#maroon stained thread

[amadeusposting]

OC DRAWING ALERT

I love drawing evil women <3

She doesn’t have a name yet (but I like Cora). I’m thinking about making her a part of the main cast of “Maroon Stained Thread” :]

[rebelfell]

urgent (cont’d)

eddie munson x fem!reader

continuation of a smut blurb (still) featuring no *actual* smut. cw: allusions to sex acts and talking about ~feeelings~ fluff

18+, MDNI 2.3k

You woke up with yellow in your eyes.

Not yellow like the golden rays of sun streaming through Eddie’s blackout curtains, but the bright neon yellow of a post-it stuck to your forehead.

Your nose wrinkled as you peeled it off your face and rolled over on your elbow, squinting with sleep-laden eyes to read his messy scrawl.

getting breakfast. don’t go anywhere :)

Your lips pressed together, teeth worrying the corner of your bottom lip as your head dropped down on the pillow. A cloud of his scent wafted up into the air, a mix of warm tobacco and the clean, fresh smell of his laundry detergent.

The same smell was all over you now, filling your every pore, like you were wrapped up in it the way you were still wrapped up in his sheets.

You were naked underneath, every part of your bare skin surrounded by their softness. And you realized for the first time since tumbling into his bed, that these were the ones you bought for his birthday last year. Egyptian cotton. Black. Priced high to match their obscene thread count.

You had gotten them after a party at Robin and Steve’s apartment, where he’d confessed to you during a smoke break on their balcony that he never got to pick out his own sheets, just slept on whatever he could dig out of a bargain bin at the goodwill for a nickel. And even now, he still did that because he had no idea what to look for or what it was that made sheets “good” or “bad.”

Unsurprisingly, his were bad. Very bad.

So, yeah, you had spent a little more than you typically did on birthday presents for friends. But it was more than worth it to watch Eddie’s brows raise practically to his hairline and his eyes round as he rubbed a corner of the luxurious material between his thumb and forefinger.

Awestruck. Like he couldn’t believe anything could be so soft. Feel so nice.

He tried to tell you he didn’t need them. He tried to say it was a waste of money and that he’d just ruin them and that you should go get your money back. But you’d insisted if he ever wanted to get a real girlfriend he’d have to graduate from those stained goldenrod ferns and maroon butterflies—yes, butterflies—he slept on every night.

Absently, you wondered who else had seen these sheets since then. How many others had lain here with the ghost of his touch burning all over their bodies? They were still in great shape, but they must have seen a number of washes by now.

You wondered if he changed them every time a new girl came through here. And would he be washing you out of them tonight?

The thought hits with a force you aren’t expecting—a feeling you never imagined you’d feel.

Because why did you care? Wasn’t that the whole point, after all? Not to feel anything? To have your one good night and go about your business?

Now, you had gotten your good night. You had gotten a great night, if you were being honest— so clearly it was time to get the fuck out of here.

Post-it be damned.

The buttery smooth sheets now felt more like they were riddled with fire ants as you threw them off of you and scrambled out of his bed, looking for something, anything, to wear.

Your sweats were nowhere to be found, likely still strewn over his coffee table after he peeled them off you with a kind of painstakingly slow precision. For someone who could think and move and talk with such rapid fire exuberance, Eddie sure could slow it down when it really counted. 

Fragments of the night kept coming back to you in flashes—Eddie’s rough hands on your body, his tongue lapping at your center as he held your thighs pried open; his own hips grinding into the couch in time with the movements of his head; fucking moaning into your folds like you were the most delicious meal he’d ever eaten, until you had to smother your face in one of his throw pillows trying to muffle your own cries of pleasure.

He brought you to the brink twice without even taking his pants off before he rose from between your legs, eagerly licking your spend from his lips to tell you he needed you in his bed. Now.

You nodded back, the desperation in his voice only making you gush with more need for him as you stood up from the couch and nearly collapsed on wobbly legs still shaking from the orgasms he had given you with just his tongue and fingers.

He practically threw you down onto his mattress, or at least he would have had you not thrown yourself in so willingly. So urgently.

The whole night he spent under you, on top of you—even next to you as you lay on your sides. 

He bit your shoulder when he came that time, his arms curled so tight around your body, hugging your back to his chest as hard as he could, the pain of it all blurring with the ecstasy of your own release. It coursed through you like a drug, like a shot of pure adrenaline, icy in your hot blood.

It almost felt like he really wanted you.

You suddenly felt dizzy, your head filling with pressure and stomach lurching like when you went on that awful Gravitron ride at the fair. It almost made you fall over as you stumbled into the living room that looked a bit like a crime scene, littered with beers and clothes.

You yanked on your panties and then your hoodie, zipping it above your cleavage and not bothering with your shirt. And just as you’d picked up your sweats to pull them on, you froze hearing the rattle of keys in the door as it opened.

Eddie appeared and the sight of him effectively quiets all the competing voices in your head.

He stood there in his own haphazardly assembled post-sex ensemble of joggers and a clingy tank. His hair is especially messy, more so than usual, from having your hands grabbing at it all night, and the shirt he’s chosen has an excessively low neck that has your, ahem, artwork from the night before out on full display—clusters of mottled red marks that you know trail further down his chest.

He’s more…jaunty than you’ve ever seen him.

There was always a bit of a pep in his step the morning after a conquest, but there’s something else today adding an extra zeal to his movements. He’s not quite cocky, just overtly…happy?

His eyes found yours and then flicked over your bare legs, your sweatpants still held out for you to step into, looking at him with wide eyes like a wild animal caught in a crosshair. He had to be able to tell you were freaking out, but he doesn’t make any obvious acknowledgement of it.

“Ta-da!”

He opened the box under his arm, presenting the pastries inside with a flourish. You smiled as you peered in, recognizing the blackberry tart that was the signature dessert of your favorite bakery. It sat in the center, surrounded by various other treats wrapped up in paper doilies.

“Just one?” you asked, arching a brow at him.

“Only one left,” he chuckled. “I had to fight an old lady for it. I lost, but since she kicked the shit out of me someone took pity and gave me theirs.”

The skin around his eyes crinkled with his wide smile and your stomach swooped in that awful way you weren’t used to—plummeting with the completely terrifying realization that you really wanted to kiss him.

Your lips actually tingled, already anticipating the rub of his stubble on your chin.

“We can share it,” you told him with a small wink.

Eddie nodded and carried the box back into the bedroom, making no motion for you to follow or trying to coax you to do so in any way—like you were a skittish cat he was trying to trick into eating by making it think it was their idea.

He sat on the end of the bed, cutting the tart down the middle with a plastic knife, and you came to sit next to him, sinking easily back into his plush mattress as he handed you your piece.

It was quiet as you and he took your first bites, neither of you looking at the other. You chewed, deep in contemplation, lost in swirling thoughts. Thinking, if this was a preview of how things were going to be between you two from now on…then you must have made a terrible mistake.

A fun mistake, but a mistake all the same.

“So…” Eddie finally said, sucking juice from his thumb. “Any thoughts? Comments? Concerns?”

“What do you want, like a star rating?” you asked, nervously swallowing your bite of sticky fruit.

“I wouldn’t say no,” he snickered and then his eyes fell to his lap before he added, quietly, “But you’re, um…you’re alright? Right?”

You swallowed harshly again, unable to muster an answer, and nodded tightly as you stared at the tart bleeding purple onto your fingertips.

Eddie’s hand rubbed over his mouth, the scratch of his stubble the only audible sound in the room in the wake of your silence.

“So I didn’t walk in on you trying to make a break for it, then?”

He scanned you up and down with an annoyingly knowing look in his eyes, but no judgment in his voice. No more than usual, anyway.

“No,” you lied, “I was just…I was…”

Eddie’s head tilted, a smile already playing on his lips, and you sighed as you abandoned your (admittedly pointless) attempt to lie.

“Okay, fine. It was.” You plopped your half of the tart back in the box and wiped your palms off on your thighs. “I just…I guess I freaked.”

Eddie set his own half down and pushed the box back so there was nothing between you.

He scooted in closer, his knee coming up and pressing against your thigh as he turned his body towards yours and reached out a hand to rest it gingerly on your leg.

“How come?” he asked, the pad of his thumb now rubbing in slow circles over your knee.

“I don’t know,” you admitted truthfully, “I mean, where do we go from here? Is it worth ruining our friendship over some really great sex?”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie smiled, “But did you say really great sex?”

You swatted at his shoulder, failing to fight back your own grin. But it fell almost as quickly as it had spread as you stared back at him, all of a sudden nervous again.

“Well…wasn’t it?” you asked quietly.

“It was,” he breathed out. “It didn’t just feel good, it felt…right. Didn’t it? Was it just me?”

For the first time that morning, worry flashed in Eddie’s eyes. His other hand came up to your face and his knuckles brushed your cheek, fingertips sliding along the hinge of your jaw and under your ear to cup it. He turned your face to his, searching for the mirror of his own feelings there.

“It did,” you said. “Everything did, it was like…”

It was like everything I’ve been waiting for.

The thought doesn’t gain enough momentum for you to actually voice it, getting lost somewhere between your head and your mouth. And as if to overwrite it, your mind starts to spout off all kinds of different thoughts, all fighting to get out now.

“But I don’t know what you want to do,” you said, working up to a ramble. “If we should just forget it, or if you want to keep hooking up, or if you want to see other people—”

“Wait, are you kidding?” Eddie asked, almost incredulous. And then, when your brow furrowed and you looked at him with nothing but questions in your eyes, his voice and gaze both softened.

“I just mean…you gotta know you’re the only one I want. Right?”

You feel dizzy all over again, but this time it’s a merry-go-round kind of dizzy. A dreamy, floaty kind of spinning instead of the stomach-lurching pull and yank of the Gravitron. You lick your lips as your eyes travel downwards, fingers reaching out to play with the ball chain that hangs around his neck and the guitar pick sitting in the center of his sternum, your thumb stroking the plastic.

“A-am I?”

Eddie’s head shakes, a dumbfounded kind of smile on his lips as he places them next to your ear to whisper in it.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted…”

Your hand jerks up to grab onto his elbow, feeling like you’re about to fall even though you’re sitting down. You chuckle into Eddie’s curls as your faces bump and a warmth bubbles in the center of your chest. Like all the affection you’ve ever felt for him was rushing in at once.

His breath hit your neck as he dropped a kiss on your temple and then l placed a line of them back along the curve of your jaw. You rubbed your hand across the softness of the sheets again, smirking at him as the tip of his nose brushed along the apple of your cheek.

“I told you these were a lady magnet,” you teased him lowly, letting your lips ghost ever so lightly over his own as they spread into a wide grin.

He slipped his hand around the back of your neck, pulling you into a proper kiss. Long and deep and slow. Full of all his need and want, and laced with the rich and bright sweetness of blackberry.

Your lips broke apart reluctantly, all the breath stolen from your lungs as he hummed back,

“Just so long as they’re a you magnet.”

thank you for reading, dears ☺️ pls consider leaving thoughts or comments. I’ll love you forever if you do <3

[moonsaver]

A dance, A death, A dream,

for humanity slumbers for the final rest, and dreams after the final rest.

➸ On the neverending stage of Penacony; there lies a mysterious masquerade that serenades those whose dreams stretch further than the expanse of the night sky. In this masquerade, the marble floor extends infinitely, and the windows are dimly lit by the full moon. Several hands extend to you. Whose do you take?

➸A/n; NOT IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER AS TITLE SUGGESTS. my writing's gotten a bit rusty, and this is majorly inspired by the Acheron and Black swan dance. Please read it with a grain of salt. 2.2k words. Yandere themes, gn reader but they're implied to wear heels, so just yassify your self insert. Bad writing because I've been out of it for so long.

—————

A death

Scars, calluses, and a plethora of secrets remain buried on and under the skin of Blade's hand. He gently and firmly guides you out of your seat, and into the centre. The grip of his hand is firm on your waist, and the warmth seeps into your skin.

“I've seen you, many, many times..”

He whispers into your ear, as the music begins. The rasp of it sends chills down your spine, forming a few goosebumps along the way.

“We've scarcely met.” You reply,

“In my dreams.”

You stay silent. He continues,

“The long thread of destiny lingered around you. Our souls were tied.”

He turns you, and pulls you in again, your back pressed to his front. He leans down in an instant and whispers into your ear again,

“You waited for me.”

The clicks of your heels coincide with his agile footwork.

Blade remembers the same dream, played over and over in his mind. The bite on your jugular, the hand over your nape, the red blood staining his teeth like wine.

“You didn't leave.”

Your heart picks up. You close your eyes for a momentary relief that never comes. You feel your body tense, and your lungs slightly constrict.

“I.. didn't mean to.”

His grip only further tightens on you, and he pulls you in closer. The spinning almost leaves you dizzy, or perhaps it's something else?

“You left. Intentions seldom matter.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

He stays quiet. His hands make gentle work, and gracefully guide you through the steps.

“those threads.. all came together and formed a tapestry of us.”

There were a multitude of them, although more monotone in nature. White occasionally graced the vibrant red thread, but was sooner stained with a murky black the further it went, infecting the red with its impurity. The vibrancy dimmed to a dull, dreary maroon.

“Some of them..”, he continues, his rough fingers snake around your wrist, bringing it up to his lips, where he tenderly kisses the inside, “..were tied around your wrist.”

“Around your waist..”

You turn again, your back presses into his chest momentarily,

“Braided into your hair,”

He pulls you in, leaning close into your face, to the point your noses almost touch,

“..wrapped around your throat.”

To you – it's like the dance halts for a moment. Something wrong happens.

His tone is warning, bubbling over the edge,

“You were mine.”

He turns you again, and roughly pulls you in, knocking your breath out of your lungs. Your shocked eyes meet his.

“You are mine.”

Your heartbeat thumps loudly in your ears. Blade pushes you around, almost mocking the gentleness and grace the dance is supposed to exude, stripping it of it's vulnerability like the harsh snap of a bear trap over the tender leg of a rabbit,

“I've pined, longed and stained you. I've ripped you apart and put you back together. Do you think it matters whether you left intentionally?”

Your lungs struggle to fill completely, you almost stumble from the harsh and swift movements Blade forces you through, and you stutter trying to get any word out, 

“Yingxi–! Wait!”

He pulls you in one last time, your face buried into his chest,

“You can not leave. Not anymore.”

The music halts to a break.

The dance stops.

His breath fans over your neck, the constricted space between you two rebounding the warm air. His teeth graze your jugular.

“Our flesh is tied. Struggle all you want, but we are intertwined further than dried blood over a wound.”

And this is how it is meant to be. Your hand on his weakness. His mouth on your heart.

The music starts again.

—––––––

A dream

Sunday's familiar gloved hand wastes no time wrapping around yours. He flashes you a smile as you give him a look.

“There are far too many spectators present tonight.”

You sigh, and smile.

“Of course. I'll do my best.”

“Thank you. As will I.”

His hand settles on your back, settling into the slight curve, and you straighten up, muscle memory kicking into action.

“Tonight's crowd mumbles and scatters to mystery as a moth akin to a flame. Dreams are not enough to quench their curiosity.”

The dance starts, and you relax after the first few steps, synchronising effortlessly with him,

“However, tonight's realm extends far beyond a dream.”

This was new.

Sunday always answered your questions about Dreams in a shapeless, vague manner. He often said it was to protect you.

This time, it was a warning.

“How so?” You ask. You don't expect him to go beyond surface level.

“Prime System Hours are during Midnight. A beautiful time.” He gently turns you, and brings you in,

“And why is that?”

“At this time, dreams become heavy. The memoria is dense enough to tear the thin membrane between reality and illusions.”

His wings slightly flutter. You feel almost hypnotized.

“The Dream realm and parts of The Reverie merge and collide. It bizarrely stabilises the lavish, shared dreams.”

You blink at him, slightly confused.

“And at this time, it is also easy to awaken from one's dreams, or sleep too deeply.”

You suck in a breath. A vision flashes into your mind.

Sunday stands across the empty ballroom. The candles are blown out. The windows creak with the gentle air of the night. The deathly pale light of the moon illuminates the side of Sunday's face.

Wake up? Sleep? Dream?

You breathe out, almost as if your soul had been snatched out of your body and harshly shoved back in. 

“Guests confuse their dreams and reality. They believe it's time to awaken, when reality seems pleasant, and dreams become bitter. Memories and presence blur together in an incoherent puzzle.”

He swerves you effortlessly, muscle memory keeping you from stumbling. But this time, your mind feels hazy.

“By the time they feel their consciousness return, they've already deeply penetrated into the dream realm.”

You blink again, and you're back at the same place. Except, this time, Sunday is closer. He takes your hand, and pulls you in. The emptiness of the ballroom is almost frightening, especially due to your confused and hazed state,

“As to whether they've woken up or not, relies solely on their ability to distinguish Reverie and the Dreamscape, which blurs more with the effect of the memoria.”

His voice echoes in your head with clarity, but your eyes blur the two figures, the contrast inducing dizziness in you to the point where you're afraid you might even fall,

“As for you..” He continues, golden eyes gently grazing over your confused and hazy expression, a smile stretching out onto his eerily perfect face,

“It's not time to decipher that yet.”

The silhouette of Sunday's fingers snap over the pale backdrop of the moon.

You open your eyes.

Sunday is standing before you with a warm smile. The candelabras are still burning. The crowd applauds you two. You breathe heavily, unsure of what has happened, your body suddenly zapped of energy, exhaustion straining your muscles.

“You seem to have overexerted yourself.”

Sunday's gloved hand trails up your back to your shoulder, guiding you gently back into the crowd, towards an empty table.

“Come now. The dust of this ballroom may be dulling your senses.”

Dust?

You blink for a moment, head slightly hanging as you collect yourself.

Sunday breathes out an ‘o’, and then chuckles softly.

“Do not mind it, dear”,

Sunday eyes the creaking windows. It has been a while since they were repaired. The room may need to be renovated. The dust on the floor is reminiscent of all the people that one witnessed your first dance with Sunday. The lack of it was always a reminder of your time with Sunday, the dust clinging to your heels instead. He stares towards the empty hall, where you dream of an everlasting dance.

“It is my mistake. I was thinking about something else.”

–––––———

A dance

“What makes you think I'd really want to dance with you?”

You ask, almost disgruntled. Rightfully so, too. The blonde man had been continuously pestering you throughout the night, asking you to accompany him. For a dance, a walk through the garden, a visit to the food table. Finally, he'd asked you to strike a bet with him, if it meant you'd at least spend an iota of your time with him and solely him.

“I have my ways, you know?”

His agile fingers flick and swerve a coin between his hands, tossing and turning it skillfully. The tablecloth slightly crinkles under the movement of his arms,

“I'm not betting, by the way.”

You say, pausing for a moment to confirm if he's listening. His eyes are intent on yours. You continue,

“If you have to go so far just to dance with someone, aren't you better off just giving up?”

Your gaze lands on the coin for a moment, and you continue watching it with interest. At some point, you force yourself to look away from the coin he was toying with, and take a sip of your drink. You lean back into your chair.

“Like I said, I have my ways. What I really want from you after all this time.. isn't it tempting? Don't you want to know?”

He tosses the coin into the palm of his other hand, and encloses it, before opening it. The coin vanishes when he opens his hand. Mirroring you, he leans back into his seat, although his body language is much more open than yours.

“making bets is easy, isn't it? But it's more trustworthy than pulling a few strings behind your back, right?”

He gets up, and languidly walks over to you. He leans down slightly, his sunglasses slightly skewing enough so that his vibrant Signoian eyes bore deep into yours.

“And for you.. I've thought about an offer that's taken me a while to cultivate. Join me for a chat on the Balcony?”

You think for a moment, and hesitantly ask,

“..Why not talk here?”

Aventurine only casts a side-glance somewhere in the distance.

“Prying eyes, sweetheart.”

He extends an open hand to you. You slowly place yours in it, with a self-assuring sigh.

-

“Penacony's relationship with the IPC has been quite bitter. Even our reception wasn't ready to welcome us.”

The air of the night sky was cold, forming subtle goosebumps on your skin. Various clinks and muffled conversations could be heard from behind you, the glass door blurring the view of everyone inside. 

“Not even my friends were allowed to enter the dreamscape except me. How lucky, right?”

He says, sarcastically. His eyes continuously gauge your face for any expression and hint as to what you feel.

“You’re a little too quiet.. am I not interesting enough for you?” 

You stay silent for a bit too long. Aventurine knows what you're going to say next.

“Listen, that night..” you start, your voice gradually softening at the remembrance of the memory,

“Don't.” He cuts you off.

Neither of you speak. You open your mouth to, but close it after being unable to decide on what to say.

“I mean, you don't have to remind me.” His languid tone returns, but you don't believe it was the same as before.

“I know everything ended that night.. I didn't think you were so averse to blood.”

You stare at the bubbles in your drink, rise slowly from the bottom of your cup to the surface, and pop. You don't know when, but the background of joyful conversation and ballroom music fades into distant screams, ones that have haunted your dreams ever since then. Aventurine continues,

“It won't hurt to.. act one last time like it used to be, right? Just for one night. It's a masquerade, and everyone hides who they are for a moment's time of detachment. Their past, their decisions, their mistakes. All of it is buried for a single night.”

You hear the shuffle of his stiff jacket as he moves closer to you, hesitantly moving your gaze to him as you steel yourself.

“Just one last time. For old time's sake. As lovers from the past.”

His hand extends out to you. His other hand is behind his back, his grip tightening over a coin.

Heads, or tails?

You take his hand with a sigh,

“Just once. Never again.”

Aventurine smiles. Luck has always been on his side. If it works well, then your expectations will never be honoured. His greed is fatally more important to him than your wishes. It won't be the last time, as far as he's concerned.

The coin shines under his palm, the moonlight creeping through the gaps between his fingers hitting the metal just right, but neither of you catch the glint. Your eyes are trained onto the main floor, and his are trained onto you. The coin decides both of your fates.

And Luck has always been happy to write it in his favour.

—————————

[lizardboiii]

Tongue Tied┃One Piece

[Protective!Dracule Mihawk x Poneglyph Speaking!Reader]

│Summary: Washed up on a gloomy shore, your only solace is a dark an empty castle. Yet, when the castle's only resident finally returns, you are met with an undeniable problem. The language you speak is completely dead to his world.

"Flailing your hands around isn't going to make me understand you any more."

"𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐!"

・❥・

│cw: SFW, 18+, violent themes, size kink, f!reader, mihawk's eyes, terrible nicknames

│wc: 1.8k

│chapters: I II III

│notes: poneglyph writing/speaking in different font. normal font is any other language as written. NSFW in pt 2! enjoy <3

・❥・

│Chapter I: Bird of Prey

Squawking.

Soft and high pitch, the incessant cries of seagulls flooded your ears like a symphony. You groaned audibly at the noise. An action you almost instantly regretted as a sudden rush of frigid sea water seeped into your cracked mouth. 

Hacking up a storm, you were quick to come to your, mostly delirious, senses. You laid sprawled out on a strange gloomy shore. The water, almost too calm for your liking, combined with an eerie fog rolling in from the seemingly endless coastline, felt as if you entered purgatory. 

Stumbling to your soaked feet, you tested your balance. Though your legs wavered slightly, you managed to pull yourself from the water’s surprisingly strong tide. You felt like you might be sucked back out to sea. 

Swallowing nervously, you grimaced at the bitter taste of salt still lathered on your tongue. It was a sickly reminder of your current predicament. You were completely stranded, alone. Clenching your eyes shut, you replayed the moments before the disaster. 

Your rickety fishing boat swayed innocently on the open water, unaware of the massive storm brewing overhead. You had no time to prepare, no time to act, no time to ensure any self-preservation. In the blink of an eye, the sky blackened.

The small white capping waves surrounding you abruptly grew in size and violence. Your small boat stood no chance. The futile struggle to stay right side up only lasted moments. With one final wave, your boat capsized from the continuous abuse.  

Shrieking, your body was thrown into the raging sea like a rag doll. You struggled hard against the current, only managing to break the water’s surface every couple of seconds. 

Eventually, your arms grew too tired, too weak, too heavy. It became more of a struggle to convince yourself to stay afloat than to fight the waves dragging you beneath their depths. Then, the world went dark.

Taking a deep breath, you willed away any more dreadful thoughts. The sooner you could find another spare ship the quicker you could go back home.

Scanning your surroundings, you searched for any ships, abandoned or not. Immediately your eyes caught a shocking scene. Nestled far beyond the shore, a massive crumbling castle towered over the island. You couldn't help but remark how fitting it was.

The discovery did little to encourage you. An abandoned castle meant no life, and no life meant no ships. You threaded your fingers through your hair. How could this get any worse?

The sound of thunder mocked your internal monologue. Groaning loudly, you began your venture towards the lonesome castle in an attempt to escape the rapidly forming storm. 

You managed to reach the half point mark before your skin began to crawl. You couldn't help but feel like something, or someone, was watching you through the underbrush. Though you tried to chalk it up to paranoia, you swore you saw something red glowing within the trees. It was just your luck to be marooned on a haunted island.

Whether it was divine intervention or simply uninterest, you managed to reach the chipped steps of the castle unscathed. Although that didn't stop you from hightailing it inside. 

A closer look inside the fortress told you just how regal it once appeared to be: large stained glass windows, tall decorative pillars, and corridors that seemed to stretch for miles. You were in awe from the moment you entered.

In due time, you found your way to an equally extravagant dining room. The wood of the table was scratched and weathered, but ultimately well taken care of. However, the real centerpiece of the room was a massive chair befitting the end.

The plush seat was adorned with gold trim and a deep red leather. You wondered if someone had lugged it in there from the throne room. Swiping a finger across the armrest, you rubbed your fingers together. A thick layer of dust slowly floated to the ground.

You hummed more so to yourself, “𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍.”

Spinning on your heel, you shamelessly plopped yourself down on the gaudy throne. It wouldn't hurt to live in a palace. For a short while at least. You could stay there until you were able to either build another boat or be lucky enough to be rescued.

You smiled, “𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗.”

・❥・

After a month of trial and error, it seemed like you greatly overestimated your raft crafting capabilities. The trees on the island were far too thick for you to cut down with no ax, and any driftwood washed up on the beach seemed to crumble from even the gentlest touch.

You were starting to wonder if you’d be trapped there forever. 

That was until you ventured out on your daily search for partly salvageable driftwood. Aloft the gentle waves was an all too strange… ship? Raft? Casket? To be honest, you weren’t exactly sure what it was.

There was only thing you knew for sure, the small vessel was currently barreling towards your remote island. You could barely contain your excitement. 

You were going home.

Dropping the withered planks in your hands, you allowed them to shatter against the plush sand before bolting to get closer with the ship. Your eyes remained locked in on the crossed shaped mast that grew ever closer. Its black sails signaling “Freedom”.

Your tunnel vision made you stumble and trip over your own feet as you ran. And when you weren't running - you were crawling. Your hands desperately clawed at the damp sand in order to lift yourself back to your feet. You could not bear to lose your fleeting chance of leaving your island prison.

Eventually, the gothic ship docked. Its black sails were slowly being pulled into bundles when you finally managed to reach it. And reach it you did. 

You met the ship with little discretion. Squabbling and frantic, you made no effort to contain your emotions in front of the ship’s presumed Captain. Manners could wait until your safety was secured.

Thrusting your hands in the air, you made your presence widely known, “𝙴𝚡𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎!”

The man before you hesitated slightly before releasing his hold on the black stained linen. Turning his obscured face, you noted the lackluster expression he wore. He seemed neither surprised nor unsurprised, merely…inconvenienced.  

“𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞,” you laughed awkwardly, “𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝙼𝚢 𝙶𝚘𝚍, 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝙸 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎? 𝙰 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠!”

The man greeted your pitiful tangent with a stagnant silence. If you hadn't noticed his previous disinterest, you definitely noticed it now. Taking a deep breath, you internally assessed your newly appointed “savior”.

He stood tall, extremely so. He was taller than any man you knew on your home island. You assumed you'd only reach his chest if you stood side by side. However, he certainly did not lack in the muscle department either. He was broad, thick even. You wondered if his shoulders were as firm as they looked.

Gradually, your eyes wandered to an elegantly crafted coat. The dark red of his sleeves were a stark contrast against his unnaturally pale skin which, unsurprisingly, he left on full display. Not that you minded of course.

However, the most striking attribute he bore was his eyes. They shone brighter than any golden jewel found on the Grand Line, rivaling the sun itself. You certain even Helios swooned over his canary colored irises.

Entranced, you allowed yourself to be captivated. The thick black rims surrounding his pupils produced an almost stained glass appearance. All you wanted to do was consume more, read into them like a devout worshiper. It was as if they bore scripture.

You unconsciously shifted forward, trying to get a closer look. That was your first mistake. Abruptly, those very eyes sharpened with hostility, sizing you up like a hawk. It seemed your sudden movement labeled you a threat.

“Who are…”

The temperature felt as if it plummeted. Icy and thick, you didn't need hands around your neck to feel like you were being strangled. You couldn't understand why this was happening, mainly because…

“You?”

You had no idea what he was saying. 

Hands trembling, you stared at the man above you in confusion. You were sure if you did not respond he could, and would, take action. Maybe if you weren't quick enough in answering he’d kidnap you and sell you off for some pocket change. Or worse, he would kill you for just causing him trouble.

You racked your brain for any semblance of a response. What could you have even done to warrant such an intense reaction?

“…𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝,” You swallowed hard, “𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍?”

The tense atmosphere gave way slightly, releasing its invisible hold on your throat. 

Sighing quietly, the ravenette grumbled to himself, “It seems we don’t speak the same language. How inconvenient.”

Annoyed, the taller man searched your person with his honey laced eyes. Satisfied with his findings, he returned his attention back to his vessel. You pondered if your lack of weapons made you into a problem that could be “dealt with later”.

However, you didn't want to be tossed aside until later. You wanted to return home. And if that meant attempting communication with a hostile vampiric asshole, you'd have to try!

“𝚄𝚖,” You scrambled to the other side of the man's ship in an attempt to regain his attention.

“𝚂𝚒𝚛, 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝!”

Goldy, newly nicknamed, paid you no mind, favoring to strap down his ship without haste. You chewed on the inside of your cheek in frustration.

Shuffling beside him, you implemented drastic measures. However, your hand only managed to move a centimeter towards Goldy’s arm before your wrist was swiftly snatched in a painful grip.

Not wasting a moment of Goldy’s notice, you began frantically pointing at yourself with your free hand, “𝙸!”

You motioned at the ship, “𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚝!”

Goldy released his iron grip and stood to his full height, “Stop being troublesome.”

“𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚝. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎!”

The ravenette merely continued to stare at you disinterested. Perhaps he was debating if cutting you down now would be easier than listening to nonsensical ramblings.

Nevertheless, you waved your hands down your body, “𝙼𝚎!” 

You gestured at his ship, “𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝!”

You clasped your hands together, “𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎!”

"Flailing your hands around isn't going to make me understand you any more."

"𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐!"

Goldy easily ignored your pestering and walked around you, “I don’t have time for this.”

“𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝!” You ran after his form, “𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝! 𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝! 𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝!”

You followed Goldy with continued pleas. Yet, his long legs persisted across the desolate beach to the hidden pathway located in the tree line.

Your brows furrowed at the observation. It took you a week to find the secret trail that led from the beach straight to the castle. How could he have found it so easily?

You finally fell silent as Goldy traversed the path like the back of his hand. He walked confidently. It was as if he had been on the island before.

A sudden thought crossed your mind. 

Goldy lived here.

・❥・

[luffington]

paradise circus ♡

➤ summary: Corazon gets extra needy when he smokes weed. (18+)

➤ pairing: donquixote rosinante (corazon) x gn!reader

➤ word count: 945

➤ warnings: modern AU, drug use, oral (m receiving), established relationship, fluff

➤ notes: lil stoner bf cora brainrot :D title is one of my favorite strains of weed! feedback is appreciated as always <3

NSFW under the break! minors dni thank uuu

Rosy pink and ruby red hues of light illuminated the otherwise dark apartment, midnight city streets lying quietly outside. Slow and rhythmic classic rock reverberated throughout the room — Corazon’s “setting the mood” playlist. The air reeked of marijuana and overly fragrant candles fighting for their life to diffuse the scent. You sunk deeper into the plush cushions of your boyfriend’s living room couch, head hazy and drowned in music. Your slightly unfocused gaze fell on the blonde man sitting on the carpeted floor in front of you, tall frame hunched over a coffee table as he rolled the second joint of the night. A quick swipe of his tongue sealed the rolling paper and he proudly showed you the final product with a goofy grin.

Corazon shuffled backwards until he settled between your legs, back pressed against the couch and head lying in your lap. He looked up at you with puppy eyes and the unlit joint resting between his plush lips. You chuckled and grabbed his heart-patterned lighter — Corazon and fire did not mix, and you tried your best to keep it out of his control when you were together. 

Fire ignited the clumsily twisted end of the joint. The blonde’s pretty maroon eyes fluttered shut as he took a long, lung-filling drag, leaning forward to exhale a long stream of smoke before returning his head back to your warm lap. 

“Thank you, angel,” he sighed with a smile. His sexy baritone voice sent pleasant vibrations throughout your body. Slender fingers brought the joint to your mouth and you noticed that it was already stained with a ring of dark red lipstick. You inhaled generously, welcoming the calming sensation that flooded every cell of your body. 

Your boyfriend always loved physical affection, but he got extra clingy when he was high. Sitting beside you on the couch, lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders and keeping your bodies pressed together. There was some bad Netflix original movie on the TV in front of you — your brain was too fried to follow the convoluted plot, and Corazon wasn’t even attempting to focus, too busy nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a cat and mumbling about how warm and soft you are. You slipped off his red beanie to pet his feathery hair and soothingly scratch his scalp. He almost purred. 

Blindly grabbing at the ashtray on the table, not daring to move away from you for even a moment, his fingers finally settled on the halfway-burnt joint. The blonde took another hit and exhaled the wispy smoke into your parted mouth. You moaned into the kiss, lips moving against his languidly. He tasted like sugary sweet cherry coke mixed with the strong earthy aftertaste of marijuana and old cigarettes. It was addicting and made your mind swirl. 

Weed inevitably made him horny. Long legs spread wide, the waistband of his sweatpants pulled down just enough to free his cock, already at full hardness after a few strokes. The movie was long forgotten and put on mute, but the light from the screen still flickered across his beautiful features.

“You’re so good at this, baby…” You’d barely touched him and there were already stars in his glazed-over eyes. He let out a delicious high-pitched mewl when you flattened your tongue and dragged it from the base of his dick to its flushed red tip. 

His long and pretty dick was always hard to swallow, stretching your throat to its limit, and especially now that the weed had made your mouth bone-dry. You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, running the tip of it along his slit the way you knew he loved. He threaded his fingers in your hair but didn’t apply any pressure, letting you take things at your own pace. Sometimes he liked to hold hands when you sucked him off — he said it made it more intimate. You thought it was adorable.

It only took a few minutes of your warm mouth wrapped around Corazon’s length to unravel him into a whiny mess, occasionally bucking his hips into your awaiting throat. He tried his best to restrain his movements – he would never forgive himself if he hurt you – but you just felt so fucking good. The blonde attempted to muffle his embarrassingly wanton noises with the back of his hand, but you tugged at his sleeve insistently. Pulling off of his cock for only a moment to tell him how pretty his voice was, how much you wanted to hear it. His face flushed red and precum beaded at the tip of his dick. 

You hollowed your cheeks and slurped noisily at his cock, stroking the base at a lazy pace. His labored breathing and increasingly louder moans signaled his approaching orgasm. “I’m so close,” he panted. “G-gonna…” That was all the warning you got before ropes of warm cum coated your mouth. You savored the salty taste and continued to suck him through the aftershocks of his climax, throat constricting around him until he was shaking from oversensitivity. When you pulled away, a thick string of saliva connected your lips to his cock.

“Sorry I finished so soon,” he mumbled shamefully. In response, you climbed into his lap and grabbed his cheeks and kissed him passionately. He whimpered at the lingering taste of his own cum. He broke the kiss and brought the mostly burnt out joint to your lips again, black ash spilling from the end and falling onto his fluffy black hoodie (which thankfully didn’t burst into flames). He watched you inhale with a lethargic smile and a dopey, loving expression. “Can I return the favor?"

[ghosthunterbuck]

these tangled threads

(buddie) (2.3k words) (6x11 spec) i've been back for five minutes and immediately decided i needed to write some spec fic so uh, here we are, have some coma!buck :)

Evan picks at a loose thread on his sleeve and stares at the screen in front of him. His latest in a long line of temp jobs has him feeling disquieted. Even more lost than usual, somehow. He wonders if it isn’t because he’s back in California.

It’s been years since he graced the west coast with his presence, and it’s hard to explain why he’s back now. 

It certainly isn’t for the work. Digitizing old files might be the worst job he’s ever had, and that includes the summer he spent digging drainage ditches in Florida. 

He’s felt restless, though, as of late, an itch beneath his skin that he can’t seem to scratch. Evan pulls at the thread again and a little more of his sleeve unravels. He lets the red string dangle and returns his attention to the file in front of him. 

June 22nd, 1985. 

Evan sighs quietly and flips the folder open. He arranges the sheets nestled inside by color. Red for fire, white for police, yellow for medical. He pulls the stack of red towards him and begins the process of painstakingly typing in each detail all over again. 

Twenty years of files and he hasn’t even made it through the first. 

…

He’s just begun working on the 26th when there’s a soft knock on the slightly ajar door to his closet-turned-office. A young woman pokes her head in and immediately wrinkles her nose. 

“Wow, I don’t think they could’ve found a darker room to put you in if they tried.”

“It’s uh– it’s… fine?” Evan ventures. 

The young woman snorts and pushes the door further open, allowing a small sliver of natural light to stain the carpet. 

“I’ll have to ask Eddie to find out for sure, but I’m pretty sure this is a fire code violation,” she says with a wry grin. 

Evan smiles, a little cautiously. “You’d know better than me,” he says, tapping the file in front of him, “my knowledge currently ends in 1985.”

The woman chuckles softly. “Anyway, a couple of us are going to grab lunch from the food truck across the street. You want to get out of this cave and come with?”

Evan bites his lip and glances at the stack of files to his left. 

“I’m May, by the way,” she says. 

“Evan,” he replies, but even as he says it, something about it feels wrong. Like the shape of his own name is unfamiliar to his tongue.

“Come on,” May says, backing out of the room but leaving the door wide open, “you’ll go crazy sitting in here all day.”

Evan stands before he’s consciously made the decision to do so. “You’re right,” he says. “Can’t stay here forever.”

…

The food truck reminds him a little of a postcard Maddie sent him a few years back, a generic one with no location and no return address. It’s funny, the way she’d flipped the script on him when she finally left Doug. 

He hasn’t gotten a new one in a few months, but who knows if the long string of forwarding addresses he’s kept is still intact. 

There’s a small group of blue and maroon polo-clad individuals huddled beneath a large beach umbrella nearby, and May leads him to them. 

“Hey guys! This is the new temp Sue mentioned yesterday, Evan,” she introduces him. 

Another wave of discomfort hits him and he frowns a little. He tries to wipe the expression off his face before anyone catches it, but at least one of them notices. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Evan,” May continues, “this is Linda, Josh and Eddie.” She points to each of them in turn. 

Linda and Josh both offer him a warm greeting, but Eddie simply nods. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and a seemingly permanent furrowed brow, and Evan finds himself picking again at his frayed sleeve under the man’s scrutinizing gaze. 

Evan wants to look away, but finds that he can’t. 

The moment seems to stretch and pull into something more akin to molasses than time, slowly crystalizing into a shape that feels recognizable. Evan feels the urge to reach out, the inexplicable need to pull Eddie to safety. 

Eddie’s phone rings, and the moment shatters. 

“Excuse me,” he says, and Evan would swear he’s heard that voice before. 

…

By the time Eddie returns, Evan’s halfway through a taco and a story about his time as a ranch hand. The others seem interested enough, but Evan’s boring himself. He knows how the story ends – another place he couldn’t stay, another set of fraying loose ends. 

“Have we met before?” Eddie suddenly interrupts. 

Evan’s certain they haven’t, certain he would remember if they had, but there’s a nagging sensation in the back of his head that begs him to reconsider. “I’m not sure,” he says after a moment. 

“On a call, maybe?” Eddie presses. 

Evan shrugs helplessly. “I’ve never called 9-1-1,” he says. 

Eddie shakes his head impatiently. “I’m not a dispatcher,” he says. “I used to be a firefighter, though.”

An image flashes through Evan’s mind. It’s Eddie, but he looks younger. Or – maybe younger isn’t right. Less burdened. His posture is straight and he’s wearing turnouts and a warm smile. He has the look of someone who’s settled in his skin, someone who knows exactly who he is and isn’t afraid of that knowledge. He’s so incredibly familiar, but Evan knows they haven’t met. Not in this lifetime, anyway. 

He shakes his head again. “I’m sorry, I don’t think so. I haven’t been in LA in years.” Evan feels like he’s lying, even as he knows he’s telling the truth. 

Eddie’s lips twist into a small frown, a painful expression Evan is suddenly desperate to wipe away. 

“Who was on the phone?” he blurts. 

The question works, and Eddie’s frown fades into something closer to a tired smile. “My son,” he says, “Christopher.”

“Whoa, you got a kid?” Evan’s voice seems to echo in his own ears. 

Christopher, he’s seven. 

And super adorable. 

“One that’s growing up way too fast,” Eddie says. His tone is light, but the guilt in his expression says everything he doesn’t. 

He doing okay?

Better than me. 

Evan turns his attention back to his frayed sleeve, and realizes it isn’t just one string, it’s two, tangled so tightly together he’s sure they’ll never unwind. 

…

“Buck,” someone says, and Evan’s head snaps up so fast it hurts.

There’s no one there. He’s alone in his dingy longstay motel room, picking at a plate of microwave lasagna that makes him wish desperately that he’d learned how to cook somewhere along the way. 

The room shouldn’t feel silent, not with the buzzing air conditioner and thin walls, but it does and it’s oppressive. Evan flips on the TV and hopes it’ll be enough. 

A red headed reporter fills the screen, and something like anxiety twists in his chest. He reaches for the remote but freezes when the image changes. 

“...three alarm blaze that displaced multiple families was extinguished early this morning by multiple teams of firefighters. Incident commander Robert Nash commented at the scene.”

“Our team performed admirably tonight. We just wish you were there with us.”

Evan’s brow furrows and he sits back, watching as the camera pans to two paramedics bandaging the arm of a young firefighter with dark skin and a pained expression.

…

In the morning, a postcard from Maddie arrives. 

Strangely, the image on the front is of a small, nondescript house with three pairs of shoes set neatly by the front door. 

Evan flips the card over to read the inscription. 

We miss you. Please come home.

There’s no postage, and no return address. 

Evan shivers and grabs his hoodie from the bed. It’s only when he pushes his knuckles through the end of his sleeve that he notices his two strings have turned to nine, all varying degrees of tangled, though none as long or as tightly woven as the first two he’d noticed. 

His head aches, and he wishes more than anything he could follow Maddie’s instructions. 

Home though… he doesn’t know where that is. 

…

Evan finds himself at the pier with no memory of how he got there. It looks familiar but wrong, dotted with rides and attractions he knows are long gone. He looks to his left and finds a young boy staring at him, no older than eight. 

“You ever think about what you want to do with your life? What you want to be when you grow up?” the boy asks him. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Evan replies. 

The boy ignores him and continues speaking. “I hope you do find something you love,” he says. 

“I did,” Evan replies instinctively. He hesitates. “Or I thought…”

The boy looks at him, and suddenly he’s older. “It’s gonna be okay, Buck. The doctors can fix you.”

Evan gasps and stumbles back. There’s a roaring in his ears. He turns just in time to see the wave that swallows him whole. 

…

What am I supposed to do if you– you promised, Buck. Chris needs you, and I–

…

Evan sputters and coughs until a river flows from his mouth. He’s standing in a bathroom, in front of a mirror, covered in blood. 

The strings from his tattered sleeve wrap around his fingers now, difficult but not impossible to distinguish from the horrible stains on his skin. 

The door behind him swings open, and a man walks in. 

Immediately, Evan is comforted, though he doesn’t know why. 

“Everyone’s out there,” the man says. “Waiting.”

“Why?” Evan asks. 

The man frowns. 

“I was just the guy standing there when it happened,” Evan continues. 

“I need you to open your eyes, kid,” the man says. 

Evan blinks– once, twice, and he’s back in his office. 

…

The door swings open. 

“None of us are better off, you know,” a woman with a shaved head says as she steps into the room. “I know you think it sometimes, but we’re not.”

“I don’t understand,” Evan says. 

“Bobby’s a wreck. And Eddie… I’ve never seen him react like that to anything. Reminded me of you, actually.”

“You know me?” Evan asks, feeling more and more desperate. The walls around him feel like they’re closing in. 

“Point is, we don’t work without you. So I’m going to need you to wake up and come be a firefighter again, okay?” The woman turns on her heel and leaves. 

“Wait!” Evan calls, but it’s too late. 

He blinks again and finds himself in the middle of a grocery store, clutching a box of cat laxative to his chest. 

…

“Buck?” A man asks, striding towards him. He’s wearing a firefighter’s uniform and has a scar in the middle of his forehead. “Man, what are you doing here,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a question. 

“I'm just here to– to do some... some shopping,” Evan replies. 

The man shakes his head. “This isn’t right,” he says. “It isn’t supposed to happen like this. You need to come home.”

“I want to,” Evan whispers. “I don’t know how.”

The box falls from his hands, tearing at the red strings that no longer seem to come from his sleeve but from his skin instead. 

“Maddie’ll be back soon,” the man says. “She stayed with Jee overnight, but she’s on her way now. I know you’re not going to wake up for me, but maybe you could wake up for her? She needs you.”

The man claps Evan on the shoulder and spins him around, and suddenly he’s face to face with the sister he hasn’t seen in years. 

…

“Maddie!” Evan cries, throwing himself towards her. She catches him in a tight hug. 

“I miss you, little brother,” she says sadly. 

“I’m right here,” Evan says. 

“What happened to you,” Maddie whispers. 

Evan shakes his head. Tears begin to pool in the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know, Maddie. I’m scared.”

…

He’s flatlining again! 

Ma’am, please step back and let us do our jobs. 

That’s my brother!

And we’re doing everything we can to save him. 

…

Evan gasps awake in his motel room, alone again. Or maybe– he was alone the entire time. Just dreaming. It always feels so real. 

The TV is still on, but now it’s the weather. A grim meteorologist addresses him. 

“High winds and rain are in the forecast tonight, but the real danger is the lightning. Shelter away from tall trees and poles, and whatever you do, don’t go climbing any ladders.”

Evan shudders. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He’s in danger. 

The door swings open, and Eddie walks in. 

“Buck,” Eddie says, and though it isn’t his first time hearing the name, it’s the first time he understands that it’s his. 

Buck stands. 

“You have to open your eyes,” Eddie says, “okay? You have to.”

“I’m looking right at you,” Buck says softly. 

Eddie shakes his head and the meaning is obvious. You’re looking right at me, but you still don’t see.

“The doctor’s,” Eddie says shakily, “they say you might never wake up. But I don’t believe that, Buck. I know you. I know you better than they do and I know you’re not going to give up on us like that.”

Buck reaches out on instinct and lays his string wrapped hand over Eddie’s heart. 

In an instant, it all comes rushing back to him. 

“You have to wake up,” Eddie says. 

“I’m trying,” Buck gasps. 

“You have to, because I can’t do any of this without you, Buck. I don’t want to.”

Buck remembers the moment lightning struck him. He remembers the moment before the pain, remembers feeling, just for a moment, like he might be immortal. He remembers Eddie crying out his name. 

Eddie’s hands encircle his, and the red string tangles them together. 

“Please, Buck,” Eddie says, squeezing his hand. “Come home.”

With a herculean effort, Buck squeezes back.

[fairy-writes]

Hello!! If requests are still open (if not, please ignore) can I ask for a Louis Moriarty x reader like the Mycroft “regret” one you wrote? Where he says something mean and they get into a fight and it’s dramatic with a fluffy ending? I would appreciate it very much! ♥️

SWEET APOLOGIES

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): Louis James Moriarty x Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Angst to Fluff, Arguments, Injuries

Notes: I really hope this is alright! I was second-guessing myself the entire time 😭

__________________________________________________________________________

Your name being shouted makes you prick your finger on your sewing needle. You curse and drop the thing onto your current project which happened to be a pair of Moran’s trousers. You were often asked to sew various things, whether that was an injury or socks. You were the Moriarty’s tailor or seamster and makeshift doctor. 

The voice shouts your name again. Moran maybe? But wasn’t he out with Bonde and Louis?

You make it to the top of the stairs and stop dead in your tracks.

Louis hangs limp between Sebastian Moran and James Bonde. Blood drips from his forehead, and he’s clearly unconscious and missing his glasses.

You’re down the stairs in an instant. 

You direct them to the sitting room, where you have them leave Louis while you retrieve your stitching needles and threads, as well as some medical supplies like bandages and whiskey.

Because you know he’s going to need it when he wakes up.

“What happened to him?” You ask as you gently work his suit coat from his shoulders. Moran favors his right side, and you make a mental note to take a look at him after Louis. Bonde has a scratch above his left eye but otherwise looks unharmed.

“We were jumped,” Moran says, voice strained with pain, and if you had to guess, he has a couple of cracked or broken ribs. You end up handing him the bottle of whiskey to which he takes several long swigs. 

Soon enough, you dismiss Moran and Bonde, promising them you’ll look at their injuries later, leaving you and Louis alone in the sitting room. He lets out a pained moan as you agitate his injuries in your attempt to remove his shirt but doesn’t awaken.

It isn’t until you are threading your needle that he stirs. By that time, you had bandaged his lesser wounds and were working on what looked like a knife cut on his collarbone. It’s awkward and long, and you’re fairly certain that his shirt is partially shredded because of it. 

But your rage has started to grow. Tiny and hot like a dying ember, but slowly fed by your worry and panic at seeing him so injured. 

His already darkened maroon eyes are even darker because of the pain. He grits his teeth and tries to sit up but is stopped by you putting a gentle hand on his chest.

“Don’t get up. You’re hurt.” You say quietly, keeping a tight leash on your anger so as to not anger him. 

The last thing you needed was for him to get angry back and start an argument. 

“I’m fine.” He tries, but you glare and show him your bloody fingers where you had been stitching for the last twenty minutes. 

“Clearly you aren’t. So be quiet and let me finish.” You snap, the leash on your temper fraying just the tiniest bit. 

Thankfully, Louis catches your slip and doesn’t say anything. Instead, he bites his tongue and leans back against the couch arm. You’ll likely have to throw the couch out or burn it after you’re done. It’s stained in blood and grime from his injuries.

As soon as you finish the last stitch, Louis is sitting up and pushing your hands away. 

“I promise I’m fine.” He says quickly, and that’s when your patience snaps. 

“What do you mean you’re fine?! THIS IS NOT FINE!” You shout, and he stops where he’s shrugging on his button-down and suit coat. His movements are painfully slow, and it’s clear that he’s suffering. 

But that doesn’t stop his temper from flaring up to meet yours like two bucks charging each other. 

“Can you stop it for a moment?!” He snaps back and yanks on his suit coat, ignoring how it pulls his stitches. You toss the dirty needle back into your bag and feel tears burn in your eyes. 

“You promised me you weren’t going to be reckless! You promised!” You exclaim, and he grits his teeth,

“Well, promises can be broken, so just leave me alone, yeah?” He says, and you flinch back. 

Then, with tears threatening to overflow down your cheeks, you pack up your things and leave with a slam of the sitting room door. It rattles the chandelier above you as you wander the mansion halls in search of Bonde and Moran. 

You find Moran in his chambers, smoking a cigarette and shuffling a deck of cards. 

“Those’ll kill you, y’know.” You say as a way of entrance and he looks up, clearly unimpressed. 

“Then I’ll die doing somethin’ I like.” He retorts, and you roll your eyes, shuffling inside to take a seat across from him. 

“Take your shirt off.” You say curtly, and he huffs out a laugh, 

“At least buy me a drink first.” You look up to the ceiling and pray for patience. Because after Louis, you don’t have any left. 

Did he really want you to leave him alone? 

“I need to see if you broke anything dumbass.” You say eventually, and his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

“What’d Louis do t’ you t’ get your knickers in a twist?” He says, clearly picking up on your foul mood. You set your bag down and reach inside for bandages in case he’s bleeding. 

“Nothing. Louis just wants me to leave him alone, is all.” You say and swallow down the lump in your throat. 

If he was so willing to break this promise what others was he going to break?

Thankfully, Moran doesn’t say anything else and instead sheds his shirt so you can take a look at his side. It’s mottled in purples and blues and slightly swollen. You don’t have to touch it to know it’s tender. So, you prescribe him rest and the occasional shot of whiskey to dull the pain. 

“No missions for you for a while. Take it easy, alright?” You instruct and he nods, waving you off as he starts playing a card game with himself.

“Yeah, yeah, go check on Blondie, will ya? He took a pretty good look to the head.” 

You are about to say something when you see Louis hobbling down the hallway, favoring his stitches. He stops, looks at you, scowls, and continues down toward his bedroom. You huff and brush past him toward where you guessed Bonde would be.

Two can play that game. 

The tension between you is palpable by day four of not speaking to each other. Perhaps it was day two, but you didn’t really care to count—not when Louis was still being so touchy.

But it wasn’t long before everyone else came to you, asking you to make things right.

“He’s so mopey! Not at all like himself!” That was Bonde. You grunted to acknowledge his words but didn’t respond past that. 

“He’s got a stick up his ass. You should talk to him.” Moran. At that, you roll your eyes and stab your needle into your embroidery. Perhaps more aggressively than you meant to, but it got your point across. 

“He said he wanted me to leave him alone. So that’s what I’m doing.” You snap, and he relents and doesn’t push the issue anymore. 

Soon, everyone has come to you, complaining about Louis’s sour behavior. And every single time, you turn them away with the same excuse. It isn’t until you stumble upon Louis nursing a clearly infected injury that you relent and talk to him. 

You enter the library to find Louis hunched over himself, taking a long pull from a whiskey bottle as he tries to remove his stitches. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” You snap, hurrying to his side to stop him before stopping yourself. 

The injury on his collarbone is infected—that much is obvious. The wound has an unpleasant odor emanating from it and is red and inflamed. He’s successfully removed a handful of stitches, but a few remain. 

“What does it look like?” Louis retorts and sets down the whiskey bottle. It’s clear he’s in pain, his nose scrunched and his eyes tight. 

Despite your anger, you’re gentle in helping Louis. After some back and forth, he eventually sits back and lets you work. 

Pus oozes from the gash, and you work to clean it out and apply a poultice of your own design to help fight infection. Then, you leave the wound open to breathe. 

“I’ll restitch it later if it starts bleeding again.” You say and begin cleaning up the mess that Louis had made.

He stops you by saying your name oh so softly. You sigh, stop what you’re doing, and look at him. He looks sad. Broken. And hurt. 

“I don’t want to keep fighting.” He says, and you scoff,

“You told me to leave you alone. So I am.” You say and go to leave but he catches your wrist as you stand to leave.

“I’m sorry.” He blurts, and you stop, raising an eyebrow at him, and he continues. 

“It was never my intention to hurt you. I want you to know that. It’s no excuse, but I was in pain and upset that the mission went so badly. But I took it out on you, and I’m sorry.” He finishes, and with each word, you feel your anger dissipating. You lean down and press your mouth to his hairline in a soft kiss. 

“I accept your apology. Thank you, Louis.” You whisper, and he smiles.

[camillasgirl]

The Anointing Screen

The Anointing Screen has been designed and produced for use at the most sacred moment of the Coronation, the Anointing of His Majesty The King. The screen combines traditional and contemporary sustainable embroidery practices to produce a design which speaks to His Majesty The King’s deep affection for the Commonwealth. The screen has been gifted for the occasion by the City of London Corporation and City Livery Companies.

The Anointing takes place before the investiture and crowning of His Majesty. The Dean of Westminster pours holy oil from the Ampulla into the Coronation Spoon, and the Archbishop of Canterbury anoints the Sovereign on the hands, chest and head. It has historically been regarded as a moment between the Sovereign and God, with a screen or canopy in place given the sanctity of the Anointing.

The Anointing Screen was designed by iconographer Aidan Hart and brought to life through both hand and digital embroidery, managed by the Royal School of Needlework. The central design takes the form of a tree which includes 56 representing the 56 member countries of the Commonwealth. The King’s cypher is positioned at the base of the tree, representing the Sovereign as servant of their people. The design has been selected personally by The King and is inspired by the stained-glass Sanctuary Window in the Chapel Royal at St James’s Palace, which was gifted by the Livery Companies to mark the Golden Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II in 2002.

The Anointing Screen is supported by a wooden pole framework, designed and created by Nick Gutfreund of the Worshipful Company of Carpenters. The oak wooden poles are made from a windblown tree from the Windsor Estate, which was originally planted by The Duke of Northumberland in 1765. The wooden poles have been limed and waxed, combining traditional craft skills with a contemporary finish.

At the top of the wooden poles are mounted two eagles, cast in bronze and gilded in gold leaf, giving the screens a total height of 2.6 metres and width of 2.2 metres. The form of an eagle has longstanding associations with Coronations. Eagles have appeared on previous Coronation Canopies, including the canopy used by Queen Elizabeth II in 1953. Equally, the Ampulla, which carries the Chrism oil used for anointing, is cast in the shape of an eagle.

The screen is three-sided, with the open side to face the High Altar in Westminster Abbey. The two sides of the screen feature a much simpler design with maroon fabric and a gold, blue and red cross inspired by the colours and patterning of the Cosmati Pavement at Westminster Abbey where the Anointing will take place. The crosses were also embroidered by the Royal School of Needlework’s studio team.

At the Coronation Service, the Anointing Screen will be held by service personnel from Regiments of the Household Division holding the Freedom of the City of London. The three sides of the screen will be borne by a Trooper and Guardsman from each of The Life Guards, Grenadier Guards, Coldstream Guards, Scots Guards, Irish Guards, and Welsh Guards.

The screen has been gifted for the Coronation by the City of London Corporation and participating Livery Companies, the City’s ancient and modern trade guilds. His Majesty The King is a keen advocate and supporter of the preservation of heritage craft skills, and the Anointing Screen project has been a collaboration of these specialists in traditional crafts, from those early in their careers to artisans with many years of experience.

The individual leaves have been embroidered by staff and students from the Royal School of Needlework, as well as members of the Worshipful Company of Broderers, Drapers and Weavers.

As well as heritage craft, contemporary skills and techniques have formed part of this unique collaboration. The outline of the tree has been created using digital machine embroidery by Digitek Embroidery. This machine embroidery was completed with sustainable thread, Madeira Sensa, made from 100% lyocell fibres.

The threads used by the Royal School of Needlework are from their famous ‘Wall of Wool’ and existing supplies that have been collated over the years through past projects and donations. The materials used to create the Anointing Screen have also been sourced sustainably from across the UK and other Commonwealth nations. The cloth is made of wool from Australia and New Zealand, woven and finished in UK mills.

The script used for the names of each Commonwealth country has been designed as modern and classical, inspired by both the Roman Trojan column letters and the work of Welsh calligrapher David Jones.

Also forming part of the Commonwealth tree are The King’s Cypher, decorative roses, angels and a scroll, which features the quote from Julian of Norwich (c. 1343-1416): ‘All shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well’.

This design has again been inspired by the Sanctuary Window in the Chapel Royal, St James’s Palace, created for Queen Elizabeth II’s Golden Jubilee in 2002. At the top of the screen is the sun, representing God, and birds including the dove of peace, which have all been hand embroidered by the Royal School of Needlework.

The dedication and blessing of the Anointing Screen took place earlier this week at the Chapel Royal, St James’s Palace, where it was officially received and blessed by the Sub-Dean and Domestic Chaplain to The King, Paul Wright, on behalf of The Royal Household.

[illarian-rambling]

Thank you @whatwewrotepodcast @willtheweaver @tildeathiwillwrite and @elsie-writes for the tags! I always put this game off because it takes me a while, so they've kinda built up. Therefore, prepare yourself for the mother of all word tags

Find the Word Tag (Procrastinator Edition)

My words are: cut, scream, villain, blue, stream, error, crown, ash, smile, solo, beat, bring, stun, scuttle, shimmer, slave

Your words are: loan, contract, camp, command

I'm putting my faith in Honor's Outcasts book 1 for this

.

She was just putting the finishing touches on a shipment of enchanted diadems from Skysheer, weaving wards around the valuable cargo like a mother bird weaves a nest. Magic and energy flowed like thread from her dancing fingers, which were stained a washed-out umber in the wavering light of her old lantern. With a flourish, the girl cut the connection, finishing the spell and ensuring that anyone attempting to steal the prize within those cedar walls would have a nasty price to pay.

.

As the color deepened into a dark, bloody purple, a scream poured from the man's jaws. His flesh blackened and cracked under the baleful light as he clawed at his skin in vain. It was like the sparks were devouring him. Like he was made of paper instead of meat.

.

Twenari sighed, moving over to plop down onto their raggedy little settee. It wasn't like an argument was uncommon for the pair. Hell, she'd heard them argue over the color of a woman's hat once. A woman, she might add, who'd been standing right next to them in a bank queue, and whose blushing face had perfectly complimented her obviously blue hat.

.

Oh sure, from a distance it was all quite beautiful: the burbling stream, the heavy-boughed mangroves, the whispering reeds. But standing there - mosquitoes crawling up and down his legs, sweat prickling his scalp, skin itching where it had burnt in the sun days before - it all seemed a mundane little hell made just for him.

.

Izjik felt a sting in her side. Felt the pounding pressure in her skull. The sting grew into an ache, then a burning, then an agony. Looking down, she found the Sovereign’s offhand clutching the broken base of one of the spines that had made up her crown. The point, of course, was embedded in Izjik’s ribs.

.

"Come on, you heavy fuck!" Djek groaned as he pulled Sepo around a corner. His eyes streamed with ash and terror, turning the already blurry world into one big smear of orange light.

The suffocating heat was making his hands sweat, so Djek was forced to dig bloody grooves into Sepo’s wrist as he clung on by his nails alone. Blood still poured from the man's mouth, leaving a bubbling maroon trail behind them.

.

The woman leaned in towards her victim, her doll-faced smile still held in place. "Would you like to know why I really call Twenari my blessing?"

The man gave a small nod as Twenari released his neck muscles. Evidently, he was of the 'just agree to the demands and you'll be fine' school of thought.

Undeta gave a throaty, animal chuckle.

"Wrong answer."

.

"Where were you supposed to take Undeta’s daughter?"

Djek swallowed. "Under the tower, down in the old city sewers. We were supposed to hand her off to some higher-ups, split the money, then shove off."

<Well,> Sepo frowned, <then it looks like we need to find a way underneath this building. It seems Tyche will be doing a solo deal.>

.

Here it comes, Twenari winced. A beat later, the wave of nausea hit her, coupled with a bone-tugging fatigue. Only barely was she able to reform her sigil and reignite the glow. Her vision flickered and when she could see again, she was on her knees. Funny, she hadn't felt herself fall.

.

"You've known me for what, two months now? When have I never not been careful?"

Twenari pursed her lips. "That's not worthy of a response. I just wish you'd take me with you."

"You have to cover for me, you know that. Besides, it's probably going to be, like, super boring. All dusty scrolls and crusty old guys and shit."

"Boring to you maybe," Twenari sulked.

"Look, I'll bring you back a dusty scroll, how about that?"

"That's stealing and you're illiterate," the girl deadpanned.

"Huh, what's that? It sounded like disrespect." Izjik feigned cupping her ear. "Anyways, I'm going to be late. See you tonight! With details!"

.

Sepo obviously didn't have that option. He could switch between the mental and physical keys, meaning he could stun the unwary or excite the elements as he was doing now. And thank fuck he could also just manage a song of flesh carving.

.

Cursing again - this time in Janazi - Twenari spun her storm of orange slabs in a wide arc around the perimeter of the tent. Swords and less nimble drones went flying as the shields began a ferocious circuit around the tent's base. At that speed, their glow blended into one shimmering circle of fire. She didn't have enough to completely encircle it, but hopefully with the occasional change in rotation, the guards would at least be too pressed to make it through before Izjik finished.

.

Outside of her monotonous, yet carefully taxing routine, it wouldn't have taken long for Twenari to begin to pick up real skills. Deadly ones. And Undeta had no doubt that any group her daughter fell in with would end up wrapped around her finger. Talent was quite the asset, or liability, in that area. Inevitably, people would come to rely on you, and those who rely on you are just as good as slaves.

.

Wooo, we made it! I'll tag @kaylinalexanderbooks @cowboybrunch @modernwritercraft @hagscribes @halfbit and anyone else who wants to play :)

[disproportionatelysculpting]

fine lies

I am laughing a bit more these days

But am I happy now?

I love people a bit more than I should this age

. I have people who say they love me

But am I unconditionally loved now?

. I am holding on life so hard

every joy has begun has ended with me, lives inside me.

But am I fine?

I stand here with poisoned knife waiting destiny's kiss

. to free myself from weeping yearns

There are parasites in disguise leeching on my flesh

. beneath my legs sucking every ounce of energy in me

I get drunk each night on the gray clouds

. turning my blood a darker shade of maroon

setting up a feast for the vermin inside of me.

My father split my throat apart, took my heart out

. and left it to burn, to make it into charcoal

And there are traces ash floating around, of my soul

. bequeathed upon on by my mother as a curse

they left me to bleed, each day for past 11 years or more.

There are fumes of fury, enraged at people who surround me

. crushing of my lungs as dried up leaves in salty autumn's air

I see my reflection wishing upon my dark demise

There is soot of my fake smiles on my palms, adorned by my lips

. I imbricate them on waterline of the teary eyes

Wearing a blood stained linen gown, handed down to me

. by my family line, decorated with 8 butterfly wings I found

they look at me with disgust, daze and confusion.

I barely recognize my body anymore too, or my soul

. but I stand on my crumbled castle, my broken throne

holding onto my grounds and head held high,

. my skin is all tainted from all the dreams that died on me

Every new moon night, I leave the reality for a dance

. with the devil who has a Home inside of me

Later I sit with death for a cup of tea, waiting for my time to come

. She helped me to stich the hole in my chest,

and all of my wounds, there are stars and flowers

. crotched upon my skin, with the thread of lies,

I am happy, I am fine, I am loved and wanted alive.

[whumble-beeee]

Whumptember 2023, Day 23

“Is that blood?”

Passing out | Hyperventilating | New scars

The Bee's Whumptember Masterlist

~1010 words

CW: blood, cuts, medical suturing (with needle)

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

Blood spurted out from under Caretaker’s fingers as they pushed the curved needle through red and dirt-stained skin. They cursed under their breath and pressed into the fresh wound, squinting to make sure they were pressing in the right place through the blanketing darkness. Whumpee’s fliched and their head shot up.

“What, uh… what’s wrong?” they lulled with dull eyes.

“Shh, Whumpee, quiet please…” Caretaker whispered, wishing they could tear their gaze away from their work to look Whumpee in the eyes. “It’s nothing, just lay back down, keep your heart rate low.”

Whumpee blinked. “Caretaker… We ah, we gotta go. They’ll gonna… They’re gonna catch us.”

Shouting in the distance. A beam of light arked over their heads.

“I know, Whumpee, I know. Just gotta get you patched up first, okay? Then we can run.”

Whumpee nodded and slumped back down, satisfied with Caretaker’s nonsensical plan. As if Caretaker could fix the deep slash running across their calf with needle and string and hope. They’d need an extra dose of prescription-strength miracle for that… Caretaker busied themself with their sewing again as the shouting of their hunters grew louder, and they had to duck down further into the brush. 

"Ow!"

"Shh… It's okay Whumpee, it's okay, quiet..." Caretaker stuck another suture through the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but they only had basic training. The blood continued to gush down, down, down. Whumpee whimpered and tried to pull their leg away, a fruitless venture considering their current state. They barely even got a twitch in before they stilled again.

"What're… What's happening…"

Caretaker cringed. "Some bad people are looking for us.” They whispered, intentionally dodging the real intent of the inquiry. “They'll find us if you don't shush, so please…"

A small hum sounded from Whumpee's throat as they finally laid their head back down and closed their eyes. 

Another stitch. Another. Whumpee twitched and pulled under Caretaker's grasp, but they held their ward still. Blood gushed faster from the wound.

“Caretaker…”

Only the ruffle of the foliage and the light sounds of wildlife rustling about. Boots crunched leaves in the distance.

"Caretaker!"

"Shh!" Caretaker hissed. "Whumpee, it's so important that we're quiet right now, please!"

"What're you doing to me?" Whumpee's voice was suddenly so small. Caretaker froze.

"I'm, uh…" Caretaker stared down again at their blood-soaked hands, the maroon liquid dripping down and soaking into the forest floor. "You have a bit of a cut. We can leave until I make it better. So I'm making it all better."

Whumpeesuddenly shot up stock straight, and Caretaker nearly toppled backward. 

"I'm hurt?!"

"No, no, shh, Whumpee, it's okay, you're okay, you’re fine, lay back down!"

Whumpee clawed forward and grasped at Caretaker as the far away crunches of leaves started to close in, shouts ringing throughout the forest that they thought they may have heard something this way.

"Caretaker, I can't, I can't, not again, please don't let them–"

Whumpee's face blanched suddenly as they caught sight of their half-stitched together and gored up leg, thick sticky liquid gushing out between threads spreading tendrils down their entire leg and dyeing the pine straw surrounding them a deep crimson. Caretaker went to reach for Whumpee until they remembered their hands were too covered in the same gore.

Whumpee's breath shuddered. "Is that… is that blood."

Caretaker sat frozen, torn between demanding Whumpee shut up and freezing from all the sudden noises. The beams of light swinging above them were multiplying, slowly but surely lighting up the forest around them. Whumpee's breathing started to become shallow.

"...my blood?"

Caretaker lunged over to Whumpee’s and tucked their arms under their charge’s back to support them as their breathing started to get heavy and fast and loud, chest puffing in and out sporadically as all their muscles seemed to go tense at once and they kicked out as if they could shake the wound off entirely if they swung hard enough

"Shhhh, shh, shh, shh, Whumpee, Whumpee, look at me, look at me, everything's okay, it's okay, you're fine, you’re fine, I promise, you’re okay."

"Not fine. Blood. So much–. Blood! I'm dying! Help! Help me–! Caretaker! Ple-ease I can't– I can't– I ca-a-an't– can't die– I can't die– please don’t–!" Whumpee barely managed to get out the onslaught of words through their ever-increasing shallow breaths, their eyes darting around trying to find safety, only finding Caretaker for a brief moment before panicking away again. Their body trembled violently as they grasped to hold onto anything that they could, littering burning red scratches across Caretaker's arms and back as they pinned Whumpee down.

"Shhh! Shhh, Whumpee you'll be fine but I need you to calm down–"

"Caretaker! Caretaker– I don– I don't – can't– I can't–... don't– Wanna die– die-e-e-e-e please–... please let– lemme go–... please… ple-e-e-ease, please… Ca-aretak…"

Whumpee's eyes started to flutter shut as they stopped dancing around and struggled to focus on anything in particular. Their body fell limp in Caretaker's grasp before violently tensing wholly again, then relaxing again, over and over until Whumpee's body fell fully lax in their arms.

Footsteps crunched barely a rock-skip away, trailing a searchlight methodically raking the ground and waiting patiently for its moment to betray the duo's meager hiding spot. Caretaker gently slapped at Whumpee's face, barely earning a flutter from their eyes as their breathing started evening out.

They cursed softly once again and held Whumpee close to their chest, pushing back as far as they could into the perceived safety of the brush. The boots stomped at the ground just outside where Caretaker and Whumpee had first crashed down.

They set Whumpee back down onto the ground and softly slapped at their face again. No response. So they checked their pulse, their own heartbeat pounding loudly in their ears. The vein pulsed erratically under their fore- and middle-fingers. Caretaker heaved an unsteady sigh of relief.

They very carefully moved back to Whumpee's leg, eyes never leaving the methodical boots as they moved ever closer. 

And they continued to sew.

@whumptember

[ink-and-dagger]

Hey Max! If you were to design an elegant outfit for Astrid, what would it look like? 👀

An elegant outfit you say? Perhaps the sort of thing one might wear to a Gala in Piltover? Oh Honey, how did you know that I’ve been just dying to whip up this particular design?

To start, she'd undoubtedly be attending such an event on Silco's arm, and so it would be key to tie their outfits together – but in a way that still leaves room for individual style and expression.

Astrid has a gorgeous hourglass figure that just begs for a fit and flare silhouette. I adore using silk for floor-length gowns because of the way the fabric drapes and moves like water. The effect is simply ethereal. Astrid is also well known for her signature cut-outs, so of course I have to incorporate these infamous features into an evening look.

Now, I'm not the kind of designer that feels the need to incorporate political messages into every piece of art I create. But seeing as Astrid would very much be representing the Undercity at such an event, I have included just a few particular elements.

The shade of black I've choosen is the same as I use for Silco's suits. It's called coal. Which of course is a subtle nod to the mining industry.

The burgundy silk lining also matches with the panels of Silco's coat, and I would weave in a very subtle maroon pinstripe as an ode to classic Zaun fashion.

Gold trimmings along the seams to match Silco's famous waistcoat.

Then we come to the show stopping open back. My inspiration for this comes from the beautiful stained windows you find all throughout the Undercity – of course also known to many as the City of Iron and Glass.

Between Astrid's shoulders I've placed a delicate, iron framework rendering of Silco's sigil. Flowing down from which we have several lengths of threaded glass beads which reconnect to the dress at various points and give a luminous, body-jewellery effect.

And there is one more detail that I feel is worth mentioning...

You may notice that some of the gold accents could almost resemble rays of sunlight. This is specifically because of something Silco said to me in private not so long ago, whilst being measured for fresh shirts.

I had referred to Astrid off-handedly as the Lady of Zaun. To which Silco had responded:

"She is an entity all of her own. If I am the Eye of Zaun, then surely she is the Light by which I see."

So there we have it. A gown, fit for the Light of Zaun.

[emotionalmotionsicknessxx]

for the kiss meme. how about 36? thank you

Sure, this seems innocuous!

36 - Write a kiss that gives up control....

They rode in silence the entire way back. 

The steering wheel, a poor surrogate for Meg’s neck, strained against his death grip as the shaking Cadillac hurtled into the night. She called it a “piece-of-shit car,” an insult he could usually ignore. Not on a night like this. 

“Erik…”

He did not respond. He could hear the leather of the passenger seat complain against her shifting body weight. 

“Erik, you can’t stay like this all night. Talk to me.”

It was a mistake, bringing her. He should have seen this coming the minute Meg Giry danced into his college office with a credit deficit and a half dozen lemon donuts - 

Idiot. 

He lived his life through a finite set of principles that kept air in his lungs, kept his pen moving, kept the lights on, and, most importantly, kept him totally and utterly alone. Long ago he learned it was better that way, simpler, more sustainable to keep a ragged heart like his beating. 

But then she came in his office begging for a letter, for admission to the senior showcase she was disastrously under-qualified for, and he found himself caught by her pleading eyes and halting way she delivered her acute condemnations of his behavior, the behavior of the university at large, and the rest of the world. 

“Erik, we can talk about it. It’s me…”

It was her, that was the problem. It was always her and her stupid visits at office hours and the way she found old records of lost recordings and brought them to him, a person who did not get presents, never got presents. It was her who was the only one who could keep up with his rapid-fire notes on her work, the only one who didn’t complain to the department that he was “overly harsh” or “better suited to directing inmates than grad students.” The only person who listened to him. 

And listened she had. The sequins of her gala dress scratched against the beige carseat. She had been right, of course, she could do the showcase, could bind them to her with her dance and her passion. She had always been technically brilliant; now the world saw her heart as well. 

He had seen it too. Seen it and needed to never be parted from it. Needed her to consume him, more than she already had. Own him, if she so desired, a dog with a bird at her feet. 

The hand that skated over his on the steering wheel (10 and 2, never wavering, no, no wavering now. Come on, Erik) electrified him further and he pulverized his back molars even more, eyes blurring on the two yellow lines rising to meet them on the old back road under headlights. He shouldn’t even know the way to her apartment, shouldn’t have offered her those late night rides, shouldn’t have done any of it. It was an exercise in control, and he had lost. He would not again. 

“Please,” he hissed. 

“Ah, so the great maestro speaks!” 

He cursed himself for saying anything at all. It only served to spurn her closer to him in the racing, sputtering car. He could smell the bergamot on her perfume, the honey of her long-since-consumed lozenge. She had gotten closer, her blonde hair tossed over one shoulder, her lips sheathed in a deep maroon so close to his own gnarled mouth beneath the mask. He had never kissed someone with lipstick on, would the makeup stain his own, cursed lips like his, marking them as her own, forever –?

“ERIK LOOK OUT!”

The little hands yanked the steering wheel from his grasp and turned, narrowly swerving from the pit of headlights careening toward them. He hit the breaks; She overcorrected, narrowly avoiding the tree line that edged the road. 

He heard her laughter first, then his own, his hands stuck on the steering wheel a moment before they were wrapped in her hair, pressing her to him. 

She tasted like honey. 

a/n forgot that this was partially inspired by this photo from Phantom Thread, the most Erik adjacent movie

[wellthebardsdead]

To Deny Godhood pt6

Part 5 here

———

Shamat: *sighs watching the last of his followers leave the room after his final service of the day, and among them, a familiar argonian from house telvanni* finally… *stretches and stands up, glad he finally has a moment to just breathe and stop pretending he’s Voryn*

Councillor: *suddenly steps in* You’ve done well yet again lord dagoth. It seems you truely are remembering who you are.

Shamat: *nods removing his mask and blinking all 3 of his eyes* I know who I am. It is just a matter of remembering what I’ve forgotten in my long rest… *sets the mask back down* if I am done with my duties for today I will take my leave.

Councillor: Very good. I’ll escort you to your chambers.

Shamat: I- but I thought lord nerevar said I was allowed to roam the halls freely now? Have I done something wrong?

Councillor: What? No you haven’t. Lord Nerevar may be the head of house indoril and this may be his city but I am still the high councillor of this temple and I granted no such permissions-

???: Is that so? Former. High. Councillor.

Shamat: *looks to the door to see nerevar standing there, arms folded and glaring at the councillor* nerevar. *smiles softly, keeping up his act of affection towards him*

Councillor: I- l-lord nerevar I didn’t hear you come in I what do you mean f-former?

Nerevar: *glances at Shamat and smiles before returning his glare to the councillor* you undermined my authority in the temple of my house and of the 6th house now mourned. I will not stand for this loose tongued slander, if you speak so forwardly to my dreamer than how boldly have you spoken to others lesser than him? What other lies have you sewn to further your own gain?…

Councillor: i- no- i *suddenly drops to his knees grovelling in a kowtow* m-my lord mercy! Please I beg of you! I was only being careful! We do not know if we can fully trust ur dagoths reincarnation y-

Nerevar: VORYN DAGOTH!

Shamat: *visibly jumps and staggers back a little in fright thinking for a moment he was the one being yelled at*

Nerevar: *notices he’d frightened the dunmer but doesn’t acknowledge just yet, instead kicks the councillor off his boot and continues his reprimanding* His name is Voryn Dagoth! I will not stand to hear him referred to as the sharmat any further!!

Councillor: *realising he’s really fucked up, now bowing so aggressively he’s hitting his head on the stone floor* my lord! My lord please forgive me! Forgive me!

Shamat: I forgive you.

*silence*

Nerevar: what?…

Shamat: the insult was directed at me. He called me by the title of the sharmat… I forgive him… I did not mean to over step- but… *steps forward and helps the councillor to his feet, blood from the other dunmers forehead now spilling onto him and his robes* I cannot stand the suffering of others… *places his hand on the wound, healing it with the little magic his jewellery like restraints allow*

Councillor: *grey skin turning maroon with blushing from the others kindness* i-

Nerevar: … *sighs* you are forgiven… and demoted in rank… go.

Councillor: y-yes my lord- i-i mean my lords! *hurries off and out the door without another moment spared*

Nerevar: *watches him leave before looking back at Shamat* …

Shamat: *kneels down and bows into a kowtow, long black hair falling like silk threads onto the now bloodied floor* forgive me my moon and star… I should have held my tongue… I never meant any har- oh-

Nerevar: *gently takes hold of him and helps him to his feet* do not apologise to me my dreamer… *looks at the blood now all over the Dunmer’s robes and hair* His filth has stained you…

Shamat: *smiles and looks away seemingly shyly* I-I was hoping to have a bath after coming to visit your office again… I suppose I’ll go have my bath now instead then…

Nerevar: *slides his hands around the others waist, giving a gentle squeeze* Would you like some help?…

Shamat: *trying to keep his lunch from coming back up at the idea of him touching him again, simply smiles and nods giving him bedroom eyes* hmm, maybe. If I’m not stealing you away from anything?

Nerevar: *scoops him up with ease* Not at all~ *carries him out and back to his chambers*

*meanwhile*

Xelzaz: *steps into his room in the corner club* gods… *locks the door and sweeps the room checking for spies or assassins before pulling the parcel Shamat had given him out of his robe* okay Shamat, what did you give me?… *opens it up revealing his journal, wedding ring and the Talisman Kaidan had given him, all things he managed to get back from Nerevars office* … *opens the journal and flicks through the pages, stopping as a note falls out of it* oh?… *picks it up and reads it* Contact. Neloth, he’ll know what to do… oh divines no Shamat really has lost it!!! Why that mad old bastard?!

[helloescapist]

okii, i'm ready to make a request now! just a reminder tthat u don't have to do it now - your health and the other works gotta come first yknow

anyways

Request (SFW, KNY):

you know how the spider mother in rui's family was technically a child demon forced to be a "mother" to demons who were older than her?

ok well what if she was somehow saved by a fem!uppermoon!reader who took her away from the abusive spider Family? What if Reader started acting as a mother figure to her? (poor kid seriously needs a better authority figure in her life than rui lmao)

Hello, hello!

I'm so sorry for how long it has taken me to get to this request anon. You are absolutely so sweet, and I cannot thank you enough for your kindness. This was a really interesting request, and one that had me really thinking. When this season aired, it honestly... left me with all the creepy crawlies thinking about the "Spider Mother". I hope you're ready for what I have in store for you.

A Thousand Summers | Spider Mother

Word Count: 2508?

Setting: fem!uppermoon!reader x spider mother [reader acts as an adopted mother]

Content Warning(s): hints of abuse (p and s), trauma, adoption

Summary: A child you had never intended to care for, but one you would protect at the cost of your own life.

A/N: I utilized details of the yokai Ubume, alongside the character of Queen Im Hwa-ryeong from the Queen’s Umbrella (one of my absolute favorite shows by the way).

Your throat seared, scratched upon the edge of a blade. The touch of iron that threatened your taste buds, hissed out curses that brought on the infinities. The past centuries near meaningless, as the screams that shattered your teeth. Her form, so petite beneath your gaze; the horror painted on her face as delicate as rouge. The quiver of her helianthus eyes, the fading of light in her maroon x-shaped irises as her sight met your own. Run, your senses screamed. The tears that threatened to spill over, the touch of the wind through her coffee bean hair, as rare as the imports that frequented Lord Muzan’s shop. Extravagant, run, her bangs curled to the edges of her face, the ends of her hair touched upon the highs of her cheeks. Youthful in her features, a child who had witnessed far more in this life and the last than your heart could ever hope to accept. Severed from humanity, painted in blood as the strands that stained the corner of your lips.  Seared your lungs, choked upon the air that hindered your breaths, the weapon lodged upon the shreds of your flesh. Her scream that vibrated through her ears, hollowed your heart as though someone had carved the organ from your chest cavity with a ladle as if the core still served a purpose. Though it had not filtered blood in generations, it was merely ornamental throughout the decades. Brought to life only at the sight of her tears. Run, p-, the tears that touched upon her eyelashes, as her knees met the soft earth beneath her. Fragile as the day you had met her. Please, your voice only left a desperate growl caught against the edge of the nichirin blade, as vibrant as sapphires beneath the moonlight. As otherworldly as the breathing technique that had captivated your flesh, claimed your throat. The strength of the wielder scented of fresh rain as his drawn eyes revealed his resolve. Determined to claim your life, the threads of your neck bone shattered against its drawn, his muscles pushed further and further, slowly but surely, forcing its way through the last shreds of skins that clung to your life. Your nails struggling to cling to the edges of existence leaving claw marks against the metal sheath. If only for a moment longer, clinging onto the frays of hope that she would find the legs beneath her, to flee from this battleground. From the Hashira, who’s expression was as vacant as death. His hair as black as the Demon Slayer’s crow feathers, the swordsman who would claim your life, an inevitable fate that you knew there was no escape, but if only for a moment, “C—Chi-n-natsu,” your voice a mangled scratch of a yowl, as pitiful as a cat in heat as your nails gathered at the blade, beckoning her sense to return to her. Your other hand struggling to clench the umbrella in your grasp, please, please, you have to run.

              Trembled as a leaf as her x shaped irises struggled to follow your voice through the fog of her fears. The tremor of her form, petite and small, tears that struggled past doll like eyelashes, and the small whimper of a sob that spilled through her lips. Reminiscent of the night you had happened upon her, three years ago.

The moonlight flickered amongst the mountains, peeked beneath the shadow of the trees. Illuminated the glow of the yellow tinted moon, ushered the depths of the night, whispered horrors beneath the flicker of glistened silk. The stench of blood littered amongst the ground, soaked into the depths of the soil. Tarnished the once substantial grounds, ushered no signs of life within the mountains rather only welcomed death upon its playground. Bodies twisted and mutilated and disfigured, crafted into various forms. Others dismembered, and askew from their natural forms. Tattered uniforms bearing the marks of the enemy’s insignia. The occasional monstrous creature that crept across Mount Un Natagumo. Lowly lifeforms that bore little speech, useless in deciphering the situation amongst the summits. Only the occasional arachnid is capable of the basic pattern of communication. Nothing tangible, or intellectual, rather a messenger of some patchwork family. Each step that followed your ascent into the depths of the mountains only validated Lord Muzan’s frustrations. Your intrusion upon the lower kizuki no mere mistake of wandering; each step intentional announcement upon the demons that masqueraded as a family. A vision amongst the moonlight, an unusual sight upon the foliage. Long hair that reflected the era you had ailed from when the veins in your body served a purpose. A time when your heart would beat, nearly a millennium ago. The antique charms weaved carefully into your hair. Adapt at having threaded the embellishments in your luscious hair, practices that had escaped the generations that had followed kept secret in your routines. No longer to recall a time in which the weight of the many layers of kimono you bore affected you, far too accustomed to the burden. Unable to even question if it had ever been a hinderance to your movements, unaffected in the way you maneuvered your form up the mountain regardless of the steep tread. The roll of your sleeves betraying a lifetime of extravagance, though you could no longer recall such days, finding only the occasional comfort in their weight. Familiar as the movement of your body, posed amongst the thorns, the veil of midnight kissed upon the sheen of your weimao shielding your from the repulsive manifestations of a child’s loneliness ran rampant into the night. None such daring to cross your path, only hindering the delivery of your lordship’s message.

              That was until you happened upon a clearing, in which a woman adorned the marks of the lower Kizuki, the damning markings etched upon her face, the sorrow that filled her expression, the touch upon her features that beckoned you forward. The twitch of threads caught between her fingers, and at first, it was merely your intention to question where the kizuki could be found. To inquire upon his location and determine the state of matters upon the mountain—Lord Muzan was nearing his limits. His generosity for the creation of the child a whisper of pity, rumored amongst the Upper Moons. Details you rarely entertained, uninterested in the affairs of the lower ranks. They so very rarely remained in power that you had never considered committing their names to memory. Yet, when you had been introduced to the spider child, sparking a deeply buried desire, one that you could not place. Echoed faint memories of a past that resembled more of a daydream, but as the years had pass, the amusement of one so young. A child drunk on power, rampant to fabricate a family, to craft love, and trap those within his net. Desperate to cling to those around him, regardless of the cost sharing his art would damn him. Yes, you had merely intended to inquire as to how it she had come to be, your opportunity to inquire challenged by a predator that leapt from the shadows, and the eager way in which the woman greeted death. Her fingers free of the tangle of silk, eyelashes closed as though she whispered a prayer unheard by the gods, and for a shift of the years you had endured, the intrusion caught your interference. The twirl of your weimao beckoning for the drizzle of rain, illuminating an illusion as you pulled the woman’s kimono between your fingers, allowed her to dream of death, to utter the existence of the kizuki upon the mountain. Enough to send the young slayer deeper into the thicket of the trees. An illusion shattered by the startle state of your fingers touched upon a youthful cheek. The round high of her cheek distorted under the pad of your finger. The tremble of one so young, no more than a girl new to the world. New to the night. Tremoring beneath your touch, the tears that caught between her eyelashes. One so eager for death, a desperate plea that recoiled into itself. Revealed fear, and abuse in the way she dared to flinch from your grasp.

              No, the situation had been far from redeemable.

              The lower kizuki’s influence sponged from her pores beneath your own art, a tremble of bones and fragile regard.  Tears that caught on her long eyelashes, the tremble of her shoulders that curled down her spine far too willing to except a blow that you had not administered.

              And so, the young demon remained in your care. An added burden that you had not considered undertaking and yet for all your wandering had brought you, you had not the ability to push her form your care. Ushering her from the spider’s care as merely a mean’s to verify Rui’s failures. Your travels to his lordship having bonded you. The first night in which you had ushered her at an inn, further sponging the stench of the blood art that had morphed her body, manipulated her features. Matured her in ways that a child should never endure, the way her body had shuttered beneath your gentle touch, the tears that had found the corner of her eyes. Never daring to allow them to fall, far too anxious to reveal her own terror at your touch. Merely having intended to change her kimono, repulsed to see such exposure on one so young, her response leaving you only to withdraw your hand. Appraise the stutter of her voice. The occasional way her eyes found you in open defiance, ignorant of the way her body betrayed her aggression. Nor the confusion that found her large eyes upon your acceptance. Delicately folding the kimono inwards, before placing it before her. Urging her to change while you were out, your return upon wandering the gardens of the inn after a suitable amount of time, to find her curled up in the webs of a kimono that seemed nearly too big for her to shoulder. No—one in which she did not know how to adorn, the small chuckle that escaped your rouged lips. The little one before you resembling a little girl as she should, before she submitted to the well practice or your hands as you secured her belt properly. Far too aware of the bruises at her neck, nor the marks upon her thigh when she sat indignantly as children so often do.

              Nights spent at an arms’ length, though it never seemed enough. Only her curiosity gathering the better of her at times, to draw herself towards you if only to peer at the umbrella that you kept at your side. A knowing smile of a little girl who’s eyes found the embellishments from time to time. Enthralled, and perhaps dreaming of the day in which she too may wear one appropriately. Though you never revealed the way her eyes wandered to your own when she believed you ignorant.

              The night in which the fireflies fluttered amongst the summer’s breeze. A rare opportunity to enjoy her company in your own abode. One that you had garnished time after time, greeted in the way you had arrived from an upper moon’s meeting; his lordship especially temperamental at the advancement the Slayer Corps had managed in the prior weeks before dispatching Hantengu and Gyokko, and dismissing the remainder of you to await his commands. The little one, so quick to greet you. The shadow of who she once was left behind in the corners of the night. The smile she offered you as warm as one seeking praise from their mother. Tempting the touch of your hand as she beckoned you forward, wishing to share the growth of blossoms amongst the gardens. A skill she had accomplished under your care. The joy evident upon her features as her fingers found the petals of a small flower, chattering on without a care. Sharing everything the textbooks you had provided her had to share upon these specific species. The leaves of her tireless efforts tangled in a mass upon the growing tangles of her hair, oblivious as a child should be. Blissful of the care she had received, and eager to bask in your touch as you beckoned her to the veranda. Delicately obscuring locks from her face. The small touch of her hair caught against your fingers as she accepted your touch. Weary and fatigued from the chores of the day, fallen into the space upon your lap, curled up and secure. All evidence of who she had been, and what she had endured was erased from her features. “[LN], you’ll be going soon, won’t you.” The touch of her eyes, fallen to the lows of the garden, allowing your hands to continue to put aside her hair as you dusted the twigs and leaves from her mane.

              “Will you miss me?” You teased.

              “Ah, no I,” haughty at first before the uneasiness to gather into her features, “please, return home safe.”

              The small murmur of a hum as you accepted the depths of her sentiments, never openly acknowledging the way she waited for your return after each voyage. “You know, I’ve been thinking.” Allowing a gentle smile to touch upon your lips at the curious way her eyes glanced upon your own, peering up at you from your lap. “You have yet to think of a name.”

              “That,” she sighed before averting her eyes. Puffing her cheeks as though a means to pout before heaving her small breath. “I’ve no name. I-I must have, once, but…” The silence to fill the gaps, revealing the anxiety or perhaps the depths of her loss at the way her fingers clasped upon your kimono.

              Nodding only quietly, “Then perhaps, Chinatsu will do.”

“RUN,” You screamed, utilizing the remainder of your strength to frce upon your blood art. A flurry of rain that sent her reeling into the depths of the forest. The ache of your heart at the way she screamed upon your name, desperate to remain at your side. To greet death together, a fate you could never allow to come to pass. The slump of your form, and the limp regard of your nails as the blade slashed through, the Water Hashira capitalizing on your last attempt to send your child from your reach, if only to give her the chance to escape his clutches.

              The thud across the ground, and the metallic jingle of your ornaments were audible. Loud, in their revelation as was the sheath of the blade that had claimed your final moments. The touch of cold eyes that appraised you curiously, a life a millennium ago, and a child you had never carried to term, the wept of your tears, and the anguish of your final moments echoed upon your resolve as the smile that met your lips. Yes, Chinatsu. A name that uttered your wishes for a child you had claimed, a thousand summers would never be enough.

              Please, run, my love.

You can find the requested prequel here, A Thousand Dreams | Spider Mother.

[fadedredrose]

MIDNIGHTS FIRST IMPRESSIONS

1. Lavender Haze - hmm it's pretty but probably won't be my favourite

2. Maroon - Love this!!! Lyrics are very old school Taylor. Very RED.

3. Anti-Hero - This makes me laugh out loud. I love how vulnerable and twisted it is and yet how there's still a twinge of humour threaded through. It has a slight 1989 feel to it.

4. Snow on the Beach ft. Lana Del Ray - I was waiting for this the most after Midnight Rain. This kind of ambient, floaty vibe is my favorite genre of Taylor Swift. It's very pretty, a cloudy white stained with a dark blue streak down the middle.

5. You're On Your Own Kid - The lyrics of this one didn't quite meet the mark for me. But I'm really feeling the beat. And the bridge slaps. Has a starry whirlwind feel to it.

6. Midnight Rain - I was waiting for this the most!! And did it disappoint? From the first beat, NO. Whatever I was expecting, Taylor served even better in this. Easily the best one on the record so far.

7. Question...? - The lyrics are so old school pre-RED era Taylor wrapped in an older Taylor persona. The staccato bridge never fails. This is a jam.

8. Vigilante Shit - I was wrong. I think this is my no. 1. But then I've always been attracted to darker, Rep style songs. I'm claiming Vigilante Shit as Rizzie's Choice from Midnights. I was expecting this was how all of Midnights would sound, but I'm cool with just one song too. Taylor, I'm gonna need a full album with this vibe one day PLEASE.

9. Bejeweled - Another banger! This one is for when I'm alone riding down empty city streets at night in winter after a rowdy outing with friends.

10. Labyrinth - Every TS album has an underated gem that only the fans enjoy. I have a feeling it's going to be this one for Midnights. It has a very This Love/You're in Love feel to it. This one's for all the die-hard romantics.

11. Karma - A Banger! I can imagine belting this out loud with my best mate at a shiny party clutching chilled glasses of coke with confetti surrounding us. This will climb the charts. An instant hit. I can't wait to memorise the lyrics to this first.

12. Sweet Nothing - I am absolutely in love with this. This one's for R and my mum. :)

13. Mastermind - The lyrics are the most relatable. 🤣 I can't deny I've done similar things in my past. The beat is brilliant too. Lyrically, this wins.

Conclusion - I was expecting Midnights to have more of a Rock vibe, but I don't think Taylor's ready to quite move on from Pop yet. The seventies vibe has hit the bull's eye; I can imagine the crowds swaying to the beats and little experimentations she's incorporated. After the slow era of Folklore and Evermore, I know most people are going to appreciate this quicker style. For me, I know I'm still a RED-reputation-Folklore-Evermore girl, but there are a few songs from Midnights that are going straight to my personal favorites.

Top 3 - Vigilante Shit, Sweet Nothing, and Karma.