship not just . . . exist?” You lean on your palms. “Do you really think it’s so impossible for two people to just . . . to just look forward to cooking and washing the dishes together?”

Charlie’s eyes brighten. “I think I’m starting to understand,” she says. “So like—”

“Charlie . . . if I sit here and answer all of your questions, we’re going to waste time.” You play with the fiddle of your mug. “You didn’t come here for relationship advice.”

“Oh . . . yes.” Charlie sits there. Her smile slowly falls into a frown. “I’ve been thinking of how to convince you to help me, but I can’t think of a single thing to say, and I don’t want to force you either.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You haven’t exactly asked for my help either.”

Charlie blinks at you. “ . . . Huh?”

You raise your mug to toast to her. “If you want my help, just ask for it.”

Charlie grabs your hand with a tight grip. “Please, help me,” she says, voice shaking. “I don’t want to drag Cannibal Town into an all-out war without knowing there was a way to keep them safe.”

“Sure, why not?” You pull your hand away.

A loud squeal bounces off the walls.

Charlie pulls you into the tightest hug you’ve ever experienced. She hauls you with all the strength of a hellborn princess.  Your feet drag against the floor as she pulls you out of the kitchen and into the living-room.

Charlie drops you with a wince on her face. She stares at the broken window, and the obviously missing television.

You trip out of her hold.

Alastor wraps his hand on your shoulders, steading you against him until you find your balance. His touch lingers on you.

The television shaped hole on your glass window makes your eyes twitch.

Alastor steps away from you, twirling his microphone. It strikes the floor with a harsh thunk. “Oh, yes that,” he says. “It seems there was an unfortunate accident.”

“Oh, really now?” you say, placing a hand on your hips. “I would love to know exactly how that happened.”

Alastor’s smile widens, and his arms wave the air. “The clumsy boxed tripped right out the window.”

Your smile strains. “That is rather unfortunate,” you say. “What a shame, I rather liked that television. It’s been a constant companion, and never has it once disappeared on me for several years.”

Alastor glares at you.

You glare back.

“I would love to help you clean this mess,” Alastor says with that triumphant smile of his.

Would a second broken window be worth trouble if it means there would be an Alastor-shaped hole?

“Perfect!” you say. “I’m sure you still remember where we keep the broom.”

Alastor boops your nose. “Unfortunately, the cannibals will be meeting us at the hotel,” he says. “I think it’s time we take our leave. Say goodbye to my wife, Charlotte.”

Charlie opens her mouth to correct him. She changes her mind at the last minute, choosing to sulk with a wave instead.

Alastor opens the door, allowing Charlie to step out first. She strides to the flowerbeds, kneeling to observe the plants.

Alastor stills by the door frame.

He inches close enough for you to reach him. The fabric of his lapels smoothen as you adjust its fit on him.

A breeze tussles Alastor’s hair. You swipe the stray locks, brushing his hair away from his forehead, until . . . until the x that marks the gunshot catches your eyes. Frowning, you thumb the mark, caressing it with oh so soft touches. There was a time where you believed that you and him had all the time in the world. Death laughed at you that night.

Alastor watches you, taking your wrist to pull it away.

He leans closer, and picks a feather on your head. “Will you indulge me?” he asks. “There’s just something I want to ask of you before I leave.”

“Say it, and it will be yours.”

Alastor pokes his cheeks, mimicking a smile. “Just one of these from you will do—Something to power me through the day.”

With a soft chuckle, you widen your lips to show him the brightest smile you can muster. “Is that much better, my love?”

Alastor presses a kiss on your cheek. “Indeed,” he says. “You’ve been frowning for a while now.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Have I?”

Alastor boops your nose. “You have,” says. “What’s troubling you, my dear?”

“It’s nothing serious to you,” you tell him with a shake of your head. “It’s nothing worth listening to.”

Alastor taps his fingers across his microphone. “It’s not nothing. Especially when you frown like that,” he says. “If it’s serious to you, it is worth listening to.”

“Sometimes . . .I still find myself wondering how you feel,” you say, smoothening the feathers on your head “Even after being married for so long, there are times where I still do not know

“You’re not a mind reader,” he says. “If you want to know, you should just ask.”

“Alright then,” you say with a smile. “How are you feeling today, my love?”

Alastor caresses your cheek. The back of his fingers brush down your skin until it hooks around your chin. You tilt it to the side, offering your cheek, ready for him.

Alastor tugs your chin, adjusting your face until your eyes are drawn into his own. And oh . . . Has he always looked at you like this?

Alastor inches closer, his nose nudging against your own. Your heart thumps in your ear.

A minute has never felt so long as you stay frozen. It’s a whole minute  if his lips brushing inches above yours. It’s a whole minute of his finger stroking the skin of your chin. It’s a whole minute of feeling his breath on your skin. It’s a whole minute where inches of space separate your

Alastor tortures you with the simplest of sensation that intoxicated you to your very core. You don’t move away, not from him—never from him.

Your eyes close when Alastor presses his lips across yours.

The taste of this morning’s coffee is dizzying. The soft tickles of his breath make your fingers curl around the fabric of his coat. You were never a poet. It’s Alastor who was better with his words. You cannot describe the way he kisses you with sweet metaphors or soft analogies.

Alastor pulls away.

You inch closer to chase him, until self-control takes over. It splashes you with the warmth of a bucket filled with ice.

Oh . . . oh.

There are words to be said, questions to be asked. The heat tingling of your cheeks and the electricity buzzing your lips make it hard to find the words.

You bury your face into the fabric of Alastor’s chest, curling into him to hide how red your face flushes. The back of his coat crumples when you grip it.

Alastor wraps his arms around you, tightening the hug. His finger stroke your shoulder blade. “Does that answer your question?”

You inhale into his clothes. It’s warm. He’s warm. So warm that int transfers to you. “No, not at all,” you mumble. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Alastor leans back, pushing you away to search your face.He stares at you.

You stare at everything but him.

Alastor squishes your cheek, giving it a light shake. “Stop demanding things from me when you’re not going to remember.”

“I did no such thing.” You swat his hand away. “Will I be seeing you soon?”

Charlie catches your eyes. She quickly glances away before eventually looking back. You bring out your hand, folding your fingers to indicate the number two. Charlie cringes so deep she creates a double chin.

Alastor brushes feathers out of your face. “You wouldn’t need to ask if you accepted Charlie’s offer to stay at the hotel,” he says. “ I was given a room there. I think you would like it . . . but, there’s still thousands of unused rooms if you wish to stay somewhere else.”

“My deerest, are you asking me to stay at the hotel?”

Alastor’s silence makes you chuckle.

With the tips of your toes, you reach to press a kiss on his cheek. “I will see you soon.”

“You always will.”

Charlie and Alastor leave with a wave. You close the door before they reach the gate, leaning on the door. The wood does little to settle the way your skin buzzes. Demand a kiss? You would never do such a thing.

The clock strikes. It’s time to leave for work. You take your coffee mug, scrubbing it with soap. (If you drop it twice, then that’s your business.) You open the cupboard, placing your matching mug next to Alastor’s clean one.

Today . . . Today will be a good day.

For today, there’s no need to throw away cold coffee mugs.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Next Part: |Glimpse of Me and You: Part 1| First of all, you will never catch my Alastor cooking jambalaya. It’s a great dish, I know. But I refuse to fall into the curse. Part of the reason why this chapter took so long to publish, besides work getting in the way, was because I didn’t know how I would want Alastor and Reader to love each other. Like do I make it purely romantic?  But I like keeping this as canon as possible. And I know that Alastor is only canonically ace. This problem struck me until I realized that to be accepted is to be loved. So I decided to write a story that will make me happy to show you. There are so many other fics with pure romance, and I wanted to respect Alastor’s asexuality and everyone who relates to him. This is my love letter to him and to you. Also, I’m just going to put it out there, just in case someone might ask why there’s a kiss on the lips? This is a reminder that you can define a relationship any way you could want. I debated whether that kiss should be on the cheek or on the lips. A cheek kiss isn’t inherently romantic, so I could have just done this. The lip kiss just felt…correct. I wanted to showcase that the relationship between Alastor and Reader isn’t a conventional one, and that it’s fine to have one that differs from what is considered normal. So the best way would be to take something that everything thinks is very romantic and twist it in a way that it could mean something different. And thus, any kiss before and after this chapter really just means that Alastor is completely and perfectly and incandescently happy.

Taglist: @mybrainautocorrect @ray-rook @teavibesaf @valentique @qardasngan @tobyisher3 @amoraneuro @okay-babe @holymusicialmothman @lyralibra @alastorssimp @aestheticglas-blog @slaggylemon

[fishermanshook]

ASK: hi! i couldn't find if requests are open, sorry if they're closed rn. can i request some composer, orpheus and painter x fem/gn reader fluff?

DATE NITE!

( composer , novelist & painter ) + gn!reader

˙✧˖°🍓 ༘ ⋆｡˚ modern/celeb. au ?? , chars. are considered pretty big in the fine arts department + the world pretty much , silly little dates w/ them , ooc a bit , lower case intended , grammar and spelling warning

INTRO

mundane dates for people with too much on their plate.

꒰wc꒱ 1 k

THE COMPOSER ; FREDRICK KRIEGBURG

♫ | when it comes to going on dates with the musician, he much rather prefers something more secluded. something personal between the two of you. that’s why he [politely] turns down any offers on going out to things that are known for having big crowds, like festivals or loud concerts.

♫ | it’s the little things that count to fredrick, truly. the homemade dinner has been platted and served along with dimly lit candles and rose petals scattered across the floor. it’s so romantic and fredrick can’t help but feel so loved by you.

♫ | you’ve got music playing in the background as well. and, once you finish your meal, the two of you sway and dance to the song. the composer kisses your lips and for once, it feels like it’s just you and him, and he wishes he could do this with you every night.

the composer looks at you with playful contempt. “is this my song you're playing?”

you throw your head back in laughter. “of course it is silly, I’d be mad if I didn’t play at least one of your songs tonight.”

♫ | eventually, your dancing leads you to freddrick’s piano in the living room. you sit next to him as he plays you his newest creation. it’s a masterpiece, you tell him, followed by the question of what he’ll name it. fredrick chuckles to himself before revealing to you that it’ll be named after you.

“[name]’s symphony, doesn’t that sound delightful?”

THE NOVELIST ; “ORPHEUS” DEROSS

♪ | orpheus, similar to fredrick, likes to keep things personal. not the biggest fan of crowds, but he’s been in the middle of a few big ones due to book signing. he’s not too picky about what dates you guys go on and enjoys most if not all of the outings you plan together.

♪ | so what’s better than a coffee date followed by book shopping? well, lots of things in reality. orpheus definitely participated in extravagant and expensive activities thanks to his earned riches. but a coffee date makes everything feel normal again, a simpler time when he wasn’t flooded with the need to release the next great book. it’s a great way to spend time with you, he thinks.

♪ | the date is filled with hushed whispers and silent giggles as the two of you browse the library, steaming hot coffees in hand. or maybe it’s hot chocolate in your hand. you're too distracted with reading the back of another book to let him have a better look at your drink.

↳ going to a bookstore as a date was more of a “kill two birds with one stone” kind of deal. you knew that it would be a nice way to spend time together without doing anything too grand, and orpheus gets to look for new inspiration. plus, you get to see if any best sellers catch your eye.

“ooooo I like the sound of this book! I think I’m gonna snag it for myself.”

“lemme see, I can probably get it for you.” [he’s going to steal in and read it himself when you’re not looking]

♪ | you expect him to be engulfed in the books around him, flipping through the pages and seeing what other authors have put on display. instead, he looks at you with a type of fondness only you are graced with. he brings a thumb to your lip to wipe off the excess hot chocolate around your mouth. you smile and lean into his warm embrace.

“sorry, I'm too busy looking at you to notice any of the other books. let’s pick out some more together, ‘k?”

THE PAINTER ; EDGAR VALDEN

♩ | edgar valden is widely known for his skills when it comes to painting. he’s perfected everything, he’s mastered every medium, and his inspiration is seemingly endless. that’s what everyone thinks.

↳ edgar lets you in on probably one of his darkest secrets one night, lying in bed: he hasn’t mastered every single medium there is. his inspiration runs out quicker than most would think. and yes, he hasn’t truly perfected everything when it comes to the arts [mostly saying painting]. the reality of it all rains down on him with the pressure to fulfill such beliefs, but you let him know that it’s okay not to. no one should be expected to accomplish such a feat.

♩ | that’s why little dates like these are the ones he probably cherishes the most, despite how embarrassed and anxious he is walking into the art studio.

“they were 5 dollars a person! I thought it could be nice because we could both work on our art skills.”

“[NAME] WHAT IF SOMEONE NOTICES ME?!?!?”

♩ | that’s why he’s so nervous. the edgar valden, in a beginner's art class, learning how to make pottery? don’t the people expect more of him? you tell him no and that, they shouldn’t because he’s human.

↳ legit started hiding his face at the start of the session ‘cause he was so afraid someone would comment about him being here. you had to pry his hands away from his face.

♩ | it isn’t until maybe halfway through the class he starts to get the hang of things, and you're not far behind either. his beautiful, hand-crafted bowl looks stunning, you tell him. Well, not really. it looks more like a pinch pot, but you think it’s best to keep that to yourself.

↳ neither of you is good at pottery, and it just makes learning it that much more fun for the both of you. [edgar refuses to admit smh] he’s secretly dedicated to making a vase to replace the broken one in your apartment. he’ll paint it your favorite color and doodle your favorite flowers all across it. although, he can’t say that this is looking that much like a vase…

♩ | the two of you are complete messes at the end of it. colorful paint splattered across your face along with dried clay stuck and chipped off underneath your fingernails. you walk out having done your first of many pottery classes that day.

“thank you for planning this out. I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would, really.” edgar states before leaving a fleeting kiss on your cheek.

note: his my fishies…🤭🤭🤭 hope you all are having an amazing day / night. enjoy this short little request i got <3

© fishermanshook — no stealing , translating , plagiarizing or reposting my work on other any other sites + reblogs adored !!

[howlingday]

Jaune: Y'know, with Bleiss & Bluby around, I can't help but wonder what a "Blaune" would look like...

Ren: Probably a womanizer. That, or the Ultimate Fuckboy(tm).

---------------------------------------------------

A moment before we begin. When I got this ask, I wanted to make a Jaune recolor that wasn't... Well, just a self-insert Jaune. Like, anyone can make a "Jaune" recolor and make them a harem king dickhead, but I don't want that. Hell, you can make a recolor of anyone and make them one-dimensional.

But that's not what I wanna do. See, I wanna do characters like Bleiss in a way where they're sort of mirrors of their counterparts. Bleiss Schnee (or Gele) is an impoverished Weiss as a bastard child of Jacques Schnee. Bluby Rose is Ruby's twin who matured too quickly at Summer Rose's death, becoming emotionally numb to support her sister. Allow me to present to you...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PAUNE

"Good afternoon, students of Beacon Academy." A young man with reddish-brown hair introduced himself with a bow. He wore a set of blinding white armor, shining and glimmering like snowdrift in sunlight. Flowing down his shoulders was a gilded cape, acting as a field for his family emblem, the silhouette of a bird with spread wings. "I'm looking for my brother. Have you seen him around?"

Ren, the stoic member of the two, whirled his head round between his team leader and this newcomer, jaw agape at the abundant similarities between the two armored huntsmen. Jaune raised a brow, as if he'd seen this young man from somewhere before. The young man, in kind, narrowed his eyes at Jaune, though he was distracted by the bewildered look of the dark-haired boy.

"What?" The newcomer flipped out a pocket-mirror. "Do I have something on my face?"

"I'm sorry about my friend." Jaune replied, since Ren couldn't. "Uh... Who is your brother?"

"Cardin Winchester." This time Jaune's eyes almost popped out his skull. "Last I checked, he was a second year at Beacon Academy. I'm visiting for the tournament."

"Oh... You're Cardin's brother!" Jaune wagged a pointed finger.

"Yes." The young man scowled. "It's rude to point, you know." He chided with a pointing finger.

"Oh, sorry." Jaune retreated his finger with a blush of embarrassment.

"Of course you are." The student chuckled. He made a grand demonstration, slapping his hand to his armored chest. "Not everyone can be as perfect as Paune Winchester~!"

Ren started to visibly shake.

"Uh-huh... Well, if you'd like, I can try giving Cardin a call." Jaune pulled out his scroll. "I do have his number."

"Oh?" Paune raised a brow. "Let me guess, you're both his lackeys, members of his team who hang on his every whim?"

"Excuse me." Ren stood, politely rushing away. This became too much for him, so he was going to alleviate his nausea in the restroom. Hopefully, this nuisance would be gone by the time he came out.

"Ren?" Jaune watched as his teammate entered the restroom, a violent retching sound following. "Must have been something he ate." He turned back to Paune. "And, no, I'm not... his lackey..." Jaune's face soured, bitter memories returning to his mind, "I'm a team leader like him. The name's Jaune; Jaune Arc!"

"...Arc?" Paune raised his brow.

"Yeah, I'm-" There was a crack like thunder, echoing down the halls. Jaune felt a burning sensation across his cheek. Bringing a hand to his cheek, he saw Paune towering over him, a white glove in his hand.

"You dare breathe that name in my presence?"

"Huh?" Jaune rubbed his wounded face. "What do you mean?"

"I demand satisfaction, Jaune Arc." He turned away. "Meet me tomorrow in your dueling hall if you are not a coward."

"Dueling hall?"

"If you are not there by noon, then you as much of a coward as your family name."

"What?!" Jaune stood. "What does my family name have to do with anything?!"

"It has EVERYTHING to do with EVERYTHING!" Paune whirled about, pointing to the floor in fury. "And on my family name, I will have my vengeance!"

Jaune was left alone, watching as Paune Winchester, his supposed foe for tomorrow, stormed off with clenched fists, mostly hidden by his wavering gilded cape. Ren stepped out of the bathroom, noting Paune's departure before returning to Jaune.

"What just happened?"

"I..." Jaune looked to Ren. "I think I was just challenged to a duel."

--------------------------------------------------

"A dueling hall?" Nora asked, brow raised at her team leader. "The heck's a dueling hall? Does he mean the library?"

"No, that's just where Ruby and Yang have their duels." Jaune clarified. "Do we even have a dueling hall?"

"We don't." Pyrrha answered. "The closest to a dueling hall we have is the sparring ring for combat class, and that's only used by students with a professor's supervision."

"And I don't think Professor Goodwitch is willing to use the classroom to settle a petty argument between students."

"I mean, he did slap my face." Jaune offered.

"With a glove!" Nora expounded. "Jaune HAS to fight him!"

"Does he, though?" Ren questioned.

"Of course he does!" Nora wrapped herself around Jaune, slapping his chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Multiple times. "If he doesn't, he'll be called a coward!"

"I've been called worse." Jaune weakly replied.

"We should just tell the professors about what's happening." Pyrrha offered as a solution. A knock came at the door. She moved to open it. "Dueling isn't condoned by Beacon, or any of the kingdoms."

"That's where you're mistaken, Miss Nikos!" Professor Port announced with a jovial chuckle. "Most kingdoms do not condone unsanctioned duels, save for Vacuo."

"I told you we should've gone to Vacuo, Ren." Nora looked to her partner. "Everything's legal in Vacuo."

"Not everything." Professor Port clarified without clarifying. "But this certainly is!" He held up a stack of papers, about three or four pages thick, and entered with them held out to Jaune. "Read this over, lad!"

Jaune took the pages, reading the title. "Concurrence to Duel." He blinked. "Wait." He read down the page, flipping to read the next, and at the bottom of each page was a signature.

Paune Winchester

"Just sign these documents and we'll be on our way, my boy!"

"Why would I sign this?!" Jaune asked.

"Diplomatic relations, Mr. Arc!" The large man guffawed. "With this agreement, a little tussle between strapping, young men, and Vale and Atlas become bosom besties in no time~!"

"But I don't want to fight, Professor Port!" Jaune argued. "I'm not at Beacon Academy to fight people!"

"Ah, but you may have to, if you recall!" Professor Port turned away. "Why, when I was your age, I was already engaged in more than fifteen duels, three of them against at least three people! And this one time..."

"Jaune, you don't have to do anything you don't want to." Pyrrha offered, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Whatever issues Cardin's brother has can be solved without you getting involved."

"You're right, Pyrrha." He looked to his partner, smiling. "I don't want to, so I'm not going to. And I'll tell that to him to his face tomorrow."

"Why?" Ren asked. "You could just not show up."

"I could, but it wouldn't feel right." Jaune answered. "I mean, he challenged me face-to-face, so I might as well tell him no face-to-face, too, y'know?" He looked to the professor, who was on about his eighth tangent. "Is that okay, Professor Port?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, that's quite alright." He took the papers and stepped out of the dorm. "You'll need that energy for tomorrow, won't you? Goodnight, students!"

"Goodnight~!" Nora waved as she shut the door. "Okay, now about Vacuo..."

--------------------------------------------------

"Why are we going to this duel again?" Weiss asked, walking with her team to the sparring ring.

"Because Jaune is our friend, and we support our friends!" Ruby answered as she wrapped her arm around Weiss' shoulder.

"And this has nothing to do with this being the first duel you've ever seen?"

"That's not true!" Ruby argued, pulling away as though she were wounded by her partner.

"Legal duel." Yang corrected. "What happened at the back of the school back at Signal wasn't anything official."

"Oh..." Ruby quirked her brow. "Wait, then all those fights you got into-?"

"Yup!" Yang nodded.

"And how many of those fights did you start?" Blake asked.

"None~!" Yang grinned.

"All of them." Ruby clarified.

"Hey, it's Jaune!" Yang ran up to the sister team leader, refusing to explain her 10+ to nothing record. "So, ya ready for the big fight? All limbered up and ready to knock some sense into this punk Atlas kid?" She turned to Weiss. "No offense."

"Some taken." Weiss glared.

"I-I'm not going to fight anyone!" Jaune held up his hands in an awkwardly defensive motion.

"Oh, right!" Yang snapped her fingers. "This is a 'duel,' so it's all nice and legal~!"

"No, I mean I'm not going to fight anyone." Jaune rolled his eyes. "I'm going to walk inside and tell Paune that this is all a big misunderstanding."

"Boo!" Yang held her thumb downward as she jeered her fellow blond.

"Yang..." Jaune sighed.

"It's the smart thing to do." Weiss nodded.

"Thanks, Weiss!" Jaune beamed at agreement.

"Against a properly trained student, even someone from a junior institution, you'd only make a fool of yourself."

"Oh, thanks, Weiss..." Jaune slumped.

"Where's your team, Jaune?" Blake asked, noting him being alone.

"Nora and Ren are already inside," Jaune jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, "and Pyrrha went to go get a professor."

"Why?" Ruby asked. "I thought you were going to just talk to... Um... What was his name?"

"Paune Winchester." The girls each made a face at the name. "And Pyrrha said she wanted to be sure nothing happens while we're talking. She told me not to head inside until she came back."

"Well, we're gonna head in." Yang placed her hand on the door. "Wanna get the best seats in the house for this."

"Yang, I told you, nothing is going to happen..."

Jaune's argument became softer as a loud murmur emerged from the cracking of the door. As Yang pushed the door wider, the sound became louder and Jaune's words died before they could mean anything. Looking inside, every seat in the Beacon sparring room was filled. He saw a huge banner being held up by Ren and Nora, the latter of whom pointed him out and cheered, receiving a thunderous following by the rest of the Beacon Academy students. Like a moth to a flame, Jaune walked in and was given even more accolades by his peers and seniors.

"So..." Yang gave a smirk. "Nothing's gonna happen, right?"

--------------------------------------------------

"You don't have to do this, Paune."

"I have to, Cardin." The youngest huffed at his eldest. He tightened the strap of his armor, barely moving the chest plate as it was already tightened as far as it would go. Cardin was leaning against the wall, rolling his eyes at his little brother. He'd lost count of how many times this was. "We are Winchesters. We are winners!"

"Okay, let me try this then." Cardin gave a stern glare. "You SHOULDN'T do this. I fought Jaune before and he's not as shrimpy as you think."

"I'm not concerned with his stature. Even the mightiest trees fall to the right axe."

"Let me guess," Cardin pushed himself away from the wall, "another piece of that 'sage advice' from those Katz tutors of yours?"

"Why, yes!" The younger beamed. "I take it you've been watching their instructional videos?"

"No, because I know better than to trust some dope on a TV screen." Cardin sighed. "Paune, if you go out there, you're just going to make an ass out of yourself."

"You mean like you did when Jaune had to save your butt?" Paune gave a cheeky smirk.

"Yeah, when Jaune had to save my ass." Cardin rolled his eyes, yet again. "Look, if you just go out there and talk it out, I'm sure Jaune will let this go. Heck, I don't even know why he agreed to this! What, did you make fun of his team?"

"The only insult was the one that oaf delivered."

"And what did he even do?" Cardin asked. From outside the locker room, there was an uproar from the stands. Both could hear Nora shouting cheers at her leader from across the auditorium. Taking it as his cue to leave, Paune made his way to the exit. "Hey! We're not done talking!"

"Because we are beyond talking, Cardin." Without looking back, the younger brother snarled. "Now is the time for vengeance."

--------------------------------------------------

"Greeting, Beacon Academy~!" Professor Port boasted from within the ring. "Are you ready for a d-d-d- d-d-d-dueeeeeeeel~?!" The crowd roared in response as Jaune and his opponent, Paune, entered the ring.

"Professor Port, what the heck is this?!" Jaune shouted, partially deafened by the screaming crowd.

Pulling the mic away, the mustached teacher replied. "It's called being a hype-man, Mr. Arc! It's quite common in sporting events. Didn't Ms. Nikos tell you from her days in the ring?"

"No, she didn't, and that's also not what I'm talking about!" Jaune gestured to the crowd surrounding them. "I mean, what the heck is this crowd doing here?!"

"They're here for the duel, Mr. Arc!"

"I said I wasn't doing the duel!"

"Oh, are you that much of a coward?" Paune sneered, taking hold of the Professor's microphone. He gestured to the quieting crowd. "These people intend to see the first duel at Beacon in years, but you're too afraid to face me even in the ring?" He held the microphone out to Jaune.

"Uh..." Jaune gulped, realizing the crowd was listening to what he had to say. "Well... That is..."

"You can't even speak, you're so scared!" Paune guffawed into the mic. "No wonder your team is so weak!"

"Hey!" Jaune and Nora barked in unison, the latter nearly breaking her 'Go Jaune~!' banner.

"I guess an Arc truly is as worthy as their word if you're their honor-guard!" Paune shook his head. "Well, if you won't fight, then I'm sure you can have that partner of yours fight your battles for you, like she always does."

"Jaune!"

"Oh, and look who it is! Speak of the Grimm!"

Pyrrha ran up to the stage. "Jaune, you don't have to fight him!"

"He's right, Mr. Arc." Professor Goodwitch concurred, giving a glare at the shrinking Port. "So long as you don't sign that paper, there will be no fight." The crowd jeered at this. "QUIET!" She bellowed, not needing a microphone to get her point across.

"So, you intend to run away, tail tucked between your legs? Typical..." The Winchester boy clicked his tongue. "You'd rather hide behind bureaucracy than face me like a man in battle. I'd say you were the weaker man if not for your fragile stomach of a compatriot in the stands." The crowd made murmurs as eyes drifted to the blushing Ren. "If you'd rather I fight him, then I'd be more than happy to oblige."

"Jaune-" But it was too late for Pyrrha to talk sense into her leader. Taking hold of the papers in Professor Port's hands, he signed his name, before shoving the documents back into his meaty mitts. He then snatched the microphone from Paune.

"Fine!" Jaune barked. "You wanna fight?! Then let's fight!" The crowd roared in cheer.

"Oh, Jaune..." Pyrrha sighed.

"You heard him, Beacon~!" Professor Port took the microphone back. "IT'S TIME FOR A SHOWDOOOWN~!"

The crowd screamed as the words were called out. Pyrrha gave a sigh as Nora suddenly arrived with Jaune's weapon. She had access to Jaune's locker code, some way somehow despite his constant changing of the locker and code. In a blink, she was back in the stands to cheer for Jaune with Ren.

Across the arena was Cardin, looking to his younger brother with a familiar tension in his face. Pyrrha had seen this look many times before, all from managers and coaches who weren't confident in their athletes. It seemed he was worried about his brother in a similar way she was concerned about Jaune.

'He'll be fine.' Pyrrha thought, glancing to Jaune as he readied his sword and shield.

"Duelist, are you ready?!" Professor Port called, hand pointing to the younger man across the arena.

"Always ready!" Paune called back, repeating the response they were taught at Bulwark. Behind him, a long, purple staff extended into variant shades of lilac, lavender, and other purples.

"Duelist, are you ready?!" This time to Jaune.

"Ready!" Jaune brought his shield close.

"This will be old-school rules; first one to have their aura drop into the red forfeits!" Professor Port raised his palm high. "READY... BEGIN!"

As the professor jumped away, Paune wasted no time closing the gap between the two fighters, swinging his staff forward to reveal the bladed edge of his spear. It struck home, pushing Jaune back a bit as he noticed the dent in the middle of his shield. He'd need to avoid taking attacks like that in the future. Paune began jabbing with his spear, to which Jaune responded by moving to the side and removing the distance between.

Jaune swung with his blade, and Paune blocked with his staff. The younger grinned as he twisted the shaft and split his weapon in two, switching his style to something more akin to stick-fighting. The older was put on the backfoot again as his shield and armor began being pummeled by repeated strikes by the bladed and blunt weapons.

"What's the matter, Arc?!" Paune taunted. "Feeling overwhelmed?!"

Jaune brought his shield close and then thrusted outward, striking his opponent off-balance. Taking advantage of this, he jabbed Paune in the shoulder, making his aura shimmer as he grunted.

"No, are you?" Jaune chuckled. The crowd laughed, making both combatants blush. One was from being admired, the other from humiliation. Paune would switch their placements.

Clicking his spear together once more, Paune held the blade to the rear before charging once again. At the last second, he struck the ground and launched himself into the air, twisting his spear round and diving with blade pointed for Jaune's head. Jaune held up his shield and stepped aside, allowing Paune to drive his blade into the ground.

"Uh..." Jaune blinked as his opponent didn't move from where he crashed down. "Are you okay?"

"D..." Paune gritted his teeth. "Do not patronize me, Arc! I am a Winchester!" He stood and grunted as he pulled on his weapon. "And... a Winchester... always... ngh... wins...!"

Jaune looked to Pyrrha, who shrugged, before walking over and taking hold of the weapon. With a single yank, the blade came free. The two looked to each other, both not quite sure what to make of what just happened. For Paune, it was the single most embarrassing thing to happen in his career as a Huntsman... in training. For Jaune, it was extremely awkward, partially because he knew exactly how his opponent was feeling right now.

Some students began to murmur. They were expecting a tense battle between two feuding students of illustrious schools. But this... This was more like a playground dispute, with their ages embarrassingly showing. With only three words, the entire crowd was in an uproar.

"You guys suck!" Nora cried, earning the howls of agreement from the other students.

"Man..." Jaune sighed. "Everyone else is thinking this is a bad idea, huh-"

Paune didn't look his foe in the eyes. It was clear he was hiding something, though the stains on the floor revealed this secret far more clearly. The young Winchester was holding back his tears, and failing to do so, all because he was making a fool of himself from a single attack. He held a lot of pride in himself, something Jaune could definitely relate to. Which was probably why he did what he did next.

"AGH!" With a clatter, his sword fell to the ground, and Jaune fell to his knees, using his shield hand to hold his forearm. "My... My hand!"

"Huh?" Paune quirked a brow. "What are you..."

"I have fallen into your trap!" Jaune shouted. "Your weapon has a secret defense that only YOU can hold onto!"

"He does?" A student murmured.

"What's going on?" Another remarked.

"Oh, that's so cool!" A familiar voice called. "Weiss, I should totally get one of those!"

"You dolt..." Weiss groused.

"What are you doing?" Paune asked, shaking the tears from his eyes. "My weapon doesn't have that."

"I'm helping you out." Jaune whispered.

Paune flared his nostrils. "You think I need your pity?"

"YES!" Jaune called out. "PLEASE, HAVE MERCY ON ME~!"

"You expect me to play into your games, Arc?" Paune snarled, turning away. He then smiled and turned again. "Then you are mistaken! A Winchester never wins with mercy~!"

"Agh~!" Jaune cried as he jumped out of the ring. "You're way too strong for me! I have been completely defeated~!"

"THE WINNER BY RING OUT, PAUNE WINCHESTER!" There was a slow clap from the audience until it built into a roaring applause. Nobody seemed to care that this wasn't technically a win since they both still had near-full aura.

Paune beamed at his victory, as handed as it was. "Yes~! A victory for Paune Winchester~!"

--------------------------------------------------

"So you just handed him the win?" Nora asked.

"He needed a win more than I did, Nora." Jaune answered. "And besides, even if I did win, I'd just look like a bully to everyone."

"And now, you look like someone who couldn't beat a beginner student in one-on-one combat." Ren replied, making Jaune flinch at how much worse that sounded.

"You did a good thing, Jaune." Pyrrha smiled. "Sometimes helping other people means giving up a win."

"Have you ever let me win to help me, Pyrrha?" Jaune asked.

"Oh no, I haven't let you win once, Jaune." Pyrrha giggled. "You need to earn a victory from me." Jaune slumped at this.

"You there, Arc!" Jaune turned to see Paune standing behind him, his older brother standing next to him. The young man cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Jaune."

"Uh, yeah?" Jaune answered. "What's up... Paune?"

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier. It was unbecoming of a huntsman-in-training such as myself."

"Er, none taken."

"From him." Nora clarified, getting between the two duelists. "I still haven't forgiven you for what you said about Ren!" She shook her fist at the young man, making him flinch and put his arms up in defense. Ren took hold of his partner and pulled her away to the side.

"A-And I apologize for the things I said about your team as well." Paune clarified. "I should have known your team means as much to you as you do to them."

Jaune chuckled. "You're right." He looked to Ren and Nora, the former trying to calm the latter, then to Pyrrha at his side. "They mean everything to me."

"I hope I have a team as close when I attend Atlas."

"Or Beacon?" Jaune asked.

"Yeah, right!" Cardin barked a laugh. "This guy is only interested in one thing; getting to Atlas and being a specialist!"

"A specialist?" Pyrrha asked.

"I've heard stories about specialists growing up. Undaunted champions who never lose to anyone or anything!" Paune struck a fist to his chest. "Truly an academy of winners!"

"Well, best of luck to you, Paune." Jaune smiled. Then he furrowed his brow in thought. "Actually, now that I think about it, the only reason this whole thing started was because of my last name. Why is that?"

"You didn't know?" Paune asked. "I thought you of all people would know of the crime your family committed."

"Crime?" Jaune repeated.

"CRIME?!" Nora repeated, much more eagerly.

"Yes, the crime of humiliating me!" Paune scowled. "I'll never forgive you or your family for what your sister did to me!"

"My sister? Which sister?"

"The one in the overalls who bullied me relentlessly when I was younger."

"Overalls...?"

---------------------------------------------------

Jaune came home from working the Mr. Salt's fields. His parents convinced him that if he was going to be living in their house, then he had to pull his weight and help provide for the family. As he entered, he saw his sister sitting with a scowling pout on her face.

"Hey-"

"Don't talk to her, Jaune." Jaune looked to the kitchen where his mother was cutting vegetables. "She's in trouble."

"Uh, for what?"

"For getting into a fight." She huffed. "She sent a boy home in tears, and I had to hear about it from his mother!"

"Really?" Jaune looked to his sister, arms folded over her pink overalls. "But she's eight!"

---------------------------------------------------

"Sherry?!" Jaune exclaimed, surprised that even after he left home, he was still picking up after his youngest sister.

[jammiesjars]

NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE | MDNI

Warnings: Medium amount of plot?, horribly written medieval times smut, loss of innocence, virginity loss, female anatomy and terminology (??), unrealistic sex, slight coercion, breeding (only a little)

Seems to be the warrior’s picked you.

You were a shy thing. Didn’t get yourself involved in any social gatherings unless necessary, didn’t leave the safe confines of your modest hut unless dragged, and certainly didn’t talk to anyone unless by force.

You were polite, no doubt about it. And though as much as you hate it, people seemed to be drawn to you.

So when the cherished and highly praised warrior that John McTavish is decides he wants you, he will have just that.

It��s not even a question wether or not you want him. You wouldn’t deny the man his right to a pretty little bird like yourself, would you?

No matter, he’ll sneak around; arrange something with your parents so you won’t find out until its too late to stop your matrimony. But God, seeing you smile up at him so naively without a clue in the world that everynight he tugs at his thick cock to the mere thought of you in his arms makes him wish it’d happen sooner.

It was only a matter of time until you found out, anyway. Your parents were off planning some ‘suprise’, your mother teaching you about a wife’s duties all of a sudden and the whispers from the folk in the village only got louder.

“I can’t believe she’s marrying Johnny-“ the girl whispers to her friend, pointing at you.

Your blood runs hot, the same aching need you get when Johnny talks to you in a sultry tone shooting to your core at the mere mention of the rumor; at the idea of being his betrothed. And so you storm off to find him, barging into his office on the compound, blabblering about what you’ve overheard whilst he looks at you with a shit-eating grin.

“Have ye’ got an issue with that, M’eudail?” He’d drawl, his eyes glimmering with the same mischief you’ve come to know. “Don’t tell me yer suprised.”

“Johnny, you can’t be serious.” You’d breathe, the corset taught around your waist suddenly feels ten times tighter, and the furs settled on your shoulders 10 pounds heavier.

“Am always serious about ye, Lass.” He’d coo, leaning back in his chair. He beckons you closer with his hand. “Why? Don’t tell me ye fancy another lad, birdie.” He’d grunt, his calloused hands from years of battle pawing at your hips.

His touch brings out that familiar ache; a coiling need. One you never understood, never knew how to satisfy. “No..“ You’d breathe, responding to his call and stepping into his reach. “But I deserved to know, you cant keep tha-“

You’re silence by a low groan from Johnny. “Och. Quit worrying so much and let yer husband do the thinkin’. Be a good girl and let me take care of ye.”

Playful blue eyes meet yours.

“Keep bein’ at my beck and call, jus’ like ye are now. I’ll do the rest.”

Christ, you’re sure you’ll melt into the floor here and now. It’s not like you can deny anyway, you found out too late. Just as planned. That aching feeling is amplified tenfold and you know Johnny can tell.

He offers a lopsided grin. “Yer all worked up, aren’t ye?” It’s almost a growl. “Don’t worry, lass. I’ll take ye on the altar if you’d ask. I’ll make sure ye never have to go without once yer mine.”

He’d pull you close, so tender despite the vulgarity he whispers in your ear. And above all, you have no clue what he’s talking about.

Even unluckier for you, the scot picks up on that. “Oh, Mo Gràidh..” he’d purr, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Bet ye ache, don’t ye? You’re poor cunt..” He’d tut, shaking his head.

“Do ye know what that feelin’ is, lass?” His eyes hold a dangerous gleam, to which you shake your head and he looks like he could salivate. “C’mere. Let me take a look at ye.”

He flips you around to press your hands to his desk, whilst he’s holding your hips. He flips up your skirts. “Johnny-“

“Quit yer whining, im doing ye a favour.” He coos, hiking up your petticoat and layers underneath to reveal your glistening cunt. “Ain’t that a sight for yer sore eyes..” He almost chokes on his words.

The man had plans, intentions, to wait until your wedding night. To take it nice and slow with deep languid thrusts that had you seeing stars. All of that was thrown out the window as he took in the sight of your untouched opening.

“Ye trust me, lassie?” Johnny grunts.

“Johnny, I-“

He grips your thigh.

“Tryna be nice here, pretty. But it’s damn hard.” He growls. “Do ye trust me?”

You swallow your pride, nodding.

“Oh,” he groans at the confirmation. “Good girl..” Large hands grip your thighs so his tongue can lick a fat stripe up your cunt. The taste of you is so right to him, so… perfect. You were built for him only and he knows it; fated to be his pretty little wife he can come home to after battle.

You’re moaning, biting on your hand to muffle the sound. By god, you’ve never felt anything like this.

Then suddenly, it’s gone.

“Shouldn’t do this to ye, lass. Not one bit. Not proper of me at all, aye?” He pants, leaning back. You almost choke on nothing at the loss of his tongue.

He pulls your skirts down, flipping you back around. “Promise ye. I’ll never let ye go needy once I get that ring on ye finger. Just a couple for days, mo gràidh..”

He’s pressing his face against your stomach, arms keeping you standing between his legs.

“Right…” You pant softly, the loudest sound in the room.

So did you go through with the wedding without a single complaint? Yes. Could you even say you enjoyed it? Sure.

But what came after? That was the entire focus of the evening, apparently.

“Oh, I remember my wedding night..” Older folks would gush.

“Tell us all about it!” Married friends would tease and prod.

You were fed up. What was to come? (You, many times) You couldn’t seem to figure it out, not even as Johnny sat you on the bed with darkened eyes and a firm tone. “

Strip, lovie. Don’t make me do it for ye.”

“J-johnny-“ You mewl, sweat clinging to your body. Your wedding dress is long forgotten on the floor with John’s kilt.

“I got ye, M’eudail. Let go f’me.” John murmurs against your clit that he was just sucking on, whilst his fingers are pressing up into that sweet spongey spot inside of you.

You grip his hair, the feeling making you want to tug him off. “Wait-“ you whimper, hips bucking to chase the feeling that so desperately confuses you.

Johnny doubles his efforts, the smug bastard. “Oh, sweet girl..” There’s that shit eating grin again as he watches you from between your legs as your back arches off the bed. “Troublin’, hm? Don’t know what to do with yerself.” He tuts. “Let go, lass. Let me think for ye.”

His words have you cumming quicker than you’d care to admit.

“Don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ye?” He murmurs, his scottish brogue heavy with lust. “Mm.. ma sweet wifey.” He rides you through your orgasm with lanquid strokes of his thick fingers before climbing up the bed so his forearms rest either side of your head.

“Look at ye…” He grins down at you whilst you catch your breath; utterly ruined. He pushes your hair behind your ear, pressing a sweet kiss to your swollen lips. How awfully tender, considering he just gave you your first orgasm.

“Johnny..” you mewl, hands coming to rest on his broad shoulders. You can feel the thick cords of muscle roll beneath your palms

“Aye, sweetheart. Right ‘ere.” He grunts, reaching a hand down to pump his stupidly thick cock a few times. “Deep breath, lassie. Dinnae go stupid on me.” He coos. He presses at your poor, weeping cunt; his tip slick with precum.

He begins to press in, earning a broken whimper from you.

“Johnny-“ you gasp. “I can’t- I can’t take it-“

“Nae. Don’t say that, Mo Gràidh. Little more. Jus’ for me.” He groans, hissing lowly at how perfect you squeeze him; you were made for him.

You cling to anything for purchase, your jaw slack and eyelids fluttering shut. “No, no no-“

“Ye can take it, good girl… relax for me, lass. Let me in.” He grunts, his words an attempt so soothe your panicked confusion.

“Feels good, yeah? Too much to handle, aye?” He soothes, his gaze piercing as he looks down at you. “I’ve got ye. You’re doing so damn well, shh sh shh…”

You softly gasp, your grip tight as he bottoms out. It doesn’t let up, especially as Johnny decides you can handle even more, and starts pulling out slowly before pressing in again until your hips click together.

“Aren’t ye just fuckin perfect? Aye- look at me. In my eyes, pretty girl. Ye, tell ye husband how good he makes ye feel. Tell me lass.” He coos, a hand lacing into your hair.

“S-so good-“ you whine, hips bucking. “Johnny-“ you choke, his slow, sensual movements becoming more primal.

“That’s right,” He groans, his head dropping to rest against your shoulder. Johnny’s pants are much more obvious as you feel his breath against his shoulder. “Makin’ ye feel so good. Pussy clampin’ around me like a fuckin’ vice.” He groans, his cock pummeling your poor cunt again and again, his pace never slowing.

“Gonna fill ye up nicely. Make you a mam to me heirs..” He growls, his hips stuttering as you cum.

Its a burning hot pleasure that rips through your body, making you feel weak in the legs.

“Ooh,” Johnny intertwines his hand with yours. “There we go… lettin’ go for me like a good girl would. Gonna fuck ye stupid one day, love. Make ye forget ye name.” He growls, his hips slamming against yours as his seed spurts inside you.

“Such a good wifey..”

[domreader-headcannon-scenarios]

Kinktober day 28, Merpeople: Undertaker

Cw: nudity, perverse behavior, no sexual content

-

You had only intended to go skinny dipping at sunset for fun, it was a quiet cove secluded with a hidden path to get there. You felt safe here and come often so of course you’re used to it by now, the birds and animals, you’re familiar with them!

You were half sunbathing, half letting the waves lap at you, but to your surprise…

“Hehehe…haven’t seen a human in a while!”

You panic and slip into the water, your clothes are too far away to put on before whoever it is gets close, they sounded almost like they were next to you. Once in the water you look around the shore but see no one. You pause and search the water…that was a voice, right?

Suddenly your grabbed by the leg and to your surprise something brushed against your legs. You shriek in surprise and try to kick what felt kind of like…a hand?

“Creep! Let go!”

You shout realizing someone is messing with you. While you wait for them to surface, you’re surprised that they…wait so long. You eventually hear a small disturbance in the water, a man with green eyes and silver hair raises just his head and shoulders out of the water.

“Haha…sorry! I couldn’t resist! You looked so cute jumping like that!” He laughs as he swims around you. He makes a point of keeping his lower half submerged. “What is a beauty like you doing out here? Not even the dead can hear you out here!”

He laughs at his own joke before diving back down, you see…he’s a merman, his tail smacks the water as he dives and circles you. You pause and realize.

He can most definitely see your naked body clearly right now.

You quickly cover yourself and begin swimming towards shore. The merman playfully bumps you from under you, lifting you basically onto his back.

“Hey don’t leave, we can have fun!” He says as he flips over and places you in his stomach as he floats ontop of the water, your weight supported by him. “Don’t be embarrassed, you see me wearing clothes?”

He laughs out and smiles widely to you. You cover yourself and he politely looks away and you hear his tail splash, suddenly your flipped so he’s holding you in his arms and dives under water.

You don’t have time to process what just happened before your suddenly pushed onto a sand like on the shore, safely out of the water.

Looking you can see the merman’s silver scales, they look gorgeous…he seems happy that you’re giving him attention even if it’s not verbal. You quickly get up and get dressed, the merman slowly retreats back into the water, but stays close as if hoping you’ll stay.

“Are you…leaving?”

He sounds almost disappointed…

“Yeah, uh…I’ve been out for a bit I should head back…what’s your name?”

He tilts his head at your question. “If I tell you, will you visit again?” He ask, eyes watching you intently. You hesitate but nod.

“Just call me Undertaker. I’ll be here all day and night…”

He submerges back in the water with a loud splash.

-

Tagging: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @anxious-chick

[tinydefector]

Hi hi am that Anon that send about Rung x MC (who got fucked by said God).

And I love it the story specially when Tyrest and MC just fighting each other 😂😂 and honestly I may not have read mtmte or lost light series (I wish though) but i wish i could see Getaway reaction from this because I saw a YouTube video about Getaway and let me tell you he's also a god fanatic and just imagining his reaction of MC just saying "I got fucked by Primus" 😂😂😂

Oh there's so much you can do with it. And it gets even better if you use it in AUs. I happen to love writing different Aus and making new ones too. And just the thought of Rung being out here finding a human he falls in love with and just the whole primus thing doesn't really come up but the moment it's out, it's like a free pass to his human.

The amount of times they have just shut bots down with the. "I'm fucking your gods what's your next move" it stuns so many Bots.

Tarn monologueing talking about the DJD and their cause. Trying to sound menacing and Scary.

MC: HA nice try buddy, but if you think I'm scared of you, you're delusional.

Tarn: I could squish you liken insect

MC: yea and I could take your God for another round in the sheets, pick up your game I'm more afraid of his spike than I am you!

Tarn's just stunned bafflement as he tries to process.

----

Getaway finding out about Rung and just trying to get up in his business to the point he walks I on Rung and MC and is just baffled over how the fuck.

And MC just flips him the bird and continues riding Rungs spike.

---

Megatron having a deep moment trying to talk some issues out with MC and being rather polite about it.

MC: have you ever thought about therapy.

Megatron: consider hos that went for you, I'd rather not find myself getting fragged by a God.

MC stunned not knowing where that came from before laughing.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

Pt XIII good omens: The Adventures of Crowley and Aziraquail (Ages 3+)

@innefableidiot Shout out to you for my Good Omens villain arc origin story. I saw your Duck Omens, I reblogged it thinking I had too small of an attention span to watch a whole show, but the Duck Crowley and Aziraphale looked so adorable anyway. But I had flirted with the devil, Good Omens took over my dash, I made a summary, and here we are. This is in honour of you.

Good Omens, as a toddler's book. Yes I wrote an entire toddler's story for this post. If you do like this ridiculous thing, it would be nice if you could reblog it :") That's the only way it can get to more people. And god knows the children of divorce need a good bedtime story. So here you are, to heal the pain.

Crowley the Crow had always been a naughty little bird. Look at him go, flapping over the street... He wanted to steal something! Oh, no, Crowley. Stealing isn't very nice of you.

"I'm not nice," cawed Crowley. "Not nice at all."

Aziraquail the Quail sat near, on a telephone line. He was eating a piece of grain. Munch, munch, much, went Aziraquail. He saw Crowley and waved his wing.

"Crowley!" trilled Aziraquail. "What are you up to?"

"I'm going to steal something," said Crowley. He waved back. Aziraquail was his friend, and it is polite to greet your friends. That's how they know you care! "Look, Aziraquail, that human has a very shiny ring!"

"It is a very shiny ring," Aziraquail said, looking down. Aziraquail wanted to tell the truth. He didn't always succeed, but that's okay! It's very, very important to try. "But Crowley, you can't steal the very shiny ring! It doesn't belong to you."

Crowley was very confused. He landed on the telephone line beside Aziraquail. "But if the very shiny ring belonged to me, how would I steal it?"

Aziraquail sighed. But he decided to explain it to Crowley anyway. Sometimes, people aren't trying to be bad! They just don't know any better. "You shouldn't steal it at all, Crowley. Stealing will make the human sad."

"Oh goodie," said Crowley. "That sounds fun."

"No!" cried Aziraquail. Aziraquail didn't like the sound of that, not one bit. "Crowley, don't make the human sad. Or I shan't be your friend."

Crowley thought over that. He didn't like that. Aziraquail was his very best friend. Friends are very important, and Crowley knew that. But oh! He did so want that very shiny ring.

Crowley looked down at the human again. No, Crowley! Don't do it!

With a flap of his wings, and a flip of his wings, down Crowley flew, to snatch the human's very shiny ring! Oh, dear, Crowley. How very naughty of you.

But what was this? Crowley bumped straight into the human's head! He bounced off and away he went, landing with a huff on the pavement. That's the part next to the street.

The human was very cross. "Come back here, you bad bird!" she shouted. That wasn't polite of her, was it? When you're upset with someone, you shouldn't shout right away. What if it had been an accident?

"It wasn't an accident," said Crowley. He was grumpy. "I wanted to steal her very shiny ring."

Naughty Crowley.

The human ran towards Crowley to scold him. Poor Crowley! But just as the human stepped off the street, along came a very fast bike, and whoosh! Away it went, just missing the human.

Oh my. You mustn't speed on streets like that, very fast bike! You could have hit somebody. Look at that sign over there. This street is for pedestrians, too! Pedestrians is a grown-up way of saying people who aren't on a vehicle. Grown-ups like fancy words.

"Wait a moment," said the human. She stopped and looked at Crowley. "Oh, little crow, you saved me! I could have been hit!"

Crowley blinked. He was very confused. But he'd been trying to be naughty!

"Thank you!" said the human. "Oh, thank you, little bird. What can I do for you?" She looked down at her hand. "Crows like shiny things, don't they? Here, take this very shiny ring. I got it for free with sweets, and I don't even like it."

She gave Crowley the very shiny ring.

"Thank you," said Crowley, because he might be a naughty little crow, but he was a very polite little crow.

The human waved goodbye, and went on her way. Aziraquail landed on the pavement next to Crowley.

"Oh, Crowley," said Aziraquail. "You aren't very good at being naughty, are you?"

"Yes I am!" said Crowley.

Aziraquail smiled. "But you saved the human! And you didn't steal the ring. She gave it to you all by herself, as a reward. Isn't that much nicer?"

"I'm not nice," said Crowley. Oh, Crowley, you silly, silly, crow. "Well, if I'd done it your way, she wouldn't have been saved! So you aren't very good at being nice."

Aziraquail looked sad. Crowley didn't like that. Aziraquail was his friend, and friends don't make each other sad.

"I'm sorry," said Crowley. "But don't you want to know why I wanted the very shiny ring?"

Oh my, Crowley. Why did you want the very shiny ring?

"To be naughty," said Aziraquail. He was still hurt. Sometimes, even when you say sorry, it isn't enough. And that's okay.

"No," said Crowley. He held it out with his little crow beak, and put it on Aziraquail's foot! "It was for you! Because you're my very best friend."

"We're not friends," said Aziraquail. Sometimes, when we're hurt, we say things we don't mean.

Crowley looked sad. "We're not?"

Aziraquail thought and thought. And decided that he had been rather silly. "I'm sorry," he said too. "Of course we're friends. Thank you for the very shiny ring, Crowley!"

Crowley smiled his naughty little smile.

And then, oh my! How cute. Aziraquail leaned over and gave Crowley a kiss on his feathery little cheek. "It's very pretty. I love you, Crowley!"

It is very important to tell your friends that you love them. You don't have to say it with words. Crowley said it with a little kiss back, because he was too shy to speak.

What a very nice crow you are, Crowley.

"I'm not nice!"

"Crowley!"

"Okay, fine, just a little bit."

The End.

[trashogram]

A Drabble for Octavia in the He Chose You universe (if you don’t know what that is, it’s just a Lucifer/Reader I’ve made — you’re the Queen of Hell) who deserves none of the BS she’s had to deal with in Helluva Boss.

Octavia knelt to sit on the playmat, long legs awkwardly splaying outward as she tried to get comfortable. Even if she managed to make her lower half unwind, the Goetian heiress couldn’t imagine her shoulders loosening in this expansive, unbelievable castle. It was even more opulent than her own home. Princess Charlotte watched her make the attempt with a wide, gummy smile from where she’d been trying to roll onto her tummy. Her mother, the Queen, had gotten up only a moment ago and was speaking in hushed tones with the person Via wished the least to see much less hear since she’d taken shelter in Lucifer’s palace.

Pudgy hands on chubby baby arms reached out and Octavia couldn’t help smirking. She reached back and allowed Charlotte to grab onto one of her talons, sharp point curled inward to prevent any injury to the fragile baby.

The baby yanked at her owl counterpart and babbled, until Octavia’s smile softened into something more genuine. It was as if Charlotte knew that Via needed distraction.

“Your majesty, I understand what you’re saying, but I must insist that I at least see my daughter.”

Octavia sunk down further onto the plush pink carpet at the sound of her father’s voice.

“It’s been days!” Stolas said, loud enough to be heard from behind royal walls.

“And as I said before, Octavia shouldn’t be forced to do anything that she’s not comfortable with.” The Queen countered politely, yet firmly.

“Mah!” Octavia’s gaze switched from the ground to Charlotte once again.

The threat of tears in the bird’s glowing eyes were forgotten momentarily as she watched Hell’s princess struggle to flip from her back to her belly. Octavia couldn’t help her frame from shaking with quiet laughter at the sight.

Charlie waved a hand again and her playmate finally took the bait and gently pushed the baby to maneuver onto her side. Charlie’s hooves kicked in the air for purchase as she flopped the rest of the way. She huffed in satisfaction before looking back up at Via with her round, ruby eyes, arms held out to grip and kneed at the fibers beneath.

Charlotte babbled before scooting up toward Via, moving like an inchworm just to get to her.

“What are you doing?” Octavia snorted, instantly stopping the Devil baby in her tracks by leaning over and plucking the tiny thing from the floor.

It was so easy, like picking up taxidermic armadillo paperweight to admire. Just a tad more wriggly and loud.

Charlie smiled widely again and lightly petted Via’s beak. “Mah!”

“Yes, I heard you the first time.” Octavia held the Antichrist close, for lack of any alternative. “You’re nuts, you know?”

The familiar whoosh and accompanying sparkling light of a portal opening up a few feet away had Octavia pulling Charlie to her chest tightly. It earned her a high-pitched bit of nonsense, but Via waited in fear for the figure on the other side to step through.

The becoming-familiar figure of Lucifer hopped through. “Hello girls!”

It took Octavia a moment to get her bearings. Charlie fussed in the owl princess’s loosening arms as Lucifer focused on the two of them.

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry sweetie. Didn’t mean to startle you!” The King hunched in on himself to appear smaller, voice going low. “Mom said she had to step out and I got here as fast as I could.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” He continued. “Here, want me to take her?”

Octavia slowly gave Charlotte to her father, watching numbly as he lit up for the baby.

“Dah!” Charlie squealed.

“That’s right! Daddy’s here!” Lucifer kissed her brow, and Charlie was already enthusiastically babbling once more.

He looked back to Octavia. “I hope you weren’t waiting too long…?”

“No, he… he got here a few minutes ago.” Octavia answered.

Lucifer’s expression turned remorseful and subdued, even while Charlie grabbed at lapels. This was the fourth-going-on-fifth time Prince Stolas had come requesting his daughter’s return home, and the situation was becoming as sad as it was frustrating.

It was difficult for Lucifer personally. On one hand, he was a father, and he knew that he’d tear apart Heaven and Hell to keep Charlotte safe with himself and his wife. On the other hand, Octavia’s parents were definitely not Lucifer and his wife. Being around Stella and Stolas Goetia, especially at the height of their marriage falling apart at the seems and one attempting to kill the other — as well as the other flaunting their extramarital affairs (in front of Octavia for fuck’s sake) sounded like the opposite of safe.

“Hey,” Lucifer offered the Owl princess a hand while moving Charlie to his hip. “Are ya hungry? We’ve got a kitchen all the way on the opposite side of the house with anything you could ever want. Or oh! Maybe we could go to that arcade Mammon commissioned up here — Dag and Belphagor’s? I bet they have food, and non-rigged games! Well for us, anyway.”

Lucifer chuckled. And Via looked up at him for a long moment, sizing up the rather diminutive ruler of all Hell as he waited for her with utmost patience. Charlie mimicked him once she’d assessed the situation (as much as a baby could) and held out her hand to Octavia as well, with an energetic ‘Gah!’.

Via smiled before she took the offer. “Sure.”

[katyawriteswhump]

omega found, omega lost 5.2

Title: Omega found, Omega lost; Chapter: 5.2/6; WC: 2356; Rating: E; Tags: Steddie, Omega Steve, Alpha Eddie, angst, hurt/comfort.

Chapter 1 on tumblr Chapter 2 on tumblr Chapter 3 on tumblr Chapter 4 on tumblr Chapter 5.1 on tumblr On AO3

Preview: “I dig the pink scrunchie," said Steve. Eddie’s hair tumbled in flyaway strands from a bun at the crown of his head. “You’re the prettiest Alpha I ever saw.” “That why you left the hospital to come find me?” “Huh? I did what?” Steve was so happily lost, he’d all but forgotten the horror of the past few days. Eddie laughed: “You’re the most badass metal Omega I ever met. That’s a compliment, by the way.” Eddie’s slowly spreading smile managed to be tentative and relentlessly adoring. Steve would die for those dimples, and if he didn’t taste those soft lips again soon, he really would expire. Surely Eddie could smell how Steve was longing for him? “Mate me?” begged Steve, his voice pitching unexpectedly high.

Chapter 5.2: I see what's mine and I take it

“What do you mean, he discharged himself?” bellowed Hopper at the doctor.

The doctor folded her clipboard to her chest as a makeshift shield and stood her ground. “He’s an Omega, not a child. He had the right to discharge himself. I was against his leaving so soon. However, he was with a friend, and I didn’t like the plans his mother had for him either.”

“What plans?” Eddie suddenly loomed over the poor doctor too, his inner Alpha frothing at the mouth.

“She believed he needed specialist treatment, and there’s something to be said for that—just not the kind of treatment she had planned for him. All my colleagues agreed that Steve was so sick because he’d bonded with an Alpha who he feared had rejected him. At the very least, his inner Omega was suffering from major trust issues. The unpredictability and severity of his symptoms suggested that this was indeed a soulmate bond, and then, when he heard that he was going to see this rogue Alpha again… Well, he wasn’t exactly fixed, but the consequences speak for themselves.”

While she talked, she looked quizzically at Eddie—okay, she probably guessed his role in all this. His wildly incongruous hospital scrubs probably hindered more than helped disguise him. He hoped she wasn’t feeling too cash strapped. He pressed his knuckles to his lips and paced the corridor. He could smell Steve quite strongly here, and the sour twist of fear was almost as potent as when he’d found Steve in the forest.

“You’re sure his mother wasn’t involved in his departure?” asked Hopper.

“I hope not,” said the doctor, and her uncertainty set the tiled walls closing in on Eddie like the bars of a cage. He knew what could become of high-class Omegas who ‘disgraced’ themselves. How they could be punished or sent off to ‘clinics,’ sometimes never seen again.

I should never have let you out of my sight, Stevie. I should’ve… What? Let myself be torn apart by the pack? Come storming into the hospital to abduct you?

Maybe he should have attempted the latter. Would’ve been good training for robbing that bank to keep his Omega in the style that he’d been raised. God, why couldn’t he be more of a typical Alpha? All macho macho, grabby hands, bawling, ‘I see what’s mine and I take it!’

“Because I’d haaaaate myseeeeelf,” he sang softly.

Besides, Steve wasn’t an object to be claimed. He was headstrong, impulsive, too. The sort of Omega who’d stride off into a snowstorm to find a lost pup. The sort who’d do anything for people he cared for.

As would Eddie Munson. Okay, beyond Wayne, his list of ‘cherished’ chums had been small and select at best, but now he had a soulmate.

Soulmate. Right.

Eddie puffed so hard through his nostrils he half expected to see smoke.

The question wasn’t when he’d accepted that. It was why the Hell he’d railed against it? Yeah, polite society wanted to keep them apart, star-crossed lovers, blah, blah, blah. He’d flip the bird at it, like he always did. It was just… a tad harder now it wasn’t only him who’d have to face the consequences.

He ought to be scared shitless. He wasn’t, because his inner Alpha now burned freely for his soulmate. All he had to do was find Steve and make things right.

“Munson.” Hopper’s deep rumble set Eddie snarling in response. “Listen up. Message just came through from Wayne. Your Omega rocked up to his trailer, in a real bad way.”

Oh yeah. That sounded like Steve. Eddie’s heartfelt relief was shadowed by a fresh onslaught of fear. What kind of ‘bad way’ this time?

Time to Alpha-up and take care of his Omega.

He smacked the side of his fist into the wall. Ow! “Let’s move,” he barked.

…

Steve woke to the feel of warm slick between his thighs. His hand drifted down to deal with the excruciating need for friction, and then…

Eddie flung the flimsy door open and closed in quick. Cushions and blankets scattered, as he scrambled to get Steve into his arms. He littered Steve’s hair with kisses.

“I’m here, Baby. I’m sorry I had to leave you. Never gonna do that again. Never.”

With an effort, Steve floundered his arms around Eddie, nuzzling into Eddie’s throat. He melted into a floaty, liquidy, super-happy puddle, inhaling Eddie’s raw scent till he felt giddy and high. Eddie loosened what bordered on a chokehold—albeit one that Steve revelled in—and lovingly ran a palm down Steve’s flanks, repeating again, then again.

“My Alpha,” Steve whispered, and he began to softly purr.

He’d have burrowed beneath Eddie’s skin, if he could. He’d a faint idea he ought to be panicking about something. All he cared about was being at one with his Alpha. God, maybe he should beg Eddie to chain him up in here, like in his dream?

Anything to never feel that pain of rejection again. It was the only fear that remained to him. The fear Eddie didn’t feel the soulmate tug so strongly, that this might end.

That fear was fading fast.

“You okay, Babe?” Eddie bolstered up the pillows behind them and pulled the comforter over them both.

“Mmmmmm.” Steve kept on rubbing his cheek against Eddie’s scent gland. He wished Eddie would nuzzle him back.

“Look, I’m sorry I laughed at you, when we hung out before. I was crazy about you, honest.”

“S’fine. Sorry I was a stuck-up douchebag. I still cared too much about mom’s opinion. That sort of thing.”

“You weren’t that bad.”

Okay, this conversation was a total curveball. Steve couldn’t be anything but honest. “Neither were you! I bugged Dustin to invite you along whenever we hung out.”

Gently, Eddie tipped Steve’s face up. Their eyes met, and Steve reeled anew. He wanted to drown in Eddie’s warm gaze. But why the heck was Eddie wearing medical scrubs, and…

“I dig the pink scrunchie.” Eddie’s hair tumbled in flyaway strands from a bun at the crown of his head. “You’re the prettiest Alpha I ever saw.”

“That why you left the hospital to come find me?”

“Huh? I did what?” Steve was so happily lost, he’d all but forgotten the horror of the past few days. Eddie laughed:

“You’re the most badass metal Omega I ever met. That’s a compliment, by the way.”

Eddie’s slowly spreading smile managed to be tentative and relentlessly adoring. Steve would die for those dimples, and if he didn’t taste those soft lips again soon, he really would expire. Surely Eddie could smell how Steve was longing for him? He clenched and squirmed his thighs against the slick.

“Mate me?” he begged, his voice pitching unexpectedly high.

Eddie pecked Steve’s nose tenderly. “Uh, uh.”

“You… you don’t want to mate me?” Something inside him crumpled, and panic bubbled into his throat. “Is this because of my mom?”

“Not gonna lie. The whole death threat trifle has played on my mind. That’s not it, though. I’m dying to get balls deep again, honey, just not today. You’re sick and hurt.” Eddie’s fingers carded exquisitely through Steve’s hair. “Look, this is new and scary for both of us, but one thing seems pretty plain—I need to know you’re really all right before I go jumping your bones again.”

Steve heard Eddie. Sort of. So that wasn’t a brush off, right? Spurred on a sudden, convulsive chirrup, he craned up and touched his lips to Eddie’s, finding them every bit as delicious as he remembered. Eddie kissed softly back, warm and chaste, then drew away…

…and Steve’s Omega went apeshit.

His head cracked back, his mouth gaping. At the same time, he scrambled almost fully onto Eddie’s lap, arching his back and edging his pelvis forward, spreading his thighs. What was he wearing? Oh God, Tommy’s sweatpants! He needed rid of those for sure. And crap, what must his hair look like?  His needy cocklet collided with the solid mass of Eddie’s Alpha dick, and then he wasn’t thinking at all.

“Need to be naked, need you to fuck me.” His head span wildly, and he was too revved up to stop. He felt Eddie take a firm grip on his hips. “Need, Alpha. Neeeeed!”

“Shit, I’m calling this. Omega, no!” The merest growly hint of Eddie’s Alpha voice galvanised Steve’s scattered attention. He flopped onto Eddie’s chest, brow burning and body trembling uncontrollably. Eddie shifted Steve into the crook of one arm, then brushed Steve’s cheek, capturing his ill-focussed gaze:

“I’m your Alpha, and your soulmate, and I’m going to mate you when you’re well enough, ��kay? I think when we both get a bit excited, you know, all those yummy pheromones, they… uh, help, but they also mask other stuff happening that we need to pay attention to. So please, you’ve got to trust me. Let me take care of you.”

Steve took a beat. His scampering pulse calmed a little. And he nodded.

His Alpha. And his soulmate.

Yeah, that was definitely okay.

His face sank back to Eddie’s neck. Eddie replaced the comforter then gently thumbed that super-sensitive groove behind Steve’s ear. Eddie’s words had rubbed that ravenous edge from his need, and a pleasant sleepiness overcame him. His soft purrs were answered by a low, growly vibration from Eddie’s chest.

Oh yeah, that felt wonderful.

“Ssssssh, Stevie. You can relax now. Your Alpha has got you. Gonna take care of you till you’re all healed. You rest now, Omega.”

Steve melted a little deeper into Eddie and willingly obeyed.

Chapter 6 on tumblr

tags: @wheneverfeasible @mugloversonly @ellietheasexylibrarian

@strawberryyyenthusiast @stripey82

If anybody else fancies reading more, I would be happy to tag :) Or follow #katya's omega whump

My Steve whump fic on AO3

[hot-mess-choices]

Davrin: So, how do the Shadow Dragons operate exactly?

Rook: What do you mean?

Davrin: Who are their leaders? Who decides what jobs you take?

Rook: Hm… doesn’t work like that.

Davrin: Then how?

Rook: We help the people who need our help.

Davrin: But how do they contact you? What do you… ugh, you know what, forget about it.

~~~

Bellara: What’s it like living in Minrathous? It must be exciting to be in a city with that much magic all the time.

Rook: If you’re a wealthy mage, sure, as an elf born into slavery, not so much.

Bellara: Mythal'enaste, I am so sor-

Rook: I’m messing with you. Minrathous is pretty great. You know, if you don’t think too hard about the corruption and the blood magic.

Bellara: … are you still joking.

Rook: Eh, mostly.

~~~

Neve: So, how do you know Ashur?

Rook: Oh we go way back, freed me when I was a slave, noticed I was good with a knife, did the whole mentor thing.

Neve: Really? The Viper going soft on a little elven girl?

Rook: Oh he never went soft on me, he just reluctantly accepted that he was stuck with me. Says I have that charm where I grow on people like a cyst.

Neve: That does sound a lot more like him.

~~~

Lucanis: Rook, about the spices you asked for…

Rook: The peppers? What about them?

Lucanis: Are you sure they are safe to eat? When I asked Viago to look for them at the market he said that he usually only buys them for one of his poisons.

Rook: Huh, I thought they were just an acquired taste…

Lucanis: Mierda…

~~~

Harding: My mom sent you her regards in her last letter.

Rook: Aww, thanks, how’s she doing.

Harding: You know her, always an optimist.

Rook: We need more of those. And more of her cookies. And I have a bunch of clothes that need mending when we visit her again.

Harding: Hey, is she my mom or yours?

Rook: It’s not my fault. She’s really good at mothering.

~~~

Davrin: So the Shadow Dragons work with some of the Magisters?

Rook: No. Some of the Magisters work with the Shadow Dragons.

Davrin: Isn’t that the same thing?

Rook: It’s not.

Davrin: sigh… I hate Tevinter politics

Rook: Now you’re getting it!

~~~

Rook: Neve, I’ve been thinking, do you run background checks on your clients?

Neve: It would be a pretty big risk not to.

Rook: So when you first worked with the Viper-

Neve: Absolutely not!

Rook: You don’t even know what I was gonna ask!

Neve: I am not giving you dirt on Ashur.

Rook: Spoilsport.

~~~

Emmrich: Rook, without wanting to sound accusatory… did you teach Manfred how to ahem flip the bird?

Rook: … it was an accident

Emmrich: An accident?

Rook: He kept beating me in rock, paper, scissors… I’m sorry

~~~

Taash: I know it’s you.

Rook: Hm?

Taash: You keep giving Assan those extra truffles, I can smell them in your pockets.

Rook: … please don’t tell Davrin?

Taash: Hmm…

Rook: I can put in a good word for you with Harding!

Taash: Hmm…

Rook: And do the dishes for a week?

Taash: Two weeks.

Rook: Deal!

~~~

Rook: I’m sorry about the Stew again, I didn’t think it would end up that spicy.

Emmrich: It’s my own fault really, I should have been suspicious when Taash was the only one eating it.

Rook: And sorry about finishing all the milk earlier that day…

Emmrich: Yes, that was rather unfortunate.

~~~

Rook: Hey Lucanis, any idea why Spite keeps bringing all the forks to my room?

Lucanis: Forks? I don’t-

Spite: Eat fish. Vints like it. Neve does!

Rook: Aw, that’s actually sweet, I think.

[gabessquishytum]

We don't talk about how weird Hob is.

Yes, he's a throughly modern man - woo!cell phones; love is love; vacines, so great! - but he must be deeply strange to most people. This isn't even about how he swears in Middle English (when he's not even drunk) and seems to always have 3 or 4 bladed weapons on him at all times, it's how he smiles every time he flips a light switch or talks sweetly about asphalt; or some times looks like he got into a fight the night before.

And then his (best) friend returns to his life and things get even stranger. He seems to sparkle (literally) in the sunlight; there is a bird that follows him around that he might talk to?!? And he might have more/larger bladed weapons that he's carrying on his person now.

He's seen around town with his friend and that is seemingly normal in the beginning, then that gets weird too.

At times they just seem to stare at each other, and yes they kiss a lot (and it's so hot; totally a heat score), but no one who's seen them kiss remembers it very well; and there might have been a night or two where everyone maybe dreamed of Hob naked and cumming in a flowering green meadow?!?, but even that is fuzzy.

I love the dichotomy of Hob being Very Average Guy but also A Complete Weirdo.

And i especially like the idea that people around Hob starts to think that's HE'S the eldritch being, and Dream is the normal one.

A few of his friends and braver students have even confronted him about it. They've got entire lists of magical creatures and they straight up ask him: are you a vampire? fae? demon? wizard? And Hob has politely denied each one, promising that he's not lying! He really is a very ordinary human man.

(There's a whole group of people in town who are convinced that Hob is an alien, and Dream is his unfortunate brainwashed human victim. Hob also denies this. When he's finished laughing.)

One of his friends suddenly asks Hob one day - "Are you the dream guy?" And Dream kind of sits up a little straighter, a little more interested. "You know, the universal guy who we're all supposed to have dreamed of at some point. The collective universal consciousness thing."

This question makes both Hob and Dream smile even more than usual, but Hob still says no. "If anything, he's the dream guy." He grins, pointing at Dream.

No one can figure the two of them out, but they seem happy and harmless enough. And the kissing is hot enough to make sure that anything they do is automatically forgiven <3

[weaveandwood]

Just One Morning

Pairing: Solas x Lavellan (my Inquisitor, Leni) Words: 1.3K ANGST Summary: Leni struggles with heartbreak the morning after Solas breaks up with her. AN: My first venture into Solavellan hell I guess! I have been doing a quick Solas romance playthrough that I wasn't super invested in until this scene. And now here I am. Enjoy!

Read on AO3!

Just...one morning. 

That’s all Leni would allow herself as she lay in her bed, the cold sunlight filtering in through the stained glass windows of her too-large bedroom in this too-large building. She watched as the colors danced across her floor with each passing hour. Surrounded by stone, isolated in the mountains, away from her clan - she had never felt more lonely even though outside her door were people who all wanted a piece of her. She couldn’t bear to face them. Not quite yet. Not when she didn’t have anything left in her to give them. 

Everything she thought she knew was wrong. Everything she thought was true had been a lie. 

If she got any sleep overnight, it wasn’t enough. All she could think about was the look in his eyes before he pulled away from her, as if some lever had been flipped in his mind, one that turned the warmth that emanated from him that felt like it was only for her into something cold, distant, detached. That turned him into someone who could kiss her so tenderly, so thoroughly, then back away from her as if she were a threat. Someone who could whisper vhenan and I can’t in the same breath. 

She tried not to replay the memories of the previous evening in her mind, going over scenarios where it may have turned out differently, but a mind in the midst of a freefall never does what it is supposed to do. Memory flooded her. The feeling of their fingers laced together, the tingle of her cheek at the contact of his skin against hers for the first time outside of their dreams in the Fade. She remembered her heart pounding at the realization that she was awake. It was physical. It was real. She had longed for this for so many days, weeks, months, and it was finally happening. She felt like she could jump from the highest point of the waterfall that surrounded them and take off flying on the wind like a small bird. Little did she know her wings would be clipped. 

A flash of blue, a slight itching of her forehead and chin, then opening her eyes to the softest look he had ever given her. A flutter of her heart. You are free, you are so beautiful, he said before leaning in to press his lips against hers and kissing her like he had been yearning for it as well. He was always so composed, so polite, while they were out on operations but when they slept they would find each other in dreams and the night would pass with hands being held, stories being told, and stolen kisses. Kisses she always initiated. Kisses that always ended with Solas pulling away from her. 

In hindsight, she should have known it would happen again. She should have known he would call the cruelest action a kindness, that it was better in the long run. But there was that one stubborn part of her that wanted him, longed for him, even loved him. She foolishly thought he was bringing her to those elven ruins to tell her that the depth of his feelings matched hers. That he loved her. Instead, she made an even bigger fool of herself when she practically begged him not to leave her. She thought they could build a better world together. They could take the remnants of what was left of the ancient elves he regarded so highly and the broken fragments of Dalish culture and mend them together into something beautiful, something good, something real that could exist outside of the Fade. She thought she had seen a flash of hope in his eyes that she could cling on to and pull him back to her. She had been mistaken, left with her arms wrapped around herself as she watched him walk away and leave her embarrassed and alone. Perhaps a thing, once broken, could never be truly mended. She wondered what that meant for her heart. She closed her eyes, hot tears spilling out and leaving fresh marks on her pillowcase, joining the tears that had long since dried.  

She peeled herself off the bed, sitting at the mirror propped up on her desk. She didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her. She ran her fingers across her smooth, unmarked forehead. She had gotten her vallaslin right when she turned eighteen. She had been excited to receive hers, practically counting down the days. She thought back to how proud she was that she didn’t make a single noise of pain throughout the entire process - an impressive feat because it was quite painful and remembered thinking she was so strong. She had always wanted to be like her clan’s Keeper, the strongest of them all. Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from crying all night, were proof she never would be.

I have distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again.

Her biggest fear. She had confided in him so many times during their talks in the Fade that she was terrified of Leni being forgotten, brushed aside in the name of duty. Their fingers entwined, leaning against each other, he promised he would never do that to her, that she was rare and marvelous and more than a title. Another lie. With no vallaslin, no connection to her clan, and no him, she was fully untethered, shipwrecked, a lonely piece of driftwood lost in the middle of a vast sea. She had been stripped bare, the final piece of her identity gone. It had slowly been chiseled away since the beginning, her name being replaced with prisoner, then Herald, then Inquisitor. Why had she agreed to remove her vallaslin? Did it matter, really, what they represented in the past if the ones who believed in that were long dead and forgotten? She was so proud to be Dalish, to wear her heritage so openly and now no one would know she was. She feared this would be her biggest regret in her entire life. Even more than…

Don’t leave me, not now. I love you.

She turned away from her desk, stepping onto the balcony, hoping the cool mountain air would perform some sort of magic to make it look like she hadn’t sobbed herself into a fitful sleep and wandered what few dreams she managed, looking for him to explain. To tell her anything. To tell her everything. To tell her she hadn’t imagined it all, that it wasn’t one-sided, to make it all make sense. Her heart was shattered, tiny fragments filling the space where it once beat proudly. Her world was tipped on its axis. Solas had picked away, slowly, at the foundation of every truth she held dear about her culture and annihilated every truth she held dear about their relationship. Was anything else true? Were the people she considered her friends truly friends, or did everyone only see her as a symbol? If only they could see her now, wiping away fresh tears, the mountains that surrounded Skyhold her only witness. The wind blew as it always did at these heights, but the chill felt so refreshing on her skin and on her scalp as it weaved through her hair. She looked at the sky, judging the sun’s position. She was able to grant herself one morning, but no matter how much tried to push back against it she was still the Inquisitor. She still had to defeat Corypheus. One of Leliana’s birds flew by - the Inquisition never rested, and until this was over, neither could she.