#keep starting drawings and not finishing them Alas

[marcelineuntitled]

for This Is Not The End by @kings-highway

[solaestial]

Yowamushi Mont Blanc - DECO*27

(pngs under the cut)

[peachesofteal]

18+ noncon, Simon drugs you/her, somnophilia

Girl who takes herself to her favorite coffee shop on the corner to post up with her laptop and a latte.

They serve them in those big ceramic mugs she likes. The white ones that seem so wide you could take a bath in them. Filled to the brim with an unbroken layer of foam on top, she always appreciates when the barista takes the extra time to draw her a quick little design. Makes her feel seen, special, almost.

She always sits a corner, headphones in, typing away on whatever it is she’s working that week, barely away of the comings and goings around her.

She doesn’t notice anyone, and no one notices her.

It’s perfect, really.

Until one morning when she attracts the wrong kind of attention.

It starts with the cup being just a tad too full, balancing on its saucer, ceramic trembling in her fingers. The shop is busy, and someone at the long table in the middle fails to look over his shoulder, sliding backwards in his chair to stand. Hot espresso and milk splashes down her chest, her shirt, and she gasps, sizzling pain shocking the breath from her body.

“Oh shit,” the man starts, turning to face her, hands out and frantic. It’s quiet now, eyes in the room fixed on her, watching, waiting, expecting a civilized reaction. They want her to say ‘oh that’s alright, it was an accident’ or ‘no harm no foul, it happens’ something like that, effectively releasing the burden of shame hanging over the perpetrator.

But, alas. She’s not the one.

“Oh shit?” She rolls her eyes. “You just made me spill my fucking coffee all over myself, and your response is oh shit?” If it was quiet in the coffee shop before, it’s pin drop worthy now.

She expects the man to back down. To cower, start stuttering a profuse apology. That, or the other option, the one where they get defensive, enraged, emotions running wild at the idea of being challenged.

The man does neither of these things. He crosses his arms and cocks his head, sizing her up like he forgot to eat dinner last night and she’s his next meal. The hair on the back of her neck stands up. “Are you going to let me finish, little spitfire?” Jesus Christ. She shoots him the nastiest glare she can conjure, then turns on her heels.

Fuck that guy.

Simon likes himself a little spitfire. A little piece of c4 in his hand, his finger on the trigger. Likes a girl with fight in her, one that scratches, that yells.

His cock aches thinking about how she’d howl under him, face screwed up with rage, salty, sweaty slick pooling between her legs. He’d jam his thigh right in that spot, and order her to rub her pussy against the grain of his jeans until she was cumming on them. He wants to hear her gag on his finger as he scratches her tonsils with it, pressing down on her tongue, forcing her teeth wide, testing.

So, of course, he does the thing he knows he’s not supposed to do. He’s got some time, some leave, plenty of time to hunt his prey and set a snare, a rope around her ankle, stringing her up like a pretty precious offering.

She’s got a nice home. It’s small, one story, windows open with the breeze. The curtains wave with the wind, exposing slivers of her living room, kitchen, bedroom. She putters around the house for a while before the lights go dark, noise of the street enough to drown out the sound of his knife surgically cutting an opening in a screen.

Once the window is open, it’s over. There’s no match, no matter how explosive she is, there’s no him vs her. It’s just him, with her underneath, throat clogged by his cock.

Probably not tonight. Tonight, he’s going to peel her free from the top sheet and jab a needle into her ass to push diprivan, enough to keep her loose and sweet, trapped in sleep long after he leaves. She’ll be more than groggy when she wakes again, chalking it all up to some sort of dream.

She takes it so easy too. Doesn’t fuss. Barely stirs when he rubs a hand over the fat of her hips, squeezes the flesh for his needle. She gasps in her sleep, brow furrowed, listlessly drifting away.

The first thing he does is roll her to her back. She sleeps naked, a pleasant surprise, muscles soft as he pushes her knees to her chest, exposing her cunt to his hungry eyes. He’s only supposed to look, to inspect, but he can’t help pulling a glob of spit from his cheeks to the tip of his tongue, letting it drip down in a long drop, oozing onto her clit.

“Pretty pet.” He murmurs, gloved finger stroking through her folds, fingertip barely pushing against her hole, sliding down to feel the tight furl between her cheeks. “Perfect little holes f’me, eh? Tight little things you’ve got.” Maybe she’s never been fucked before. Too much acid in her blood to bend or break for anyone. He buzzes with the idea that no one has ever had a cock, or anything, inside her, and spits again, this time a bigger wad, bubbles and all, thick and viscous. “Let’s check little spitfire.” He presses inside her, working his finger in easy strokes, feeling her walls, the heated clutch of her cunt. There’s resistance there, a flimsy, thin barrier separating him and the rest of her, his chuckle dangerous in the dark. It’s tempting to take it right now, but he’d rather watch her face when it happens so he can see the moment she realizes, when he ruins her, when he rips through her purity and makes her his own.

He unzips his pants, fisting his cock, precum already beaded at the tip and dripping, coating his palm as he pumps. She moans, like she knows somehow. It’s a high pitched, breathy thing, one that rattles his bones. He answers with a thumb on her clit, pressing, circling, still stroking himself, indulging in her shudders, the jerking of her legs as she she climbs to her climax.

He wants it at the same time. Wants to paint her pussy with his cum when she explode into hers, wants to do it together. As he gets close, he works both himself and her furiously, waiting for that moment when her muscles will go rigid and her pussy will flutter.

When it hits, he follows, white spend shooting up over her belly to her breasts, almost too much to be believed. It’s a mess, really, and he doesn’t want to leave her like this. Too obvious.

He takes his time licking her clean, filling his mouth with his own cum, holding it against his teeth, under and over his tongue. He breathes through his nose until he’s satisfied he got it all, and then sticks a thumb between her teeth, prying her jaw wide-

so he can spit it, drool it, into her unsuspecting mouth, letting it drip to the back of her throat, white sticky load of spit and cum coating her tonsils, her teeth, her tongue.

See you tomorrow.

[jakescakeislateforourdate]

Hey girly!! Im too shy to ask this without the anonymous filter but first of all I’ve been reading through your blog and I love it honestly. I was wondering if you are open to requests if you’d be able to write up something about joe rantz (I am absolutely LIVING for blonde callum) and maybe a coaches daughter trope? he saw her when he went to sign himself up, at the practices all that jazz and just them like becoming friends then more than friends, the boat scene where he gets his seat taken away from him maybe? thank you so much and again I love your work! xx

Hello, my lovely anon. Glad to see you in my inbox. I apologize for the wait but I've been coming out of an awful slump and I was trying to make this piece not total garbage. I hope you enjoy it and I hope I see you in my inbox again.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Joe Rantz (Callum Turner’s) x reader

wc: 4,600

Joe finds himself utterly gobsmacked when he discovers that the pretty face he’s seen at the shell house is the coach’s daughter and not his wife.

Enjoy this garbage!

…

Joe Rantz had come to the shell house in search of work. He’d hoped that making the team would cover his tuition and get him a room and he needed it so desperately. Roger Morris stood next to him, chewing nervously at his nails. “Sorry, Joe, didn’t realize competition would be so tight.” He mutters, spitting out a shred of his fingernail. Coach Ulbrickson was going over the basics of practice. It sounded like absolute hell to Joe but he was out of options. He fidgeted with the number painted on his jersey. Sure, he was strong from a lifetime of rough labor but so were the other boys. Most of them were broke too and just as desperate. Joe didn’t know if he had what it took to stand out but he’d be damned if he couldn’t make a life for himself because he couldn’t muscle up some money for college. 

As Ulbrickson speaks, a shadow appears in his office window. It’s too far for Joe’s nervous gaze to actually study the figure. He tries to focus on coach but the shadow continues to draw his attention. Roger notices too. “Who the hell is that?” Joe just shrugs. The shadow never leaves the window even as Ulbrickson finishes up and the boys get split up. Joe can’t dwell on the figure any longer because he’s being herded into the middle of shellhouse. He begins a horrible set of workouts. His body is made for hard work but he’s never actually worked out before. His muscles aren’t used to straining this way. 

It’s not long before his breathing becomes labored and sweat is pouring down his back. His curls hang down his forehead, sticking to his skin uncomfortably. And just when the pain is becoming unbearable the coaches are swapping them out and Joe is put on a junky old boat and an oar is pushed into his hands. They start rowing and instantly, the only thing on Joe’s mind is how bad his back hurts. Pained grunts and groans echo across the water as the boys struggle to keep pulling the oars. 

Eventually, it’s all over. Joe stumbles onto the dock in front of the shellhouse and feels his knees shaking with excursion. Men begin to drain away from the shellhouse and as the numbers dwindle, the shadow in the window of Ulbrickson’s office reappears. It moves through the glass panes like a swan through water. Then the office door opens and Joe sees your face for the first time. 

“That was some tough practice, huh?” Roger bumps Joe’s shoulder, a crooked smile on his face. Joe cannot respond and Roger follows his gaze. “Washington, Washington, what finery you enjoy.” 

You descend the steps and take a place between Ulbrickson and Bolles. Ulbrickson puts and arm around and Joe feels his heart wither a little. You’re probably Mrs. Ulbrickson. Though he can’t shake the impression that you look a little too young to be with Ulbrickson. 

“Alas,” Roger throws up his hands, “Finery we cannot also enjoy.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“I’m not! How was that crass?” Roger purses his lips and nudges Joe. 

Joe just buttons up his jacket and picks up his books, “C’mon, let’s get outta here.”

The very next day, Joe is suffering through practice. He aches all over and his muscles scream at him. He’s already shaking when he gets done with the basic strength building exercises. Most of the boys are. There are fewer numbers today but this does not better Joe’s odds by much. They clamber into Old Nero and start rowing away. His wrists twinge and his knees spasm. He rows and rows until he thinks his body will give out and then Ulbrickson is directing them back to the shellhouse. Jow crawls out of the boat, soaked to the bone and stiff as a board.

Then he sees you again, this time your sorting registry papers with Pocock. Your back is turned to him, so you don’t notice his longing stare. He keeps telling himself that you’re a married lady and that he should be focused on making the team, but nothing seems to chase you from his mind. 

Coach Ulbrickson sweeps across the dock and places a hand on top of your head, an odd gesture between husband and wife but Joe wouldn’t know about those things. Since his group was the last to use Old Nero, they get the privilege of stowing the oars. Joe begins unlatching the mechanism when he shifts on his knees.

It happens so fast he can’t clock what’s happening. First there’s the sensation of slipping, the horrible thrust of his legs flying out from beneath him. He twists mid slip, and his side smacks the dock painfully before he’s swept off the dock by his own weight. He plumets into the cold water with a catastrophic splash and agonized shriek.

When Joe resurfaces a dozen hands are reaching for him. He grasps onto George Hunt’s forearm and allows Shorty to hoist him onto the sodden wood planks. A fluffy white towel is draped around his shoulders; firm hands rub his chilled biceps. “Are you alright?” You face appears before him.

Joe is almost too stunned to speak, “I—yeah, yeah I’m okay.” 

You tuck the ends of the towel into his hands, “Better get showered up and dressed.” Joe just nods and stumbles past you and into the locker room. Roger follows closely behind, teasing Joe relentlessly.

“You’re fallin’ harder than I thought.”

“Roger!” Joe grinds his teeth, huffing and puffing. “You need better jokes.”

Joe spends that night struggling to focus on his schoolwork. He has math homework that needs doing. He has books to read. The one in his hands now periodically goes in and out of focus as Joe’s mind wanders. On the page is the story of a western novel, a man had found a girl walking alone the road at dusk, all on her own. He didn’t want to leave her to the coyotes, so he offered her a ride into the nearest town. They were riding horseback across the prairie. Her arms wound tightly around him; her hands splayed over his chest. 

Her hands—

Her hands—

What is wrong with you, Joe?

Joe reads this line over and over again. Each time he nears the end his brain short circuits and all he can think about are your hands on your shoulders. You hadn’t even really touched him, at least not his skin.  Yet the only thing shooting through his neurons are the sensations of your fingers along his skin. That imaginary touch he can conjure up so perfectly. He eventually gives in and skips down a few paragraphs. He reads late into the night and the phantom touches are still nagging his senses when he closes the book and rolls over to sleep. 

…

Day after day, Joe sees you at practice. You congratulate him when he makes the team and help him with his technique every once and a while. “Roll your wrists just a bit more.” Your fingers would poke at his forearms and direct him in graceful strokes. It fries his brain. You give pointers to the rest of the team too, working closely with Bolles and Pocock to get them in racing shape. It’s not long into the season when Ulbrickson decides to switch coxswains. 

“This is Bobby Moch. Your new jockey.” Bolles announces one day. Bobby is short and slender and sharp tongued.  The second he climbs in the boat and starts barking out commands, Joe is flabbergasted. Who is Bobby to talk to the team this way? But they all find themselves obeying his every word. What really irks Joe about Bobby is how friendly he is with you. You exchange jokes and poke fun at each other. Joe tells himself that he just thinks it’s inappropriate to flirt with the coach’s wife but beneath it all he’s incredibly jealous that Bobby can make you laugh so easily. It makes Joe pine for attention in a way that he never has before. 

The day of their race against California, Joe is all jitters and nerves. He bounces on the balls of his feet and shakes his hands, trying to loosen the anxiety. Streamers and garlands of flags decorate the locker room and the campus. People have gathered in clusters along the course and wave flags of purple and gold. The smell of popcorn and peanuts permeates the air and Joe promises to indulge himself if they win.

As the crew carried their shell down to the water, they begin chanting to themselves. “Bow down to Washington!” They neglect the varsity’s jeers and clip their oars into position. They spot Coach Ulbrickson in the stands, you at his side. And then there’s another woman. And Ulbrickson hugs her. And then he kisses her.

Right in front of you! What is going on?

“Rantz! Eyes on me!” Bobby hollers. But Joe can’t help stealing another confused glance. “I said quite drooling over coach’s daughter and LOOK AT ME!”

Joe feels like an idiot. He puts his head down in shame and tightens his grip on the oar. Ulbrickson joins them on the dock and gives one of his famously encouraging speeches. Joe is only half paying attention. They push off and are left with lovely Bobby hyping them up while they wait for the race to start. They lean forward, like a bow drawn for a shot. And then the white flag flies and the boats shoot away from the docks.

There’s nothing but blur as Joe rows. He can only focus on the muscled shoulders of Don Hume in the stroke seat as Bobby screams at them. “28!”

About halfway through the course, Bobby demands the stroke rate be upped and Don performs. The shell lurches forward, eating up the distance between Washington and Cal until the JV boat surpasses the Berkeley blokes. Then the boat is cutting across the finish line, a clean win. Adrenaline rushes Joe’s veins. He throws his fists in the air as the team splashes and roars. They’re inevitably drowned out by the crowd who bursts up in a shower of peanuts and Washington flags. 

Coach Ulbrickson, the new woman Joe assumes his Ulbrickson’s wife, and you rush the dock as the boys climb out of the boat. “Excellent job.” Mrs. Ulbrickson shakes their hands as they unclip their oars. Bolles is compassionate enough to give them each a pat on the back as they hoist the boat over their heads and haul it off. 

Joe can’t help but notice the copious amounts of onlookers pooling around the shell as they carry it back to the shellhouse. They set it down on the stands and before they can even take their hands off the shell, they are bombarded by Washington fans. Girls reaching out to stroke their biceps or kiss their cheeks. Joe has never received attention like this once in his life. He’s as polite as possible, brushing off a few girls here and there and shaking the hand of the occasional fellow. Shorty has accumulated a few lipstick stains on his cheek. Don Hume is blushing from the tips of his ears down to the point of his freckled nose. Chuck and Roger accept a few hugs. They bask in the winners’ glory for only a few moments until the varsity team strolls by. They make a comment to Moch that Joe doesn’t catch but judging by the way Bobby’s shoulders square he can make obvious conclusions.

“You rowed so well today, Joe.” He hears your voice, and his palms start to sweat.

“Thanks, I uh—” It occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know a thing about you. “Sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten your name.” You smile at him, and syllables fall out but the crowd is too loud. “What?” Your grasp his shoulder and lean in, the sound of your name echoes off the shell of his ear. 

When you pull away, you’re still smiling but before Joe can ask you another question, Bobby is buzzing by with a play-by-play of exactly what happened in Bobby’s world. 

You shade your eyes and peer down at the docks, “Looks like dad is almost done with the varsity. I should get down there.” You say, and Bobby turns around to talk to Shorty. “Hey. Will I see you at the party tonight?” Your hand rests on Joe’s shoulder. He prays you can’t feel his heart skip a beat. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Good. You had better save a dance for me, Joe Rantz.”

You leave him breathless, the butterflies in his stomach so vicious that he shudders. He watches you disappear down the pathway to the dock and his heart starts hammering with anticipation. You want to dance with him. You want to touch his hands, touch him. And then he remembers that you already did that, he was too focused on the motion of your lips that he’d hardly registered the sensation of your hands on his arm. Damn! What had it felt like? He’d remembered it’d made him flabbergasted and choked his speech but he couldn’t remember how the grooves in your palm felt as they brushed over his skin. The warmth of your fingertips. He curses himself out and vanishes into the locker room to get changed.

…

The dance rolls around rather too quickly and Joe is swimming in nerves. He has to tie his tie twice because he messes up so badly, he can’t even draw it tight to his neck. Roger found out all too quickly and hasn’t let Joe catch a break.

“A date with coach’s daughter. Careful Joe, Ulbrickson might throw you off the team if he catches the wrong look in your eye.” 

“Shut up, Roger, I’m not greasy like you”

“Ouch, that hurts me.”

“Clearly not enough.” Joe hisses as he finally gets his tie right. 

“Feels like I’m a father about to send his kid off to prom.” 

Joe sighs and throws on his suit coat. “Oh, please—”

“Look at you fly, shooting out of your league.” 

Roger works a smile onto Joe’s face, and they set off for the party. Spring is finally warming the campus up from a brutal winter and a few couples mull around outside. Joe and Roger find their way into the crowded gymnasium, both shocked by just how loud it is. Joe can’t even hear his own thoughts. They spot the team almost immediately, clustered around tables, drinks in their hands. A few of the boys are dancing with some lovely dames, a few are leaned against the wall having close conversations. Don is sitting by himself on a bench a few feet away from the refreshment table, watching the dance floor. Joe is turning to follow Roger towards the other boys but an arm loops through his, “Thought you weren’t going to show.” You practically shout. 

Joe can’t help but grin as you capture his attention. “You weren’t joking.”

“Not a bit, Rantz, didn’t have any other dancing plans except for this one.”

“Guess I should make it worth your wait then.” Joe leads you into the thicket of bodies.

He prides himself on the laugh you let out, “please do,” you say as he takes your hands and spins to face you.  He places his hand high on your waist and cradles the other gently in his palm. He can feel the smooth plains of you hand against his. Each crease and each callous. His are no doubt unbelievably rough from the rowing and he would feel bad but right now all he can feel are your fingers lacing through his. “You’re not half bad.” You tease. Joe knows his cheeks are heating up to a flaming red. Probably his ears too. 

His hand migrates to the small of your back as the music changes into a soft slow song. “I’ll be completely honest,” he starts, “I had no idea you were the coach’s daughter.”

“Then who else would I be?” 

“I thought you were his wife.” He looks away sheepishly, but your laughter is so unrestrained and whole that Joe’s heart melts. You can’t stop laughing either and it’s contagious. 

“You’re an engineering student, right?” Your shoes brush as you sway with him. 

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Joyce.” Joe’s heart drops. In his infatuation he’d forgotten all about her. “She was trying to hit on you, but she figured out that your attention was elsewhere.”

“You too are good friends then?”

“Just since the start of the year. We have an English class together.” You and Joe talk for a while, it forces you to be close and neither of you care to separate. Eventually, you move outside and sit with sit with Joe on the steps of the gym. It’s still chilly out and you sit close to Joe which he doesn’t mind one bit. At some point your head rests on his shoulder and you close your eyes. Joe can do nothing but stare down at you, his mouth agape. 

“Why is your heart beating so fast?” You trace his knuckles with your pointer finger.

Joe’s head pounds, his mouth dry, “This has never happened to me before.”

“None of the girls from high school? Never?”

“Not one.”

You look up at Joe and reach to smooth back a blond curl. “Shame, they were missing out.” This makes Joe smile again and he’s immensely pleased with how easily you do that to him. Make him happy. He hasn’t felt like this since… he can’t remember when. Sure, he was happy when the team won but that was different. That was pride. So was making the team. This feels more affectionate, closer to the heart. He wonders if this is what love feels like but that would be silly; he’s only known your name for a day. He’s also never been flattered quite like this. Besides Joyce, he can’t think of anyone else who’s actually been interested in him. Certainly not one who compliments him the way you do. 

People start to drain out of the gym very slowly and Joe checks his watch. “So late already?”

“Guess I should get home; my dad will be wrought with worry.” You joke and straighten out your skirt. 

“Can I walk you home?”

“I would love that.”

Joe offers you his hand, “Where does coach live?” 

“Not too far.” You accept his calloused hand and direct him off campus. Surprisingly, Joe has read the book you’re reading for English and time flies as you discuss the book. Then Joe makes a sobering comment that makes you stop and study him. 

“His parents remind me of my own.”

Joe realizes what he’s let slip, “Don’t worry about it too much. I’m okay.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

Joe presses his lips into a line and stares down at his worn shoes. A wave of self-consciousness washes over him as he realizes how ragged of a life he has lived and just how much it shows. “Well—”

“Is this why you have a hard time trusting your team?”

“Hey now,”

“Sorry.” You take his hands.

He grimaces and squeezes your soft palms. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.” 

Joe sighs and swipes a thumb across your knuckles. “My Pops just… left me one day. Told me I’d be fine on my own.” Joe gives you parts of the story. Mostly what he feels like stomaching at the moment.

When he’s finished you let go of his hands and cup his cheeks. He sinks into the touch, soaking it up like a flower budding in sunlight. You don’t say anything, you just look at him. You look at him like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered and his heart trembles because he has never once known what it’s like to be that for someone else. And then you stand on tip toes and plant a hearty kiss on his forehead. “This is it actually,” you gesture behind you at the hosue that must be the Ulbricksons’. “I’ll see you tomorrow at practice?”

“Yeah.” The spot on his forehead that you kissed tingles. “Nowhere else I’d want to be.”

…

The Poughkeepsie Regatta rolls around all too quickly and Ulbrickson has to make a decision. The varsity boat who deserves it. Or the JV boat who could win it. His hands sweat as he stands on at that pulpit and reads off his preplanned speech. As he talks, he thinks about the future of the rowing program. The jobs it has provided him and Bolles. About how Pocock would have to find work elsewhere and it’d kill Al Ulbrickson to send him away. 

He leans into the mic and spits, “and that boat is our JV boat.” It has to be them. They have to win. Moans and groans blow his way as the crowd rejects his announcement. Regret washes over him but he cannot take this back. He has to be right about his crew. He tips his hat and hustles off the podium as the JV bursts into celebration. He has to be right.

…

Joe is more than pleased to see you on the train to Poughkeepsie. He slides into the car with you, and you chat away. You were fast friends the night of the dance and have since become closer. The kiss on the forehead still lingers sometimes, especially when Joe sees your lips form your smile. You entice him into some card games and eventually a game of chess. At some point, he decides that he needs to sleep and bids you goodnight so that he can find a train car to sleep in. But before he does, he sneaks a chaste kiss onto your knuckles. 

His good mood is stamped out the very next day when the team takes to the water. They don’t row good, and frustration starts to build. Bobby and the coaches try and get them working together, telling them that it’s just nerves and new water. But tensions rise regardless. The days start to dwindle, and the crew is getting worse and worse. 

Blame starts to turn to him, and Joe is at a loss. He doesn’t want to believe that he’s holding the team back, but he thinks back to what you said that night he walked you home. But the most awful feeling creeps over him, not an ounce of care. What’s wrong with him. This crew has been the only family he’s had in years. He needs them. But he can’t bring himself to admit it. 

Before he knows it, it slips and Ulbrickson is exiling him from the boat. As the crew watches Joe storm away, their spare crawls in and they set off for another row. Bolles taps you on the shoulder, “you had better see if you can do anything. Enlist Pocock if you have to.” Your father nods along.

You set out to find him, not that it was hard there’s not many places he can go alone. He’s stuffing his suitcase when you find him. “Don’t start.” He snaps. Then he sees your expression and his anger sours. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t—”

“Don’t give up on your team, Joe.”

“I’m not.”

“You are, you’re quitting and throwing everything you’ve worked for away.”

“Don’t, don’t even start to pretend you know me.” He realizes too late that he’s made everything so much worse and before he can fix a thing Pocock is at the door.

“I could use some help putting another coat of oil on the shell.”

You duck past Pocock and leave Joe with a painful pit of remorse in his stomach. He follows Pocock and takes the talking to straight to the heart. As he lathers on a thick coat of oil, he figures he can bargain with Ulbrickson in the morning, but he should make a proper apology to you now. He racks his brain for anything that would make it right, but he’s horrifically inexperienced and it’s crippling him now. He feels like a child having a tantrum. He feels miniscule and insignificant.

After Joe dunks his brush into the whale oil can for the last time, he figures he’d better just confront the issue head on since he has no way of handling it delicately. He has no grace and he’s sure you’re aware of this. Pocock gives him an encouraging pat and takes the can from him. Joe winds his way back to the hotel and through the halls. Your room is on the second floor, third door down. He knocks gently, eyes lingering on the hideous carpet and tacky sconces. The door swings open after a moment and Joe is met with your disapproving glower. His tongue seems to swell in his mouth so badly that he worries it’ll flop out when he tries to speak. 

“Coffee?” You ask when you realize he will stand there silently forever if you don’t let him in. 

“No… I just wanted to—to apologize.”

“Oh really.” Your eyebrow quirks.

Joe is fumbling for words. You stand aside and motion for him to step inside so you can have this discussion in privacy. “I know that was wrong to take out my frustration on you. That wasn’t fair and none of it is your fault.” He twiddles his thumbs. How does he go about this without absolutely butchering it? “I just—” As he trails off, he notices a hurt dullness in your eyes. He recognizes it as pity. “You and the crew are really all I’ve got, and I’m so scared I’m going to lose it.”

“These boys aren’t going to leave you behind unless you separate yourself from them like today.”

“I know.

“Really?”

“Pocock made sure I know.”

The edges of your lips tilt up. You pull him down onto the foot of the bed and take his hand. “Are you actually going to try and trust them?”

“Don’t have enough faith to put it in anyone else.”

You squeeze his hand and trace a finger along his jawline, sweeping a knuckle under his chin. You force his stubborn gaze to you and find nothing but desperation. Wanting things like this doesn’t come natural to Joe and it shows, but he’s not so different from the other boys in that boat. 

You reach up and fiddle with a curl, “apology accepted.” Tears pool in the corners of his eyes and he tries to choke them down. You place a hand on his chest and rest your forehead on his. His breath fans over your cheeks. The tip of his nose brushes yours. His shoulders sag inwards and he reaches for your waist. 

“Can I—may I kiss you?”

Joe’s sweetness never fails to amaze you. You cradle his face and bring him closer. “Yes, Joe.” His breath hitches and his lips finally meet yours for the very first time. He’s gentle but generous and lets you kiss him for as long as you like. His arms wrap around you fully and hold you to his chest. He gets the feeling that he’ll be craving these moments all the time now, finally understanding what Roger and Chuck rave about. He’s hooked on your lips and your weight against him and when you pull away it breaks his heart. 

“You should get cleaned up before you talk to my father, you smell like whale oil.”

...

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading this. If you'd like to request, feel free to do so. I always love you in my inbox. I hope you enjoyed this fic and if you like it please check out my masterlist for more. Have nice day.

-the author

[vampiricgf]

☆ WOE TO THE LAMB THAT DISPUTES THE WOLF

ᝰ A silly bet of who can outrun whom in the pitch dark woods, just remember to the victor go the spoils (repost from old account)

f!reader, predator/prey, dry humping, blood drinking, fear play, outdoor sex

You knew it had been cocky the moment the words left your mouth, floating through the air like motes of dust in the wind but your pride would never allow you to snatch them back, keep them held tight against your chest in denial.

There was no room for anything to matter but the pounding of your feet against the dirt. Not the sharp sting of branches catching at your arms, pulling light tears in the flesh, nor the growing kaleidoscope of bruises on your legs from tripping over yourself and various roots as you tore through the small wood surrounding Rivington.

Adrenaline, all encompassing like a wave bettering you against rocks, meant you paid little attention to these crucial slip ups.

The wolf at your back was drawing ever closer.

Despite being soundless in shadow the mere suggestion of his presence was unrelenting, never allowing even a moment of stillness. You had used an elixir of elven elegance just attempting to stay ahead but you could feel your stamina depleting from running at a consistently breakneck pace ever since.

Yet you pushed on, knowing you had to be close to the agreed upon finish line.

It had been all manner of foolishness to make a bet with a vampire on who could outhunt whom under the cover of night. Seeing the sly grin paint his face should have told you the victor would be predetermined the moment you both set your sights on each other. But alas your curse to bear was believing even for a second that diligent training could trump supernatural ability.

A hunter was only as good as their weapon, and only as reliable as their senses.

Right now you have neither in any abundance.

He’d even agreed to give you a head start, which had only inflamed your ego at the beginning but now you were grateful for the pity. It had been generous, given the fact that you’re outclassed in terms of sheer speed and accuracy.

All the advantages you believed you had burned away, crumbling like the ashes of ignited paper, when you'd been forced to deviate from the path you’d set in your mind. It was artful, the way he directed you by making you believe he was about to lunge out at you from the dense pockets of foliage, baited you with sounds that disgusted his location, forced your mind to play nasty little tricks on you, and you played the dutiful mouse being led through the maze.

Fear wasn’t anything foreign to you, and while you knew rationally that this was simply sick fun, the primal part of your brain failed to grasp the message. And he used that to his full advantage.

A chorus of victorious laughter broke your fragile concentration, seeming to come from your left flank and the world went sideways in a fraction of a second.

Even though he'd held back it did little to mitigate the force of impact, nor the face full of dirt you got as he pinned one arm behind your back with his breath fanning the back of your neck. It sent shivers like shockwaves down your spine as his teeth grazed the shell of your ear.

“Look what I caught-”

You flinched involuntarily but the automatic response didn't mask how your thigh muscles squeezed, something he felt without a doubt as he straddled you.

His smug aura emanated enough that you didn't need to see him to know he was grinning, could feel the way his fingers twitched like live wires as he held you fast.

“You win,” you gasp out, wriggling in his hold but meeting light resistance.

You still upon feeling his nose nuzzle downward against your neck, the tiniest whimper escaping your lips as his tongue swipes across your sweat damp skin. The groan he lets out at the taste is enough to nearly make you cum on the spot.

"And what do I get for my victory?”

Your lungs seize in your chest, a burning bloom of embarrassment and desire that grasp hold of your tongue in a vice grip.

He gives you just enough slack and room to turn over on your back before grabbing your hands, lacing your fingers together in a choking clasp. “To the victor go the spoils, isn't that right?”

It's like the world is suddenly cast immobile in rich, mellow amber; a perfectly frozen diagram of a beast of myth right before its jaws open wide enough to swallow the world.

The way his pupils dilate until only a thin ring of crimson is present expands in your vision until it's all you can see, all that is present coupled with the brutal hammering of your pulse that you know is audible to him.

The drag of his tongue against his teeth plays out before you in a slow crawl, his movements like seeping honey and as your adrenaline reaches its crescendo his lips press against yours.

Cold, frenzied, sloppy.

It's a kiss made of teeth, tongues, and spit as his hips grind against you and your fingers claw at the hem of his shirt. You can't help but whine into his mouth, and every noise is swallowed down like fine vintage as he pushes icy hands beneath your shirt, shamelessly groping the planes of your flesh, kneading at your breasts. It isn't long before he's nearly panting over you, pressing his erection against your clothed cunt so firmly it robs you of breath yet again.

Under the ever watchful gaze of the trees you're both stripped of shirts, his lips mapping the contours of your throat as if he hasn't traveled the road a thousand times, as if he couldn't find your veins blinded.

You are the feast table he needs no guidance towards.

In the throes of delirium you almost don't feel the initial pinpricks of his fangs until the pain blossoms as they're driven further through layers of skin, the wounds widening to accommodate and relinquish a greater flow of the red gold that floods his mouth and drowns his tongue.

When his lips close around the wound to suck your hips buck up against him, fingers sinking into the hardness of his shoulder blades as you two rut in the dirt: a mass of sweat, blood, and arousal so primitive it only heightens the obscenity.

His own hands hold you steady as he basks in every touch from you and every movement of your hips, nearly garbled whimpers against your neck and you can tell just the friction alone has him teetering on the edge.

Through the euphoric haze a wicked thought takes root in your mind as your hand slides down between your bodies, caressing him through his trousers and coaxing him to a premature end.

You feel his fingers tightening in your hair, a subtle plea that you're quick to answer, the motion of your hand becoming urgent as he grinds against your palm and moans shamelessly into the now numb patch of flesh at the side of your throat.

When you feel the little quakes and shivers racking his body, the warmth spreading against the fabric, and the hushed garble of your name you know it's not he who has won.

In a kiss drenched in the second hand taste of your own blood you can't help the self satisfied grin that overtakes your lips.

In the smattering of moonlight shot through gaps in the branches you relish in your small victory, already eager to challenge him again.

[another-lost-mc]

Lucifer pretends not to know what is you’re doing when you send him sexy texts while he’s working away at RAD. He would rather do all the things you’re describing in person anyway, but alas, he must finish this paperwork for the student council first. And don’t you have class anyway? So maybe he doesn’t respond in the way you want him to but all it does drive you to more extreme methods.

He thinks the ding of his DDD is another attempt at enticing him to sext with you while you’re both busy at RAD but when he opens the text, it’s an image of you halfway undressed in the bathroom stall. That makes him do a double take. Oh, so that’s how you want to play? All right then.

Lucifer: Stay right where you are. I’m on my way.

➤ mid-day run | lucifer x reader

0.8k words | nsfw | gn!reader

cw: inappropriate use of RAD bathroom stalls; semi-public sex; slight degradation

The bathroom fills with the soft sounds of skin slapping against skin. Lucifer barely had to prepare you with his thick, gloved fingers—your body was stretched and dripping with anticipation for him. It only took a moment for him to unbuckle his pants and shimmy them low around his hips so his cock could spring free. The first deep thrust knocked the air out of you, and he buried his own groan in your shoulder. “You little slut, have you always been so needy?”

Your only response is a keening whine from the back of your throat, and he muffles the noise with two of his fingers. You swallow around them and taste yourself mixed with the earthy leather. There’s not much room to move, and Lucifer’s fingers curled around your hip and against the base of your throat keep you exactly where he wants you. All you can do is try to match his unsteady rhythm and chase the pleasure only he can offer you. You arch your back to try and draw him in deeper, so the fat tip of his cock keeps grazing that spongy spot hidden inside that makes your toes curl in your shoes.

He knows exactly what you're trying to do, but there's a lesson to be learned first. He presses down against your throat with the tiniest bit of pressure as he breathes a chuckle close to your ear. “You send me filthy messages, seduce me to come fuck you where anyone could find us, and you think you deserve to cum?”

“I couldn’t h-help it, I wanted you so bad—“

He cuts off your feeble excuses with a sharp snap of his hips, suddenly changing his pace to a deep, slow grind inside you instead of the disjointed thrusting from moments before. “Your grades aren’t good enough to be this distracted by lust, you sinful little creature.” His voice rumbles with a purr in your ear, and you know some of the annoyance is genuine. “We’re going to walk out of here, sweaty and reeking of sex, and whose fault will that be, hmm?” He bites your earlobe when you don’t respond—not enough to hurt, but enough to clear the pleasurable fog clouding your mind.

“It’s my fault,” you whimper. Your cheeks burn with frustration and humiliation in equal measure. He’s not moving at all anymore, simply warming his cock with your body while he reminds you what happens when you play these little games.

“Not such a dumb slut after all,” he murmurs. He kisses your neck and starts thrusting again, fast and rough and purposeful. The hand around your neck slides down your body and starts stroking between your legs. His hand around your hip holds you up when your knees buckle at the force of your orgasm hurtling out of nowhere.

One of your hands is braced against the stall, but you reach back with the other until your fingers find purchase in his hair, messy and damp with sweat. He groans when you tug on the black-grey locks, and he glances down so he can watch his cock disappear inside you. “Where do you want me to cum?” he asks, offering a small mercy because he knows some of his options are messier than others. “All over your pretty little ass?" He smacks you lightly and then gropes the soft, fatty flesh with his fingers in apology. "Or between your thighs?”

You shake your head desperately. “Inside, please, I wanna feel all of you. I'm so close, I can’t—“ You shake as your orgasm washes over you first. Your body squeezes him and it drags pleasure from him too, and you both cum together. You bite into the sleeve of your uniform to muffle your cries while he bites his lip and grunts through his release. He pumps his hips until he’s completely emptied. His cum starts dribbling down the inside of your thigh when his softening cock slips free.

He tucks himself back into his pants while you catch your breath. He keeps one arm wrapped around you; your legs are still trembling and he doesn't want you to fall. His other hand reaches for the handkerchief he keeps in his pocket so you can clean yourself up. He happens to glance down and he realizes there's something captivating about the way your cum-slicked thighs glisten in the harsh light overhead. He pulls his D.D.D. from his pocket instead and you look over your shoulder, brows furrowed until your eyes widen with realization. “You look charming like this," he teases with a smirk as he takes a picture. Your face and chest are blurry in the photo; the swell of your bare ass and the mess between your legs are crystal-clear. It's a lovely memento of your time together, and he can't wait for the opportunity to tease you with it when you least expect it.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 30

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: can't wait for Friday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Mr. Laufeyson reappears as the tea steeps. You pour him a cup and bring it to him, quiet and bashful. Despite washing away the mess, your hand still feels strange.

He takes it and eyes the amber liquid. He blows over it and sips tentatively. He checks his watch.

"Alas, as much as I'd love to say and... watch," he drawls, "I do have somewhere to be."

This surprises you but you try not to let it show. You should be happy for the respite, some time to get yourself together, to try to understand all the emotions and sensations unfurling inside you. You nod and clasp your hands together.

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson, I'll continue cleaning," you avow.

"Hm, yes, please do make sure to put away the clothing in the bedroom. My sister left them in the front room. You make make space in the closet," he explains. "As well, I've let the carpenter in, if you haven't heard--" he pauses for effect as the dull, distant hammering carries through the wall, "as it were, you've proven yourself capable. I cannot speak to my return but I trust all will be in order."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you answer.

His eyes flit up to you and his lips slant. His cheek ticks but he doesn't speak. He merely arches a brow and spins on his foot and waltzes away with his tea. You watch him, almost reverently. You never noticed how nice his shoulders look in those shirts...

✨

With the house empty, you find your work is simple. You can focus, not so distracted or paranoid by Mr. Laufeyson's looming presence. You finish your usual sweep of the first floor and carry the piles of clothing upstairs in several trips. 

You're out of breath as you slide open the closet and do your best to fit in the dresses, skirts, blouses, and a few pairs of pants. The stockings and undergarments you fit in one of the drawers below the hanging jackets. You can't help but take your time as you admire all the lovely colours and fabrics.

You're struck by a thought. When he's done with you, do you get to keep these or do these only come with the work? With your peculiar arrangement. You falter and shut the closet. 

You tidy up the spare hangers and try not to think. You look down at the black velvet under the white apron. You look ridiculous. You're dressed like a whore. That's what this is, isn't it?

Your skin scalds as you shove away the hangers in the hallway closet and return to the bedroom. You can't keep this on. It's like a brand marking you. You pull out a plain pair of black pants and a rosy blouse. It'll do.

You've been so caught up in everything, it's as if you've completely detached from reality. There's more than this house and Mr. Laufeyson and his orders. What about your father? Your real home. You grab your phone and stare at the screen, wanting to dial his number, but thinking better of it. You swipe away the several missed calls from the electric company.

You shake off the malaise but it trails after you. You go to the library and settle in behind the laptop. You sit and stare at the clustered excel and rub your eyes. You can't seem to focus. The dull thumping draws your attention from the glare of the screen and you go to the window, tearing open the curtains.

You peer out but can't quite see past the hedges. It's a beautiful day. You could go around, just to make sure nothing needs tending. It's a weak excuse but one you'll gladly take.

You leave the library and descend the stairs, a pair of flats in hand. Oh, you didn't even put out any water. You go to the kitchen to fetch a jug and glass. You carry it to the back door and stop to slip on the shoes.

You go out into the sunshine as your eyes slit against the bright yellow sheen. You balance the jug and glass as best you can as you follow the path down to the gazebo. The hammering is quieted but you can hear Ronan's footsteps on the wooden stairs. You blink through the sunny haze as you enter the shade and catch sight of him.

"Morning," you greet him as you stop just at the bottom. He turns to you and offers a small curve of his lips. He wears a sweat-stained tank which shows off the top his chest and his muscular arms.

"Morning, miss," he returns, "how are you?"

"Alright, you?" You ask, "I brought some water."

"Thank you," his voice rumbles from his chest as he wipes his forehead, "haven't seen you in a while."

"Uh, well, I've been busy," you chew your lip.

He comes down the steps and takes the jug and glass from you. He places them at the edge of the second step and turns back to you.

"Oh yes, I'm sure that boss of yours keeps you all tied up," he muses, "your little chipmunk friend has been looking for you, I think."

"Really?" You look around, "I... I guess I should try to get out more."

You reach back to scratch your neck. You're suddenly regretting your choice. Facing him makes you burn from more than the beaming sunlight. You're sure he can see right through you.

"I should... uh," you point weakly behind you.

"Yes, suppose you should," he sighs, "shouldn't take much longer."

"Um," you look past him, "yeah, er, looks really good."

"Mm," he hums curtly, "see ya around, then."

He turns back and hops back up the steps. You frown and dip your chin down. You walk away glumly, kicking your feet around heavily. 

It's your own fault. You forget your place, you forget who and what you are. No one cares about you, they only have a use for you, and you're better off out of his way.

✨

As Ronan pulls through the gate, a toot comes from the other side. You keep the switch held down as Mr. Laufeyson’s car glides through. His return darkens the black cloud that's formed in his absence.

He gets out, light on his feet as he swiftly heads up the walk. You close the gate, put off by his brusque disregard. He's reverted to cool sternness. 

You follow a few minutes after him but find no sign of him inside. You wet your lips and go upstairs. You enter the library silently and sit in front of the laptop.

There's a block in his schedule but no label. You've been staring at it for some time, trying to figure it out. You lean forward as you click through notes.

“Hard at work, I see,” he enters with the droll remark, “I see this place is spotless, and yet here you are…”

You look at him and blink. 

“Mr. Laufeyson, did I miss–”

He quiets you as he reaches to touch the collar of your blouse, “I did not bid you to change.”

“I… sorry, Mr. Laufeyson, I finished cleaning–”

“But I did not finish with you,” he retorts.

You blanch and stand up, shifting awkwardly between the chair and him. He catches you by the shoulders and his eyes glint. He tilts his head and you hit the armrest.

“I also told you I dealt with the carpenter, didn't I?” He snarls.

His tone slices through you and you wince, “sorry, I only–”

“I don’t want to hear excuses. I only want you to do your duty. Obey, that is it.”

You snap your mouth shut and pout. You look down and bring your hand together, wringing them as you sway. A thought flickers and lights an epiphany.

“How…” you peek up, “how do you know I went out there?”

He tilts his head dangerously, “since when do you question me?”

You shrug and look away. He grabs your chin and puts your head straight, crowding you against the chair. He leans in as his green eyes bore into yours.

“As fun as you are, pet, I am not fond of disobedience. You grow careless and it is not becoming,” he sneers.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Laufeyson,” you gulp, “I…” you wiggle your nose, “I will listen. I promise.” Your lower lip trembles, “what do you want me to do?”

He considers you, his jaw tensing. He lets you go gruffly and flutters his fingers as he sighs. He struts to the door as you stare dumbly. Did you say the wrong thing? How? Why is he so upset? You didn’t do anything. You’re confused.

He said he wanted you, didn’t he? So why is he walking away?

He stops in the doorway of his study. He reaches to grip the frame and lingers there.  He lowers his head and turns. You look at his profile as he thinks beneath the shroud of his eyelashes. They flick up and scan over to you.

“Yes, let’s work on your obedience, pet,” he lets go of the door frame and turns as he wags his finger at you, “pull up that chair.” He goes to the other side of the desk, “here.”

You take his command eagerly. If you’re good, he won’t be mad. If you’re good, he’ll say nice things again. If you’re good, he won’t throw you away.

You struggle to lift the heavy chair but do. You scrape it just before you put it where he points. You step back, expecting him to claim the seat himself. He tuts as he steps back on his heel.

“Sit, pet.”

Again, you accept his order without a thought. You lower yourself onto the edge of the chair and await his next demand. He looks down on you, his eyes narrowing on either side of his long nose. He brings his hand up to tug on the knot of his tie just before letting it trail down to the end. His throat bobs and he exhales slowly, his chest deflating.

“Do you recall the game we played earlier?” He asks.

You nod. Of course, you remember. It’s stuck in your head.

“Well then, you may go ahead,” he gestures to his trousers.

You let your eyes descend from his face. Your gaze crawls down his long torso and to his belt. The burgundy leather looped through the brown fabric. You twitch then steady yourself. There’s something in you that’s excited, and that other part that’s terrified.

You unbuckle his belt shakily. Clumsy as you catch the little stick on several holes before you get it loose. You let the leather fall lax and fumble with the metal button, your head pounding at the air trapped in your chest. You pinch the tab of his zipper and tug it down, little by little.

He wears no briefs, as if he planned this. Maybe he did. You don’t care. None of that matters. You know what he wants. You need to think of that before you ever think about what you want. Maybe you want the same thing. That tickle between your legs seems to say so.

He shifts as he pokes out of the top of his pants. You spread his fly open as he bulges through. You push his trousers down a little further and let out a gasp. Up close, he looks even bigger than before. It’s still so new to you, so strange, a bit silly looking even.

You raise your hand and touch him. You brush your fingertips against his taut skin and he groans. You wrap your fingers around him lightly as he braces his hips, tilting his pelvis slightly.

“Tighter,” he growls.

You obey. You squeeze and pump up, then down. He shudders and lets out another groan. His fingertips curl into his hips. You keep going, the same motion, the same noise. You do it several times as you feel the tension coiling in him.

As you play with him, heat speckles in your thighs and your core sparks. You wince as Mr. Laufeyson’s hand surprises you, reaching forward to pet your cheek, then trails up over your hair. He hums and spreads his fingers behind your head.

“Pet,” he rasps, “with your mouth.”

He pulls you forward just a bit and you squeak. You look up at him, shocked. He can’t mean… that.

“Mmm, pet, please, yes, keep looking at me,” his other hand loosens your other from his dick. 

He grips his base and steps closer, angling his tip against your lower lip. You try to pull back but he keeps you in place. He grasps your head tighter and crushes his swollen head to your lips. You have no choice but to open up to him.

He slips into your mouth as you close your eyes. He tisks and fists your hair, tugging.

“I said look at me.”

You snap your eyes open, peering up helplessly as he urges into you. An inch, then another, then another, until he pokes at your throat. You murmur as he eases back then in again. The wet noise of you around him curdles in your stomach yet the glow in your pelvis radiates hotter.

“Mmm, pet,” he drags you along his length slowly, rocking his hips slightly, “don’t you like to obey me?”

You hum around him and he grunts. He prods at your throat with each thrust, each time blunter than the last. Your eyes glisten as tears bobble along the brims. For more than the discomfort, but the shame. The realisation of what he’s doing to you, of what you’re letting him do.

You latch onto the arms of the chair as you slide closer to the edge of the chair. He brings his other hand to your head, gripping it firmly as he uses your mouth. Your eyes roll back behind the lids and he snarls.

“Open,” he sneers, “look at me, pet.”

You sniffle, barely able to breath as he speeds up. Your tears flow free as you look up at him and his green irises darken as his pupils dilate. He bites his lips and growls as he stills you, instead tilting his hips into you. He hits your throat again, this time breaking past the resistance. 

You gag and spasm but he doesn’t relent. He holds himself there, wiggling his pelvis as his thumb stretches to touch a droplet along your cheek. He purrs and rolls back before gliding back into your slick mouth.

“When you look at that carpenter, I want you to remember this. I want you to remember who you belong to,” he hisses around pleasured grunts.

You bat your wet lashes as you sit mercilessly in his thrall. Your vision blurs as your mortification swells over and your body wracks as his intensity builds. Through it all, your mind wanders to the den and the camera hidden on the mantle. It can’t be the only one. It’s the only way he would know.

But it isn’t him who’s wrong. It’s his house, his rules, and you disobeyed him. He told you he dealt with Ronan, he told you who you belong to. You didn’t listen and this is the lesson you learn.

[dancingtotuyo]

“come here often?”

Javier Peña x female reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: fucking men in bathrooms of dirty bars isn’t your usual cup of tea, but sometimes you make exceptions.

Warnings/Tags: strangers, alcohol consumption, sex (p in v), unprotected sex (wrap it up), mirror sex, dirty bathroom, rough sex, mentions of bruising, hair pulling (reader has hair long enough to pull), degradation, 1 slap on the ass, Javi is a menace, Javi touches reader in flirtatious ways without consent, hints of exhibitionism, use of “good girl”, dirty talk, aftercare, soft! Javi at the end. Let me know if I missed anything.

Notes: I’m hardly the first to write Javier fucking you over the bathroom sink of a bar, and I hope I am not the last. If I had a list of all the wonderful fics I’ve read with this scenario, I would supply one, but alas, my capacity to keep track of fics does not exist (believe me, I’ve tried).

This little fic came from a silly little writing game I’ve been playing with some friends. Thanks @wannab-urs for giving me the spark of inspo that started this. I also took inspiration from @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and her fic, hand in unlovable hand, on this one! Shoutout @fhatbhabie for giving this baby a once over! @janaispunk for helping me sort out tags. @saradika for the dividers. And all my other amazing encouragers! You know who you are 🫶 ILYSM.

Words: 1171

You sit at the bar, swirling the whisky in front of you. You’re bored and in need of something to do on the hot summer night. Sweat collects in little beads across your skin, and you finish off the glass.

In the heat of the night, you don’t think you’d notice the presence of another behind you, but you do. It’s heavy and brooding. You feel it across your entire back as the person leans in beside you. His broad shoulders cover your frame.

“Ever heard of personal space?” You cock an eyebrow

He chuckles at you. A dark, thick mustache sits above his upper lip, highlighting his perfect teeth.

“A whiskey for me, and another for the lady,” he says to the bartender.

It is the least he could do.

He doesn’t move, keeping his eyes on you, letting his eyes roam across your body. He’s less than subtle about it. He catches a bead of sweat as it falls from your neck, tracking it down between your breasts, exposed in the sundress you wear. Finally, it slips out of his sight

He licks his lips, letting his forearm rest against the bar. “Come here often?”

You want to roll your eyes at the cliche words, but his lips are right at your ear, breath fanning over your bare skin. It sends a jolt straight to your core

You meet his gaze with stubbornness shining in your eyes. “No, I don’t tend to enjoy being eyed up by sleaze balls”

He chuckles deeply again, fingertips tracing your shoulder gently. “Good thing I’m here to keep them away.”

The bartender sets the drinks in front of you, giving you a look that asks if you want him to chase the man off. You shake your head. You can take care of him

“What are you? God’s gift to humanity?”

He smirks. “Some say that, yeah.”

You roll your eyes.

“C'mon, Hermosa. I think you’ll like it.” You brush him off, yet, he draws closer “I think you like sleaze balls like me making you feel good in seedy bars.”

“What makes you think you can make me feel good?”

“I like a good challenge” he winks

And god, if that doesn’t work. Your core clenches. Your stomach drops. You want to melt. Throwing down the whiskey, your eyes dart around until you find the sign for the bathroom. You don’t say a word. Adding a sway to your hips, you saunter off, heart pounding a million miles a minute.

You enter the bathroom. The door doesn’t even have a chance to close before his hands are on your hips. He kicks the door closed, making sure it’s locked. He pushes you forward, and your hands find purchase on the basin sink

The bathroom is small. It’s dingy and disgusting, but you don’t care.

“You are a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” he whispers in your ear, biting down on your earlobe

You let out a soft moan, tossing your head back. He cups your breast through the thin material of your sundress, and your nipples harden.

“Please” you stutter

“Please what, Darlin?”

“Fuck me” you moan.

He downright growls, shoving your hips into the sink. It hurts, but you can’t help but love it.

He flips your dress up to find your aching cunt dripping for him. “Just what I thought.” He clicks his tongue. “Such a good little slut. All this for me.” He runs his fingers through your dripping folds and then brings his finger to his nose smelling your juices before sucking his fingers clean. “Taste and smell so good for me, Hermosa.”

You whine.

“Just for me, right?” He says, running a hand over your ass, giving it a nice squeeze. You whine, core clenching around air.

You’re a pathetic, dripping mess

And you love it

His hand tangles in your hair, tugging you up roughly. “I said, just for me- right?” He smacks your ass and you moan.

“Yes, yes, just for you.”

“Good girl.” He lets go of your hair. You drop over the sink, panting heavily. You hear the buckle of his jeans.

Looking up just enough to see your reflection in the mirror, your hair is a mess. Mascara smudges under your eyes. Then, your eyes drift to him. His thick cock springs out of his jeans. The fucker isn’t wearing underwear, but you’re not complaining. It’s one less obstacle, and the sooner he’s in you, the better

He catches you eying him and smirks. “You like what you see, Hermosa?”

You nod, letting out a soft whimper

He smirks, hands moving back to your ass, squeezing and massaging it “You’re gonna take it so good for me.”

He lines himself up at your entrance. You only get a half second until he’s splitting you in two, forcing himself into you fully and completely. Your hips run into the sink again, the porcelain cool against your raging flesh. Your legs spread further of their own accord. You cry out, not caring if the whole goddamn bar hears you.

He withdraws and you feel empty until he’s ramming back into you. It goes on like that over and over and over. Tears drip down your face. Your moans of pleasure echo off the walls until you’re sure you’ve drawn spectators outside the door. With each thrust, your hips run into the sink. The balance between pain and pleasure quickly sends you to the edge, tension curling in your stomach.

Your legs shake. “Please, I’m so close.”

“You’re such a good girl, and a tight fucking cunt too.” He grits out, skin slapping against yours. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Yes, please.” His cock hits deep within you. Your breath catches. “Javier! I wanna cum for you.”

His fingers find your clit, his pace keeping steady and you’re coming in seconds, drenching his cock. He’s not far behind you, emptying himself inside you with a loud moan.

He pulls out of you, taking a second to collect himself. You’re draped over the sink, unable to move.

He pulls his pants up, tucking himself into his pants like it’s just another Tuesday.

He comes over to you, pulling you up gently, letting your skirt fall back into place. You struggle still to catch your breath. He cups your cheeks, wiping away the tears and smudged mascara, smoothing out your hair. You feel him leaking out of you.

“Too much?” He asks

You smile breathlessly “Just right”

He chuckles, kissing you softly, hands finding your waist. “Good girl.”

Once you’re home, he cleans you up, kissing your hips where bruises have already started to form.

He snuggles in close to you, both naked and without the comforter due to the heat, pressing soft kisses to your head.

His fingertips trail across your body aimlessly.

You let your eyes fall shut to his beating heart. “Wouldn’t mind doing that again sometime.”

He laughs, brushing your hair back as your breathing evens out. “I’ll keep that in mind, Darlin.”

[sommerregenjuniluft]

something something day of the week snippet

helo tumblr *wrings hands* i've been a little mia recently especially in tag thingies because we've not been doing too hot mentally but alas here i am :p

@grimsneverendingfuneral tagged me (kissing u) in a mouthwatering rosekiller wip snippet and i saw saints' too so i thought i'd just keep the theme going so have some Ant Pile (btw i'm trying to finish this until my birthday so mid february! fingers crossed you get everything of this soon)

Evan hits him upside the head making Barty growl. “Well, bitch boy, maybe. Since it seems you like to do that so fucking much.” 

“Dickface.”

“Bitch boy.”

“You–” and then Barty’s upper lip pulls back and- oh, fuck no.

“Ay! Don’t fucking bite me again, B,” Evan rears his arm back and out of reach, “I swear to– get the fuck off.”

Barty snarls, teeth bared in a too wide smile, cheeks crinkling with stretched dimples. Evan is only mildly obsessed with them whenever they pop out.

That’s probably the reason Barty gets the opportunity to make a swift grab for his wrists and pin them over his head. They scramble against each other, trying to win the upper hand as their legs wriggle, slip, knees knocking, and then Barty is suddenly perched on his chest, straddling his torso and sinking his teeth into the soft underside of Evan’s forearm.

He cries out through clenched teeth, more startled than hurt, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting like a motherfucker as Barty’s jaw stays clamped shut around Evan’s flesh.

There’s a sucked in breath against Evan’s skin, sounding excited, and there must be some kind of blood flow interruption because his head gets a little dizzy then.

It draws a noise out of him, body involuntarily starting to squirm and eventually prompting Barty to let up.

The first thing Evan feels is relief which is promptly inundated. Another noise punching out of him, a pained hiss when the marked skin starts throbbing. 

Barty above him gives a pleased chuckle, then a wet slurping noise, collecting the spit back up into his mouth. 

Another throb, whole-body, and Evan groans.

Barty adjusts on top and leans down again.

Evan’s eyes fly open, frantically wiggling to get away but Barty’s grip is iron and then there’s something warm-wet. Pleasant.

Evan blinks and tips his head back, something lodging in his throat when he watches Barty lap over the teeth indents with his tongue. Warm and careful, a soothing gesture. 

He doesn’t slobber on it, rather alternating between long swipes with the flat of his tongue and little kitten licks. Until Barty makes a small sound and then his lips come down over the marred skin too.

Soft pressure, damp lips coming down randomly over and over again, here and there and over there, too.

A constant, recurring puff of breaths spilled over Evan���s sensitive skin, much too gentle in the face of the firm way Barty’s hand still holds him down by the wrists.

“B,” Evan chokes out when he feels some of the returning blood rushing south too.

His friend grunts, not really in acknowledgement but more in a dismissive let me cook here way and Evan bites down hard on his lower lip. That doesn’t help him suppress the startled moan though when Barty suddenly sucks the pulsing skin into his mouth.

Adam’s apple bobbing and holding the patch of skin in his mouth, cheeks hollowing and takes everything in Evan not to buck his hips when he feels himself twitch in his pants.

Evan’s voice is so husky he barely recognizes it himself when he strangles out, “Barty, you gotta let go.”

The skin pops out of his mouth with a wet smacking noise and Evan feels positively stupid as he watches Barty’s lips come down for one more gentle kiss like he just can’t help himself.

Barty sits back, still kind of looking at Evan like he wants to eat him, hands sliding off his wrists and Evan barely refrains from whimpering.

“Fuck, I hate you. You’re insane,” he pants, feeling where Barty is hard against his stomach, “Why was that hot?”

“Dunno,” Barty responds, eyes still glazed and staring down at Evan with something akin to awe. “Kinda wanna do that to your neck now.”

i have lost any concept of time and as mentioned been not too active so apologies if youve been tagged in one of these fairly recently lol <3 @stagpdf, @static-radio-ao3, @itsjaywalkers, @rottin6, @veryinnovative, @messrsage, @maliceofminds, @lemndrps, @214lilacsky, @regscupid, @xjustakay, @standardlovers and @kaleidoscopexsighs

[satuwn]

i have decided to randomly infodump about my lab rats as a way to motivate myself to: 1) revamp existing characters old refs and 2) DRAW THE GD REFERENCES OF THE REST OF THE BITCHES (this will probably take me ages still. alas), more rambly details abt the story and characters under the cut

the main characters: Dr. Kitty Whisker and her twin sibling Happy(tbd), Dr. Brainworms, Gummi (comic relief character mostly), Prof. Fuzzybottom(tbd) and Prof. Snakebite (previously known as prof. pinky, i need to redesign him more heavily)

the side characters (these guys may have side stories of their own but theyre mostly just an excuse for me to design more weird lab rats): Prof. Smartypants - ref to be finished, ferret with a brain of a human, she is my 'authors blatant self insert' into my own story lol; Fishsticks (drawn, a dissected mouse/frog stitched together), (the rest of these dont have names yet) a rat/chick hybrid with funy lil chicken legs, a rat/gator/shark hybrid she is punk and goth and she Bites, a mouse/cat dna mix with a surprisingly tragic backstory that im still working out, more tba

each lab rat represents usually an amalgamation of different experiments as the lab they are in is 'cheap' with their test subjects and likes to Repurpose old, usually failed experiments and do other stuff to them! honestly even if theyre a success they still end up getting experimented on more lol but they are still unimportant enough and the lab big enough where they can hide themselves away and have their own space w/o being actively searched for. ofc the world of the setting is based on our own reality but way more Hyperreal, i dont aim to represent logical feats of science bc a lot of these guys would defs be revolutionary (and impossible) irl lol. i will briefly run down what each main character is a result of but ideally id like to go into more detail when i actually. make the story more visual in whatever format i decide to do (probably experimental and non linear snippets, i dont think im smart enough for a full comic)

Dr. Kitty and Happy are twins! they were the result of an experiment where the scientists were testing if one species of rodent could gestate a different species of rodent just thru a little genetic modification. and that was Happy! he is actually a bunny born from a rat mother and with all rat siblings (one of them being Kitty) hes a bit smaller in stature than a usual bunny being more rat sized but other than that just a bnuuy! further experiments on them was how well skin grafting would work between different yet similar species. it worked for Kitty (hence the bunny ear) but not so much for Happy... both of them had separate experiments done on them also, altho Kitty was more rebellious of the two earning her the shock collar. Happy also had experiments on his fur to make it color changing like a chameleon, as well as some experiments to his eye (tbd)

Dr. Brainworms is actually a sapient amoeba/bacteria type thing, attached to a host body(that happens to be a hairless rat), this host body is her most compatible one as she Can overtake and control other bodies but they start to decay pretty quickly. her history is something she herself is trying to find out as her host body is its own mystery.. is she just an amoeba that gainted sentience? is her mind really her own? was this body maybe always hers? who knows!

Gummi is a jelly belly gummy rat candy brought to life, pretty self explanatory... but shes got a few mysteries of her own! like, why was she even created, for what purpose, i mean who could even do such advanced science anyway to bring an inorganic candy to life, and Why does she keep talking abt a scientist with green gloves when there arent any scientists like that around?

Prof. Fuzzybottom is a rabbit! she used to be just used for breeding new test subjects which left her pretty traumatized not being able to keep any of her children, she became infertile from the stress so she was repurposed for other experiments, like trying to turn her fur to naturally be an unnatural color, and to be more synthetic like faux fur (aka a living plush) she was also blind so they replaced her eyes with a plushy sleeping mask that actually has LEDs inside that are hooked up to her brain to see if they could restore vision thru cybernetics. in her original iteration she was even supposed to be half rat half bunny buut i felt it too much, might still reuse the idea tho! tbh i just wanted a bunny with cute rat hands :3

Prof. Snakebite is not even a lab rat originally, he was simply a pinky rat used to feed the lab snakes, but due to freak circumstances he was actually still alive and after being bitten by a venomous snake, the stress hormones in his little body make him develop rapidly especially in brain power. as he was still very tiny and fragile, he wasnt the best subject to experiment on, but he was fitted with a brain chip originally just to read and analyze his brain development as he was much more advanced in mind than in body (of an almost newborn). after escaping he would upgrade his brain chip to help him utilize more brain power but also lessen the burden on his tiny body that could not handle the strain. he and prof. fuzzybottom are always hanging around each other, fuzzy very often babying him or just helping him out by carrying him and helping him reach places or handle objects, while he begrudgingly tolerates her as she is useful to his needs. also cant admit he appreciates her actually awww

the rest of the side characters are pretty self explanatory, theyre mostly just various animal hybrids and crossbreeds and splices! smh only the main characters get cool powers and shit -_- aside from Prof. Smartypants, after having a ferrets body fitted with a human mind(who doesnt remember the human part almost at all. its just the advanced intellect from it) tries to figure out the weird body dysmorphia with Science Potions aka chemisty. but thats mostly just to give another one of my sonas shapeshifting ablities (go figure) so yah if u read this so far Waow o_o Thank U and also Pls Send me asks abt this. if u want <3 can be questions or just ur thoughts ig!! id love feedback pleas please plea

[starswornoaths]

A Fulcrum Dark and Radiant - Commission!

Commission for @sarenhale, who is a delight as always to work with and has been so patient and gracious with me! Featuring oc Arihel and Urianger!

Set during the events of 5.0, Urianger does everything he can to ease the suffering of Arihel as he absorbs more and more Light. When things finally boil over and the night sky is once again gone, it's all they can do to turn toward one another.

word count: 7,945

Commissions: Open!

To be an Astrologian was to study not only the stars, but also to find the gravid pull of one’s focus. The center of one’s universe was, as far as the greatest scholars of Sharlayan could deduce, the core of one’s power. 

The more clinically minded attributed the core of their power to the heaven’s gates and the unlocking thereof. Those with a more romantic flair would often profess that the object of their desires was the source of their strength. 

From what Urianger had been able to glean from his colleagues in school, teachers would insist that, from a purely academic perspective, only the former was absolutely required for the study of stars. The latter, if true at all, was a more volatile source of power and focus: namely, in that it can wither, change, or be lost.

Having the blessing and burden of both facets of study, Urianger understood that it was only a practice of both in equal harmony that would truly open one to the potential to tame the stars themselves. Would that he had understood such an important lesson sooner in life.

Alas, what study he had undergone was of a more practical sort, versus academic. By the time he was able to grasp starlight in the palm of his hand it had come from another sky entirely, on a world far from home.

For a blessing, Urianger had refused to let his focus be idle as they awaited their champion’s arrival to the First shard; a mastery of the stars meant that he could instead turn his focus to the study of aether itself, the properties by which it operated, and how those properties might be altered. That the man he had come to so dearly cherish was so far away from him had made of him another star to draw strength from when Urianger felt himself waning.

But the work was never finished. In its own way, that was a good thing: it helped keep his mind off the Crystal Exarch’s schemes—and his complicity to them. Working out charts of aetheric flow and how best to alter their currents felt at least like some sort of penance for a sin that he continued to choose to commit. It was the less amoral of the manipulations he was a part of now.

Nothing had brought that into focus more clearly than Arihel’s arrival in Norvrandt.

Pretending that they were overly familiar before that point would be insult to both of them; Urianger had always held a deep and abiding respect and admiration for Arihel. For how he continued to try, even in the face of almost certain failure. For who he was inherently as a person, enough that there was always a sort of warmth in his chest when they were near one another.

But that did not mean they were close. Their interactions had been naught but amiable, even friendly. To Urianger’s mind, Arihel had carried himself beyond reproach, but neither of them had approached one another for more than a few brief moments—and almost always for work related dealings.

So it was something of a surprise when Arihel approached him, of all the Scions, for help.

All the more that he came to Urianger’s room in the Crystarium, not long after night had returned to Il Mheg. Arihel came alone, and deep enough into night that Urianger had only barely settled in from their hasty retreat from the land of the fae. 

Conversation between them had not started smoothly even after Urianger had ushered him in for tea but eventually, Arihel had broached the true reason for his unexpected arrival.

“Not going to pretend you didn’t see how I brought night back to Il Mheg,” said the Warrior of Light and Darkness both. “Wasn’t the first time I did it—you probably know that, too.”

For several long moments, Urianger dared not breathe. “Wherefore wouldst thou make such a claim?” he had found himself asking.

“‘Cause I feel like you know everything.” Arihel had answered as though it was obvious.

Ignorant of how the air left Urianger’s lungs at the statement, ignorant of how close to right he was for all the wrong reasons, he sheepishly added, ““and you talked a lot about the different aspects of aether before. Back in Il Mheg.”

There was little and less sense in pretending that he did not immediately see and feel the changes that had taken place in the time since they had last seen one another on the Source. It was one of the few things left that he did not have to lie about. 

For he would know more than most what was happening—he was complicit in the scheme from the moment the Exarch had brought him into the fold. More than anyone, he understood the immense but exact cost of each patch of night sky…and who was meant to pay it.

“I do confess to no small amount of concern for thee—moreso than what hath become customary for thy heroic exploits, that is.” Urianger recalled measuring each word like a tentative step on ice. “Ere you had set foot on the First…much and more had already changed within thee, though I do not understand the depth of such changes. But the changes hath only become more striking since thy arrival here.”

“I…there’s so much goin’ on, so much at stake—Urianger, I can’t come to anyone else with this.” Arihel had said, words almost tripping on his Lominsan accent and mounting anxiety. 

Despite being nearly half a head taller he seemed determined to make himself small in that moment, and it was well that he was pointedly looking at the kettle on the stove lest he might see the way Urianger flinched. The Warrior of Light was now the second person to tell him that, and of direct consequence to his first confidant in this world.

“Thou hast no need to fear reproach from me, Arihel.” he said softly, hands occupied with cups and the filling thereof. “Aught I might do to lessen the burden on thy shoulders, thou needs but ask it of me, and I shall do all in my power to make it so.”

As if to seal the promise in the ways of the fae folk—a habit hard formed over the last three years—he pressed a steaming cup of tea into Arihel’s hands.

“...I believe you.” he whispered half into his tea. “I have to—wouldn’t be here in the first place if I didn’t, right?”

It was Urianger’s turn to lower his gaze. Given all that he withheld from all those he had held so very dear, he felt unworthy. In equal turns, he felt a churning sense of desperation to be worthy of it twist with the guilt, the uoroboros tangled itself around the corrupted fulcrum of his very being. His secrets had brought about this fear within his friend. His secrets would bear salvation to him. Both were sins born of virtue. He could not falter now when it would doom all he loved and cherished—Arihel included. 

Choosing damnation over oblivion, as he always would, Urianger opted for silence to coax Arihel to speak.

Words strung together, halting for the rattling breath and pulls of drink told a tale of corrupted closure. A battle unfolding on the Azim Steppe between a father figure and the man who saw the monster within him. 

Nergaal might have succumbed to his adopted son’s blows after a long and arduous battle, but Arihel was never the same again. 

Both combatants had been granted the Echo—but Nergaal had something more wicked still to darken his shadow: voidsent. Devoured for their essence and grafted onto his soul in grim patchwork, the creatures had both strengthened and consumed the man from the inside out, his body sustained only by his Blessing outrunning the rot. 

When Nergaal could no longer outpace Arihel, the voidsent he had devoured had congealed into a concentrated corruption. Fearful of what would happen should such malfeasance be left to do as it wanted, Arihel had taken it unto himself.

“In the middle of it all,” he whispered after the silence stretched at length. “I’ll never forget those eyes…looking at me. Always, always looking at me.”

Before that point, Urianger had known Arihel’s eyes to be a bright, almost luminescent colour. He had never managed to hold the man’s gaze long enough to tell whether the color of that radiance was a seafoam green or a cloudy sky blue, but only the faintest limbal ring of that hue remained in eyes that now glared a fierce garnet red color. Where Arihel’s eyes once resembled dappled sunlight streaming through the window, Urianger could only now equate their glow to smouldering coals in a dark furnace.

How much longer could Arihel continue to burn before he guttered out to the last embers, Urianger wondered grimly.

As if to shield his heart from the memory, Arihel gave a shudder so violent his torso folded in on itself. 

“Everything already felt off after I took the voidsent into me.” he said in a tone that made it clear admitting it hurt almost as much as the corruption itself. “I thought—I dunno, I thought if I absorbed the Light here, it would balance it out somehow? I thought it might after hearing you talk about aether, at least—”

“Were it a simple matter of pure aether absorption, there might be some merit to the theory,” Urianger said slowly, searching for words to soften the blow, “but as thou hast doubtless discovered, the imbalance of such confluence, and the darkness within thee a direct result of not mere aether but voidsent, only further complicates thy perilous predicament.” 

Even so much time later, after so many moments that reflected this first true meeting betwixt them, Urianger recalled the way Arihel had all but whispered, “Help me, Urianger. Is there anything that can help?”

Down to his marrow was Arihel a Warrior of Warriors, and rarely did he speak of his pain. He was not one to openly disclose his suffering, and tried to do aught in his power to hide what afflictions he was battling.

But Sharlayan Astrology had a peculiar way of drawing the focus to that which is in need of realignment. In finding the fulcrum of one’s desire to heal in the molten core of the patient’s agony, the weak points began to show like stars in the night sky.

“Aught in my power to try, I shall.” Urianger had promised him. “Thou needs but come to me, and I shall render mine all.”

Every time Arihel took back a part of the night sky, he and Urianger would secret themselves away in a private moment all their own, and the Warrior would give his battered aether over to the Wizard’s inspection. 

Grimly, the march toward the Exarch’s gambit proceeded apace: a fulcrum dark and radiant all at once, neither cancelling out one another but burning differently at the same flesh. The more of the night sky returned, the more those voidsent were but flecks on a pearlescent core like the shadow of vultures against a blazing sun. 

The first time Urianger had deeply examined Arihel’s aether, he had done so without touching him. It had been a request of Arihel’s—fear of what had happened with Nergaal had made him averse to physical contact even before they had been pulled to Norvrandt, and the absorption of Light during his time here had only rubbed that nerve raw.

Patience and pure necessity had won out in the end, and the night after freeing Amh Areng from perpetual day found Arihel in the worst pain he had ever been in.

“Harder to hold in now.” he had admitted, words forced through grit teeth stained iridescent from the aetherically charged bile he had begun to cough up. “Feels worse than before.”

That time, Urianger had all but begged to be permitted close enough to touch—out of a tangled growth of affection and fear that had rooted itself in his heart. With baited breath, he admitted that the need to try and protect him outweighed any concern there might have ever for his own safety.

“I could hurt you,” Arihel warned when a hand was held out in offering to him again.

At that, Urianger smiled and reminded him, “As thou ever could.”

For all the fear Arihel had over anyone touching him, Urianger’s first brush with skin and scale was alarming for how soft they were against his hand. At first contact with the apple of his cheek Arihel’s skin flared in heat, a deep flush creeping over warm skin. 

Both of them had held their breaths for long enough that the room had vaguely spun as their aether connected. In stark contrast to the almost tender caress of Arihel subtly leaning into Urianger’s palm, the first tendrils of Arihel’s aether tangling with Uriangers felt almost violent, as if to claw the relief out of him. 

Almost immediately the sensation softened, and Urianger did not miss the way Arihel had frowned deeply as if in concentration.

“Thy control is highly commendable,” Urianger praised softly, trying in vain to balance his friend’s aether. “But I assure thee, thou art safe with me. ‘Tis alright to let go of thy facade. ‘Tis alright to bear thy pain unto me. I shall take as much from thee as I can. Thou art safe in my care.”

Before their arrival on the First, Urianger had known Arihel’s aether to be more fire aspected than anything, warm as a hearth and radiant as the sun. Astral, which might well suit to point to a perfect counterbalance to the Light whorling within him. 

Thus was Urianger’s theory set in motion, attempting to channel enough water aether into Arihel that his aether could be tilted closer to its natural center. Waves woven with the care of a tailor crafting a gorgeous gown, Urianger wove a luminescent night sky of umbral water over Arihel’s heart in an effort to blanket him in calmer tides. 

With each attempt, it became easier. With every touch, every whispered secret between them, Uriagner attuned himself to the ever-shifting sands of Arihel’s aether. Almost without effort, Arihel had become the radiant sun of Urianger’s universe: the fulcrum of his focus and the gravitational pull of his heart. The shores upon which his waters would return in rhythmic ebb and flow of need and understanding, given and taken in kind.

Of course Urianger was going to give his all to try and bring Arihel back from the brink. What else could he do? Whose shores could he find safe haven within save for Arihel’s? Who else could he love but him? What else could he do but continue to try?

If he reminded Arihel, in word and in soul, of the man he had once been before he had shouldered the burden of monsters— first, that of another man and then of another world wholly, if he could ensure that there would be enough of his friend left to save, then it would all be worth it. Urianger could sit with the guilt of betraying his trust, of hiding the truth of the Exarch’s plan, if it meant that Arihel and the rest of his Scion compatriots would be alive. 

Such was the Exarch’s gamble. The die was cast. They had failed long before they had reached the heights of Mt. Gulg in an effort to chase away the last of the Light, but it wasn’t until they had reached its summit that they realized how far gone everything had been.

To the last, Urianger had hoped that G’raha Tia’s plan would come to fruition. To the last, selfishly, Urianger had hoped the Crystal Exarch would be the one to die. This process had been agony enough to Arihel but even if he never spoke to Urianger again, he would at least have lived.

Emet-Selch had done exactly as he had promised, and foiled their plans at the last. It was all that Ryne could do to keep Arihel from turning into the last of the Lightwardens that instant. The Oracle had given every onze of her aether just to stabilize him—and half of Urianger’s, when he offered more as they had ferried him back to the Crystarium. 

No one looked at the sky outside the airship. No one dared breathe a word of the returned poisoning of Light in the sky. No one needed to.

It was only after Ryne had done all she could that Urianger left Arihel’s side, aiding her in finding her own rest once the mendicants had taken over his care. Absence from him itched at some newly deepened protectiveness in Urianger’s heart, dark and radiant and undefinable. 

That yawning chasm that Arihel had occupied left room for Urianger to reflect, however, on how utterly out of balance his heart and mind were, where his dearest friend was concerned. Little wonder he had rarely known how to handle when they were together; he was in a constant state of dizziness, tumbling from the height of his love for Arihel and crashing into the lows of his knowledge of the man.

Urianger was the one Scion out of all of them that Arihel had chosen to go to when in need of succor. Even if other Scions might have known more of the man, they knew little and less of his aether and soul. 

Not he. Not Urianger, who could sculpt a topographical map of Arihel’s pain and how it had changed with their travels across Norvrandt. Urianger, who was so privileged to know what it looked like when the most immediate of the pain was soothed away, how the sharp ridges and grooves between his brows softened into a tentative smile. Urianger, who could track the worsening of the Light’s poison in how long it took for his hands to stop trembling after a dose of healing magic—

Urianger, who only knew his tragedies. Who only knew of the horrors visited to him at the Steppe. Who only knew Arihel loved vegetable soup because the Scions were beginning to sound like the healers working the Inn at Journey’s End.

Mere hours had passed until Arihel awoke but they passed like days. Urianger scarce kept himself sufficiently distracted with fretting over his compatriots. For a blessing, everyone else seemed otherwise no worse for wear, if keeping their head down in various aspects.

Bereft of purpose otherwise, Urianger returned to Arihel’s room, wherein he found the suites empty of occupants. Thus, he found his purpose, and began to search for where his guiding star had drifted off to. 

There was little and less surprise when he was found wandering with Feo Ul about the Crystarium—but that his stride became purposeful as he caught sight of Urianger most certainly was.

“I was looking for you.” Arihel admitted.

Urianger’s initial reaction was to panic—habit dictated that he was sought out for comfort when the pain became too much. 

“Hath thy pain begun to flare anew? Shall I send for young Ryne to attend you, or Y’Shtola—”

“No!” Arihel cut him off, voice just a touch rougher and louder than intended.

Wincing, he softened and tried again, the mumbled words smudged warmly in his accent. “No. Just—wanted to see you. Talk to you, but—”

Used to Arihel searching for words, Urianger fell into step beside him and waited.

“This is his garden. The Exarch’s.” Arihel finally said, and lowered his gaze to lock with Urianger’s as he said, “I want to walk in yours.”

And thus they found themselves in Il Mheg, approaching the Bookman’s Shelves. Their journey had been a quiet but companionable one, the silence not unlike that which encompassed the bulk of their encounters on the Source.

It wasn’t until they were making their way uphill from the Bookman’s Shelves that the silence was broken—and even then, in a voice interrupting the quiet as gently as a skipping stone on the surface of a lake.

“I wish we had talked more. Before, I mean.” Arihel spoke up suddenly. 

“Before—?” Urianger prompted.

“Before—before everyone started going to sleep.”

There was an almost boyish charm to describing the theft of their souls in such a way. Like a fairytale. Like Urianger was just waiting to wake up and discover this was all a horrible, wonderful dream.

That, not for the first time, he would wake before he gave in to folly and bore his heart to his Warrior.

Whilst in the grips of this dream-turned-nightmare, Urianger sought to soothe the wincing frown that marred Arihel’s face, countering, “amateur though I mayst be in casual conversation, I floundered all the more ere we began to dream on the Source. Doubt not that though the want was there, the courage had not found me. Blame thyself not, I prithee.”

“I could have tried talking to you.” argued Arihel. “Or at least…tried harder. But you’re so smart, and it’s hard to keep up with you sometimes. Figured you wouldn’t want much to do with me.”

“Thy humility prevents thee from admitting to thy own wit.” countered the Bookman as he ushered Arihel unto his Shelves and latched the door behind them. “That thy light shines differently than mine own dims not its brilliance.”

Words chosen poorly, he realized a second too late when Arihel flinched as he brushed past him. 

Another wound he had inflicted. Another sin to be forgiven lest it be devoured.

“Mine metaphor got away from me, I beg thy forgiveness—” he stammered, hands glittering with starlight reaching to soothe out of habit.

“S’alright. I get what you mean.” Arihel answered, waving a hand dismissively without looking back as he continued to move further into the room.

It was Urianger’s turn to flinch.

Such was the same reaction Arihel had given to the knowledge that not only did the Exarch—G’raha Tia—withold critical information about their mission, but had also brought in Urianger as his conspirator. This had always been Arihel’s way, though he now understood the differences—before, such had been in his carefree nature, always banking fires before they outgrew containment. Always letting everyone around him be warm without burning.

These days, he let them go for fear of becoming the fire. With how reserved he had become, the few waspish barks of frustration and anger had seemed as warning sparks in search of kindling.  He had never said as much in so many words, but all that Urianger had been privy to—in both memory and deed—spoke for the Warrior of Light in much the same way it always had.

A string of sneezes from Arihel snapped Urianger out of his thoughts, watching with mild amusement as the man sneezed with such intensity that the leg not supporting his weight lifted and bent at the knee, his tail flailing on its own from pure reflex and knocking over several precariously stacked tomes.

After saying a string of words in Limsan that Urianger presumed to be curses, Arihel knelt down in front of the books splayed out on the floor. 

“I’m so sorry! Wasn’t paying any bloody attention—” he said over his shoulder, scrabbling to try and gather them all in a hurry.

Crossing the room to where he knelt in a few long strides, Urianger knelt before Arihel to assist in the gathering of papers and books.

“Thou hast no need for apologies, my dear friend. ‘Twas the natural consequence of mine own indolence, leaving these tomes strewn about—”

As they both reached for the same book, their hands brushed. Arihel nearly reeled onto his backside for how he flinched and recoiled but Urianger caught his hand before thinking better of it. 

Accidental contact was one thing. It was an easy enough thing to dismiss and pretend at coincidence. Urianger would not have his intentions mistaken: he gave Arihel’s hand a squeeze.

“Just as thou hast naught to apologize for, so too, do you have naught to fear in this place. With me.”

Silence hung heavy in the space between them, even as Arihel had yet to take his hand back. Instead, he stared at Urianger at length, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.

Time caught up with them when Arihel caught up with himself, realizing their hands were still entwined. Eyes widening even further—this time out of fear, Urianger realized—he snatched his hand back with such speed that his scales scraped Urianger’s palm.

Before he could hold it back Urianger yelped, more from surprise than any sense of pain. All the same, it was enough for Arihel to bodily flinch and attempt to tuck the offending hand into his own chest, as if to hide as much of himself away as he could.

“I’m sorry—fuck, I’m so sorry!” he wheezed, eyes wide as saucers. “Don’t know what I was thinking, I could have hurt you—”

“As thou hast always been capable of.” Urianger reminded him gently, and showed his unharmed palm for inspection. “And yet, thou has never. Not once.”

“But the Light could have—” Arihel tried to argue.

Urianger cut him off with a shake of his head. “Thou has never.” he repeated in a voice that was all at once quiet but firm. “Regrettably, I cannot claim a similar truth. To mine immense shame, I hath inflicted more pain unto thee than thou hast to me. By an immeasurable magnitude.”

“What?” Arihel balked, his brow furrowing deeply. “But you haven’t—”

Urianger shook his head again and argued, “‘Tis writ plain on thy features, Arihel: I see it in the streaks of starlight in thy hair, in the shift of thy aether. I see it in the way thou hast carried thyself through our most recent trials. Pain is all I have given thee—”

“Okay, that’s not true.” Arihel cut him off firmly, his frown deepening. “Wouldn’t have come to you so many times for help if it hurt.”

Looking down to the hand he had curled into his chest he seemed to wrestle with himself for a long moment. Squeezing his eyes shut, his hand shot out to grab Urianger’s again, as if to do it before he could talk himself out of it.

Urianger was startled less by the suddenness of the action and more that it had happened at all but he managed to repress a flinch of surprise, fearful that it would be misconstrued. All the same, he couldn’t help but gawk at their joined hands, suddenly timid with the shift in conversation and the warmth of the contact.

“I…I went to you first because you try to make things better.” Arihel said, words slow and deliberate. “And…and all of this—”

When Urianger looked up at the motion of Arihel’s hand waving at his own face, he was surprised to see how deeply flushed the man had become. 

“All of this,” he tried again, “isn’t your fault either. Not even all of this is the Light.”

“How canst thou be so certain—”

“Nergaal had white hair and red eyes.” Arihel cut him off sharply. “This was starting before I came here, and you know it.”

He seemed to realize that he was starting to get upset, and took a deep breath before speaking again, “Quit trying to find things to beat yourself up with, y’hear? I don’t blame you for it. So don’t blame yourself for me.”

Urianger hid his flinch by tipping his head to look again at their joined hands. Shame had flooded his veins long before Arihel had come to the First, and it now resisted being flushed from him at the reassurance. Unworthy was a chant in his head as steady as his heartbeat, and it would not be silenced by simple words.

“Oi!” Arihel huffed when he attempted to take his hand back in turn. 

Lunging forward to take Urianger’s hand back, Arihel insisted, “If I don’t get to pull away, then you don’t either!”

Which left them knelt among a splayed out pile of books, holding hands and gaping at one another’s flushed faces. For several long moments, neither of them moved for fear of breaking themselves out of this trance.

Belatedly, Urianger realized that this was the longest they had gone with physical contact that served no purpose: for the first time, their touch was intentional without any further goal than to be held by one another. 

Was this not a sort of healing in its own right?

Heart in his throat and blood roaring in his ears, Urianger swallowed and croaked, “Thou hast me at a disadvantage, as thou always has.”

With an intensity normally reserved for the battlefield, Arihel leveled a glare at Urianger as he insisted, “If you’re not running, I’m not running. If you’re running, I’m running with you.”

Meeting Arihel’s gaze as evenly as he could, he promised, “As thou sayest.”

Almost immediately, he had to lower his gaze from those piercing eyes, burning like coals in a fire. He felt the heat of that stare as it remained on him, even as Arihel let go of his hand and picked up the stack of books they had collected.

“We should actually put these on shelves, y’know.” he said.

When Urianger grabbed the other stack of tomes they had rearranged, Arihel stood and offered him an outstretched hand. In accepting the offer and letting himself be helped up, Urianger felt the deliberate nature of both the offer and the way their hands stayed linked for several seconds after he was upright.

“Verily, thou hast the right of it.” he said when their hands at last disentangled. “‘Tis only right to put away that which I stacked unto the floor in mine academic fervor.”

Arihel’s bark of laughter startled Urianger, who jumped just a little at the burst of noise before they both looked at one another for a moment and dissolved into fits of giggles. With the stuffy, warm stillness of this sanctuary, it felt like they were two young academics trying not to get caught by the Librarian being loud between bookshelves. 

Like they could have always been friends.

Like Urianger was always going to love Arihel.

It was less that the tension had left them entirely and more that it waited politely at the door while the two of them put away stacks and stacks of books. They could have stopped at just the two stacks that had been knocked over but time passed more pleasantly when they passed it together, and the decision to keep tidying up had been silently agreed upon between the two of them.

Everlasting Light burned outside but through the wide, dusty windows of the Bookman’s Shelves it almost passed for beams of afternoon sun, honeyed through the faint tint of the thick glass windows. Time mattered both less and more when the night was not coming. 

Long had it been that Urianger was helpless to the gravitational pull of Arihel. Voidsent and Light and a doomed future could not change the way he was drawn closer. 

Filing books on the shelves was just as good an excuse as any to be near—never mind that Urianger was putting them in the wrong places and that future Urianger will have to redo this entire section of the wall to his typical exacting standard, it was worth being able to be close enough that he felt Arihel’s warmth radiating against his side.

Arihel was not a star that he needed to wield nor master, to claim nor even to touch. That Urianger was warmed by him, in his orbit, was more than enough.

And as they worked, conversation inevitably began to bubble up. Slowly at first, with a few murmured questions about placement and equally soft replies. But with time, Arihel began to ask about some of the titles—what is this one about? Can you tell me about it? 

Ever weak to the opportunity to teach, Urianger gladly answered any questions until eventually it turned retelling Arihel stories he had collected over the years. Some of them weren’t even among the books that he had here but were on shelves a world away, doubtless collecting dust without his custodianship. Stories that had helped him learn how to socialize with others— “Always was I a timid and meek child, terrified of the prospect of conversation,” he explained with a chortle to himself. “I didst rely heavily upon fairytales and ancient myths to shape my words when I had none myself. Thus did I speak this way.”

“So it’s like a cover?” Arihel asked without judgement. “Like pretending you’re a character in a book makes it easier for you to talk?”

Urianger nodded. “Donning the mask of a character in a hero’s tale permitted I couldst speak at all. Were it not for Moenbryda’s outgoing radiance, I fear I may not have made a single friend during my younger years. My peers thought me ‘weird,’ though I suppose they were not incorrect in the assumption.”

“I would have been your friend.” Arihel replied with immediate surety. “We would’ve been weird together.”

A smile bloomed unbidden on Urianger’s face at that. “Of that, I do not doubt. Not for a singular beat of my heart.”

When the last books were shelved, their hands brushed. A glancing sunbeam of warmth in this stillness. The two of them froze again, hands hovering in the space between them and only just connecting.

Arihel’s expression suddenly crumpled. “We’ve wasted so much time.” he rasped. “Why did we wait so long to just sit and talk?”

Because I knew I wouldst love thee from the first moment we met, should I seek to befriend thee. Because I was right. Because I am a coward.

“For mine own part, ‘twas a fear that I wouldst have naught to say of interest to thee—nor aught of enough to interrupt thy work.”

When Urianger made to take his hand back, Arihel caught it with his own and tangled their fingers together. 

“I wanted to talk, you know.” he huffed. “I even tried to, a few times! But it was like my tongue went stupid when I was around you and I couldn’t say much.”

Urianger squeezed to keep his grip as he lowered their twinned hands. He studied the tangle of their fingers in favor of yet more reflection on all they could have been before.

“Though the prospect of lamenting what we did not speak of in the past be a tempting chalice to drink from, we shall not find satisfaction in the act, I think.” he pondered aloud.

Daring to be bolder yet, knowing what they were about to face, he held Arihel’s gaze steady with his own, unguarded and afraid, as he murmured, “I would instead consider sharing what we wish to, in this moment, in this place. I would propose that we choose to make of the present what we will.”

Arihel nods slowly, eyes drifting away in thought. It was enchanting, watching the way he bit the inside of his cheek when mulling something over. 

When he looked back to Urianger, he seemed just a bit less guarded than before. “I don’t…think I’m ready to walk away from this yet.” he admitted quietly, lashes fluttering as he visibly fought with the urge to look away. “This feels nice, being here. With you.”

Heat bloomed on both of their faces, and though they trembled with the want to distance themselves, they both remained right where they were. Together—for no other reason than they wanted to be.

“Come, then. Let us wander our own path a while longer.” Urianger offered with a gentle voice and an extension of his hand. “Together this time, if thou wouldst have me.”

There was no hesitation in the way that Arihel took his offered hand. Even when Urianger led him out the door and into the everlasting glow of the Light, Arihel did not so much as flinch when emerging from their sanctuary. As if he trusted that Urianger would never lead him astray. Trusted even now, even after everything that had happened.

Unworthy and deeply aware of it, his heart fluttered all the same.

As they approached the nearby bank of Longmirror Lake, he could feel Arihel’s curiosity rolling off him in waves, steps beginning to turn syrupy and slow but never truly stopping. Ponderous, but not doubting. Never doubting.

“All will be well.” Urianger promised him. “Thou needs but have faith.”

“I have faith in you.” Arihel affirmed as their boots began to sink, gently, into to sodden earth of the lakeshore. 

Urianger did not break his stride, his grip on Arihel’s hand sure and firm as steel as he murmured an incantation and held his focus on the water that rose to meet their footfalls.

Not once did Arihel hesitate. Not once did he stop walking beside him, nor let go of his hand. At first, Urianger had put it down to blind faith, until Arihel looked down a few steps in and realized what was happening.

“Don’t look away.” Urianger rasped, still keeping his focus on the spell. 

Stunned by the lack of formality, Arihel remained transfixed on him as they continued to walk across the surface of the lake. It afforded Urianger the space to weave his spell protectively around them. The lake only just rippled with the brush of Urianger’s robes, the light splash of their feet tapping against it in the most shallow of invasions, steps wrapped in starlight, the surface of the lake stretching and warping to keep them aloft.

It is enough for them to make it to the roof of a submerged house that stood above the surface of the lake, the two of them sitting on it with all the fanfare of resting on a log at the side of the road.

“I like your light more.” Arihel said softly.

A canopy of deep, shifting umber whorled sluggishly over them, dense enough to devour the ever-burning Light, softening it into something like moonbeams and accented with the glittering of the stars themselves. It remained even after they had no need for the water walking spell, Urianger’s focus pulled to Arihel so naturally as to forget to release it.

A blessing, so it seemed. The effort made it harder for him to be anything but his truest, most honest self.

“My light?” he asked softly, almost fearing the answer.

Arihel nodded, reaching out after a moment of debate with himself to tuck a stray hair behind Urianger’s pointed ear. “This—it’s like starlight. Like you know just enough to show me who you are without blinding me.”

His hand lingered on the apple of Urianger’s cheek as he whispered, “So I can see you.”

“I will admit, I maintained it to keep thee shielded from the Light.” Urianger confessed, almost timid but grateful for his little piece of the night sky, grateful that he could stand in a softer light. “But the night sky has always held a greater comfort to me than that of the day. Little wonder that I took to Astrology so readily, when in need of healing magic.”

“I like seeing you like that, when you’re enjoying the stars.” Arihel said as though agreeing with him. “S’part of why I wanted to bring back the night sky so badly. Because you love it so much.”

It was a rare thing for Urianger to be well and truly stunned to silence. When fumbling for something to say, many a poetic turn of phrase from the books he so dearly cherished was enough to fill the silence until someone else deigned to fill the void. Moenbryda often made a game of trying to fluster him into being nonverbal. 

Little could have robbed him of words more thoroughly than the focus of his affection, the center of his gravity, telling him with all the weight of discussing a favorite book that Arihel brought the night sky back for no other reason than because Urianger loved it.

“I heard you describe it to Y’Shtola, and it felt. I dunno. I could tell how much you missed it. So I wanted you to have it back, even if it’s different from home.”

“Betimes, I would struggle to remember what the night sky looked like—or the day’s sky, for that matter. Everything was bathed in shimmering gold and opalescence from the moment of mine arrival.” Urianger admitted. “In a way, I believe I studied Astrology due in no small part to mine own homesickness. It all felt less out of my grasp, when I wrapped the stars ‘round my fingers.”

“I’d think about what you were doing here all the time, before I came.” Arihel nodded. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it until that first time I absorbed the Light—oh!” 

He startled at that, as though something had only just occurred to him. “You weren’t there for that yet—that was in Lakeland, before we went to Il Mheg.”

A peculiar but darling flush spread across Arihel’s face, a deep red that almost turned scarlet nearly matching the red on his scales and in his pupils. As if caught, he admitted, “I lose track of when you were here, I think about you often enough that I sometimes picture you in places I know you weren’t at. Like you were in the corner of my eye in all of them.”

For several long moments, Urianger did not move. Even his breathing was shallow in that moment, as if scared to disturb the steadily shrinking space between them.

“Thou thinkest of me that often?” he asked in a rasp, the air leaving his lungs on the question. “Truly?”

“I feel safer with you around. Even in my own head.” Arihel answered immediately. “‘Specially in my own head.”

And through it all, Arihel did not look away from Urianger once. Not even when his archaic speech patterns fell away from his focus, when he chose to choose to be just that little bit more vulnerable, just that little bit that was more than he had been with anyone since his days in Sharlayan. Like he didn’t have to draw on a hero he looked up to as a child just to have the bravery to speak. Like he was free.

He must have been quiet for just long enough to worry Arihel, who frowned up at the suspended cloud of illusory night sky.

“Is it hard to keep up, though? You shouldn’t tax yourself—”

“The concentration of this spell would be far more daunting, were it not for thee.” Urianger said before he could stop himself. “Astrology, and the practice thereof, requireth a foci—an anchor to which all the magic of its wielder centers its casting. It is the gravity of that magic user’s very star.”

Arihel gawked at him, lips parted as though to say something. A moment passed, and he closed his mouth with a heavy swallow. 

Despite this, his voice sounded dry when he asked, “Do you mean—?”

“Thou art the sun of mine own sky. The center of mine universe. The focus of my devotion, my study, and my cause.” Urianger confessed, words soft and touch softer, as he reached up to press Arihel’s hovering hand flush to his own face. “I wouldst wrap the stars around your center of gravity. Thou needs but ask it of me.”

“I…I want…” Arihel breathed. “...I want so many things, in this moment.”

“Tell me,” his astrologian begged.

“I want…I want to be better. I want it to be night, so you don’t have to do that. I want to be your focus.” Arihel began with tentative words, but the longer he looked at Urianger, silently urging him on, the more the words tumbled out of him with reckless abandon, “I want to know you better. I want you to know the happier parts of me—the better parts of me than what I ask to heal. I want—”

At that, his flush returned tenfold. Were it physiologically possible, Arihel might be glowing, Urianger thought. He might be glowing regardless—he was beginning to resemble an aetherically charged rolanberry.

“You want…?”

“I want to kiss you very badly.” Arihel admitted in the quietest voice Urianger had ever heard. “I have for a while now.”

If he did not fear Arihel taking it the wrong way, Urianger might have laughed at how utterly darling that he was being in that moment, how utterly dear he was to him always. He wanted to laugh in joy, to weep in sorrow at what had been done to his beloved. To howl in indignation at the situation that had put them here to begin with, that this was what it had taken for them to bear their hearts to one another.

In lieu of all that, Urianger prayed, “Please—”

Was there a pull from the hand on his face, or did he fall into Arihel with no prompting at all? Had they both come together in the middle, stars colliding in the scant space between them? The hum that reverberated from Arihel in to Urianger at the first tender caress of their lips certainly made that seem likely. 

“I want all of that and more with thee.” Urianger murmured as he rubbed their noses together. 

Foreheads pressed together to catch their breaths, Arihel’s eyes slipped shut as a pleased, rumbling click rose in his throat. The subtle tip of his head into Urianger’s palms when they cupped his face told him that he still had his Warrior’s attention. 

Knowing this, he persisted, “I want us to win the day in that way that those heroes in tales so oft do. I want to win back all our tomorrows. I want to know thee in the shade of the moon, in the light of the sun. In light and darkness, I wouldst know every piece of thee, and bear mine all to thee in turn.”

Clinging to boldness, he kissed Arihel again and whispered against his mouth, “I love thee. I want thee to live.” 

At that, Arihel opened his eyes and looked at Urianger—really looked. His hand had remained on his face, thumb softly stroking the apple of his cheek. He grew just still enough to worry Urianger but moved to kiss him more deeply before he could open his mouth to voice it. 

“Let’s be alive here for a little longer.” he all but begged when he took his lips back momentarily before diving back to plunger Urianger’s mouth for his every coherent thought. “Just a little longer. Let me love you here for a few seconds more. Then, I give you back the night sky wrapped up in a pretty sash, we save G’raha Tia, and get to the business of living. Sound good?”

They would make their way back to Lakeland in a few more minutes—by way of teleport, at the insistence of Urianger to conserve Arihel’s strength. They would return to their fellow Scions, solidify a plan to save the day, and then…and then…

And then…tomorrow would come. A tomorrow that would let them all live to see it, to know themselves and one another.

But that was tomorrow. In this moment, on this sunken in roof on a fully sunken house, peeking just over a lake on a star far away from home, Urianger held a piece of the night sky overhead just for them, just for Arihel to kiss him under.  A taste of the life they would fight for in the next few hours, sampled now, to remind them of just what they were fighting for.

[ambrosiagourmet]

thistle for ask meme!

Thistle :0

First impression

No joke I was convinced early on that Laios & the party were making like a huuuuge leap in assuming that Thistle was the Lunatic Magician TM like guys you can't just go accusing every random person you find in a living painting of being the manager. Alas... he was, in fact, the manager.

Impression now

He's so jester coded👍

I think Thistle is very interesting and a great foil to Marcille, which I looove. They are both magic elf(-ish) advisors, they both get caught up in wanting to help the people around them live longer, they both become dungeon lords in pursuit of that... I think Thistle's story as it is works well for the narrative and I don't necessarily think he was underutilized exactly, but it is a little hard not to want A Bit More sometimes. Even if I do think it would be hard to add that more in without sacrificing some of the pacing overall :')

Favorite moment

I was initially going to say the ending for them, because I do love it, but you know what? I've got a more interesting answer. My favorite Thistle scene is.... this:

This fundamentally changes the trajectory of the story. In trying to find someone to stop the Winged Lion, Thistle launches Marcille into becoming the next lord of the dungeon. The next victim of the Lion. If Thistle hadn't resurrected Marcille, then the plot would have played out totally differently. She wouldn't have been able to finish unsealing the book. Laios would have been on his own when the canaries came. Would they have just cleaned everything up more easily? Would it instead have become something worse? Would Laios somehow have unsealed the book and become the lore of the dungeon right away?

I dunno. But this action reshaped Marcille's life, and Laios', and so many other people's. And it was done out of a desire to keep fighting. To not give in.

Augh idk. It's good. Their connection is good.

Idea for a story

Thistle & Chimera Laios.

But not just a "Laios gets eaten by the dragon instead," I think it would be cool to explore an AU where for some handwavy magic reason, Laios gets his soul bound up w/ the dragon during Falin's resurrection, and he gets poofed into a dragon form.

There's a note somewhere that says that chimeras start popping up the more the lord of the dungeon starts to lose their hold on things, but having met Laios before might help Thistle eventually realize that something is Off about the dragon. From there... well maybe he starts to ask questions and gives Laios more freedom to actually answer, and things could continue from there as Laios gets enough humanity back to start to understand what's happening, and also Thistle takes more time to question the Lion's plans rather than just continue to act. They'd be stuck together, probably with Laios still under Thistle's control, but maybe as they figure out more of the truth, they'd actually work together? Need to rely on each other? I'd like to see how each of them would deal with that situation...

PLUS then on the flip side I think switching Falin into the group part way through the story (rather than at the start) could be really interesting. So the adventures on that side would be fun too.

Unpopular opinion

umm idk. Is Thistle widely regarded as a Marcille foil? Because if not then why. They are so inchresting. funky little mages.

Favorite relationship

Hmmm okay so like obviously Thistle & Marcille, but also as seen in my story idea I want to explore more of Thistle & Laios bc their interactions were fun, soo... I'll just say the Dungeon Lord quartet as a whole. I like when people draw art of them all together. Let them bond through shared trauma. And also all of them have tried to kill at least one other person there at some point. It's great. They should go on brunch dates.

Favorite headcanon

This post about Thistle's goal to eat a meal with Delgal fundamentally rewired my brain

[godbirdart]

Heyo, hope you're doing well and healing from surgery continues to go smooth. I'm not sure if this was asked before and hope it's an okay ask. How do you usually allocate your time between doing commissions, personal art, life, and everything in between?

let me start with: i have a very very unhealthy work life. i'm not gonna sugarcoat it, not gonna glorify The Grind™ because What I Do Is Unhealthy. It's an ongoing issue, and in recent months I've been trying to do more to fix it.

I habitually put in 12+ hour days, often five or six days of the week. I will be at my tablet from dawn until dusk. This isn't always spent drawing; it's also emails, website updates, menial administrative things and promoting my work. This is solely because I am a chronic workaholic. Even as I was recovering from this major surgery at the beginning of the month, Physically Unable to do much for the first week, my mind kept fussing over the work I needed to get done when I got back. It's Very difficult for me to relax and simply Do Nothing.

Now, this isn't to say I don't see people or talk with friends. I do, I socialize as much as my introverted self can handle. But my work has very plainly taken over my life to the point that it's eclipsed any personal alone time I could have. Tragically, it's a double-edged sword. I would love to be whisking my matcha and enjoying it in a little sunbeam but alas, bills keep knockin at my door.

That, and I genuinely Do Love working!! I love drawing for people!!

ALL THAT SAID THOUGH, I recently relocated over the summer. My new location offers a lot more opportunity to separate work and personal time with a physical barrier. It's easy to say "oh I can do little a work as a treat" when your tablet is Right There. Now that it's jailed in its own room I've found it a bit easier to say "no, I need a breather today actually" and sit down on my balcony and simply watch the world or play the video games I've been neglecting all year. I'm also making adjustments with my workload to better fit the schedule I need. If I keep chipping at this and taking the breathers I'm supposed to, I should have it all sorted by the end of the year. I have amazing people behind me kicking my ass and swatting me with a broom every time I try to overwork, and I'm grateful to have them to keep me in check while I straighten out my work-life balance. I have so many MXTX books I need to finish I want to read about my blorbos so bad ;;

TLDR: I work too much and am doing my best to get a grip on it. I want to be able to actually take a Real vacation for a month someday.

[psychospore]

In Another Life

A/N: It has been a horrible week - been getting sick and all but I know I needed to finish this. <3 Hope you will enjoy this

Summary: You were Odin's most loyal Valkyrie, but he ends up plotting to kill you when he was made aware of your plans with Loki

Word count: 1814

Pairing: Asgardian!Loki x Asgardian!Reader

Warnings: Odin being a big d*ck, angst, mentions of violence, blood, and death.

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"Whatever the Allfather asks you to do, it's not worth dying for, darling" you pursed your lips as you contemplate Loki's words. He could have asked the healers to tend to your bruises and wounds but he'd rather do it himself - to make sure nothing serious has befallen you and to have more time before Odin damns you in another god-forsaken conquest.

Loki was ordering Heimdall to transport him to Niflheim to ensure your safe return. It's been 17 days since your last contact and as the commander of the Valkyries, you had your hands full fighting the spawns of Hel in order to liberate the captured Asgardians.

Alas, with liberation comes an unfortunate trade. Despite the mission being a success, you lost a quarter of your army to Hel and you barely survived - albeit non-lethal, you sustained a deep, long gash running from your shoulder down to your palm when a Hel spawn tried to hack you. You were bruised all over, with flat and elevated spots of red and purple bruises decorating your body. You might have broken a few bones in your ribs too as your breathing was labored when all pandemonium had ceased.

"There is no need to transport you, Prince Loki. The ladies are on their way back," Heimdall declares as a flash of light brought you back to Asgard.

You were propping yourself up with a sword as you led your remaining army and the rescued citizens back to Asgard.

You were struggling to keep your consciousness when you saw Loki running straight towards you, people making way for the anxious Prince. He caught you in his arms before you stumbled in great exhaustion.

You did not know how long you were out but you were awakened by a gentle caress. Your eyes were heavy but you managed to prop them open to see a worried Loki carefully tending to your wounds.

"Whatever the Allfather asks you to do, it's not worth dying for, darling" you pursed your lips as you contemplate Loki's stern words. He could have easily asked the healers to tend to your bruises and wounds but the Prince would rather do it himself - to make sure nothing serious has befallen you and to have more time before Odin damns you in another god-forsaken conquest.

With a parched throat, you hoarsely responded, "It is my sworn duty to the people of Asgard to protect them"

"And protect them you did, my heart," he draws closer, propping you to sit upright as he sits beside you on the bed and carefully assisting you to drink a glass of water.

Your fingers touched as the familiar warmth of his hand enveloped your weary heart. How you've yearned to be just a tender and delicate maiden, awaiting her lover as you both promenade in the gardens, exchanging kisses and embraces under a tree. Such an innocent and fragile life.

Your lips curled to a frown when reality sets back in, you are a Valkyrie. You have bigger responsibilities towards the people than your own personal interests. You have taken lives as much as you saved them, and your hands are covered in blood that you cannot wash away because of the guilt - all under the will of Odin.

A stray thought enlightens you, maybe it is high time for you to leave the battlefield, you have done more than enough and you wish to settle soon in marriage with Loki. Maybe start a family soon too. Oh, how you wish to see little Lokis and Y/Ns running through the halls of the castle. It makes your heart lighter and your resolve stronger.

"Thank you, my love, for being faithful to me through all these years. I have decided. I shall speak to Allfather about retirement. I want to spend more time with you in the future," you lovingly gazed at him.

A week passed after your conversation with Loki, and most of your bruises and wounds have healed thanks to Loki's healing seidr. Allfather summoned you after you requested an audience with him.

You walk through the huge door of the throne room to see the Allfather seating on his regal throne. You bend your knees and bow down in reverence, "Allfather, thank you for granting my request," you spoke.

"y/n, dear, my most trusted Valkyrie. Raise your head and tell me what your request is" he responded

"Allfather, I have served as the Valkyries' commander for a significant amount of time and performed numerous conquests in your name but I hope you can grant me my desire - I wish to lay down my sword and retire. I hope to settle down soon and start a family with Loki,"

"How cruel would I be if I am unable to grant your wish. Of course, my dear. You can rest from the battlefield if you wish so... " He chuckled and you beamed in response."... Although, I have one last request from you. You don't have to force yourself to do this but it's an important thing for Loki and I wanted you to have it as a parting gift. "

Your eyebrows furrowed, "what is it Allfather?"

"In Jotunheim, there is an orb that contains Loki's repressed Jotun powers. It is in the keeping of a strong guardian, deep in the permafrosted caverns of Jotunheim. I wish for him to have it now that you've both decided what you wanted to do for your future." You can shake the unnerving feeling that looms over you as Odin says that, but everything for Loki, you assured yourself. You take a deep breath and faced the Allfather, "as you wish, Allfather. I will gather my men --"

"No need - it is something that must not be known by another. People are a fickle breed and they will use it to usurp their ruler. This is the task for you alone, my dear, unfortunately. Even Loki must not know." Your head drops, you just want to get this over with so you made your preparations to depart as soon as possible.

You were mounting your horse to depart in the dead of the night when Loki saw you. He ran as fast as he could but he was too late. No one around could tell him where you went, so he ran towards Odin's room - waking the poor bastard up.

"What in the nine realms is the meaning of this?" His voice raised upon the sudden intrusion of Loki, sitting upright on his lush bed.

"I saw y/n depart - she won't leave like that if not for your orders" he practically screamed saying this.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled trying to lay back in his bed but Loki ran up and grabbed him, staring daggers towards the old god's eye, rage seething in every fiber of his being.

"I ask again, respectfully, father. Where is y/n?"

"Jotunheim. I sent her there to die. The audacity of that lowly valkyrie to talk about marriage with you." every word slipping out of Odin's mouth was like venom to Loki, knowing his own father plotted to kill his love.

"She sacrificed her life to serve you!" eyes bloodshot from holding back all the rage and tears

"And to die she shall - what better way for a Valkyrie to die than in battle, knowing she is doing it for the love of her life"

Loki heard enough, and in a fit of rage, he struck a dagger right into Odin's heart. His last words are garbled as blood pours out of his mouth. From the gaping wound on his chest flowed blood that stained the pristine white sheets of the bed.

In sheer terror, Loki fell back knowing full well he killed Odin but he immediately got back to his senses knowing his love needs him. He rushed out through the open window, not looking back to depart for Jotunheim.

In Jotunheim, you were met by the stinging cold. Your thick coat barely withstands the wild temperature. It was a consolation that it did not take a long time for you to discover the entrance of the cavern. Inside, it was a bit warmer and less torrential. You lit a torch and made your way toward the deeper parts of the cavern.

You can almost see the orb, floating in the middle of an empty dome-like space. You scanned the surroundings for any signs of creatures that might be guarding the orb. You spot a slithering creature writhing underneath. Ebony scales interlocking from each other, you cannot see where it starts or ends so you decide to light another torch and throw it in the direction opposite to you. In a flash, the torch was quickly engulfed by the creature, which barely answered your looming question.

You camped there for half an hour, preparing weapons to fight off the monster when suddenly the whole area shook. Debris started to fall making you unable to go back from where you came in. With no choice, you decided to face the creature head-on.

You jumped from behind the rock where you were hiding and shot the creature making it prop its huge head out to attack you. It was fast, but you were faster - dodging each heavy blow you responded by slashing through its tough hide. It was almost impenetrable. This went on for hours until a bright idea came, throwing an explosive bomb inside the creature's mouth. It was difficult but you managed to do it, the creature writhe in pain before laying immobile on the ground.

You reached out to grab the orb when you felt a searing pain in your chest. You looked down to see blood dripping, and you look back to see that the creature made its final attempt by piercing you when you least expected it - which it succeeded in doing. You kneeled from the loss of strength, eyes starting to get hazy as you felt your life slipping away from you.

You lie on the cold ground of the cavern - bathing in your own blood as you remember everything, your life as a Valkyrie, your promise to Loki... Oh, Loki. You didn't even get to say a proper goodbye. A tear fell from your eye before closing it for the last time.

Loki manages to find you in the cavern. Your lifeless body was already frozen by the cold of Jotunheim. He ran to embrace you in his arms trying to find any way to bring you back. Emotions well up, rage, anger, frustration... Regrets...

Gathering all of his Jotun powers, Loki encased you both in permafrost. Frozen in time - you like your love for each other. If you cannot be in life, maybe in death you both can find solace. Maybe in another life, you both will have a better chance to be together.

[darqx]

Good afternoon! I have been your subscriber for a long time and wanted to ask... Do you have any updates and work on the Battle Priest??? I miss the characters from this project very much and I can't wait for a comics or a novel with them! (sorry for possible mistakes, I'm not an English speaker)

Hullo and thank you for sticking around so long AND aaaaaaa I am so happy you are excited for BP :D I have indeed been working on it when I can (though with a full time job my time and inspo is sometimes severely lacking |D)! At the moment a good 80% or so of the story is plotted out and I got bored of writing dot points and so also started thumbnailing on the side lol. Now if I can just keep it up!! OTL

Here’s a sneak peek in the face of my generally doing things quietly in the bg XD;

Yes I have this aforementioned little webcomic I’ve kinda been pottering away at XD It’s not out or anything yet though.

I think that’s partially due to Tumblr being rather bad at searching for stuff and that yes it is a little disjointed at the moment! |D (there is a BP tag on my blog which might be helpful though). I can’t really put that much about BP out yet since like a bunch of stuff I actually want to draw are IN the story and so I’d just end up spoilering a lot of it lol, so what I DO put out might be somewhat random. You can of course still ask questions about it and if I can answer it without spoiling something I will :)

I’d love to just ditch the first few pages at everyone since I’ve finished thumbnailing them and could actually start drawing it, but I’ve learned it’s so much better to have a good bank of pages so alas, we’re all gonna have to continue being patient whilst I thumbnail/work on it 😭

It technically doesn’t have one (I have consciously not made much ref to an actual date lol), and exists in one of those AU timeframes where some things from different years got shoved together. An example being the tech is reminiscent of the 90s but then there’s also some fashion from the 2000s etc.

In the lore of BP, there are technically (love that word lol) no angels so canonically this would be a moot point lol. IF angels were a thing, any mixed race would have the free will to either be good or bad (like the demons), and it wouldn’t affect much other than maybe they might have their own special abilities that could counter the demonic ones (like how priests do).

🤔 Hmmmm if i had to pick just one as a main it might be like (and this is expressing as opposed to receiving):

.D: Acts of service

Izm: Gift giving

Marcus: Quality time

Zeke: Acts of service (specifically, cooking)

Wei Ren: Words of affirmation

Rire: ...uh...i’m gonna say quality time

Well, a satanist would not be sanctioned as a battle priest so if there is one they’d have to be worshipping in secret cos that would get them unsanctioned pretty quickly. .D and the gang would be like wat. Rire would be like well...this is unexpected. I will let you imagine the tone that conveys XD

[szilverer]

hewwo

made this blog primarily to dump oc content & maaaybe liveblog a bit! (its my first time engaging in a fandom space like this so im pretty lost, do lemme know if i mess up with tagging or etiquette or smth. more about me here.)

my FL acc is from 2016 but i only really started playing this august! ive finished my ambition now but theres still a lot i dont know about the lore n stuff. IGN is Hreisz, feel free to send a CC or even just random in-character letters & menace help reqs.

im always open to asks/interactions here as well, just keep in mind i might take A While to respond as i am but an hermit with the barest of executive functions

trying to use this hyperfixation to practice digital art so there'll be random experimental doodles here as i try to find out wtf i am doing. everytime i open a canvas its a surprise. youve been warned

tags:

#chaindoodles -> art tag, #chainrambles -> text tag

#the twilight phantom -> the blorbo

#nightmarriage -> my blorbo hoards trash. block this to be spared from witnessing their latest questionable decision

content warning tags:

#light fingers spoilers

#suggestive in case i draw (or write?) smth that can be perceived as saucy, spicy, horn knee, overtly kinky or implied nsfw. there wont be anything Actually explicit here though

i like #blood and injuring my characters both mentally and physically. so uh. that. possibly violence.?

??

#poor edward

So who's this "Twilight Phantom"?

nearly everything about H_______ Reisz is dictated by my actions playing FL, so they're developing in real time. been lots of fun to see this clean slate (and i mean clean - i knew nothing about the setting, the lore, or who they were, so naturally, this guy didn't either) get shaped by the narrative And my mechanical wiki-fueled decisions.

ill make a better, dedicated post eventually but for now have a vague intro + some refs under the cut:

The first thing you notice about them is the cowl lazily draped around their head and shoulders, swaying behind their back like a cape in the colours of sunrise-- or, perhaps most familiarly, the velvety twilight that the newest star every so often provides to London.  The second thing is the deep scars covering one side of their face, and the third thing would probably be the heavy eyebags under their sharp, dark eyes.

A relatively freshly-minted Silverer, H. Reisz spends more time in Parabola than London nowadays. Not that they had been in London for too long anyway, and it's not like anyone knows where they were before that either. The surface, yes, but it's a big world out there, right? They don't actually remember seeing the sun, or the sky, but H cannot deny the soft colours of twilight and sunrise have a special place in their heart. They recognise it without the memory of experiencing it, just like they recognised love in the depths of a certain Labyrinth. Hmm, two Labyrinths, actually. There was that one heiress too... and the Orphanage was inside one hell of a maze too... if they had a coin every time they found themself inside labyrinths, they'd... Uh, where were we? Well, anyway, being a new face, they had nothing to be known for so they simply gave out their surname instead. Or well, what they assumed to be their surname. "H. REISZ" were the letters sewn-in on a diminute corner of the tattered black veil that wrapped their head back when they woke up for the "first" time. They were surrounded by near-empty bottles of dried mouldy honey, absinthe, and who knows what else. Ah, the decadence... they couldn't even remember what honey could do at the time but they could recognise the stench of self-destruction right away, haha.  Alas, if things were so bad they got to that point-- maybe this explains why moving on was so easy. Maybe they had somehow lobotomized themself on purpose. Who knows? They sure don't. It was only now, a year or so after waking up, that an epithet has started to stick around-- specifically by their actions as a Silverer and the services they provided. From nightmare-slaying to fishing out vestigial memories (the irony of an amnesiac doing this is not lost on them) to guiding and safeguarding lost dreamers, their glimmering signature cowl and the way it flowed rather phantasmagorically in Parabola started to leave an impression. To many dreamers, seeing a hint of pastel twilight colors signaled safety. It signaled someone you could trust to get inside your head. :)