#its so painful and it was painful having to come to that realization

[nostalgebraist]

Thanks for this thoughtful review!

(BTW, for others – this is probably obvious but there are spoilers below the readmore, don't click unless you've read the book)

I'm going to use this as an opportunity to talk about one specific thing that bugs me about some reader reactions to my stuff. Therefore, most of what I say below will be negative (about your review), but I want to emphasize first that that's not a reflection of what I thought of it overall.

----

What I'm here now to talk about is this kind of thing:

There are parts of all his books, where I really think that the explanation for why they are the way they are is that they are "bad on purpose", and all the bullshit [note: in context "bullshit" seems to be meant as a neutral term for non-realist elements -nost] is a way of turning these shortcomings into strengths. The self-effacing voice which whispers that the characters aren't sufficiently well-drawn, are too cartoonish—well, what if that was the point? What if there was a reason for that, in the story?

And like... okay, there is sort of a sense in which this is true, sometimes, kinda. There is a grain of truth to this; it is getting at something real.

But it pains me to say that, because I don't want to encourage this kind of reading. Interpretations like this are occasionally correct but IMO they're much more common than they should be. IMO the right intuition is that this is a galaxy-brained, contrarian sort of take, a last resort you land on when you've ruled out everything else.

And not just with my work, with everything – I'm simply more aware of the problem when it comes to my work, because I wrote it and I'm aware of why I actually did things the way I did.

I've said this before, but watching the way that people react to my own fiction has been an eye-opening experience, one that has taught me things about reader (and viewer, etc.) reactions in general. Specifically, what I've learned was:

People's tastes are way more diverse than I had realized (before I started writing and sharing fiction). And they are diverse in a very fine-grained way; even if two readers have the same preferences about 90% of stuff, or 95%, they'll still diverge on some things. While it's not literally true that "every reader is a unique snowflake with a preference set that no one else shares," that is a very good first approximation of how things are.

Readers (including me!) have been trained by a lifetime of reading book/movie/etc. reviews to frame their preferences/reactions in a pseudo-objective "this is just how it is" way, like their own tastes have some special viewpoint-independent priority, a quality of "reality" or "accuracy" lacking in everyone else's tastes (which are all different, cf. 1). And this is not just a stylistic quirk of the way people write about fiction, it actually (IMO) feeds back into the underlying opinions behind the written commentary. It degrades people's ability to understand what it is they're looking at and their ability to make accurate inferences about the process of its creation.

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Here's a sort of cartoonish schematic of the type of experience that led me to draw these conclusions. (And I suspect this is not just a thing that happens to me, I imagine it happens with any sort of work that "contains a lot of different types of stuff" the way mine does.)

Writer makes something that has X and Y and Z in it. Writer thinks X/Y/Z are "great tastes that taste great together." Writer is very pleased with the result.

Reader 1 has similar tastes to writer, says something brief about how they loved the book and it's a new favorite for them.

Reader 2 loves X, is OK with Y, hates Z. They write a lengthy review saying that the book was a mixed bag and could have been great if the writer had stuck to X and not messed things up by doing so much Z.

Reader 3 is the reverse of their predecessor: they hate X, are OK with Y, love Z. They write a lengthy review saying that the book was a mixed bag and could have been great if the writer had stuck to Z and not messed things up by doing so much X.

Reader 4 loves X and Z – but they hate Y. They write a lengthy… you can fill in the rest. Imagine a whole bunch of these guys (readers 5, 6, etc).

Reader 17 has the same tastes as Reader 2: loves X, is OK with Y, hates Z. But their lengthy review takes a different, in some sense "more charitable" angle, speculating that the inclusion of Z was a load-bearing pillar in the overall structure, a thing that unfortunately had to be included to "unlock" all that sweet sweet X.

Reader 18 has the same tastes as Reader 3: hates X, is OK with Y, loves Z. But, they explain, X was a load-bearing pillar in the overall structure, a thing that unfortunately had to be included to "unlock" all that sweet sweet Z.

Writer reads all these reviews and feels strange, dizzy. The "nicer" reviews like 17 and 18 are actually more uncomfortable to read than the "meaner" ones like 2 and 3.

"I don't know how to convince you guys," Writer thinks, "but I... I just liked all of it? I thought it was good? That was why I wrote it? (Why else would I have written it?)"

----

Or, as I wrote in that previously linked post from 2021, w/r/t TNC specifically (and making a slightly different but closely related point):

Some people say X was the worst part of TNC, some people say X was the best part. The story was a celebration of Y; the story was about how Y is laughably futile. It’s a letdown that we were never told more about Z; the reason TNC is good is that it leaves stuff like Z to the imagination. It was obvious we were meant to believe P; it is obvious we were meant to believe not-P; the ambiguity about whether P is tiresome literary masturbation; at least the story didn’t jump the shark by spelling out whether P! The reason people like TNC is, of course, that it has A, although nostalgebraist insisted on putting B in there too because he hasn’t fully perfected his formula yet / he somehow thinks B is good even though it isn’t / he thinks it’s funny how bad B is (but the joke tires). …and then someone else has same take, but with A and B flipped.

This exact sort of thing is of course happening again before our eyes with reactions to TAoHS.

I've encountered multiple readers who disliked most of the story but felt the ending (sort of) "redeemed it," and I've also encountered multiple readers who liked the story up until the ending but disliked the ending (or at least thought it was worse than the rest) – to say nothing of the many readers who liked (or disliked) the whole thing all the way through.

And this ending-related stuff is just one particularly obvious facet of a broader diversity in the overall reader response.

By now I know not to be surprised by this stuff, and even to find it kind of fun to watch... but I have to admit, it is still a dizzying and uncomfortable experience.

----

Now, as I said, it is sometimes true that things really are "bad on purpose."

But I think the interpreter's default hypothesis – which should be maintained by default unless convincing evidence against it can be brought forth – should be:

The writer thinks that the thing they wrote is good. They think the ideas are good and they think they executed them well. And they think this more-or-less homogeneously for everything in the work – there are no "bad but unfortunately necessary" parts from the writer's POV.

(At least, this should be the default with works that aren't making the writer much/any money. Obviously things are different with lucrative commercial fiction; there are plenty of well-paid hacks who know they're hacks and do it for the money, etc.)

Why should this be the default? Multiple reasons.

First: it takes a lot of effort to produce any sort of creative work. The writer thought that effort was worthwhile, for some reason – why?

The most straightforward explanation (and a very common one IMO) is that the writer simply believed in the thing that they were making. They believed the effort was worthwhile because it would yield a good product.

Second: as a writer you have an immense amount of freedom. It's difficult to overstate the extent of it. You are playing God, you decide the way that literally everything will be.

Obviously there are some constraints, cases where one part of a story will imply the existence of another or whatever.

But it's very rare that you actually get forced into "doing a thing you know you are bad at, badly." After all: why do that? No one's forcing you! Just do something else! You're God, you control everything!

(Note that this applies also to the very act of writing anything. No one is forcing you to write at all. If you can't come up with good ideas, nothing prevents you from just not writing your bad ones.)

Third: at least in my experience, "playing God" in this way requires a certain state of mind, a certain boldness and self-assurance, which is incompatible with thinking "yeah this is gonna suck but I have to do it" – but is very compatible with thinking "I am making something excellent and every part of it is excellent, hell yes."

Fourth: because of the previously noted diversity of reader preferences, it should not be surprising to any given reader that they find some parts of the work much better than others, even if the writer thought it was all excellent.

This outcome is predictable from the X/Y/Z stuff I talked about above. No clever interpretive work is required to explain it; it arrives pre-explained; it's simply what happens by default.

And finally: because, as I noted above, I think all of us are infected with "reviewer brainworms" and we need to be mindful of this fact.

(Just to be clear, I am not accusing OP of being more infected with said brainworms than anyone else; I'm still on my soapbox, giving a generic rant about a general issue, with OP as merely a jumping-off point.)

We've grown accustomed to the casual conflation between our own tastes and some (usually hazily imagined and under-theorized) sort of "objective, ideal artistic standards."

Outside of a few edge-case eccentrics who can be ignored for my present purposes, we do not do this because we've become intellectually convinced that

(a) such objective standards make sense and really "exist" or at least really matter and

(b) they just so happen to match our own preferences.

Rather, we've fallen into this habit because it's what the pros do: there's a standard style that professional critics and reviewers write in these days, and that style implies these stances. And if one writes (and thinks, in one's inner monologue) in this style, one can easily fall over backwards into uncritically believing (a) and (b) for no better reason than "I seem to already be talking as though I believe these things, hence it would be simple and convenient if I really did believe them."

But – even if we bracket the philosophical questions of whether (a) is in fact true, and (if it is) whose tastes in particular ought to be elevated in the way (b) presumes – even if we table all that for another day, still we ought to keep in mind how weird and audacious a move this is, this simultaneous assertion-without-explanation of the (a)+(b) pair.

We've gotten used to it by exposure, because "the pros" have normalized it. But in actual fact it is a pretty wild thing to just go and assume, given the X/Y/Z/etc. diversity of actual opinion!

If (b) is true for you (general "you" not OP), then it can't be true for me, because we're both unique snowflakes to a first approximation; indeed if (b) is true for you then (to a first approx.) it is only true for you. No one else's tastes have this magical relation to reality, just yours.

Holding the belief (b) about a given reviewer is conceivable-but-wild if we're only considering them in isolation. But once we bring a 2nd reviewer (with non-identical tastes) into the picture, who also believes (b), it's literally impossible to maintain that both of these people are fully right.

And then of course in real life there are not 2 but many, many readers out there, all of them unique snowflakes. And, while it is socially normal in our social context for each one of them to write like they're the chosen one blessed with that special (b)-magic, if you read enough such writing and actually think about what you're reading, it can't help but feel like a sort of game, like playing make-believe. As with most games, it can be very entertaining (for all parties involved), but we shouldn't confuse its amusing conceits for properties of the real world.

In the real world, the writer has their tastes, and you have yours. These tastes are probably not identical. The writer may be aware of the diversity of readerly tastes, and may thus be aware that tastes like yours are out there, but they have no special reason to consider you in particular, elevating you above all the other readers who are non-identical with them (and with you). The writer is dimly and abstractly aware of you, at best, as just another one of the people who will come along later, dislike some of their choices, assume that these choices were wrong in some "objective" way the writer knew about at the time, and then speculate as to why the writer would do something they know is wrong. For every choice, and every way of making every choice, one can imagine a reviewer who responds to it in this way, and quite often these reviewers actually materialize once the work is available for consumption. If you try to reason about these guys in advance, as a writer, it'll stop you in your tracks (if nothing else because there are 2+ of them whose takes are mutually incompatible). You've gotta have some other standard of value to rely on.

So, as a reviewer, if you ask "why would someone ever make a choice I don't like?" and try to pick at this question, you are quite likely heading toward a dead end. The writer wasn't thinking about you (or people like you). They were applying their own, distinct standard of value.

Better to ask: "suppose there was a person who actually liked all of this. What would they be like? How would they be similar to me / different from me? And what, if anything, can I conclude from that?"

The Apocalypse of Herschel Schoen

My fourth novel, The Apocalypse of Herschel Schoen, is now available in full.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

[syndrossi]

Restoration AU: Robb I

Previous part, Arya I, here.

x~x~x

Robb was not allowed out riding, or to join his father’s knights and men-at-arms in search of the ruffians who had kidnapped his young half-brothers and dragged them to Winterfell for ransom or worse, which meant he had sought the yard instead. Even that was a mistake. He could not thrash the targets the way he desired to, not with all the curious eyes upon him.

Show anger, and all would know that there was strife between him and his lord father, that the dishonor had caught their family unaware. And while it would be satisfying to express his fury at the depths of his father’s disloyalty, it would draw attention to his mother as well, inviting cruel whispers.

Robb lowered his sword, stepping back from the target. He exchanged it for his bow, and although the rhythm—draw, aim, release—stilled his thoughts for a short time, they wandered instead to Bran’s excitement when he had found Robb and Jon in the yard that afternoon, touting his discovery.

It seemed a lifetime ago, rather than mere hours. A part of him had known from the moment he laid eyes upon the boys, the dark-haired twin so alike Jon that it had felt like staring at his brother from across the span of five years. Jon’s own shock had been little comfort.

The rumors had not reached his mother before Robb did, after his father’s curt dismissal, and he had been faced with an impossible choice: let her learn of her husband’s betrayal through the whispers of her ladies or break the news himself as gently as he could.

I do not know for certain, he had told her, still fostering the faintest hope that there might be another explanation, but she had paled nonetheless, her attempt at masking her heartbreak to spare him all the more painful.

She loves him. She has always loved him. Robb had thought the same true of his father, and he did not know how much it would hurt to learn otherwise. That Jon’s mother had not been the tryst of a man who thought he might die in battle, but a bed he eagerly sought out the next time fate took him south for war.

Robb lowered his bow, the arrows of his quiver spent, and stared at the distant target, flickering in the torchlight. For once, he was glad that Theon was nowhere to be seen. His friend would have nothing but crude japes, and Robb was in no mood for such.

He desired answers.

His feet took him past Sansa’s room, where he had gently guided her after supper and promised her, with a kiss to the hair, that things would seem less bleak in the morning. Then past his father’s solar, where he could see the glow of light escaping from the crack beneath the door.

Hiding away, like a coward. It was not how he would ever have described his father before today, but there was no other way of putting it. If he is not begging Mother’s forgiveness, then he should be comforting the terrified children whose dishonorable birth turned them into pawns.

Robb paused outside Jon’s door, then rapped lightly with his knuckles. A few moments passed before the door opened, and it was not Jon who he found himself staring at, but rather his smaller counterpart. Willam, Robb reminded himself.

“Would you like to come in?” Willam asked, gazing at him with such raw longing that Robb found himself torn between tenderness and fresh fury.

Did Father even look in upon them since hiding them away in Jon’s chamber? A glance past him revealed no Jon. His twin sat on the bed, his gaze at Robb more wary, and telltale plates from the kitchen were stacked on the small table in the corner of the room. Their supper, taken alone to spare the family further shame today, when it was their father who should be shouldering its brunt.

His little half-brothers were innocent in this. Had they even known of their origins? They had the bearing of highborn children, but none of Jon’s quiet acceptance of his lesser standing.

“Yes,” Robb said, realizing he had not answered. He stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind him, and found that the other child had risen to his feet, though he maintained his distance. “I—” Has Father even told them of their siblings? “I am your half-brother, Robb.”

The boys reintroduced themselves, Willam tripping over his own name. Robb wondered whether their mother had knowingly named another son after her first. Or was Jon’s name of their father’s choosing?

Now that he was in the room with them, Robb did not know what to say. His gaze kept straying to Raymar, who was as unalike his trueborn siblings as Ghost was to his littermates, as though their birth had split them between each parent.

That is what she looked like, then. The woman he traded his honor for. Pale hair, silver as the moon’s glow through the window, his eyes an unnatural violet. They both shared Jon’s slighter build, which must have come from her as well.

A foreign woman, with that kind of coloring. A courtesan, perhaps. That was the fancy name they gave their whores across the Narrow Sea, and bravos fought for the honor of bedding them. But where had his father stumbled across her?

He had been silent for too long, Robb realized. He did not know what to say to them. “Where is Jon?”

“He went to take Ghost back to the kennels.”

“Oh.” He felt almost numb, staring into the face of a strange child who looked like his brother, and another who looked like betrayal. “How are you faring? Did your captors harm you?”

There were no obvious bruises or cuts upon them, but then, his father had said that their captors had dosed them with dreamwine. The twins assured him, however, that they had been unharmed—unbound, even.

“He said that if either of us caused trouble, he would hurt the other.” It was the first Raymar had spoken since introducing himself, his expression haunted. Willam too had tensed, watching his twin with obvious upset.

I should not have asked, Robb thought, chagrined. Not when they have yet to sleep. These are questions for morning.

“Father’s men will find him,” he said, offering his best reassuring smile, but it did little to ease their distress. In fact, both seemed on the verge of tears now, and he stood helplessly. If it were either Bran or Arya, I would go to them. Comfort them.

But the circumstances of their relation held him back. They did not know him, he reminded himself. It was not the same as Father abandoning them with Jon, all of them tied fully by blood.

Jon’s return caught them all off guard, his brother quiet as his direwolf pup as he slipped back into the room. He halted in place as he marked Robb’s presence, and they stared at one another for what felt like an age. There was no hiding from Jon, or Jon from him.

What hurt was the wariness, as though his brother was expecting Robb to lash out at him, when he had always strived to intervene whenever Jon happened to draw his mother’s ire. And what cut even deeper was the way his brother’s eyes narrowed as they fell upon the twins.

Jon rushed over to them, then turned back to Robb. “What did you say to them?”

“Nothing,” he replied, unclenching his fists. “We greeted one another, and I assured them that whoever kidnapped them would face justice.”

“Is that why you came at this hour?”

“I came to see how you and our new brothers were faring,” Robb said defensively, but he knew it to be a lie when he spoke it, and by the tightening of his mouth, Jon did as well. “What did Father tell you?”

“About my dead mother?” Raymar flinched, and his twin’s hand grabbed for his, but Jon did not seem to have noticed, his gaze locked on Robb. “What business is it of yours?”

Jon did not often snap at him, and he felt himself bristle in response. “It is my mother who was dishonored by their actions.”

His brother regarded him coldly. “She was beautiful, born to a noble house of Lys, and Father swore beneath the weirwood tree that he loved her.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Robb’s fists clenched again, denial rising in his throat, hot and ugly. “Whatever love he had was for her cunt, or he would not have left every time he stuck a bastard in her belly.”

His vision whitened as Jon slammed him into the door, knocking his head back against it. He could taste blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut into cheek, and it did not matter that he had deliberately provoked his brother, all he could feel was a betrayal that quickly soured to anger.

“I do not care how beautiful her face, but how rotten her heart,” he said, ignoring the glitter of his brother’s eyes as his grip tightened around the fistful of tunic he had grabbed. “She knew of his marriage and still enticed him into her bed. A woman can be highborn and yet a whore.”

Jon’s right hand drew back, and Robb could feel his brother quivering from the effort of refraining from punching him, so he stared back in challenge, inviting it without knowing why. Let him prove himself to be what all bastards are, said an ugly voice that sounded like his mother. But he also longed for a scrap, to throw his fury at someone if it could not be his father.

The castle itself rattled then, a rumble of what sounded like thunder resonating deep within his chest. But the night is clear, he thought in confusion. Jon took a step back from him, the tense moment broken, his expression equally confused.

He became aware then of one of the twins speaking in a foreign tongue. Valyrian, he assumed, gazing past Jon to find Willam speaking frantically as he held back his fiercely struggling brother, who was staring death at Robb even as tears streamed down his face.

It is their mother too. His anger abandoned him, taking its short-lived respite with it and leaving Robb with a fresh guilt atop the hurt that ached within him.

The castle rattled again, the thunder more distant this time. An apology danced along the tip of his tongue, but he could not force it out.

“Just go, Stark,” Jon said, releasing him. His jaw worked a moment, then he turned his back on Robb, steps quick as he closed the distance to the twins and wrapped his brothers both in a tight embrace. His true brothers.

More words caught in Robb’s mouth, some remorseful and others not. Misery rose in his throat, bitter like dandelion tea, and he swallowed it, feeling worse now, with more answers, than he had before foolishly deciding to come here.

Robb left, closing the door quietly behind him, and stood in the hall for a time, staring at the opposite wall. He could hear crying in the other room, soft and pitiable. Father’s doing, he told himself, but it rang hollow. A few minutes passed, Jon’s voice muffled but audible as he spoke to the twins, and Robb awaited another roll of thunder that never came.

Finally he left, mumbling something he could not recall to Cayn when the guardsman’s patrol crossed his path back to his bedchamber. His nerves danced with the need for action, and he desired nothing more than to court his father’s displeasure by slipping out to the stables. He could claim a horse and ride into the wolfswood—find the men in search of the twins’ kidnapper and join their efforts.

But his mother would need him, and Sansa too, so he stared at the ceiling instead and settled into a long, sleepless wait for dawn.

[dearlot]

Hey... So I'm gonna need more of baby demon/succubus Lottie 😅🥰

succubus!lottie headcanons 💭

lottie who keeps a special strand of your hair tied up in a bow. she likes to play with it when she's bored or sniff/lick it when she gets off to the thought of you. she's ashamed and feels perverted, but that fuels her to collect more of your things like used tissues when you go out with her to a restaurant, your used panties, your used anything really.

she really doesn't mean to seduce you, really! it just happens. she can't control it. and she doesn't know how, anyway. it's not her fault that her body secretes this hormone that makes you horny for her :( and it's not her fault she finds herself jerking off in your window while watching you sleep because she could smell your heat from her house. she can't help when she mind controls you into thinking about her. she can't help it when she accidentally makes you feel pleasure down there.

Succubus!lottie who kinda accidentally marks you....so now whenever she thinks of you, you feel this faint pulse in your neck.

once she starts to get more comfortable with being a succubus, she gets sooo much bolder. lottie taking you to the lake as a friend date. you sit back eating those bologna sandwiches you made (you're a little upset at the fact that she didn't even try to eat one) and watch her dip her feet into the lake until she starts stripping o_O you kinda just let her do her thing and try not to stare at her naked body as she skinnydips but she's unknowingly secreting those hormones that make you wanna hold her down and ride her. making eye contact with her as she swims back toward you and you're just in a trance.... unabashedly looking down as her wet body comes out of the water, and you can feel this strange heat coming from her. and you can almost smell it too? anyway, she just ends up fucking you raw and leaves you there all sore.

that scene in jennifers body with the lighter.....thinking of lottie burning her tongue and then eating you out @__@ using her hot tongue to trace down your body to make you feel extra good.

jealous!ex!succubus lottie who likes to manifest herself in your room whenever you have girls over to mess with you because she's pissed that you left her.

think it'd be interesting to see succubus!lottie who feeds on boys with a transmasc!reader.... especially if you just started T because your hormones would be all wack and she'd have the most trouble controlling herself from ripping you apart with her teeth <3 she goes absolutely ham on that tdick before your shot day too because that's when ur T is at its lowest. or maybe a needy/chip/jennifer situation where you're dating jackie (anything to include jackielot SORRY!) and after you come out as transmasc, she becomes obsessed and tries to seduce you. she's hungry and follows you to jackie's place, waiting until you walk home because she knows you guys just fucked and your blood is rushing. her food is best when they're like that. idk she successfully seduces you and leads you to the abandoned pool to fuck. or at least thats what you think you're doing. she's annoyed that you're not as into it because she can tell you're thinking of jackie and decides she needs to have her fun now and roughhouses with you. something something she takes a SMALL chunk out of your neck before realizing she can use you for food for, like, ever. she can drain your blood when she's hungry. not too much though, she doesnt wanna kill you.

pain play with her.........she wants you to use a knife. nuff said.

but ughh...baby succubus!lottie who doesnt understand what she's doing 😞 she always comes to you after she gets out of her trance, covered in blood and looking at you with teary eyes, and asks you to help her. she tries to resist the hunger at first but she just gets so weak and sick ;( you've tried to help her find alternatives like drinking pigs blood or seeing if she could regain her strength from eating animals, but she needs flesh. thinking of offering her some of your blood just until she can.....find...someone to feed on. she looks up at you with such teary brown eyes it's adorable 😭😭 she constantly asks if you're alright and takes the best care of you after she cleans you up :( ugh. just thinking of her tapping on your window and you get surprised at the amount of blood covering her chin...and she's still so cute.

[saintzweig]

depraved thoughts heavy on the mind and i need to let them out. living with patrick as your boyfriend, but its that time of the month. you're having an especially bad period, walking around your and patrick's shared apartment free bleeding in a pair of his boxers, and lounging around on the couch wearing his shirts and sweatshirts. you're sluggish, tired, depressed. and patrick just wants to make you feel better, and he fingers you, blood all over his hands and it looks like a crime scene but he doesn't care, he just wants to make you feel good. (and maybe he secretly likes it... but he's ot sure how to tell you that)

tw blood

you've been having such a shitty day– getting your period exactly on laundry day which meant everything you own was either dirty or uncomfortable, the pantry is empty which meant you had nothing to snack on and your boyfriend was taking way too long to come home from work. needless to say, nothing was working out for you today.

so in an attempt to make yourself feel better, you put on patrick's clothes and curl up on the couch. with a towel underneath you because wearing a tampon feels really icky at the moment and a random cartoon show playing in the background in attempt to stop the ringing in your ears.

by the time patrick got home, you were asleep. and you look the most uncomfortable you've ever looked, your forehead covered with sweat, your eyebrows furrowed and the spot of blood on his boxers that you're wearing.

he drops the bags of grocery on the carpet, kneeling right next to the couch. "sweetheart?" you wake up to his voice and his hand sweeping the hair off your face. "you alright?" and before you can get any word out, you're sobbing. this entire day has been uncomfortable, painful and emotional and you wanted nothing more than for it to go away.

"oh darling" patrick places a gentle kiss on your forehead, his large hand resting on your cheek to wipe your tears away. "come on, why don't we take a bath, hm?"

with a nod, you let him carry you to the bathroom, stripping you off the clothes marked with sweat and blood before placing you down onto the tub. he turns on the faucet before taking his own clothes off and squeezes in behind you. you lay back against him, feeling the warmth of his body comforting yours. he brings his hands up gently to wave the warm water to your body before settling down on your waist. he places pecks of kisses on your nape, making you sigh.

you took your time in the bath, letting your boyfriend scrub your body and massage you all over. "why don't i make you feel better hm?" he kisses the tip of your ear, his scruffy beard tickling you a bit.

"how?" you spoke weakly, feeling the way his chest vibrate as he chuckles deeply.

"you trust me, don't you sweetheart?" with a yes from you, he reaches over with his foot to pull the plug of the tub, letting the water drain out.

he reaches up to cup your breasts with his hands, massaging your tender, sore muscles. you groan in relief, throwing your head back slightly against his shoulder. while one hand remained on your chest, the other slowly danced downwards until you realized what he wanted to do.

you stop him with your hand on his wrist, "pat– i don't want to get you dirty" and he only smirks, "we're in the tub for a reason, darling. and i don't mind getting a little bit of blood on me" in fact, he'd love to see his hands covered in your blood. the idea making his length stiffer behind you.

the pad of his thumb made contact with your clit, making you gasp as your stomach fluttered with anticipation. he rolls his thumb, his ego boosting as he watches you writhe between his legs at the smallest touch. "just relax, i got you, alright?"

he removes his hand from your heat, moving it up until it lands gently on your lips. "open up for me" you let him insert his fingers into your mouth, coating it with your wet warmth. you swirl your tongue around it for good measure, until he takes it out and there's a small string of saliva connecting the two of you.

he didn't waste any time and within seconds, the uncomfortableness subsided and was replaced with pleasure as he inserted his long fingers into your already wet cunt (in more ways than one).

your body stiffens in pleasure against him, your hand wrapped around his one on your chest. he starts pumping faster, his fingers rubbing against your bloody walls sending waves of pleasure throughout your body. "f-fuck, patrick"

he grunts, feeling your back rub against his hard cock. "making you feel better, sweetheart?"

you nod, feeling tears springing into your eyes in pleasure, "feels s-so good, p-pat" you whine as his palm slaps against your clit, arching your back against him. patrick watches the way your blood coats around his fingers more and more as he pumps his fingers, some of it dripping into your thighs.

"look at that, sweetheart" he points out, "making such a mess" he mumbled against your ear, placing wet kisses all over your skin.

you could feel your eyes roll to the back of your head, "baby– fuck! 'm so close" you cry out, squeezing around his fingers.

"come on, sweetheart. you can do it, hm? you can cum for me?" he continues to encourage you through your whines and cries, taking his other hand off you to pump his cock against your back. and within seconds, you're both limp and catching your breath.

he takes a few seconds before sliding his fingers out of you, smirking at how your blood covered pretty much his entire hand. "i look sexy like this, don't i? covered in your blood"

you laugh tiredly, pushing his hand away. "you're disgusting, patrick"

[roseyodditea]

Hiii (llove ur harumasa work)

If u don't mind writing for both haru and Seth (cuz both of them have cute Lil fangs my god those teef)

Could I request love bites from them? Like they saw their s/o and felt they looked extremely cute that in the midst of a hug/snuggle/cuddle they just Chomp or any extra scenarios

I'll leave the rest to u but extra dose if fluff Plz!

🍮

You are so right I do love their little teeth.

They Bite Because They Like You - Seth/Harumasa x gn!Reader (Seperate)

Summary -> About 500 words each. Barely proofread because it was written in the waiting room of a vet's office <3 Warnings -> None! The biting isn't too suggestive

It was a cozy, rainy afternoon and after what felt like hours of begging and pleading you had convinced Seth to forgo his training for the afternoon and cuddle up with you to watch a movie. Between the light pattering of the rain on the windows, the lit candles being the only light source, and the big fluffy blanket, it was hard to not feel relaxed. You were thankful to have this time to enjoy with your sweet boyfriend. You had never dated a feline thiren before, so it wasn’t unusual for Seth to do something you weren’t quite used to, but this was new. Your sweet boyfriend was… shaking? Vibrating?

You picked your head up just slightly to get a look to make sure everything was okay, only to see him intently focused on the tv. Nothing seemed wrong, so you put your head back down on his chest, hearing the noise and feeling him shake again. After a few seconds you realized what it was. He was purring and it was the best noise you’ve ever heard. 

“You are adorable,” you coo and see his ears twitch a bit as he looks down with a clueless expression. 

“Huh?” He tilted his head a bit, curious.

“You’re purring! You’re all comfy and cozy and purring!!” You tease and poke his side only to hear the high pitched noises he let out in protest. “Cute!”

“I am not cute!” He let out a shrill giggle, a bit ticklish. 

You continued to tickle him relentlessly, pinning him under your body weight as you listened to the noises and snorts, your hands moving to tickle his stomach. “You’re the sweetest and most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.” Seth lets out a particularly loud laugh before reacting on pure instinct, reeling up to sink his teeth in your bicep before he realizes what he did, looking at you blankly, bracing himself for the teasing that was about to come. 

“You just bit me like a little kitten!” You teased, finding it adorable despite the slight sting from the sharp fangs on your skin. “Like you had enough pets and you just bit me! That’s so cute.”

“No! I’m not cute!” He chokes out another laugh before biting more up your arm, like a petulant little kitten who was losing a fight. It doesn’t phase you at all, not minding the little raised red marks you’d have peppering your arm once you were done. How could you stop when he was being this adorable?

Seth finally wiggles away to the other side of the couch before he pouts and moves out of your grasp, sitting up and looking away from you, his ears flattening and twitching lightly as he glances back to see if you’re paying attention.  

“Nooo I wanted to cuddle,” you sigh and watch how he wasn’t budging. “...Truce?” Seth looked over and smiled softly. “Truce.” He replied before moving to lay on top of you, resting his head on your shoulder, his arms wrapped around your torso.

“Are you going to start purring again?” You ask a bit excitedly.

“Probably. I’m enjoying this time with you.” Seth murmured and nosed into your neck.

… “Can you meow for me?”

“Absolutely not.”

Publicly being Harumasa’s partner was… difficult to say the least. Walking through Lumina Square on a weekend with the flash of fans and press every now and then was a pain on its own, but the scolding words from some of the super fans who wanted to “steal your place” was overwhelming. It was too much, and you ducked into an alleyway and sat down on the concrete, catching your breath while Harumasa tried to get the press off of his back. You sat and a fat street cat came over for pets, helping you relax even further. You didn’t hear the footsteps until the cat ran away, Harumasa letting out a frustrated huff. “Hey, love.” He cooed softly and sat next to you, pulling you into his arms. “I’m sorry today was ruined.” “It wasn’t ruined,” you mumbled and leaned into his touch, closing your eyes. “I got a little overwhelmed and needed a breather. It’s okay.” Harumasa was quiet for a bit before he spoke back up. “Well… Let me make it up to you. I know what you want~” A teasing tone dripped off of every single word he said, those golden eyes shimmering in mischief.

“What are you thinking?” “I’m thinking we'll go back to your place and make some cookies.” He offered and immediately a little light shined on your rain cloud. “Yeah see? There’s that smile I love so much.” He stands up and pulls you up with him.

“Fine, fine that sounds much better than being mobbed.” You let out a small laugh as he hoists you to your feet. Hand in hand, you both walked out of the alleyway and got maybe fifty steps before more fans and cameras found the both of you.

Random questions were thrown out, people asking for autographs or photos shouted over the insults being hurled at you. Harumasa just stopped, not wanting to give them the time of day after he just wanted to see your smile. He looked over, the look in his eyes saying he had a plan. “Can I do something over the top, ridiculous, and weird?” You tried to tune out all the people before looking at him. “What?” “C’mon. Yes or no?” “I-” one more call of someone threatening to ‘steal’ Harumasa from you sets you over the edge. “Yes. Go ahead.” Harumasa lit up before suddenly picking you up, twirling you around before attacking your face and neck with kisses and love bites, even playfully tugging the skin of your cheek just to hear the way you roared in laughter. He was being overly affectionate as you shrieked and shrilled, repeating ‘I love you’ like a prayer as he held you close to him, acting like the crowd wasn’t even there. Eventually they got the idea and dispersed, but Harumasa didn’t let up. Instead he had moved on to just biting and nipping playfully and laughing as you squirmed.

“Ah! Teeth! Teeth!” You placed your hand on his forehead and tried to push him away, the two of you practically wrestling in public and laughing. “Stop! Mercy!” You laugh as Harumasa pulls away and places one more dramatic kiss on your cheek before grabbing your hand. 

“See? Now they’ll leave us alone because they think we’re freaks.” He laughs and gives you another playfully hug.

“You’re so weird,” you caught your breath as the last of the laughs died off on your tongue. 

“Oh but you love it~” He lifts your hand to his lips for what you assume was a kiss before sinking his teeth into the back of your hand.

“Quit it!” You flick his nose and laugh as he dramatically reels away, stumbling until he’s back in step with you. 

A/N, but a bit more personal than normal -> I'm still learning about the landscape and etiquette of Tumblr because I've only really browsed until recently. So excuse me while I experiment with trying to create a style that's recognizable at a glance. Also are there like other community things I need to work on? I know I'm a very shy liker and reblogger and I'm trying to break the habit in my mind and actually outwardly show support more. I say that but my OCD makes it hard sometimes. Anyway have a good day thank you for reading <3

[libraryspectre]

Interestingly, I think this is a reverse ship of Theseus. In the original ship of Theseus, the shape of the original object is being maintained with new material. In this situation, the same material is being made into a (slightly) new shape.

I like the idea of some kind of evil crocheting wizard who can touch you and pull out a thread, unravel you bit by bit like a crochet project until you're, as you put it, a soaking red pile of human yarn, and then crochet you back together. But as you're crocheted back together the stitches are visible, like you're a giant amigurumi. And maybe now you're bound to the will of the artist or something. Maybe you asked for this in the first place because of that "stitch" that was "dropped" when you were first made - a painful malformation in your heart or lungs or digestive system that you knew the artist could fix, but didn't realize it would mean this.

As someone who crochets I'm also thinking about what a nightmare that project would be. If each piece/organ was its own thing to unravel, you'd have to be really careful to keep those yarn piles separate and labeled. What if you pick up a white pile of yarn thinking it's for the femur, but then as you're halfway through crocheting the femur you realize this pile was actually from the tibia and now you're not gonna have enough yarn to finish the structure? You could start over, or if you don't care about having a particularly well-formed project at the end of this, you could just keep going and cheat it, supplementing from the other piles of bone yarn. Except, every time you join a new ball of yarn you lose a little length to the loose ends, so eventually you're gonna come up short somewhere, but whatever, who cares if this thing is missing a vertebrae?

To avoid this, the dismantling process would have to be slow and methodical, each pile of yarn going into its own labeled bag as you pull it out, which is it's own kind of horror.

Some kinda fucked up fiberarts ship of theseus situation where a girl gets her body unravelled by crochet hook into a grim pile of soaking red human yarn then crochet back up together because one of the stitches got dropped then first time around is that anything

[ptergwen]

hi ! i had a dream like this so idk if its too specific or anything hut could u write a fluff/angst about reader being in a beach holiday with family/peter, theyre at the beach swimming and being all cute underwater and stuff- peter tries to hold/grab reader and accidentally hurts them bc of his super strength. theyre mad at him for a bit but they make up that night with heaps of fluff, cuddles, words of affirmation-ect. sorry if thats dumb fhdgdgf thank youuu <33

a boy who's jacked and kind

w/c: tba

warnings: a very sorry and sad peter, like two swears

a/n: peep the sabrina reference hehe i had a lot of fun with this one! decided to make it a beach day with friends, i hope that's okay & you enjoy <3

"marco!"

"polo!"

you and your friends scatter around the ocean while peter tries to catch you. you're at the beach for the day, which is exciting because you don't get to go often living in the city. peter pushes through the water with his eyes closed, hands outstretched in front of him. if he catches one of you, he wins.

"marco!"

peter is getting closer to you and ned. mj is the farthest away, deeper into the ocean. she silently signals for the two of you to swim towards her.

"polo!"

you all shout in unison. ned wades through the water frantically, mj continuing to swim in the opposite direction. you're not as quick to pick up on her guidance. you won't be able to make it to the two of them without peter catching you, so you keep swimming the other way.

"marco!"

"polo!"

ned and mj sound kind of far, but you seem to be close. peter follows your voice with a smirk, eyes still squeezed shut.

"marco!"

you can hear peter getting close from behind you.

"polo!"

you look behind your shoulder to see peter nearing you.

"go, y/n!" mj shouts. "run!" ned echoes.

"marco!"

you can't help but let out a giggle as peter gets closer and closer. you leave the water and start running on the wet sand, your boyfriend right on your trail.

"polo!"

peter tackles you from behind, pushing you down and landing beside you. you squeal and land in the sand, hard. it knocks the wind out of you. peter laughs softly and rolls on top of you.

"i win."

your lip quivers a bit, tears pricking your eyes reflexively from the pain of the fall. peter's cocky demeanor instantly changes, going into concerned boyfriend mode.

"baby, what's wrong?"

he catches a stray tear with his thumb, his lips forming a frown.

"why're you crying?"

peter's thumb caresses your cheek. you shoo his hand away.

"i’m not, that just fuckin' hurt. can you get off me?"

peter rolls off of you, watching you get to your feet with furrowed brows.

"oh no, baby, i'm sorry. i just got caught up in the game... i didn't realize how hard i pushed you."

"you have super strength, peter."

you brush the sand off yourself, sniffing back a mixture of salt water and snot. peter's voice quiets.

"sometimes i forget."

"yeah, i know. it's fine."

"but i feel bad." peter stands up. "are you okay?"

he reaches for your hand. you shrug and pull it away, crossing your arms over your chest.

"i'm fine, pete. just gimme a little while."

mj and ned meet you and peter on the sand. they form a circle with you, peter staying back. his eyes remain fixed on you, filled with worry.

"what happened, you let penis parker win? i thought we had a plan," mj jokes. "yeah, why'd you go rogue? we were supposed to stick together," ned agrees.

"i went the other way 'cause i wasn't gonna get to you guys fast enough, then peter tackled me."

their gazes shift over to peter, who sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

"dude!" ned punches peter's shoulder playfully. "major foul."

"it was an accident," peter mumbles, rubbing his shoulder.

"sure it was," mj deadpans.

peter is looking at you again, but you avoid looking at him. mj picks up on the tension between the two of you.

"hey, you good?"

"i'm kinda annoyed at peter. it hurt when he pushed me. i know he didn't mean to, but still, you know?"

"what a dumbass. come on, let's go get ice creams or something."

you give mj a half smile, throwing an arm around her shoulders. mj flips peter off as you two pass by him. ned starts yapping to peter about building the perfect sandcastle, but he doesn't listen. he's too distracted by his guilt over hurting you.

-

you're sleeping over at peter's later that night. you'd gotten back from the beach a little while ago, and nothing sounds better than cuddling up in bed with him. he had been trying to give you space since the tackling incident, careful not to be too touchy out of fear of hurting you again.

you feel bad for being kind of cold to him. even though you were upset in the moment, you got over it. you miss him being his usual touchy self. it's peter who's been choosing to distance himself.

peter lets you shower first, then he takes one. he finds you waiting on his bed after. you're wearing one of his hoodies and a pair of boxers.

"c'mere, i wanna cuddle."

"you sure?"

"of course. why wouldn't i be?"

"i just wanna make sure you have enough space. y'know, after earlier."

you groan.

"i’m serious, y/n. i hate that i hurt you."

"peter," you stand up.

"and i’m sorry. really, really sorry. i’m never gonna let anything like that happen ever again, okay? i wasn't thinking."

"i know, peter. accident's happen, baby."

your arms circle around peter's shirtless torso. he doesn't trust himself to hold you just yet, so he keeps his arms at his sides.

"just because it was an accident doesn't make it okay."

you take peter's arms yourself and wrap them around you. his doe eyes meet yours. you hold his gaze reassuringly, an arm around his neck and a hand cupping his cheek.

"i like that you have super strength."

"you do?"

"yeah. it makes me feel safe, knowing you can always protect me. plus, you've got big arms. that's hot."

peter chuckles, perking up at that.

"sometimes you can't help how strong you are. i get it, pete. it's not your fault."

you nudge peter's nose with yours. peter moves in closer to you, letting out a sigh of relief. he kisses your forehead, lips lingering there for a moment.

"thank you. i love you."

"i love you, too."

you leave a kiss on the bridge of his nose.

"sorry i was kinda mean to you earlier. it was just my first reaction."

"no, no. it's okay, baby. i’m the only one who should be sorry."

"stop apologizing. you don't have to be sorry anymore."

"but i am. i’m still really sorry i-"

you shove at peter's chest, making him fall backwards onto the bed, mimicking the way he tackled you earlier. you straddle his lap and take his face in your hands, giggling. peter carefully holds you on top of him by your sides. you lean forward so you're face to face.

"i forgive you."

you connect yours and peter's lips. he happily kisses you back, smiling into it.

tags (old taglist y'all sorry, gotta make a new form!):

@idkeverythingistakennn @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @lnmp89 @mystic-writings @jenoslov @crvshnburnn @yourlocalomlette @starlight-starks @belovasheart @liltimmyst @eviewriites @hollandsangel @parkerctrl @eichenhouseproperty @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @varshhyy @elllebutnotwoods @magicalxdaydream @tayyx @parkerdadda @valluvsu @ronweasleysslut @peterficrecs @winchestersgirl222 @sunf1ower-vol6 @fishingirl12 @raajali3 @niktwazny303 @marvelgurl @thismessymasterpiece @alina02 @sapphic_romanoff @itsjanedeluca @lomlbuckyy @prancerrparkerr @urfayevorite @getwellsoontana

[baepsays]

More stoner!suguru cause I said so <3

tw: mentions of smoking and weed (duh), lowkey exhibitionist stuff, mentions of fem oriented biology, pronouns, and terms of endearments, usage of the term 'slut' teasingly and affectionately:p

whenever you and suguru are on your balcony your neighbors don't dare to come out to feel the night breeze. Even when those separators between each segment makes it hard to see what's going on in the neighboring apartment's balcony, it's always clear what's happening when your neighbors hear their usually inconspicuous neighbor letting out little moans and whimpers.

What's thankfully not clear to their vision, is your practically naked-except for this thin spaghetti strap tank top bunched up over your tits- body reclining on the chair you keep in your balcony, trying to lie as flat on it as the hard material allows. one leg up on one of the arm rests, absolutely high off your mind on a particularly hot ass summer night. and also maybe a little tipsy too. wine and weed, if no one discovered its wonders you might have to be the proponent.

as you space out with the blunt in between your lips, the ash teetering to fall and burn you and your boyfriend—geto suguru. who's currently high off his mind licking you up and eating you out as if he would be shot dead otherwise. if someone told him the burning blunt is more of a threat he'd laugh as if they told the biggest joke. you see, this man would let his partner burn him alive on a stake, so a small blunt is nothing to him.

except that small blunt is more than enough to make him realize, actualize even, what's really important right now. it's that he needs to eat your cunt out, lick up whatever you offer him in the form of liquid arousal or cum, finger you so well it burns. and then if, and only if you allow, to dick you down.

before the ash gathered on the blunt falls on either one of you, you take it out of your mouth with one a last drag,  and while you shake off the ash on the tray on the little table right beside the chair, your other hand slowly drags its fingers from suguru's cheeks-hollowed out, sucking you all in- to tangle itself with his gorgeous hair. again, all loose, a signature high suguru trait as it has become. your boyfriend keeps losing all his hair ties the day after he gets high with you ( most of the time he throws it off the balcony, other times if you guys are indoors he throws it across the room somewhere, once he flushed it down the toilet).

you pull his hair and yank him off your cunt, as painful as it is for you to part him from your twitching cunt, it's way more agonizing for him. he makes no effort to hide that fact, before his frown starts to morph into whines and complaints, you put the blunt between his lips and after he takes a long drag, you don't give him the time to exhale the smoke. you take the blunt off his lips, push his face back in, stuffed between your thighs. this time taking off the one leg off the arm rest and other off the ground to practically choke him with your thighs. and he'd rather not die any other way.

suguru gets a hold of your thighs and with much internal reluctance, parts them slightly to place his face a little less than 10 cm away from your pussy and blows out the smoke trapped in his lungs. as the cloud of smoke surrounds your pelvic region and flows up to melt into the air, suguru's glowing purple eyes stare back at you from the fog of smoke, threatening like a siren finalizing his target from a far on a rock in a cloud of mist. he dives back into it hungrier, and probably more high off his mind.

“Demanding as ever sweetheart.”

his tongue feels more heavy but sloppier on your clit with his licking, which does also come with the price of some hardy slaps on your thighs and ass, as a warning really. 

“Ah ah, my slutty little angel is patient, right?” he says, holding your thighs in place to keep them from curling up around his neck again.

but then he catches you off guard with straight two fingers shoving in your hole hooking up to find that familiar sweet spot like muscle memory, as he starts to suck on your clit and finger you at a matched rhythm. the blunt in between your fingers falls out of your hand on the ground forgotten and now extinguished, as you let out a strained stuttering moan while you came all over suguru's face, with your cum dripping down his chin and him making efforts to lap up every single drop of it.

after a few minutes of catching your breath and coming to your senses (well somewhat, you're still high af) you look down at your bf, who's basically licked you clean and dry, who is perching his face on your thighs and looking back at you with his sultry eyes and messed up hair—somehow in a hoarse voice he mutters;

"Light it back up pretty."

note: thank you sm for reading ^^ this is my more put together post cause it's dedicated to the beloved Damien, aka @cuntphoric <3 sorry but he was the first stoner suguru propaganda supporter ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

ALSO thank you sm @madamechrissy <3 my beloved<3 beta read and helped me edit

creds for dividers: @omi-resources

thank you to you both <3 cause I genuinely enjoy your writings sm and look forward to them wholeheartedly it was the kindest and sweetest thing that has happened to me in a fandom really.

also my finals start today and it's my bday 👎 sucks to suck ig :( wish me luck pookies

[goosewithtwoos]

OIL AND WATER

pairing: Bob x Reader

Summary: Your days at the Naval Academy were stressful. You needed some stress relief

"Floyd." You groan as he pushes his thigh between yours.

The two of you had been studying for your midterms in the library, numbers slowly blurring together as your eyes began to close.

Mathematics had never been your strong suit. You had enlisted in the Marines after highschool, did two years and then transferred to the Academy. It had been too long since you'd looked at a math problem and it was biting you in the ass.

Floyd, on the other hand, was a genius when it came to arithmetic. He had offered to tutor you and you had graciously accepted.

That was also how you found yourself in this current predicament.

Putting the textbooks back on the shelf had led to Floyd's arm accidentally trapping you in. Which led to you looking up at him, batting your lashes, and the rest was history.

You were both hungry and tired and stressed. Your life was dedicated to studying and preparing to commission, you didn't have time to do much else. But now, you were taking all the time you wanted.

Floyd's thigh was pressed right between your legs, giving you something to rock your hips against.

The friction felt like heaven. Living with two other girls meant you didn't have much time to get off. He tenses his thigh, giving you something even better to grind on.

Strong arms wrap around you, one pressing against the small of your back while the other gripped the back of your neck. It was so possessive, so needy, so unlike him. It drove you wild.

He presses you higher up against his thigh, his lips never leaving yours.

At a particularly good movement of your hips and his thigh, you gasp, eyes flying open, bodying slumping.

"Shh," He coos. "Can't get caught." He presses a kiss against the side of your mouth. The cool metal of his glasses felt nice against your flushed face.

"Floyd," You mutter. He presses another kiss against your cheek while you try to compose yourself. "Feels so good."

He hums, the hand on your back beginning to rub soothing patterns that you would later think about and think as sweet. But right now, his hands on you, your heart felt like it was going to explode in your chest.

You raised yourself onto your tip toes and he took the opportunity at your new height to lift you more, pressing your back against the shelves. You could feel the shelf beneath your ass, almost like you were sitting on it. Thank God they were bolted to the wall otherwise you were sure you'd knock them over.

It was impossible to stop your hips from moving. You had been so pent up, so long since you'd last felt someone against you.

"Fuh-Floyd." You whisper as your mind short circuts. The friction against your clit was addictive. The hand from your neck came forward to your chest, grabbing your breasts and massaging them through the fabric.

You had never been into that before but the way they fit into his hands felt so right. He moans into your mouth and the sound gave you the encouragement to get more handsy yourself.

Your hands grab his wasit, thumbs running across his abdominals. In this position, it was easier to move his hips on your own accord.

You were never one to act out on emotions like this, but with Floyd, it was easy to drop your resolve. You didn't have to be the hard ass everyone knew you as. You didn't have to hold your bearing as he kissed you like the world was soon ending.

Floyd kept you moving against him until the feeling bubbled up into your throat. Your heart felt like it was going to explode out of your chest.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." You groan, head rolling back. The books behind you softened the blow ever so slightly. No amount of pain could take you away from this moment.

"That's it, that's a good girl." Bob was saying. "Come on, get yourself off on me. Good girl." He stretched out the 'o' in the final good, western accent slowly making its appearance. Your hooded eyes found his face only to realize he wasn't even looking at you, he was looking at your hips. Why not give him a show?

Your hips swivel, spelling out your name, first and last, before it became too much.

"Come on, good girl." His accent was in full swing and you felt more like he was taming a horse than talking to you.

"Floy-" You weren't able to even get his name out before his hand slapped over your mouth. It was a good thing he did because you came with a moan only a few moments after and he was able to muffle the sound.

Your eyes closed, head falling forwards this time onto his shoulder.

You felt his chest shudder as his hands gripped your ass like a vice. He pulled you up against him one last time and before you could cry out about the overstimulization, he came into his trousers.

He slowly let you down, hands moving to your waist. His glasses went askew as he placed his forehead against yours. You both were panting but it was the best feeling you've had in a while.

"Good job being quiet." He chuckles.

"Good job keeping me quiet." You reply, looping your arms around his shoulders and around his neck.

"There's uh...there's a 96 coming up soon. Want to do something?" His voice was small, like he was almost expecting rejection.

You press a small kiss to the underside of his jaw.

"As long as I don't have to be quiet."

[indiestsnake]

okay. for real this time. Major In Stars and Time spoilers for act 3 and beyond. To my wonderful friends playing this masterpiece, to no further. To potential readers, buckle up. This gets long ._.

I thought this game was done with causing me symptoms of emotional exhaustion and stress overload. I was wrong.

Acts 5 and 6 of this game caused the most emotion a video game has ever inflicted on me. Like- the tightness in my chest was an emotion I can only describe as grief. Genuine grief. I felt like I needed to sob for most of act six, for multiple reasons.

Let’s start at the fuckin transition I guess!!!!!!!!!! Siffrin finally thinks they figured it out, and they haven’t. The genuine fear I felt in the cutscene with Euphrasie, the realization that… that this was it, Siffrin was simply stuck. I believed it. I could not find a way to break my suspension of disbelief. I fully, genuinely could not believe that this game had a happy ending. I did not know this game only had one ending, but even if I did, it… I don’t think it would’ve done anything.

The following monologue was the usual terrifying, the game using its informal dialogue to reap horrific subversive effects as usual. Of course it saved some tricks for this moment, like taking away control of when the dialogue progressed. Watching Siffrin snap so thoroughly, lose all his hope and cling to the thought of defeating the king alone because he doesn’t know what else to do, it… it really breaks you.

So. Now that the game has maximized my potential sympathy for Siffrin. And torn my empathetic heart to shreds. It immediately turns on a heel and makes me hate them within three conversations. The things they say to Mira, Odile, Bonnie, Isa, made me so thoroughly angry. I would not blame Odile for actually harming him. I would not blame Mira if she never spoke to him again. I would not blame Bonnie for never wanting to even think about him again. And I would not blame Isa if he no longer loved Siffrin.

I am a person who believes in redemption. In second chances. The readers of my fics know this well. But sadly, actions have to have consequences. And the actions Siffrin takes should have lost him his friends, his family, forever. Even in his circumstances. They had no reason to keep caring.

So then, reeling from the genuine sense of loss and grief and hate and despair, Siffrin nicks the orbs and goes in alone. Through about, what, 20-30 minutes of gameplay, this tension persists. The game didn’t even need to barrage me with monologues, just show those conversations of the family Siffrin left, tear apart the house and the menus and the game till it was barely recognizable. Siffrin. The Lost One, says his profile. Memory of emptiness. Rock, paper, scissors. It’s so dry. So dull. So full of despair and pain and fear and a question of what he could ever do to deserve this hell. He can’t go back. He cannot find the hope or will or anything to go through with it, to follow the script. So even if this does break the loop. What then? He is left with a world where the people he loves most despise him.

Then finally, he reaches the king.

The fight is almost dull. Simplistic. Full of pain. Siffrin does not need a shield to withstand the vision of the future. Because the world they live in cannot get any worse. Nothing scares him more than the hell he now exists in.

Then, he begins to freeze. The king slows him down. And he falls asleep.

The following sequence was just… indescribable. The sadness variant of him, Mal du Pays. French for “homesickness”. Just a simple drawing of Siffrin. The music. The dialogue. The words that come from its mouth. From the party’s mouths. Siffrin tries to say it’s fake. Isabeau’s segment convinces him it’s not.

I didn’t even realize what was happening till it flashed forward and gripped the screen by the face.

He was turning into a sadness.

The frame of his sadness gripping the screen, like many of ISAT’s frames, is something I can’t manage to forget. The cloak and the face and the way it fills the screen so suddenly and finally speaks as itself, not as Siffrin’s party. And he can’t fight it. They just can’t. The universe leads, but he is tired. And now, he can rest. If he just lets go.

In that moment, I was staring at a black screen, begging, pleading for the credits not to roll.

And then he wakes up.

Because his friends are back.

Despite what he said and did, they knew he didn’t mean it. And if he did, they didn’t care. It was clear something was wrong, and they were determined to fix it. Because they were his friends.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a game manage to convey self-hatred so convincingly that I, the player, began to hate my character in a way their friends could not. In fact, I was not aware that was a thing that could happen.

I don’t even know how to express the feelings this give me coherently. It feels like this game snatched away one of my closest moral beliefs only to clothesline me with said belief so I learned it even harder. What Siffrin did was not unforgivable. But it truly convinced me that it was.

So of that when all hope seemed truly, truly lost. It pulled the basic trope of “your friends come help when you thought you were alone”. And it nearly knocked me out of my chair.

First off, get fucked king. Second off, happy for you king.

And then the walk to Euphrasie. I was mixed with giddy glee and unending dread for this whole thing. Isa helps Sif walk while Bonnie holds their hand. Color exists again but only red and oh god the world is ending. Euphrasie is still broken oh god please no don’t send me back don’t take this from me please no no no no WAM REVERSE BOSS FIGHT

Cue that scene. I wasn’t exactly happy that my only option aside from hurting my friends was hurting myself. But it did not take long for me to start groaning in annoyance when Mira healed me.

And then. Against all odds. Siffrin breaks. As does the text formatting as the party literally claws at the text box edges to yell at him.

They fall. Hands clasped together. And he tells them his wish. That he just wants to stay with them.

Of course. That’s all he ever wanted.

And oh god, oh thank every deity, that’s all they want too.

And he finally gets a god-damn motherfucking son of a bitch eye-losing tear-jerking MOTHER FUCKING HUG

and damn it was a good one. poor guy was all squimshed. lost his hat too

the rest of the dialogue is just. amazing. I was gigging and smiling and shaking and vibrating with joy before I even finished Mirabelle’s segment. Walking to Bonnie was when I realized it felt like I wanted to cry. During Bonnie’s dialogue was when I almost did cry. Then Odile. Who I obviously asked for the long version of her theory and she was very helpful for explaining all the stuff. and then.

Isabeau.

oh. my. fucking. god.

the joy I felt when he said it. The leap I leapt, ungracefully dancing over to my bed and mouthing screams of joy. I genuinely just collapsed and writhed around like a fish out of water in happiness. You know how some folk flap their hands to stim? Yeah, imagine that but my whole body. I was so unbelievably happy. I don’t know how a game did this much to me.

The rest of the dialogue was wonderful too. Sif apologized for everything, even the optional events, even admitted the bad touch event. And of course. Isa freaked the fuck out. Because oh my god Sif kissed him. And then when Sif clarifies that it was not a good kiss. He just thinks for a moment like. “…………. Maybe u just need more practice!!! ^^” and it was at that point Siffrin and Isabeau plushies manifested in my hands and I mashed their faces together like barbie dolls

Mira doesn’t want self-spoilers and thats hilarious. Bonnie has no fucken clue what’s going on but she knows Sif was hungry sick and at school so all is well. Odile admits she linguine’s him and yes I fucking love that joke. SIF’S HOME COUNTRY MIFHT APPEAR IN THE DISTANCE????? AND ISA AND SIF ARE GOING ON A FUCKING DATE

and it was at this point I saved my progress, crossed my heart, and prayed Euphrasie would not send me back.

And she didn’t.

oh, god, this game…

welp. this post is two hours in the making. dunno if any of this is coherent but I think if you’ve played isat you get it. thank you to everyone who’s been blowing up my liveposts recently!!! it’s been cool to see the fandom giggle evilly at my suffering :3

tho my contributions to the Isat fandom do not end here. the fic is imminent. I could not stop it if I wanted too. If you couldn’t tell by the essay you just read.

thank you for reading this far if you somehow did!!!! hope you enjoyed my nonsensical babbling. I’m gonna go pass out. have a good day!!!!!!! .3

[summerhuntresses]

the good man scorns

[ao3]

Same song, same dance, same smile and laughter and graceful wave everywhere she went. The bubble was beginning to feel like it was the only real thing in her life.

OR,

A glance into the mindset of a grieving good witch, during the celebration of a wicked witch's death.

~~~

No one mourns the wicked, indeed.

Same song, same dance, same smile and laughter and graceful wave everywhere she went. The bubble was beginning to feel like it was the only real thing in her life, buoying her from dream to dream as she spread the news of Elph- of the Witch’s death. It really was all starting to blur together, the faces of her fellow Ozians upturned to her so eagerly as they waited to hear the news she brought.

She could tell them anything, really. Part of her wanted to, just to see how long it would take before they realized she was lying. Would they realize the lie? The Wizard had been a terrible person, and Morrible worse yet, but they had been effective in their work. Oz had never been more docile, its communities less willing to think for themselves. El- The Witch had tried, flitting from town to village to sanctuary with her message of hope and truth and revolution, but she had been one person fighting an uphill battle against the tireless propaganda machine of the Emerald City. There had never been a chance.

There had never been a chance and Glinda had told her, said exactly that in the clock tower all those years ago. Oz, even the Wizard had told her! But no, Elpha- the Witch had had her morals, would never have aligned with the Wizard after he had revealed his deceit to her, even just for a short time. She would rather have martyred herself on the altar of her own resolve, uncompromising to the end.

Well, Glinda hopes she was happy when she died. She hopes she was happy as she burned, hopes that she found peace in the knowledge that she never betrayed her principles even as the whole world aligned itself against her. Glinda hopes her willful, stubborn shortsightedness brought her utter fucking bliss in the end, when she died alone and in agony with the entirety of Oz united in hatred against her and her cause.

Glancing down at the crowd clamoring beneath her, Glinda had to suppress a laugh that she knew would have come out far, far too jagged to be appropriate for the celebrations. The thought that any of the shamelessly naive Munchkinlanders dancing in the square would have the slightest idea of what it was the Witch had been doing was funny. She knew good and well that some of the people below her had known Elpha-

She breathed.

Some of the people below her had more than likely known Elphaba as a child, had been the ones who hurt her so badly she had come to Shiz with walls like a fortress insulating her from the world. It hadn’t mattered. It didn’t stop them from turning on her, condemning her, hating her. 

Was it you, she wondered. A handsome young Munchkin twirled a pregnant woman, laughing as they stepped on a ripped wanted poster. Were you the ones who threw stones at a child who had never done anything but want to be loved? A group of washerwomen chattered as they worked, dipping their hands into troughs stamped with instructions on precisely how to kill the Witch. Would you even remember if it was?

No, it hadn’t mattered a single bit. Once the Wizard told them to hate, they hated. Once Morrible told them to fear, they feared. Once Glinda the Good told them to celebrate, they laughed and cheered and danced like children.

She looked down at the sea of faces before her, men and women and children blending together until all she saw was a single being, one soul in many bodies that reached and grasped and pawed at her, desperate to be spoon-fed the honey-sweet cocktail of lies and fear and twisted truth that they had been gobbling up for years while saying ‘thank you’ and asking for more, please, always more.

Pain shot through her jaw where she had clenched her teeth, biting down on nothing as she forced herself to keep smiling. They were dragging something into the square- an effigy, she felt herself realize. A straw mockery of Elphaba, forty feet tall and adorned with the hat she had given her on the day Glinda had been seeing in her dreams for the last ten years. It took her a moment to see the sign hanging from her- from its neck, hateful words stark and black before her eyes. 

Kill the witch.

Well, Glinda mused, it’s a bit late for that.

There was a heavy, pounding pressure rising behind her eyes, fury and grief and despair blending together and urging her to do something that she knew she would regret. It felt a bit like one of Elphaba’s flying monkeys was trying to claw its way out from beneath her ribcage, claws rending and horrifying fangs tearing her delicate insides to shreds. It wouldn’t surprise her if she opened her mouth and blood came spraying out, mixing with the scream she had been holding in since that day at Kiamo Ko.

She kept smiling. A child gave her a flower to toss. She shook the hand of a young mother. The effigy rolled closer.

There was a kind of absentminded regret she was feeling, she realized, that she was so clearheaded in this moment. She spared a moment to wish that she could dissociate on command, could astral project, could use the Grimmerie to cast a single fucking spell that would help her not feel what was coming.

The effigy rolled closer. A man handed her a torch with a bow. Glinda felt white heat roll up through her bones and squeeze the air from her lungs, felt the insane urge to drop the torch and ram the pointed end of her wand into his eye, felt her knuckles go white.

She smiled, and threw the torch on the pyre.

Oh, she realized. I hate them.

She turned away, never letting her smile drop. Her entire body ached from how stiffly she held herself, but she could not make her muscles relax. She was still smiling, could feel the strain in her face, could see the Munchkinlanders light up with pride and joy and relief when they met her eyes.

It had been long enough, surely. The effigy would burn for hours and she had more stops to make on her impromptu tour of Oz. Much to do, she thought absently. The Palace alone would be hell to get under control, between rooting out Morrible’s spies and disbanding the Gale Force and squashing any residual Wizard sympathizers. She couldn’t spend her entire day standing in a backwater Munchkin village as they cheered the death of her- the death of the Witch.

As she stepped back into her chariot, hitting the button to form her bubble, she felt a faint shimmer of relief. Her younger self would laugh, she was sure, if told that one day she would become the most beloved ruler Oz had ever seen but would crave nothing more than solitude. 

Movement caught her eye, a young woman pushing her way to the front of the crowd. Glinda managed not to sigh, popping the bubble again. She had been so close to escaping these people, so close to blessed solitude away from- No, she cut herself off. Too far.

“Is it true you were her friend?” 

Glinda felt the air leave her lungs in a rush, the words landing like a sledgehammer.

The woman asked the question loudly, not shouting but projecting in a slow and measured way, obviously intending for the entire crowd to hear her clearly. The disgust in her tone was masked but still present, anger clear in her stance and the set of her jaw. A wave of gasps and horrified mutters swept through the crowd, people who had just minutes ago been laughing and smiling and bowing over her hand now staring judgmentally and with the stirrings of fear in their eyes.

“Friend?” Her voice was faint, memories rushing through her mind like a flood. Facing off in the courtyard. Dancing at the Ozdust. Running through the halls of Shiz. Lying in their shared room. Kissing on the train. Passing notes in class. Hand in hand, always hand in hand, attached at the hip, two parts of one whole- until they weren’t. Until that horrible, awful, nightmarish day where Elphaba had flown off the handle and flown off into the sky and left her behind because she was too stubborn, too moralistic, too good to stay.

Because Glinda was too cowardly, too selfish, too wicked to stay for.

“Friend.” She said the word slowly, tasting every letter as it left her lips. “No, not her friend.” The crowd breathed a sigh of relief, a single organism before her once more. The woman frowned, her mouth opening to say something else that Glinda didn’t care about. She continued, “They haven’t invented the words to describe what she was to me.”

She died for you, she thought but didn’t say. She died trying to save you and you burned her at the stake. 

The Munchkins were in an uproar but Glinda had no interest in soothing their feelings. Enough was enough. 

She tapped the button by her feet once more, sighing in relief as the bubble sprang into place and muted the furious clamor of the square. There were still six more stops on her tour, but she could get to them the next day. It was only an hour back to the Emerald City, and she was quite looking forward to taking a bath by herself and escaping the bleating of the sheep.

[townofcadence]

The enjoyment radiating from Ares through all of this, the sick pleasure and satisfaction, knots Artair's stomach further. Especially when he is pulled to lay on his back. It feels like resting on glass where his bones are splintered and broken, but they didn't have the strength to do more than flap uselessly when Ares handles them-- he hardly even knows how to control them, and broken as they are trying is just pain. At least it means they aren't ripped out. He wishes they would recede so they aren't there at this point.

He hates being beneath that fan of hair, hates Ares positioned above him and in his space. He would rather gouge out his own eyes than be forced to look at Ares and nothing else when it is blotted out by that curtain of strands. The most he manages in response is a grimace and a venomous look, a shudder where hair brushes his arms like spider's web. It is still messy, muddy and disheveled and it is the only silver lining.

His expression is met with more of that nauseating glee and what ideas Ares has for his grand finale. His heart pounds and lurches, and he sputters and chokes. His head is turned so he's forced to take the command. The hand on his throat angles him just right, before slowly pushing him beneath the river water.

It is far too slow, gentle in a way that make it horrific as the water begins to rise at the sides of his face and cover his ears. He keeps sinking, eyes big and heart rising to his throat to choke him. It spills over his eyes where the sockets have them set lower and blurs his vision with a stinging sensation, before finally his nose submerges with a last desperate inhale. His body won't let him struggle, won't let him lean forward that precious inch to air. It doesn't resist as he is pushed a few further, obscuring his vision further and pulling bubbles from his nose. It's cold. He thrashes under the water, but he can't make it back to the surface. It's like it repels him, under the suggestion.

His hand grips at Ares' as if to stop him as the nails glide down his chest by the points. He knows what's coming, but it is still painful and unbearable as those claws sink in near the diaphragm, right beneath his ribs. He spasms with a stream of bubbles in the water. He tries to grab a wrist blindly to stop him, but it doesn't work.

He-- he's going to die. He's thought that several times, but now it's true, as Ares scrapes through him, pulls out his vital organs or shreds them to meat, reaching for his racing heart.

Artair spasms and water spills in through the gash in his throat when he sinks a little further. He can feel it pulled inside as air forces it's way out through the wound. Ares has him in so much pain he's still. There's the clarity he knows, the calm as you realize there is no more fighting, no more trying. He will die, and there's nothing to be done but wait and suffer and then finally rest.

But-- he doesn't want to. He won't get to. He will wake up and suffer this all over again. He is going to die but--- but he doesn't want that smug grin he knows is on Ares's face to be there. He wants to RIP it off.

Artair's hand gives up on stopping Ares from delving into him. It hurts so much he almost can't function, but his own resolve is enough to push each muscle forward with an anguished stream of bubbles and bile. He feels for Ares' pocket, to find that knife again. His lungs are burning. He couldn't breathe if he wanted to. Ares is breaking ribs, tearing muscle and tissue and his lungs are heavy with blood and water in what is left of them. He neck hurts and spills gold in the water which shifts to rainbow iridescent shimmers as it meets the river.

Artair finds the handle and pulls it from its resting place, hand shaking so much in his churning, rippling vision. He focuses on it, on his single-minded task; it is better than staring at dark hair, the red glow of eyes, or that gold, bloodied crescent smile. At a crawl, that knife climbs, that hand crests to Ares' shoulder and past.

Ares laughs at the tremors he gives to Artair, at the slight shaking he can feel in the body beneath him. Artair is afraid of the thought, and that pleases him deeply. It was a rare thing after all, to feel or see any clear signs of Artair being afraid-- he usually hid it so very well. So it's a warm feeling within him, having clear indication that his mere presence was frightening.

He stores the substance he's collected away for safe keeping.

"Hmm... you know, that suggestion isn't very helpful." Ares chides teasingly to the snarling and growling. "I suppose I'll just have to figure it out myself, then." He hums, thoughtful, fingers tapping at the exposed flesh between Artair's wings. It's a hard decision, after all! He wants to have something at least a little fun to end what's otherwise been a bit of a roller coaster.

"Oh-- I have an idea." The grin curling onto his face as he announces so is nearly audible. It takes a bit of shifting around, but he finally manages to manhandle Artair onto his back, threatening that if he didn't keep his wings manageable he'd either have to break them more or remove them entirely. Not that he was gentle with the broken appendages as it was during the turning. But finally Artair is on his back and Ares is settled between his legs, leaning over him. His hair fans around him like a dark veil at the angle. "There we are. Comfortable?" He hopes the answer is no.

"For your death, I was thinking-- why not a test? Let's see which one kills you first: having your head held underwater so that you drown, or me tearing your heart out. Given all that you are now I doubt either would kill you instantly, so I'm eager to see what does it." His eyes are full of delight, an excitement known to very few who got to live after witnessing it.

Crimson eyes lock with Artair's. "Now, Artair. Do be a good boy and keep your head underwater for me. No coming up allowed." And just to help his hand goes to Artair's throat, holding and leaning him slowly farther and farther back... until his head submerges entirely. After a moment of ensuring he wouldn't be resurfacing Ares runs his claws lightly down the other's chest until they find that oh-so perfect point-- and then they begin to sink in and tear, rending flesh from muscle and bone alike as he claws his way towards the other's heart so that it can be removed.

[rea-grimm]

Sleep protector Corazon

You've been suffering from insomnia for some time without knowing why. Maybe it was because you were more of a night owl, even though you couldn't sleep at night but never slept past seven in the morning. 

But nothing was working for you. Pills, meditation, special music... nothing. You felt like you'd tried everything you could. 

After a while, you got used to it and stopped worrying about it. You had giant circles under your eyes and you looked half dead, but you were functioning, and that was the main thing. And that was despite the regular nightmares you had when you tried to sleep. Even though you tried to control your dreams, it was like fighting windmills.

You'd come home late at night. The sky was already clouded with a black veil and the moon was hidden under dark clouds, so the street lamps provided the only light. But the city had saved money, so every other one was lit. 

A freezing wind blew in, bringing full snowflakes that began to drift down from the sky. You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck, wanting to get home as soon as possible. 

You were passing a dark alley when a lamp lit up in it. It startled you completely. You stopped in your tracks and looked into the alley to see if anyone was standing there. There were only trash cans and an ancient chest in the alley. You walked closer when you noticed that a teddy bear had been placed on the box.

The teddy bear had a hole in its chest, and it had plush coming out of it. There was a black feather coat over his shoulders that was burned and the teddy bear was generally dirty. Something drew you to him despite all this.

"You look worse than me," you muttered before picking him up. Even though it was just a stuffed toy, you decided to take it home. There, you cleaned it up and stitched up the wound on its chest. You noticed that he had more stitches on him than just this one.  

That very night, a miracle happened for you. You fell asleep on the couch with the stuffed bear in your arms. But even now you were having nightmares. You were in the wilderness surrounded by nightmares that threatened to consume you.

The whole place was so loud that you held your ears and feared your head would burst. As loud as the noise was, you were paralyzed and all you could do was stand still and hold your ears. 

After a while, however, a light passed by, creating a sort of barrier where everything went silent. You pulled your hands away from your ears and looked around. A few feet away from you, you saw a tall man in a black feather cloak who looked stern. 

The man started in your direction, but when he was almost upon you, he tripped over his own foot and fell to the ground with a loud thud. You were startled, as you hadn't expected it. 

The tall man groaned in pain before scrambling back to his feet and lunging at the nightmares, which he easily defeated and the rest took off running. 

After this, he turned to you and wanted to walk over to you. As he approached, you noticed that he had a lit cigarette in his mouth. A few steps away from you anyway, he had tripped and fallen to the ground. What you didn't expect was that the cigarette fell out of his mouth and lit his black feather coat on fire.

You were surprised by this and ran over to him to make sure he was okay and that nothing had happened to him.

The Protector gratefully accepted your hand and you saw his face was as red as the cap he was wearing. He smiled shyly at you and nodded his head that he was fine. 

Then he began to wave his hands and gesticulate as if he were communicating by signs. Only then did you realize that he was probably mute. You were glad you had taken a short course at school earlier so you understood some of the signs. 

Your protector wasn't sure you understood him, but when you answered him and even used some of the signs yourself, he beamed all over. 

When you woke up in the morning, you had no idea it was possible to sleep so well, even while lying on the couch. But you were still holding a teddy bear.

From that day on, you also started finding black feathers in your apartment when you woke up. You also smelled cigarette smoke, even though you were a non-smoker. 

Now and then you would also find little sticky notes on your bedside table or other places in your apartment with short messages that always motivated you and made your day.

These little things reminded you of the man who appeared in your dreams every night and protected you from nightmares. You even practiced sign language with him in your dreams sometimes, when he taught you new signs. 

However, he also took you on adventures to different kingdoms, hunting for magical fruit and the like. It was during these times in your dreams that you realized how clumsy he was. You even stopped counting how many times he fell, tripped, set himself on fire, and other such things.

One day, in your apartment, one of the notes left by your protector included a picture of a little boy of kindergarten age who looked sick. He was pale with black circles under his eyes and white patches on his skin. 

You didn't understand what the photo was doing there. You looked at it a few more times, but otherwise, you left it on the table because you didn't know what else to do with it. 

In the evening, when you drifted off, you found yourself in a dream in a familiar place where you spent most of your time with your protector. In the dream, you found the same photo of the little boy in your pocket and decided to ask your protector about it. 

He took the photo from you and looked at it nostalgically with a faint smile. He confessed to you that he used to be the protector of a little boy who was sick and who was being hunted by someone very bad. He had sacrificed himself so that the boy could live and move on. He thought it was the best solution and he thought it was the end of him. Until he ran into you.

It's been a few days since you got your stuffed bear, and your sleep has improved many times over. You had no idea that sleeping better would improve your life this many times over. The circles under your eyes have improved, and so has your mood. 

You went on a little shopping trip and came home. You waited at the crosswalk until the pedestrian light turned green before you could finally cross. You were crossing and you didn't notice the car coming towards you. It didn't notice the light and kept going.

You didn't notice it until it was almost upon you. You didn't have enough time to get away. Plus, you felt like your body refused to move even though you wished you could get to safety. 

"Watch out!" you heard a voice call out to you. However, you had the impression that you couldn't control it.

You closed your eyes and expected the worst. However, the impact came from the other side as someone grabbed you around the waist and ran with you to the side. However, someone tripped over a curb and you both crashed to the ground.

"You? Are you okay?" 

You asked as you opened your eyes and finally saw the man who had blocked you. It was your protector from your dreams. "Thank you so much," you added, hugging him.

"What about you? Are you hurt?" He asked, stroking your cheek before he began to examine you to see if you were really okay. You were fine except for some minor scrapes. 

"You're talking," you said in surprise since it was the first time you'd heard his voice. You saw him get nervous and instead start mumbling that he needed to take another look to see if you were hurt.

"Um, I'm Rosinante... but you can call me Corazon. I'm your personal protector," he introduced himself after a moment.

"I'm so glad I can finally get to know you properly," you said before leaning in and kissing him on the lips. "You should be more careful too," you said honestly as you pulled away. 

Corazon was red as a crayfish at the gesture and began to stutter. He didn't understand much, but then he said more clearly if you minded. 

But you just shook your head. You were glad for him. For your clumsy protector.

One Piece Masterlist

Sleep Protector Masterlist

[sur-i-ki]

Love You Anyways

(ok, writing is a little different here, cuz im trying smth new. also ik how to write to an extent, these notes js help relieve some of that burden i put on myself lmfao)

16/20

He was so sure he was going to win. The world tilted on its axis. He was so sure.

The ground surged up to cradle him in her arms. He can feel your thundering footsteps as you near him, your body casting a shadow on his as you approach.

"You idiot!"

And what a sight for sore eyes. Sword gleaming like a shard of moonlight as you sheath it with practiced ease. Face covered in dirt, skin pale, but glowing with power regardless. Your eyes blazing with fury as they look upon him. And something else flickers in them. Something he shouldn't name. Something dangerous for the both of you.

He takes in a shuddering breath as the crowd roars in anticipation.

"Careful, rival of mine, or one might think you care for me." He coughs out. Space. You both need space.

Your skin is flushed, chest heaving with the aftermath of the fight. A fight between two prisoners. You bite your lip as you kneel by him. He wants to kiss it. God, was his side always that sore?

"Shut up." You seethe, finally reaching him, calloused hands paradoxically gentle with care, even as the harshness of your words tear into him, "You could've easily blocked that! Where do you get off humiliating me like this?" And he knows, gods, he knows it's the pain speaking, but it hurts him regardless.

Last night rings through his body, a once-unstoppable war machine now ravaged with the aftershocks of brutal punishment. His body is now a map of bruises and cuts, the consequence of denying to fight you. He can't hide his wince as you accidentally press against a wound. Horrified understanding flashes across your face, your urgency matching his own as you lock eyes. Eyes that could ruin him. Have ruined him.

Space. He needs space. He needs time.

"That's not how you use that expression, love." Not for someone you want to kill. " His voice is loud, volume calculated. Your face pinches with annoyance, but he can see the undercurrent of concern, "It was either you or me." this was for comfort, pure vulnerability that comes with weeks of imprisonment.

The confession comes out as a whisper. Fury ignites through your bones. He feels it. That's what you are- a firestorm temptress that lays waste to her surroundings.

You've always been possessive. He hopes it survived the brainwashing you've gone through.

"You're safe now, rival of mine. Give 'em hell." The world darkens at the edges of his vision as you nod with steely duty, standing tall, a blazing light against the encroaching darkness.

He smirks, even as his body aches. You're going to ruin them. Then you're going to come for him. He pushes himself to the edge of the arena, as you lift off the ground, planning his escape. The cold, unforgiving walls of the arena loom over him.

Who knows what you'll do when you realize your greatest enemy loves you? Not that was always the case. Your ruthlessness would never let you ignore that, would it? He would know. He's seen it. Never against him, but he's seen it regardless.

He needs time. Enough time for you to remember the truth. The past rushes through his veins—moments of you fighting with him, not against him. Of midnight bickering over the leftovers, of laughter.

He tilts his head back against the blood-soaked walls. At least, you never were the brains of the team. He can use that.

"See you soon, love."

He disappears from his prison. You slaughter your way out of yours.

But as you watch him slip away from the corner of your eye, a horrifying urge rises within you to follow. An urge to protect, to demand answers. Why his face haunts you, twisted in ways you don't know, don't understand. Why, when you think of him when exhausted, it's with safety and care, and something you don't want to name, rather than the hate you should feel.

In due time, you will kill him. That is fact.

And with that thought, you turn back. Back against the grotesque faces of your former prisoners.

But he was never theirs to torture. You will exact the price from them. After all, no one touches what's yours.

⇝ 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥! 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯

[thedaslut]

Short ficlet from @ar-ghilas-vir-banal 's prompt!

He would tell her.

Sitting in front of her, on her couch in her chambers, he knew he would. The sight of her before him, smiling and relaxed as he held her hand made the thought form and coalesce, taking on a solidity that only certainty could hold. The gentle smile on her face, a stark contrast from the pained look she had when he arrived, seemed to widen slightly every time her eyes met his and her vallaslin moved around her eyes as they crinkled with softness she rarely showed. In his hand lay hers, the Anchor a bright green gash on her palm as he siphoned its energy out of her and into himself where it could dissipate safely. He’d tell her about that too, he decided.

“Your hands are soft,” she murmurs. “It is nice.”

His own smile widens. He hadn’t realized he was stroking her hand with his fingers idly as he worked. “It has been a long time since I had reason to keep a soft touch,” he replies, voice low and warm. “But lately I find myself handling something precious much more often. I feel the need to be attentive and gentle with it.” A playful glint enters her eyes. “The attention is appreciated,” she grins, “but perhaps a firmer touch would be appreciated at times.”

He returns the smile, warm and genuine. “I will keep that in mind.” He will tell her, he reaffirms. Everything about who he is, all he has done. The resolve sits under his skin, like steel under velvet. The force from the Anchor stuttered as he pulled on it, a knot in a thread catching on the fabric, and her face twitches in discomfort.

“Vhenan,” he whispers, a reassurance and an inquiry in one word. 

“I’m okay,” she mutters, brows drawn together slightly. “It just aches a bit even with your help.”

“You bear such a burden, Vhenan. I would not wish it upon anyone.”

“It is not your fault,” she reassures with a smile, her fingers closing around his hand in a loose grip. 

Whatever words he had on his lips die there, and in response he carefully pulls more of the Anchor into himself once again. It aches in him too, a trickle to her river, and he lets it pool within him.

He will tell her, and should she forgive him he will give her everything he is.

~</3~

He does not tell her.

When he is still called to her room, finding her on that same couch where he had held her gently not too long ago, he feels it is retribution. A punishment for what he’s done to her, what he is still doing to her, and the universe is cruel to make her the vessel for his pain. 

She sits in her spot, legs crossed and with a blanket around her shoulders. There are no gentle eyes following him as he moves to sit beside her, no quirked smiles along with curious questions and no vallaslin drawn across her nose and around her eyes.

She still gives him her hand, as if he deserves to hold it. As if he ever deserved it.

The energy within her is thick this time, like a fog that has gone from ethereal and beautiful to haunting and oppressive. When he pulls at it, however gentle, she winches and hisses and her face turns away from him. 

“You should have called for me sooner,” he adminishes as he takes note of how the Anchor is flared and angry. He can only imagine how it burns under her skin, its force bigger than what her body can contain.

“I couldn’t handle the pain.” Her voice is raw, and still she doesn’t face him.

“I know how strong you are, and how much you can endure. But had I come sooner, the mark would not have built so much--” “I was not talking about the mark.”

He says nothing more, pulling the pain into himself until it permeates him like ink dropped in water.

~</3~

He tells her.

Everything he did. To the People. To the world. To her. He tells her, and he lowers his walls. He expects an assault, a wave of anger. He expects curses, hatred and shouting. He expects her pain, her sorrow and despair.

He does not expect it to be for him.

“Solas, “ she whispers with such frailty his own heart threatens to shatter. “I can never imagine how painful this must have been for you.”

“I did this to myself, Vhenan. I deserve none of your pity.”

This makes her eyes sharpen, her edges harden in the way he still admired, would always admire. “Then let it be forced upon you, as penance for what you did.” And more pain she forces on him. Pain borne from love, from understanding, from loyalty. It is not the pain he wished for, deserved, but he lets it in. Lets it pierce his bones, tear his flesh, rend his heart so that he might feel an inkling of what he has put her through. He needs to carry it as he leaves, so that a small part of her stays with him.

“Solas.” Her voice remains firm, even as her arm surges twitch power not meant for mortals. “Var lath vir suledin.” It is a promise, and a threat. 

The scream that tears through her as the Anchor flares, one last time, cuts through him like a knife, nowhere near as painful as it ought to be. So he kneels in front of her, where he wishes he could stay, and this time he takes all he can from her. Her pain, her power, her heart. With her warmth still on his lips, he breaks her. And by doing so, he breaks himself.

“I will never forget you,” he promises, and this one he does not intend to break for as long as he lives.

He leaves, and he does not look back.

[beeandthescreen]

In Unholy Matrimony

E | Vampyr!Ellen x Thomas | Canon Divergence | 2/?

Ao3 | She is born from a wooden womb, hungry.

All ch. | 1 | 2

She is cloaked in white, suffocated in a gilded corset. Lilies are stuffed into the gaps surrounding her, shifting with the spasms of her waking body. 

Her hair is pulled into a scalp ripping braid atop her head. It smells of wilting flowers and humid death. Ellen feels she should be most uncomfortable, however, there is little that can overshadow the intruder in her throat.

It is wretched. It sinks its sharp spindly barbs into soft meat, leaving hellfire in its wake. The walls of her prison shake with her attempts at clawing the parasite from her being. She presses her fingers into her mouth, reaching into its depths, fishing, to no avail.

She burns.

Her frenzy dissipates when the fire is reduced to a smolder. It curls away, burrowing into her chest. Her fingers are wet, and her mind a thick fog. Harried choking turns into soft sobs. Time eludes her, but even in her stupor, she comes to realize she is in a closet of some sorts.

It is dark, oh so dark-

“Thomas!”

She calls for him, once, twice, three times. She has no more air in her lungs to call out a fourth. She presses against what feels like varnished wood and pushes with whatever might she can muster.

Her exit is pain. She is crawling out of the dark, dragging on her belly. Her gown must be in ruins. Mother will be furious, father even more so. No, she is married now. Her Thomas will understand. He has never scolded her. Never took her to his belt. Where is he- where? 

She is lead at the bottom of a glass, drowning, moaning, writhing, sinking. She is reminded of a snail in salt, of a rabid stray gnawing at its tail. She uses cobbled stone to haul herself forth. 

Ellen finds herself knelt in front of a coffin. 

The ornately carved lid has snapped off its hinges, Petals litter the path of her escape. Her breath catches- Thomas will be distraught, wondering. She prays for his continued slumber. Her melancholy has brought her to strange places before- but this, how has she managed to become entombed?

She knows it is the work of the creature. Yet, she is not undressed and there is no pain between her legs. She is most grateful.

Ellen rises.

There is not a moment more to spare. Thomas will wake soon. He is getting increasingly punctual, her Thomas. He works so very hard. For you- and you repay him with a wife most undesirable. He will meet with Herr Knock tomorrow, to vouch for his absorption into the firm. He mustn't be troubled. I will return with haste.

She offers less than a passing glance at the scene before she is turning away. She pushes the tall stone doors to welcome in a moon-lit night. Bathed in blue, her flesh begins to buzz, and home calls to her.

She has yet to gather herself. Perhaps she has become too accustomed with the peace her Thomas has gifted her with. It is not unusual for even her name to elude her. 

Her affliction is not a stranger. 

For most of her life, it has been more than just her in this body. She has seen horrors from within that have calloused her from any gentle disposition. It is most odd, most unseemly, though, the way her feet find their way to her door- for the sight of it is presented in front of her almost as instantaneously as she had thought of returning to it. 

A low, rhythmic sound fills her ears.

Something within her awakes. An instinct, perhaps, one not known to her previous. It’s his breath. It tells her. Give chase. It commands.

Forward. He awaits. Enter. The door is bolted, push. Let nothing stand in your way. 

It surges her forward. At the expense of her senses, she gains an incredible strength. 

Ellen is unable to acknowledge the sudden ache behind her teeth, one that demands to be soothed by something.

Her Thomas is awake.

The instinct is sated at the sight of him, lifting the fog from her mind just enough so she may gaze upon her love with clearer eyes. With the return of her awareness, shame follows suit. 

He looks horrid. Unkempt, pale, eyes ringed with the color of desperation and terror. He scrambles off his feet, and threatens her so thoroughly that she is left winded. How distraught he must have been, to say such vile things. She wishes to plead for his forgiveness, to be sheltered by his goodness once more.

Instead, She calls to him, softly. 

His name is an echo of a thousand words. All delightful, all loving. She conveys this now, in a feeble attempt to soothe her husband. He comes to her, on his knees, begging her to remain with him. She holds him, petting the sick away, paying no heed to his increasingly concerning mutterings. She feeds him only sweetness, as he has always done to her. 

I will sleep no more. She tells herself, kissing the tip of his ear. For I risk bearing you to the ugliness it brings.

His breathing has slowed, but she knows he is awake. It is of no matter, for she is content in the silence. There is little to protest when her husband is in her lap. He had forgiven her so quickly, her good Thomas. Her treasure. She shan’t do wrong by him any longer. 

Well into the night, her fingers find themselves in his hair. It has grown quickly. Their honeymoon had only lasted a fortnight, and yet, it has grown well past his ears. She finds it very handsome, but she will trim it come morn, for he does enjoy being well-groomed. 

The sight of him, subdued, head buried in her stomach, stirs a heat in her belly. She blinks it away, sucking in a soft breath. It does not do her well, for the scent of him brings about a line of thought that is most indecent. 

Take him. 

Her tongue wets, and saliva begins to pool.

“My love?” He calls to her, and Ellen settles. He squeezes the small of her back, and she attends to him once more. 

Their exchange leads to his arms around her.

He engulfs her so well. His head is tucked into her neck, breath warming her skin. She almost preens, almost presses even closer so she may feel him all. 

Wanton whore. Her father’s voice rings.

“Your arms soothe me. I would be most upset should you let go.” she whispers, attempting to quell the heat that washes over her. He replies, she is sure, but Thomas turns his neck just so that the soft skin of his jugular is presented to her, and something within Ellen slips.

It returns, the instinct, and it craves.

Her eyes roll into her skull. The flesh of her gums retract. Her mouth parts, a gaping maw. Ellen becomes a singular purpose, a singular want. Life- to take it. To taste it on her tongue. To let it run down her throat and satiate the beast entangled within her being-

Thomas kisses her.

It is soft, Insignificant, right on the skin nearest to his lips. It is enough.

-

He feels Ellen tense.

“Thomas.”

“Yes, my darling?” He will do it right, this time. He will give her all that is good, all that will purge any memory of this terror from her mind.

“Thomas, something is…something is wrong.” She insists, beginning to pull away. He does not give in, gently coaxing her closer. She covers her nose and mouth, her brow furrowing harshly.

No, Thomas thinks, not anymore. He shakes his head, smoothing his hand over her loosening braid. “Forgive me, I am overwhelmed.” He kisses her brow. “I have not fared well without you.” The pressure behind his eyes is unceasing. 

“How is this possible?” He croaks. It is truly the question of the age, and it has yet to be answered.

At this, she stands. A quick, unrelenting force. His arms are thrown from her. He tilts his head upward, rapt. She is real. She is standing in front of me, whole. 

She does not meet his eyes. Her attention is taken. Ellen is looking at the door of their- of that room. The haphazardly nailed boards are ugly against the soft pastel of their patterned walls. Would she be displeased with him? No, she will understand. It is not theirs anymore, only a grave.

Her arm raises to a point.

His euphoria dissipates. He rises, brain rattling between his ears. He glances at the room, and then steps in front of it to shield her view. “Do not look at it.” He wouldn’t have her stricken by its presence. “We will leave this place, you needn’t be plagued any longer.”

No. They will go far. He will make her want for naught. She will smile, and read, and enjoy herself so fully. “I will keep you safe.” It is both an assurance and a promise. Still, she hears nothing, for her face is frozen in the horror of a sudden epiphany.

The look strikes his heart. He wishes to collect her in his arms, to take her from the evil that remains here, but something keeps him in place. It is a slow constriction. He strains to move, to no avail.

A menacing hum fills the room. “Tell me it is not so.” She whispers, eyes so far away, witnessing a terrifying recollection. “Tell me, Thomas.” He pushes at the force that holds him, and finds it almost suffocating to bear. His eyes blur around the edges. “Ell-” pain, tenfold. Things fall and clatter to the floor. 

“Tell me!” 

Thunder rattles and lightning strikes. Rain begins to pour from the heavens, deafening him to the long, mournful wail that leaves her lips. Ellen doubles over, clutching at her chest. At her descent, he is released.

He goes to her.

“Ellen, my Ellen.” His comfort is spurned with a push to his chest, but he persists. “I will tell you all, I will tell you.” He grasps at her wrists, holding them firm. She shakes her head, to which he answers with fervent nodding. “All is well.” he says, soft and coaxing. “You are safe, we are safe.” He is unsure of it, but for her, he would make it true. 

Their eyes meet, and Thomas notes the utter clarity in them.

“I’ve become death.” she declares. 

There is little else Thomas can do but take her into his embrace and feed her the warmth she now lacks- so perhaps she may feel alive once more.

-

Ellen and Thomas, upstairs neighbor core. Alright everyone! Ellen’s noodle brain is starting to catch up to speed on the events of the film. She was very much in a state of intense confusion the last two chapters- as per the fact that she’s been resurrected and all that. She is very real because if a man was begging and whimpering in my lap I too would be bricked up. Also, Thomas being more concerned with the fact that his baby is in distress rather than the very obvious supernatural abilities she now has?? > That’s tea. He loves his woman guys, like, a lot. If anyone is wondering, yes, she took an uber home. It was 5 pence or whatever