#maybe after thinking about this more I could write a story…. it’s been so long since I wrote a story……

[lastofdanny]

under your skin | part two

pairing: manny alvarez x f!reader, enemies to lovers

summary: tension fills the air as you and manny struggle with your feelings after the kiss.

a/n: thanks to everyone who read and liked part 1!! ♡ reader is kinda annoying in this and i loved writing manny as a softie (that couldn't be more far from reality lol. why is he so hot???? really like WHY) anyway, i had never written something so long in english before since its not my first language so i struggled a bit w this ending and for that i want to thank @littlemsramirez for the suggestion to the story ! i hope you all enjoy. i have a few other manny fics coming soon, so if anyone has ideas/requests u can send them to me ♡

After the kiss with Manny, everything had shifted. Sure, you hadn’t talked about it. You didn’t really know how to. But every glance, every touch, even the smallest brush of your hands against his seemed to carry a different weight now. 

But the worst part? You couldn’t stop thinking about him. And with it came flashes of the first days with Manny: how smug he was when he first introduced himself, calling you cariño before even knowing your name, the way he always found a reason to sit too close or brush past you with that infuriating grin.

You remembered thinking he was the most annoying person you'd ever met — loud, cocky, relentless. But even then, before you’d admit it, part of you had started to look forward to seeing him. Maybe that’s what made it all so confusing — maybe the kiss wasn’t so sudden after all. You couldn’t help but wonder if it had always been something more, something deeper you hadn’t been willing to face. 

The thought left you unsettled, and you quickly shook it off. Whatever it was — whatever it had become — you needed to stay away from him before it got even messier.

But the worst part is that Manny wasn’t the type to just let it go.

“Morning, mi amor,” Manny’s voice sounded behind you as you walked into the base one morning. The familiarity of it made you tense up before you could stop yourself. You didn’t even bother turning around, keeping your eyes fixed on the ground as you grabbed your gear.

“I’m busy,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice neutral.

“Is that so?” Manny asked, feigning confusion. “You didn’t look busy when you were staring at the floor there. Maybe you were just thinking about that kiss, huh?”

You clenched your jaw, your heart skipping a beat at the mention of it. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, but you refused to let him see it.

Your hand gripped the strap of your bag a little tighter. “You need to stop.”

“Make me.” His words were casual, but the challenge was there, in the way he spoke.

You ignored him, walking away as quickly as you could without running. But as you did, you could feel his gaze on you. As always. 

The next few days were an endless loop. You did everything you could to avoid Manny’s teasing, even making a point to take different routes to patrol, staying busy with paperwork or helping others with tasks. But no matter what you did, his words and presence still lingered in the back of your mind.

You could feel the tension between you two every time he was near. It wasn’t just the teasing or the flirtation. It was the unspoken understanding that there was something more. Something neither of you were willing to admit.

"I see you’re trying to avoid me now, huh?" Manny said one afternoon, leaning against the wall as you passed. His voice was light, but the challenge in his eyes was unmistakable.

You gritted your teeth. "And yet, here you are, annoying me again."

He chuckled, and said, "You know, if you want to pick up where we left off, all you have to do is ask."

Days later, the two of you were alone in the woods, in a patrol you tried your best to escape from, but didn't succeed. Manny’s boots crunched behind you, obnoxiously loud on purpose.

“You’re really gonna pretend it didn’t happen,” he said casually, ���or are you just waiting for me to bring it up?”

You didn’t turn around. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“That kiss. Y’know. The one where you practically melted into me.”

You shot him a quick look, heart pounding. “Manny, don’t start.”

“Too late.” He picked up the pace until he was at your side, grinning. “I mean, technically, you started it. You’re the one who pulled me in.”

“You kissed me,” you snapped without looking at him. He ducked under it, still talking. 

“Oh, sure, but only after you gave me that look. You know, the one  like you were two seconds from tearing my shirt off.”

You rolled your eyes. “It was a mistake.”

“Ouch.” He followed, voice dropping into something slower. “Didn’t feel like a mistake. Felt like something you’ve been dying to do for a while.”

You stopped walking. So did he.

“That was just adrenaline,” you said flatly. 

He stepped in front of you now, cocking his head. “Right. Adrenaline. Just a little life-or-death make out session. Totally casual. Happens all the time.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why are you getting all tense every time I get close to you?”

“I’m not tense.”

You scowled, trying to brush past him, but he shifted, blocking your path.

“Just admit that you’ve been thinking about it. About how good it felt.”

You stayed quiet.

“I know I have,” he added, a little softer now. “More than I should.”

Your heart betrayed you with a hard, stupid thump.

“I haven’t,” you lied.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that. But you're not fooling anyone.” 

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. 

“Adrenaline, huh? I’ll keep that in mind for next time we’re in a life-or-death situation. Maybe I’ll kiss you again — you know, just to test the theory.”

You stood in front of the roster board the next day, eyes scanning the new patrol assignments. When you saw Derek’s name next to yours, a strange mix of relief and anxiety settled in your chest. The tension with Manny had been building, and switching partners had seemed like the only option to avoid it. But as you stood there, the weight of your decision hit you.

“What’s this? You've got a new partner today, cariño?”

You turned to find Manny walking up to you, his usual grin firmly in place, though this time, there was something sharper in his eyes.

You didn’t answer.

Derek showed up a minute later, all eager confidence. “Hey — guess we’re paired up today. Should be an easy loop.”

“Who put this on the board?” Manny asked, his eyes never leaving you.

“I volunteered,” Derek said. “She wanted to switch.”

Manny’s gaze now flicked between you and Derek, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he leaned in a little, keeping his tone casual but laced with an undercurrent of something much deeper. 

“I see. You sure he’s the best choice?” he asked. “I mean, after our... incident the other day, I thought you’d want to spend some more time with me. You know, to work things out.”

Your cheeks flushed at the mention of it, but you refused to look at him. “It’s just patrol, Manny,” you said, a little too defensively.

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out. “Big step. Hope you warned him you have a thing for kissing your patrol partners.”

“Manny.”

“What?” He grinned. “Just trying to keep the new guy informed. Wouldn’t want him getting caught off guard when you lean in all dramatic at sunset or whatever.”

You crossed your arms, your face burning. “Please. It was just a kiss.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just for you. “Yeah. A mistake, I know.. Just adrenaline. But you keep running from it. Are you afraid it might have been more than that, cariño?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Manny just smirked, straightened, and gave Derek a mock-salute.

“Have fun with him. Just try not to spend the whole time thinking about me.”

With that, he turned and walked off, hands in his pockets — but not before throwing one last glance over his shoulder. That look said everything his teasing didn’t: he cared. Maybe more than he wanted to show.

After the shift ended, you were walking back to the trucks when you heard his voice.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” Manny’s voice had a sharp edge now, and you could feel the weight of his frustration in the air.

You stopped, but didn’t look at him. “Doing what, Manny?”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path, forcing you to meet his eyes. The tension in his jaw was unmistakable, and his usual easy smile was completely gone. “Acting like I don't exist. Switching partners like it's nothing.”

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t quite place. “You thought I wouldn’t care?”

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling around the hem of your sleeve. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up — not like this, not out here where everything felt too quiet, too exposed.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “You did it on purpose. You’ve been dodging me for weeks. No check-ins, no eye contact. Running away every chance you get. Saying it didn’t mean anything to you, when we both know it did.”

You finally looked up. The hurt in his eyes was worse than the accusation. He wasn’t just mad — he was confused, maybe even a little heartbroken.

“I just thought it’d be easier,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For who?” he asked. “Because it sure as hell hasn’t been for me.”

Manny stepped closer, his boots scraping the dirt underfoot. “I don’t get it,” he continued, softer this time. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid of anything” you lied, your voice coming out more shaky than you intended.

“Then what is it?” he asked, voice quiet now, like he was waiting for an answer you couldn’t give.

“Nothing!” You said it louder than you intended, but the words came out before you could stop them. “I just... I need space.”

Manny stepped closer, his face softening, but the intensity of his gaze didn’t let up. “I don’t want space,” he said quietly. “I want you. I don’t know how many times I’ll have to say it.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to collect your thoughts, but Manny's eyes, so steady, so unwavering, held you captive.

His hand reached up, fingers brushing your cheek as you felt the warmth of his touch, the tenderness in the movement, and it made your breath hitch. Your heart beat harder, faster, like it was trying to tell you something, something you weren’t ready to hear — or maybe you were just afraid to.

“Manny,” you whispered again, but this time, your voice was softer, uncertain. Your mouth went dry, and you felt exposed in a way that both terrified and thrilled you.

“I know you feel it too."

The air between you pulsed with tension, with closeness, with the weight of every unsaid thing. And then, suddenly, it broke — he leaned in and kissed you.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant this time. It was firm, full of everything he hadn’t said aloud. His hands cradled your face and his mouth moved against yours like he was trying to convince you that whatever you were running from didn’t have to win.

The pressure of his lips became more urgent, more sure. His hands found your waist, pulling you just a little closer, as if he couldn’t bear the distance between you for even a second longer. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, caught in the warmth of the moment, the intensity of everything left unsaid.

When the kiss finally broke, your chest heaved, both of you gasping for air. Manny’s gaze softened but didn’t lose that same intensity.

“Let me know when you want to stop pretending,” he murmured, his voice low, almost defeated. “I’ll be waiting.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, the weight of his words settling in the quiet space between you.

The days following that confrontation were long and silent. Manny’s words echoed in your mind, a constant reminder of everything you’d been avoiding. But no matter how hard you tried to ignore them, the reality set in: you couldn’t run forever.

You didn’t see him much after that — the missions kept him busy, and you distracted yourself with your own work, hoping that the distance would somehow make the confusion go away. It didn’t. If anything, it only made the ache in your chest grow sharper.

Then, the message came.

Manny's hurt. He’s not coming back with the rest of the group. When you heard it, all the words you hadn’t been able to say to him came rushing back, and the urge to find him, to make sure he was really okay, was too strong to ignore.

You reached the rendezvous point, your heart pounding as you scanned the area. The place was too quiet, and you felt a spike of panic rise up your spine, but then you saw him — sitting against a rock, looking far too calm for someone who’d supposedly been injured.

His shirt was ripped, a trail of blood ran down his cheek, and a few scrapes marked his arms — but nothing too serious. You crossed your arms, masking the rush of relief with a sharp tone.

“What the hell, Manny? They said you were hurt! What are you doing just sitting here?"

Manny chuckled, not even bothering to get up. “Oh, you know. Just a few scratches. Nothing I can’t handle.” He raised an eyebrow as he looked up at you, clearly enjoying the fact that you were so flustered. “Though I gotta admit I knew you’d come look for me, cariño.”

You felt your heart pound in your chest. “I wasn’t looking for you,” you shot back, trying to keep your composure. “I was just… checking up on you. You know, because they said you were hurt.”

He leaned back against the rock, a cocky smirk on his lips. “Sure you weren’t." He gave you a once-over, his eyes lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“How’d you know?” you asked.

“What?”

“That I’d come look for you.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time til you got tired of running from me. You weren’t fooling anyone trying to push me away.”

“I wasn’t—” You started, but he cut you off.

“Yeah, you were,” he teased, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You’ve been doing it for weeks, pretending like you don’t care. But I could tell. It was written all over your face. Then I’d figured it wouldn’t be long til you came to it.”

You swallowed hard, his words hitting you harder than you expected. He was right. 

“I’m sorry,” you said before you could stop yourself. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I just didn’t know what to do.”

Manny raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? A confession? Are you about to pour your heart out to me, cariño?”

“Shut up.”

“Too late,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”

You sighed, the words trembling on your tongue. “I was just scared. Because it all did mean something. It always has. And I didn’t know how to deal with it.” 

Manny was quiet for a second, his gaze softening. Then his lips tugged into a slow, teasing smile. “So you do like me. Interesting.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Can’t you be serious for a second?”

“No, no — this is important.” His voice was weak but playful. “I want to hear you say it. For the record.”

You leaned down slowly, pressing your forehead to his, feeling his breath fan warm against your lips.

“I like you,” you whispered. “And if you ever do something that reckless again without me there to yell at you after, I’ll..”

“You gonna punish me, cariño?”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “Maybe.”

He chuckled, “Mmm, I think I’ll take my chances. I’m kind of looking forward to seeing what you have in mind.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the distance between you and pressed your lips to his, silencing that smug grin in the best way you knew how. The kiss was warm, firm, and laced with everything you’d been holding back. His hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer with a low, pleased hum. When you finally pulled away, his eyes were half-lidded, his smile softer but no less playful.

“Took you long enough,” he teased, his voice light. “But hey, I’m not complaining. About time you realized what I knew since day one.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re really proud of yourself right now, huh?”

Manny leaned in just a little, his grin lazy and smug. “Of course I am. I always knew you’d come around eventually. I’m very persuasive.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling your constant flirting and ridiculous nicknames?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

He softened then, just enough to let the truth slip through. “I’m also in love with you. In case it wasn’t obvious.”

Your breath caught. 

He shrugged, but there was nothing casual in his eyes. “Just putting it out there, cariño. You don’t get to be the only one making dramatic romantic confessions.”

Despite your best efforts to stay annoyed, a smile tugged at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“To resist, yes” he teased, his lips brushing against your neck. 

You sighed dramatically, but your heart betrayed you, speeding up at his proximity. “I guess you’ve got me, then.”

“Good. Cause I’m all yours, cariño.”

tag: @littlemsramirez @sithdaya ♡

[tiredandsapphic]

STILL INTO YOU

pairing ꩜ adult!lottie matthews x fem!reader summary ꩜ reconnecting with lottie turns out to be a lot more physical than you anticipated an ꩜ nsfw! wc 2.3k | not edited don't come for me

It all happened because you thought it would be a good idea to help look for Nat. Maybe it was the righteous choice—or maybe powered by guilt. Guilt of disappearing after rescue.

Except, what the hell were you supposed to do? You’d all pretty much agreed not to stay in touch after the rescue. And the minute you saw some of them bring back that anarchy into normal civilization, you fled. Fuck that shit.

Maybe what you had done after that wasn’t so graceful, but you did what you had to do to survive. So when you noticed all that free press and camera attention, you jumped at that. Half lying memoirs, tearful interviews and fake stories turned you into some media pawn. Of course no one stepped out to stop you, no because they couldn’t, because the public couldn’t handle the real truth of the wilderness.

Like any other social pawn the burnout was rough—parties, drugs, a complete spiral. You were everywhere except where you should have been, in contact with them. With her.

So when you pulled into the community which immediately struck you as a cult, your former teammates had a sour taste in their mouth.

The girls iced you out, at this point not even sure if you were ever a yellowjacket. Except for Lottie. When she saw you it’s like a blow to the ribs. She didn’t say anything—she couldn’t. She could just stare.

That whole day was full of aggression, mostly passive but it stung. It was a double edged sword. Maybe seeing who could get who to crack first.

At some point in the late evening she dug the dagger in, “you used our trauma.” And her tone is so raw you almost crumble.

“You found some bullshit god. I found coke. We all survived somehow.” You bite back in front of everyone, then retreat to a cabin the cult commune had prepared for you. Running away like you did best.

You just crave a bed, solitude—probably an advil too. But much to your luck, your cabin door swings back open before you can even get it closed.

And in comes a fuming Lottie. Though it’s a silent and precise anger.

“I can’t believe you just came back here like this—like nothing happened.” Her voice is strict, on edge.

You whip around, an eye nearly twitching. Already agitated from the long day. The arguments and insults. “I didn’t come back for you, Lottie.”

“Oh right. You came back to play hero. How’d you find the time between all your rehab and interviews? Or wait—is it another chapter for your book, did you need more reason to write another?” She laughs bitterly, but her eyes are glassy.

Your jaw clenches, the chair next to you looking very tempting to throw. “You don’t get to fucking judge me.”

She goes to open her mouth again in another snap but you shake your head, snapping back before she can.

“You went off and played messiah in the woods. At least I didn’t pretend to heal.” And that hits too deep. For the both of you.

“You think I wanted all of this? That I chose this over you? You didn’t even give me a choice.” The tension in the room is growing thicker. It could choke you.

“You disappeared just like I did. But I didn’t pretend to be fucking enlightened about it.” 

She suddenly steps in close, towering you with her presence. Her anger. Grief.

“I didn’t write us into a paperback trauma media attraction.” Her voice is low and venomous. It flushed you with guilt.

“You think I wrote about you?” you let out an airy laugh, “you’re not that special, Charlotte.” That's a lie. You both know it.

You’ve written so many pages, chapters, maybe even books about it. In tears, anger, love and guilt. Cut out last minute, letting it simmer within you instead.

And suddenly her lips are on yours. Bruising. No warning, just fury. Her hands tangled in your hair, pulling you in because she hates you for existing and hates herself for still wanting you.

It took more air out of you than seeing her again after all these years. And you can’t pull away, because you’re still her girl. 

“You still taste the same,” she whispers against your lips and you whimper.

You kiss her back, equal force. She knows she can’t pull away either, the damage is done. You're in her bloodstream again.

She shoves you against the wooden wall, a soft ‘umph’ leaving you until shes already back on you. You simply pull her in harder. Fingers grasping her shoulders.

“Do you still think about it?” she hisses against your lips, “back then?”

You exhale a ragged yes, to which she bites your lip in response to.

It’s messy. Too much teeth, little care. It’s feral, it’s the fucking wilderness again. Her swift hands tear your shirt over your head, like it’s made of paper.

She pulls back briefly, your heavy breathing mingling, replacing your earlier shouting. Deep brown eyes burn with so much emotion as they drag down the swell of your tits within your bra.

With hunger, she dives down towards your neck, which you immediately offer up to her, tilting your head back. She gropes your tits rather harshly as she plants hot, wet kisses along the column of your throat. 

It’s not long until she undoes the clasp of your bra, tearing it from you, her hands now flush against your skin. You’re hot, flushed, and utterly burning for her. Her hands travel to drag her nails down your spine, then to the waistband of your pants.

She gets your jeans about halfway down before she spins you around, pressing your front against the wall. The wood, much cooler than your skin, makes you suck in a harsh breath.

Her breath is hot against your neck. “You hate me,” she murmurs against your ear, “say it.”

“I do,” you gasp, instinctively grinding back against her. “I fucking hate you,” you breathe out, trying to convince yourself through desperation.

In the same breath she moves your, now soaked, underwear to the side, pushing two fingers into you. Your head falls back against her shoulder.

You were so wet she let out a low hum, approvingly. She knew your body like the back of her hand, she always had.

You clench around her fingers when she finds a perfect rhythm of deep and slow thrusts. And when she curls her fingers just right? You whimper. Your arousal is so evident as it collects between your thighs. Her fingers were so cruel and loving. A harsh caress.

Your hand scrambles to brace yourself against the wall, suddenly your limbs are so weak. She takes your other wrist and pins it above your head, her fingers never ceasing their relentless rhythm.

“I wish I could hate you,” she whispers, making you whine louder. Now her words and fingers had you unfolding.

And once she adds friction to your needy clit it’s over. Lottie knows between your high pitched moans and the way you clench around her, you were close.

Her mouth is so soft when she kisses your shoulder. Whispering soft praises to your ear, “let go for me, prove you’re still mine.”

And you do. That white hot burn wracks your body as you come. Her name slips from your lips like a prayer. Your legs trembling as she helps you ride out your bliss, your head heavy against her shoulder.

Her movements slow, and then she’s withdrawing her fingers, earning a weak whimper from you. Your body is unstable, to which she had no problem keeping you upright. The mixture of the stressful day, outbursts of emotion and being fucked senseless against a wall proving to have done a number on her.

She flips you back around, her eyes and face now gentle. The kindness you were once accustomed to coming back.

“I got you.” She whispers, drawing her fingers covered in your arousal to her mouth. She sucked them clean, eyes on yours, pupils blown wide. A low moan escaped her.

You shuddered, thighs clenching together. Your lips still parted with heavy breaths.

She pulled you into another kiss, much softer than earlier. Her tongue slipped between your lips, exploring somewhere she had almost forgotten.

Her body guided you to take shaky steps, mouth still on yours. You felt the edge of the bed against the back of your legs, then Lottie pushed you backwards. With a soft bounce you melted into the sheets. They reeked of scandal-wood and yearning.

She looked down at you like you were precious, even after everything. She tugged the rest of your pants off, along with your underwear, leaving you completely bare. Evidence of your unraveling still between your thighs.

You watch her closely, Lottie standing at the foot of the bed like a goddess. Your mouth goes dry when she starts to slowly undress. It’s teasing and everything you need, watching her slip her loose dress off herself. Your face flushes when she’s completely bare, heat humming on the surface of your skin.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, which she smiles softly at.

Lottie joins you on the bed of soft linen sheets, crawling across it to you. When her skin makes contact with yours, you can't help but let out a small gasp. You hadn’t known how much you missed the sensation until now. She presses her body against you, situating herself so her thigh is pressed between your legs.

You fit together perfectly, your own thigh slotting between her legs, mind whirling when you feel how wet she is. Her hands gently cup your jaw to pull you up a little, pressing her lips back to yours.

Her kisses are so soft now, her kisses are a penance, an apology to the aggression. She presses her thigh against your, once again, aching cunt, making you moan into her moan. You can feel the way she shifts against your own thigh, hips rolling.

Her lips move against you just as her hips do, slow, sensual and meaningful. Each slow movement adds enough friction to your core, making you whine.

She pulls away slowly, eyes heavy with arousal, “gods, I’ve missed you,” she whispers, her voice perfectly husky. You swear you could catch tears forming in her eyes.

Her confession just urges you own, rolling your own lips to grind down on her thigh. Her breath hitches and she brings a guiding hand to grip your hip.

“Fuck…— L-lottie.” You rasp out, a mix between a moan and a choke.

She hums in response, tilting her head, still guiding your hip. Her other hand travels up your torso, pausing to caress your tits.

Your body is still her temple and she knows every damn prayer.

She watches every expression and crease on your face. Both of your breaths grow heavier, making the heat between the two of you grow.

“You’re doing so good, take what you need,” she hushes, her tone heavy with lust.

And you do just that, grinding against her thigh with more strength, the wetness on her thigh growing, all to Lottie’s liking. As you quicken, she dips her head to your neck, soft bites and sucks. You tangle your fingers in the thick tresses of her dark hair, gently tugging.

A low groan rumbles in her throat in response, littering gentle marks of her love on your skin. Your body trembled against her as your grinding grew more desperate. Her own body mirrored the gentle trembles, knowing you were drawing closer again.

“Good girl, s’good for me,” her breath is warm against your ear.

She pulls back just enough to press her forehead against yours, eyes shut in bliss, chasing her high.

Your fingers trembled in her hair as you grew dangerously close, Lottie’s hand never ceasing to guide you while riding her thigh. Soon enough you’re coming again, on her thigh as you push yours against her. Your cries carry through the cabin, urging Lottie on.

She's falling over her peak just as you are, her body tense with your name slipping from her mouth. Just as you pant she presses a searing kiss against your mouth, swallowing each other's moans.

The wave of intense pleasure soon subsides, and you’re worn out, body pressed against hers. Her arms wrap around you, kissing your temple when your face is deep in her neck. She guides you to lay back on the bed, laying beside you, holding you close as both of your breaths shallow out.

She brushes some hair stuck to your damp skin from your face, and all you can do is look at her face with a hazy gaze. Her eyes are sickeningly soft, “you okay?”.

You swallow and nod, then smile tiredly. “Mhm,” you hum.

Her eyes flicker over your face, taking you in all over again. “You’re so gorgeous, especially like this.” She says while she gently brushes her thumb over your cheek.

The silence that falls between you both isn’t awkward. It’s tiring. Healing. Basking in the warm aftershocks.

You nestle closer to her, and she pulls you in more, head resting on her chest. You can hear the calm beat of her heart beneath you, soothingly therapeutic. Her arm wraps around you, splaying across your back as her other hand runs through your hair. Like she can’t stop touching you in case you slip away from her again.

Lottie wants to ask what this means now, or to wonder how this may just blow up all over again, but your voice drags her from her thoughts,

���don’t let me leave again,” you whisper against her skin, already half asleep.

There's so much more to say but the way your legs are tangled together and your sleeping breaths fan across her skin says all.

Just for a moment you’re teenagers again, old lovers. And that's enough of an answer.

[ghostedgwen]

safe and stranded | r.lupin

note : yeah this one took hours and I ended with 9k+ words but I cut it down to 8.4 after many revisions lol. My back hurts so bad and I have been throwing up, I think I may be sick. maybe. enjoy~

warnings : mentions of bloof and injuries, dark themes, themes of child abuse/abandonment, angsty werewolf shit, reader has a sister who died of the plague - will make sense, a disease spreading around, overall ANGSTTT and depressing to write/read

Exiled to the forest, Remus had to survive all alone and live his life like the beast he was cursed to be. That was until you came into his life to forever change it, and he was never the same.

. . . I'll build you a fort on some planet where they can all understand it.

They used to call it the Moonblight Curse in olden texts - something half-whispered in between warnings about wandless werewolves and inferi in cold lakes. Before there was a name for lycanthropy, before modern minds labeled and categorized, there was this: the wild magic that gnawed at the flesh of men and turned them into beasts.

And once, it found a boy.

The forest did not care for names. It swallowed the syllables of "Remus John Lupin" like dry earth drinks the rain - momentarily nourished, then utterly silent. He was barely fourteen when they left him here, and already the man was breaking through the boy. Bones jutting out too sharply. Eyes too old for someone who still had milk teeth when he was bitten.

No farewell. No comfort. Just the copper taste of betrayal in his mouth and a note tucked into his threadbare coat: We had no choice. It’s for the best.

He remembered his mother’s face when she placed it there. Eyes rimmed red, jaw trembling. But she didn't say anything, and he didn’t beg her not to go. Maybe that’s what stung most. He’d just stood there, letting the trees eat them both alive.

Time moved differently in the forest. At first, he marked the days by carving lines into the bark of a beech tree. Then, when the tree was taken down by lightning during a storm, he stopped counting altogether.

There was no point. He’d ceased aging, more or less - flesh caught in a loop of regeneration and rot, never fully human, never fully beast. The Moonblight kept him alive. That was its cruelty. Healing every wound but leaving the ache. Rebuilding his ribs, but never his hope.

He learned the trees, their languages. He walked barefoot until his soles blistered, then calloused, then hardened like bark. The birds feared him. The deer never came close.

The werewolf in him ran with the wind some nights, fast and howling and free - but the boy in him always woke up curled under a log, shivering, wondering if he could remember his name.

Sometimes he did.

Most times, he didn't.

And in that slow fade of memory, he found comfort. It was easier to survive when you forgot what you’d lost.

A den formed where the light never touched - between the roots of an ancient tree and a shelf of stone that jutted like a jagged tooth from the earth. He lined it with moss and dry leaves, the bones of small animals, and sometimes, when he could bear it, books that he tried to remember reading.

A sanctuary of shadows.

Once, a wizard came, muttering incantations under his breath, robes glinting with runes. Remus tore out his throat before he could finish his spell. The wizard didn’t scream. Just looked surprised, more annoyed than afraid, and then crumpled like cloth. Remus dragged the body to the edge of the warded boundary and left it there. Let the crows and forest decide what it wanted.

He didn’t know why they kept coming. Curse-breakers, bounty hunters, desperate fathers trying to win back favour from the Ministry by killing the creature in the woods.

Maybe the forest told stories.

Maybe the curse whispered through tree roots and spiderwebs, painting pictures of a boy who once had a soul.

They never lasted long.

And so Remus lived - if one could call it that. He existed. He breathed. He remembered fragments: a warm hand on his head, the smell of books, the laugh of a boy with ink-stained fingers, a girl with gold on her lips and sunlight in her voice.

But they were ghosts now. Dreams. Things he had imagined in a fever.

"Let them forget me. I forget myself." He said it aloud sometimes, voice cracking, dry as old parchment. A prayer. A curse. A mercy.

Until the day you walked in.

They told you not to enter. That the trees had teeth and the mist had memories. That the forest was not a place but a hunger.

And still - you entered.

You were no warrior. No curse-breaker with runes tattooed on your knuckles. You were a healer's apprentice, barely twenty, with an aching back from hauling poultices and salves across three provinces. But the sleeping sickness was spreading through the outer villages like ink in water, and no magic had cured it.

Only the Moonblossom, whispered about in texts too ancient for wandwork, could hope to break the fever.

You found it in the margin of a moldering apothecary ledger: "Moonblossom grows where the cursed boy sleeps."

You asked the apothecary what it meant. He spat into the fire and said: "It means the forest eats what it likes."

But you had held too many limp hands, pressed cool cloths to too many burning brows. So you packed your satchel with wards and wolfsbane, whispered goodbye to your sleeping mentor, and crossed the edge of the old woods just after dawn.

The light changed almost instantly. Greener. Older. You could smell things that didn’t exist outside the trees - sweet rot, ozone, blood in the bark. The path wound like a serpent and refused to stay straight. You marked the way with trailing ribbons, like the books told you, though half of them vanished when you glanced back.

Still, you pressed forward. Through damp glens and nettle thickets, past moss-choked statues and thorny groves. Days may have passed. Or hours. Time, here, wore a different skin. It stretched and folded in on itself, curling like burnt parchment at the edges. You slept in a hollow tree once. Dreamed of wolves.

You dreamed of teeth.

The birds did not sing. Only the wind spoke, and it had no kindness in it. Once, you saw bones braided into the roots of an old elm, and you stepped carefully around them. Once, a fog rolled in so thick you could barely see your fingers. You tied a bell to your wrist, just to hear yourself move. Just to be sure you were still real.

It was the mist that brought you to it.

Not so much a place as a painting, shifting and gleaming in the morning hush. The enchanted estate was overgrown and half-sunken into the land, ivy strangling the old stone, wild roses curling over shattered stained glass. A memory of opulence. A ruin made beautiful by time.

You stepped through the broken archway, breath caught in your throat. There were carvings on the pillars - old magic, etched deep. A shield with a wolf and moon. A Latin inscription so faded you had to squint to make out: "Dormit lupus in aeternum." The wolf sleeps forever.

But the wolf was awake.

The moment you crossed into the courtyard, the air shifted. Thicker. Hungrier. You felt it in your chest, in the roots of your teeth. The sound of branches snapping echoed like gunfire. Something was moving.

Too fast. Too dark. A growl like gravel grinding in bone.

You turned.

And it was on you.

Not a wolf, not a man. Something in between. Fur matted, eyes ember-bright, breath steaming like smoke. Its weight pinned you to the moss, claws raking your cloak, and you knew you were going to die. You didn’t scream. Just looked into its eyes and whispered, "Please."

It paused. Something flickered.

The claws loosened.

And the shadows fled.

You lay in the moss, breath ragged, heart hammering, mouth full of leaves. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The mist rose around you again, soft and gray and humming with strange lullabies.

And then darkness.

Collapse.

You didn’t know you had been spared.

But he did.

The creature - the boy, the curse, the beast - watched from the trees.

It had taken everything not to finish it. The scent of blood had flared sharp in his nose. The fear in your voice, not shrill, not panicked - just quiet. Just human. A whisper like a memory.

Please.

He had heard that word before. Not from prey. From people. From the part of himself that still knew the shape of a name. He crouched in the shadows, panting, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

Still alive.

That was wrong. He didn't leave things alive. Not unless. . .

He snarled at himself and turned away, disappearing into the trees. He told himself it was because you were no threat. That you would die on your own. The forest would finish what he didn’t.

But the next morning, when the mist lifted, and you still lay curled like a broken bird in the weeds, he returned.

And that time, he carried you inside.

You woke to a room that felt as though it had been untouched by time - faded, beautiful in its ruin. The floors were covered in claw-scratched scars, deep grooves worn into the wood from years of neglect. The light was dim, filtered through heavy drapes made of dark, moth-eaten fabric. The scent of old paper mingled with the ever-present musk of the forest.

There was a basin beside you, warm water steaming gently in the cold air. A cloth sat neatly beside it, stained with the remnants of your earlier weariness. The warmth of it was grounding, like a breath after too many years of suffocating silence.

You had no idea where you were. The last thing you remembered was the attack - the sharp, predatory weight of the creature on top of you, the gleam of amber eyes, the growl vibrating in the air. But now, you were here - alive, alone, and in a place so still that even the silence seemed to press against your skin.

As you sat up, you saw it. A table, cluttered with papers, broken quills, and half-finished meals. Faintly, you caught the scent of stew, burnt in places, but still warm. It made your stomach twist, desperate for sustenance after days of trudging through the forest, of surviving on little more than water and the forest’s scattered fruit.

But the most striking thing about the room - besides its quiet loneliness - was the books. Shelves upon shelves, some of them made of old stone, others of rough-hewn wood, all packed with books. Some were ancient, with pages yellowed with age, others were newer, the bindings worn but still intact.

You were drawn to them immediately, fingers grazing over the titles, half-forgotten spells and healing potions and strange fables written in languages you hadn’t learned. It felt like an entire world lived here, locked away in these walls.

You glanced over your shoulder, expecting nothing but shadows, and found yourself staring into the dim corner where an unlit fire still held the ghost of warmth. The man - or the beast, perhaps - had been watching you. You weren’t sure when or how he had come, only that he had.

His presence hung heavy in the room, though he remained as distant as the night. You caught a flicker of movement at the door - his shadow, tall and shifting. He’d brought food and left it, the bowls already scraped clean by the time you noticed them. And then, just as quickly, he was gone again.

Days passed in a blur. He avoided you, as though your presence was some uncomfortable thing he had never planned on, never wanted. You didn’t mind - his silence was preferable to the low growls that had rumbled through the trees when he first attacked.

But you couldn't help but notice the small details: how he had placed fresh herbs beside the fire, how his footsteps were lighter than you expected for someone who had survived alone for so long.

You started to leave notes. At first, they were simple - just a line or two, asking if he was alright, if he was angry. But as the silence stretched between you, the questions grew bolder.

Why are you here?

Why haven’t you killed me?

At first, there was nothing. But then - just as the darkness began to feel too heavy - there was a response. Written in a sharp, almost sarcastic hand: You ask too many questions for someone who should be grateful for the chance to survive.

You could almost hear the bitterness in those words, a quiet edge of mockery that stung more than you expected.

You wrote back: You have a library. I didn’t know beasts read.

Another reply came quickly, terse: I’ve stolen more books than you’d care to know. If you want to learn, stop asking stupid questions and start reading.

It was a challenge.

And so, you did.

The more you read, the more you realized just how wrong your first assumptions had been. He wasn’t just a beast. No, that much was too easy. There was a clarity to the way he had organized these books, an intelligence in the way they were arranged. It wasn’t wild chaos or madness. It was methodical. Careful. Thoughtful, even.

Every day, you poured through his books - spells, histories, journals. You learned that the Moonblossom wasn’t just a mythical flower; it was a part of the very forest that surrounded you, a root that dug deep into the earth, hiding beneath layers of shadows and ancient magic. You learned about the curse that bound him. How it was not just the wolf, not just the monster he feared, but the life he had been forced to live because of it.

You started to leave more notes - longer ones. You told him about the villages, about the sick children, about the lives slipping away because no one had the answer to this strange, deadly sickness. About how the Moonblossom was the only chance they had to survive.

The responses grew colder, sharper: It doesn’t concern me. You aren’t my problem.

But still, the food appeared. The books continued to be left for you to read. It was the strangest kind of cruelty - he was there, but not there. A presence just out of reach, his voice only heard through the ink of his responses.

One day, you wrote something different.

I won’t take the Moonblossom. Not if you let me live.

The reply came swiftly, as expected: You think your life is worth saving?

You didn’t hesitate before answering. It’s not my life I’m worried about. It’s theirs.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken things. He didn’t reply for days. When he did, it was with a single word, cold and final: Fine.

But you could hear the doubt in it, the hesitation. Something had shifted. A crack in the walls, deep inside the beast, where something human had been buried long ago.

And in that silence, you learned the one thing you hadn’t expected: The forest might have taken everything from him, but he wasn’t completely lost. Not yet.

And neither were you.

The house didn’t creak. It breathed.

Walls expanded with the sighs of memory. Shadows moved without wind. The ivy clawing through the stone trembled to rhythms no living thing could track. He had built this place with bleeding hands and broken magic - stone by stone, claw by claw. It had taken years. Years of silence. Years of rot and rage and the kind of loneliness that didn’t just eat away at you, but carved itself into your bones like moss through mortar.

It was the forest that did it.

Too ancient to understand time the way men did. It stripped him of seasons, of certainty. Days blurred into moons. Moons into claws. Hunger never left him. Not truly. Even when he was fed, even when he was calm, something inside still gnawed.

So, to keep from vanishing into the growl of it all, he started talking to ghosts.

Or - no. Not ghosts. Worse.

He imagined them.

The Marauders.

At first, it was small. James’s laugh echoing down a corridor. Sirius’s boots thunking on the steps. A glint of ratty blond hair ducking out of sight. Harmless. Familiar. Until they answered him back.

He told himself it was harmless. A coping mechanism. A mental trick to keep the beast at bay. They’re not real, he would mutter to the walls. I know that. I do. But the forest didn’t just twist paths and steal sound - it fed delusion. Encouraged it. And deep down, a part of him wanted to believe they hadn’t left him behind.

So they came.

James arrived first, of course it was James.

All laughter and light, even when memory tried to dim him. He’d lean in doorways, arms crossed, smirking like the world was still theirs to ruin. His eyes held the same brightness they had at the very young age of seven - only, these ghosts grew old with him.

The delusions were so elaborate that they aged as he did and he had managed to picture a grown-up, more mature version of the friends he left behind.

He always showed up when Remus was most bitter, most weary. When his claws still stung from the shift. When the girl left notes he refused to read right away, though he always did eventually. James would appear then, tilting his head toward the cracked window, the one that looked out toward the part of the woods that never thawed.

“She’s brave,” James would say, like it was a dare. “Smarter than you were, at least.”

“I didn’t bring her here for company,” Remus would mutter.

James would grin. “No, but you didn’t let her die, either.”

He would disappear before Remus could answer.

Sirius came after.

He never knocked. Just sauntered in - coat half-draped off one shoulder, boots scuffed, the ghost of smoke curling at his collar like a lover’s hand. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t have to. His voice was velvet and broken glass.

“She’s pretty,” he said once, lounging across the ruined armchair that no longer had legs. “Too soft for this place. Too much light.”

“She’s stubborn. She’ll survive.”

Sirius smiled like sin, teeth sharp in the gloom. “You don’t want her to survive. You want her to stay.”

Remus didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

Sirius laughed, low and wicked. “You’re still human enough to want her.”

Then, quieter - meaner: “Still beast enough to lose her.”

The shadows swallowed him whole.

Peter came last.

He didn’t speak. Not anymore. He appeared only as flickers - his face half-formed, like fog catching the shape of a boy who never quite made it to manhood. Sometimes, he hovered in the corners of the library, fingers twitching toward books he never picked up. Sometimes he paced the corridor outside the locked cellar, his eyes wide, unblinking. Sometimes Remus didn’t know if he was real, or just guilt given form.

The Marauders came and went like tides. Memory bound to stone, to claw marks and candle wax. They were pieces of him still too tender to bury.

And she - she was the new variable. The unknown.

He watched her sometimes, through cracks in the wall or from the safety of the upper floors. She was clumsy in her curiosity, brave in a way that wasn’t loud. She didn’t flinch when the floorboards howled. She didn’t cry when the forest’s hunger turned toward her. She read his books like scripture. Left notes like prayers.

I won’t take the Moonblossom if you let me live. It’s not my life I’m worried about. It’s theirs.

He hadn’t answered at first.

But the forest had.

It coiled around her but did not bite. Its branches curled protectively over her roof. The mist grew warmer. The wind turned gentle.

She had been chosen. Or spared. Or both.

And Remus - he was no longer sure what he wanted. The beast snarled whenever she smiled. The man ached when she didn’t.

He heard her footsteps now, light and slow, tracing the edges of the room below. She was learning the house.

James’s voice rose again, this time from the mirror near the stairwell.

“Careful, mate,” he said, soft but sure. “You’re building a life again. Even if you don’t mean to.”

And Sirius, from the broken clockface in the parlor: “Tell her the truth. Or she’ll find it. She’s the sort who digs.”

Remus leaned his head against the stone. Closed his eyes. Tried not to think about her laugh. About the softness in her throat when she’d call out to him.

The house grew quiet.

But the wolves inside him did not sleep.

The house knew the moon was rising.

Not that it was really a house. Not like the ones you left behind with shingled roofs, windows with glass panes, and tidy hedges trimmed every other Sunday. No, this was something different. Something older.

It had been built by grief and survival, not blueprints. Bones and bark, ash and stubbornness. A hearth of soot-black stone stood at its center like a heart that's forgotten how to beat, cobbled together from rocks dragged across the forest floor by calloused, unrelenting hands. Timber walls leaned in on themselves like secrets being whispered through the years.

They were crooked and groaning, patched in places with mismatched pelts, slabs of bark, and whatever remnants of fabric or metal he could salvage. The roof sagged low, bearing the weight of moss, old leaves, and the weight of memory too heavy to shed.

The floor was not a floor. Not really. Just cold-packed dirt, worn smooth in patches from pacing.

But it felt like a home. In the way dens are homes. In the way wounds are. It had been made with intention and with some care. With hands that knew how to destroy, choosing instead to build.

Tonight, it shuddered.

The air inside grew tight. Too still. Shadows no longer simply lingered - they bristled. They shifted with the tension of a held breath. Even the fire, usually robust in its greed for wood and warmth, cowered low in the hearth, flames curled inward like fists.

And on your door - a slab of uneven wood lashed to a bent iron hinge - he had left a note. Scratched hastily into the grain with the tip of a blade.

Stay in. Lock door. Don’t follow.

But you couldn’t stay in.

You had tried. Truly. For as long as you could bear the silence, you sat curled by the fire, pretending your hands weren’t trembling, that the creaks and snaps outside were nothing more than the forest settling into slumber. You clutched one of the stolen books he’d left by your bed, but the words blurred. The pages rattled with each gust.

You looked at the door too many times.

And finally, you crossed the threshold.

Outside, the woods were not the same as they were in daylight. They were alive. Not just with creatures, but with presence. The trees loomed tall and skeletal, bark silvered by moonlight, branches reaching like arms toward something unseen. M

Mist crept along the underbrush, clinging to your ankles like it wanted to pull you back. The wind whispered in a language you didn't know but somehow understood.

Don’t go. Don’t look. Don’t see.

But something deeper called you forward.

A low, mournful sound that stretched across the trees like a violin string pulled too tight. You followed it without knowing why. Or maybe you did. Maybe it was the tremor in his fingers earlier that day. The way his eyes wouldn’t meet yours, too full of something ancient and ashamed. The way he tore bread with his teeth like it was a punishment.

The change was coming.

He had tried to keep you safe. You knew that. Wards surrounded and hummed lightly around the house. Charms hung like broken promises from the trees. But none of it could stop the ache inside you.

You stepped past the line.

The forest wasn't quiet. Not tonight.

The leaves didn’t rustle so much as hiss. The wind wasn't a breeze but a warning. Your feet made no sound, but you could feel every twig snap in your bones. It was as if the forest itself had turned into a cathedral of dread, holding its breath alongside you.

You followed the sound of breaking.

Not trees.

Him.

It led you to a hollow tucked behind a crescent of boulders. You'd never been here before, though it felt sacred. As if this was where he came to fall apart.

And at its center: him.

He had torn off his shirt. His skin glistened with sweat and something darker. Blood. Already streaked along his ribs, under his nails, smeared across his chest. Some of it his. Some of it from other nights. His body shuddered, curled in on itself as if trying to hold back the inevitable.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

His spine arched violently. The sound it made was not human. His fingers clawed at the earth. His face - contorted, jaw clenched so hard you swore you could hear teeth crack. His muscles twisted under his skin like waves being pulled by some monstrous tide.

He hadn’t noticed you. Or maybe he had, but couldn’t afford to care. The pain was too much.

And you - you felt it, somehow.

You couldn’t explain it. But the moment you saw him break, something inside you cracked in sympathy. This wasn’t a transformation. This wasn’t magic.

It was annihilation.

And still - you did not run.

Your legs shook, but you stepped forward. Just enough to really see him. The moss was cold under your knees as you knelt. You sat still, like prey offering peace. And then, you hummed.

Soft. Uncertain at first. No words.

Just a tune. Something old. Something from before. Something you didn’t even know you remembered until now.

The kind of lullaby passed from mother to child, through blood and breath. The kind meant to soothe frightened animals and children alike.

His head snapped up. His eyes glowed - gold rimmed in red, unearthly and sharp. The beast had surfaced.

But it didn’t lunge.

It looked.

At you, and for a heartbeat - just one - it wasn’t a beast.

It was a boy. A man. A name buried under all the blood and fur and fear. His breath hitched.

The recognition in his eyes was like lightning behind clouds. There - then gone. But real. He stumbled back, half-beast, half-broken. Limbs too long, joints bending wrong. Fur beginning to spread across his skin like wildfire. Teeth bared. But not at you.

For you.

He snarled - a confused, keening sound that held more warning than threat. His whole body trembled. He turned sharply and he ran.

Not toward you. Not to hurt. Away.

He returned just before dawn.

Collapsed at the edge of the clearing like the forest had finally let him go. Naked, bloodied, barely conscious. You didn’t speak. Just moved toward him slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

Because that’s what he was. You draped a pelt around his shoulders. He flinched at first - then leaned into the warmth.

Back at the house-that-wasn’t, you guided him to the hearth, eased him down with care. Cleaned the worst of the wounds with water gone cold in the basin. Your fingers were gentle, steady, even when his weren’t. He didn’t speak, but his eyes followed your every move. Watching you like he didn’t deserve it. Like this was mercy he hadn’t earned.

But you didn’t look away.

“You always come back alone?” you asked, your voice soft, but not timid.

A pause. Then a nod. You dipped a cloth into water again, wrung it out.

“Must get lonely,” you said.

Another pause. Then, hoarse: “You get used to it.”

You didn’t push. Just pressed the cloth against a bruise blossoming beneath his collarbone.

“I didn’t.” He glanced up, confused. “Get used to it,” you clarified. “The loneliness.”

The fire cracked. The house groaned. Something in him shifted.

And you spoke - quietly, steadily - as if unraveling something knotted too tight for too long.

About the city you’d left behind. The sister who braided your hair, the father who stopped coming home. The teacher who told you girls like you asked too many questions, and the night you stopped asking them out loud. About the time you ran. The ache of hunger. The thrill of freedom. The winters that bit through skin. The boy who tried to steal from you and the way you learned to steal first.

You told it like it wasn’t your own story. Like it belonged to someone you used to be.

Remus didn’t interrupt. He just listened. Fully. Like each word you offered stitched something inside him a little more closed.

Eventually, the silence curled up between you like a cat too tired to fight sleep.

You watched the fire. Then you said it. . . your name.

It felt strange, foreign in your mouth after so long. Like speaking it made you real again. Like saying it meant choosing to be seen. He turned his head, eyes catching yours in the flickering light.

He repeated it slowly. Testing it on his tongue like a language he hadn’t spoken in years and when he said it - it didn’t sound like a name.

It sounded like a spell.

You laughed, not a bitter one like before. A real laugh, which was soft that made his ears perk up ever so slightly.

And the sound of it made his heart ache. Like a wolf remembering a song it heard once in a dream. It was then he finally decided - “Remus. Mine, I think.”

You weren’t looking for anything in  particular. Not in the way you usually wandered through the trees - seeking space, seeking escape, or even just the warmth of the late autumn sun that filtered weakly through the heavy branches.

No, tonight was different. The air felt sharp with something that had no name, pulling at your insides, pushing you to move when you’d rather be still. A pressure, a heaviness in your chest that clung tighter with each breath, making everything feel too loud, too sharp.

So you walked. You didn’t think much of it - just put one foot in front of the other, your boots crunching lightly in the brittle, scattered leaves underfoot. You passed the tree line, where the woods grew thick and oppressive. The ground beneath you shifted from a blanket of melting snow into slushy, cold mud that sucked at your shoes like it wanted to hold you there.

Fallen logs - twisted and cracked by time or something far older - loomed like the remnants of forgotten giants. You had no idea what might be lurking in the shadows, but the cold air seemed to steady your nerves, clearing your head from the mess of thoughts that cluttered it.

You didn’t mean to stray this far.

But the moon tonight - it was unlike anything you’d ever seen. It hung low in the sky, bathed in a crimson red as if the very light had been bled out of it, staining everything it touched. The trees shuddered under its weight, casting long, dark fingers across the forest floor. It felt like the sky was watching.

There was no breeze. No sound, save for the distant crackle of the dying branches. You’d reached a place so quiet, so impossibly still, it seemed sacred.

And then you saw it.

The flower.

It stood there, in a small clearing just beyond a stretch of low-hanging branches, glowing silver under the blood-washed moon. At first, it looked like a trick of the light, a whisper of mist or a shimmer of frost caught in the air. But then you saw it - clear and unmistakable.

A blossom.

So delicate. So impossibly delicate, it could have been a dream. Soft silver petals unfurled slowly, as if responding to the moonlight itself. The faintest pulse of light emanated from it, slow, measured, almost like a heartbeat. The edges of the petals glowed blue, curling inward, as though defying the red world around it.

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe - it was finally beyond reach, the one thing you needed, why you entered this place.

You knelt slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile tranquillity of the clearing. Every part of you felt like it was holding its breath - waiting, wondering if the world would pause long enough to let you understand what you were seeing.

You weren’t reaching for it to claim it or to steal it.

But the urge to touch it - just to feel the warmth of something that felt so alive in a place that was so full of shadows - gnawed at you. Not to mention that you had been searching for it originally - only, you can’t bring yourself to pluck.

Your fingers hovered just inches above the petals. You could feel its pulse in your fingertips - barely perceptible, but unmistakable, like it was breathing along with you.

But before you could let your skin graze the flower, his voice shattered the quiet.

“I told you not to wander alone.”

It cut through the silence with a jagged edge, snapping the moment into something sharp and bitter. You jerked upright, heart slamming against your ribcage. There, standing in the dim light, was Remus. 

His eyes were wild - almost feral - as he stepped into the clearing. His features were sharp with tension, but his eyes - they were full of something else. Something darker. Something hurt.

You opened your mouth to speak, to explain, but before the words could form, he spoke again, his voice low and laced with accusation.

“That’s it, then? You wait until I trust you. Until I let you in. And then you steal from me?”

The words hit like a slap. A crack in the chest, a painful twist of betrayal that you hadn’t been prepared for.

You blinked, trying to swallow the confusion that surged up like bile in your throat. “I wasn’t - ”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, cutting you off, his voice sharp enough to make the air between you both crackle.

The Moonblossom, trembling slightly in the sudden weight of the conversation, seemed to watch both of you. The way the light from it flickered - a soft, eerie dance of shadows and gleaming silver - felt like it had taken on a life of its own. The flower was suddenly a thing in the world of accusations.

“You can’t lie about this,” he continued, his eyes never leaving you. “No one finds that flower unless they’re looking for it.”

You shook your head quickly, as if shaking off the weight of his words. “I didn’t even know it was real until now,” you said, the words rushing out, desperate for him to understand, to believe you.

But his laugh - it stopped you.

It wasn’t a laugh you knew. It was harsh, cruel. There was nothing left of the kindness he’d shown you, the warmth he had once given you in the quiet spaces between his secrets. This laugh was hollow. Empty.

And it broke something inside you.

“You wouldn’t be the first to pretend,” he muttered. His voice had quieted, but the accusation still echoed in the space between you both. The fire in his gaze burned through you, and it felt like he was already seeing someone else - someone who didn’t belong here, someone who was just as false as the others who’d come before. “You knew it was forbidden.”

And you did.

He’d warned you once - carefully, almost in a whisper as if the forest might be listening. The Moonblossom was dangerous, sacred. He never spoke of it in earnest - just a soft warning, a fleeting mention as he adjusted his pack or the fire crackled.

But then, finding it was the original plan all along.

His words tangled in your throat, but the weight of his eyes was unbearable.

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t intend to take it. I swear. I didn’t even touch it.”

But it didn’t matter.

The words hung in the air, thick and useless. His gaze, that wild, furious gaze, hardened into something you couldn’t place - something that made the space between you both feel miles apart. He stepped back slowly, his features unreadable, his body trembling - not from the cold, but from something deeper.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost sad. “You thought about it.”

And then he turned.

Without another word, without a glance back, he vanished into the trees, swallowed by the night.

You waited.

The shelter felt hollow without him. The fire in the corner, which had been warm and bright with his presence, now struggled against the darkness. You sat beside it, knees drawn up to your chest, feeling every moment stretching out endlessly. The food remained untouched, the pack abandoned. His absence echoed louder than the wind that whispered through the trees.

You waited, telling yourself that he’d return - that this was just a moment, a passing shadow in a dark forest.

But the nights dragged on.

The fire flickered weakly. The shelter, once a shared space, now felt like a tomb. The weight of the silence, the emptiness of the air, pressed down on you until even the smallest noises seemed unbearable.

You left his food where he always left his pack - waiting. Hoping.

The moon had moved on, but the memory of the red sky, the blood moon, lingered in your mind. It felt like a curse. A warning you’d ignored. The forest had whispered to you, and you’d chosen not to listen.

The silence stretched on, unbearable. The fire sputtered weakly, throwing erratic shadows against the walls of the shelter. The air was heavy, thick with the absence of him. You sat still, the knot of tension in your chest slowly tightening, curling in on itself.

You had waited long enough.

The forest around you had grown colder. The moon, once a dark-red sliver in the sky, now hovered above like an unblinking eye. It made you restless, made you question your decisions, the choice to stay alone in the depths of these woods when everything felt wrong.

But the wind - there was something different about it tonight. It had a bite to it, colder than the usual chill, colder than the whispers of a winter that was still months away.

Then, through the bitter wind, you heard it.

A distant rustle. The crack of branches breaking. A low, guttural sound, like something - or someone - stumbling through the trees.

Your breath caught in your throat. You were on your feet before you could even think. You stepped outside the shelter, eyes scanning the darkness. The familiar weight of fear, of longing, settled in your stomach.

And then - 

He appeared.

Remus.

But not the way you remembered him.

His figure staggered into view like a shadow in the mist, broken and bent. His clothes were torn, dirty, stained with something that looked too dark to be simply dirt. His eyes were distant, feverish, flicking nervously in all directions as if the forest itself were out to get him. His gait was uneven - half-walking, half-crawling - barely holding himself up.

He didn’t even notice you standing there at first, his mind clearly elsewhere. He took a few unsteady steps before his legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed onto his knees, gasping for air as if every breath was a battle.

You rushed to him without thinking.

“Remus - !” you said, the shock breaking through your cold reserve. You knelt beside him, grabbing his shoulders, trying to steady him. “What happened? You’re hurt.”

But he barely looked at you. His eyes were glazed over, his face pale as bone, drenched in a cold sweat that made his skin seem almost translucent. His breathing was ragged, strained, like he was suffocating on the very air he was trying to inhale.

“Don’t -  don’t touch me,” he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion and something darker - resentment, maybe. He winced when you tried to help him sit up, his hand weakly batting yours away. “I don’t want your help.”

You froze. His words cut deeper than you wanted to admit.

“Remus, you’re bleeding,” you said, swallowing the panic that rose in your throat. “You need to rest, you need - ”

“I don’t need anything from you,” he snapped, his voice a low growl. He was shaking now, the tremors rippling through his frame. “I’m fine.”

You could see the cracks in him. His muscles were trembling with the effort to stay upright, his skin flushed and hot to the touch. The wound on his side was deep - dark blood staining the cloth of his shirt, seeping through his fingers where he pressed them against the injury to stop the flow. His expression was one of defiance, but it was laced with a kind of vulnerability that he couldn’t hide.

But you weren’t going to leave him like this.

“No,” you said softly but firmly. “You’re not fine. And I’m not leaving you out here to bleed to death.”

He gave you a bitter, disbelieving laugh - a harsh, wet sound that made something cold settle deep in your bones. “You think you’re just going to fix me? Like I’m some. . . some wounded animal?” His gaze hardened, but it lacked its usual fire. It was dull, distant.

“I fought everything in the woods tonight - everything that moved. I didn’t care who they were. Who it was.”

His eyes flickered briefly to the ground as if remembering something gruesome.

You felt a shiver run through you at the admission, your breath hitching in your throat.

“Why?” you asked, your voice trembling despite yourself. “Why would you do that?”

His lips pulled into a thin, bitter smile - if it could even be called that. “Why not? The forest doesn’t care. It never has. Nothing cares.” His eyes met yours, raw and untamed, but there was no warmth left in them. “So why should I?”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. How could you? How could you reach someone who had already given up because the world gave them up first?

His gaze faltered, his breathing ragged again. He leaned against you as the tremors intensified, and before he could push you away once more, you gently lifted him, half-carrying him inside the shelter. You settled him against the wall and began to work quickly, your hands moving with a practiced urgency.

The cold was creeping into your bones, but there was no time to think about it. His blood stained your hands as you removed his torn shirt, cleaning the wound and patching it with what little supplies you had.

He winced as you pressed a cloth against the injury, and for a moment, his eyes softened. Not much - just a flicker. A whisper of something buried too deep for him to grasp.

“Right,” you said, trying to lighten the air, trying to push past the tension. “Were you always an angry child?”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and empty.

“I think the forest forged that one,” he said. His voice was so quiet that it was almost lost beneath the crackling of the fire.

You didn’t know how to respond to that either. It felt like a secret you weren’t meant to hear. A truth you couldn’t possibly understand.

And then, without warning, there was silence between you both - thick and oppressive. The world outside felt distant, like it no longer mattered. You continued tending to him, your hands steady despite the storm of thoughts that raged in your chest.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

But you could feel it - the shift between you both. The distance that had always been there, but now felt even more insurmountable.

The next morning, Remus was still unconscious, his breathing shallow but steady. You stayed by his side, watching over him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. You couldn’t shake the image of him - broken and angry - fighting things in the woods, letting his rage consume him. It was like he had forgotten the forest wasn’t something to fight against. It was something to survive.

But you couldn’t fix him.

You couldn’t undo the damage that had been done.

And then, another disturbance in the woods - this time, not Remus.

The rustling was louder. More insistent. You could hear someone - or something - moving swiftly through the trees, intent on reaching the clearing where the Moonblossom had once bloomed. You stepped outside, your breath catching in your throat when you saw the figure.

A man. Tall, cloaked in shadow, moving too quickly for comfort. He didn’t see you at first, but you stepped forward, calling out.

“Stop!” you shouted. “You can’t take it. It’s forbidden.”

The man turned - eyes cold and wild, a sneer twisting his lips. He didn’t answer, but he lunged at you.

But before he could reach you, Remus was there - weak, but still fierce enough to fight. His movements were jagged, stumbling, but he tackled the man to the ground with enough force to make the earth beneath them shake.

The struggle didn’t last long. The man, surprised by the wolf-like fury that Remus possessed, quickly backed down and ran off into the woods.

Remus fell to his knees, gasping for air, barely able to hold himself up. His strength was fading, his wounds too much to fight against. But he didn’t care.

“Does it really matter?” he rasped, staring into the forest where the man had vanished. “No one cared for me. Why should I care for them?”

You froze, the question settling over you like a weight.

How could he not see it?

You thought of the villages you had traveled to, the people you had seen withering away under the weight of sickness and disease. How many more had to die before someone did something?

And then, you thought of your sister - fading away, slowly, painfully - her breaths shallow, her skin too pale.

And you knew.

You had no choice.

That night, while Remus slept, his feverish mutters blending with the crackling of the fire, you made your decision.

You slipped out of the shelter, as quiet as the wind. You made your way to the clearing where the Moonblossom had once stood, and this time, you didn’t hesitate.

You reached out - no longer uncertain, no longer afraid.

The flower pulsed in your hands, and you took it. You stole it. And in that moment, you didn’t feel guilty. You didn’t feel anything. You just ran.

You didn’t look back but you left behind a letter.

A simple message.

I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice. I treasure you more than you’ll ever know. But this was the only way.

It was almost painful, the way the ink smeared slightly from the tears you’d allowed yourself to shed before setting it down, the words becoming harder to read the more you thought about what you were doing. The quill had felt too heavy in your hand, the weight of it not only pressing against the paper but against your chest.

But in that moment, with the Moonblossom tucked carefully in your bag, you knew there was no other path left to take. Your sister, the villages, the lives slowly withering - everything demanded it. It was the only way to save them.

But as the words formed, a quiet resolve replaced the panic, and when the letter was finished, the air felt still around you, as if the forest itself had waited, holding its breath. You sealed the parchment carefully and left it on the table where it would be the first thing he would see when he returned.

Then you left.

No looking back. No hesitation.

When Remus returned, the quiet of the woods felt like a heavy shroud, and it was a soundless ache in his chest. He had never truly expected it to be easy, but as he stumbled back to the shelter - his wounds still aching despite his best efforts to ignore them - he had hoped. . . hoped for something.

Something to tell him you had been waiting, still here, even after everything.

But as he stepped inside, something felt wrong.

It was the silence that hit him first. The kind of silence that made the world outside feel distant. As if the forest itself had swallowed everything - the gentle hum of life, the wind rustling through the trees, the soft rhythm of the world - had all gone still in your absence.

The fire was dead. The hearth that had once held a comforting warmth now lay cold and abandoned, its embers reduced to nothing but dark ashes.

His heart, which had been beating at a chaotic, frantic rhythm as he’d fought his way back, suddenly stilled in his chest.

You were gone.

The shelter was empty. The place where he had spent countless nights, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of your presence, now lay bare. Every small trace of you - your scent, your warmth - was gone.

His eyes darted frantically around the room, seeking any sign of life, of you. But the only thing that remained was the letter.

He moved toward it, his legs weak, his body yearning for rest, but a force greater than exhaustion drew him closer to the desk where the letter rested. The familiar handwriting - your handwriting - was stark against the paper.

And for a long moment, he just stood there, his mind running in circles, unsure if he should reach for it, afraid of what the words might mean.

But his fingers trembled as he unfolded the letter. The words were short - too short - but heavy in their simplicity.

I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. I treasure you more than you’ll ever know. But this was the only way.

A dull throb started in the back of his mind, reverberating through his skull. His eyes fixed on the words. It was as if they were etched in stone, something permanent, unchangeable.

His chest ached - tighter, deeper with every breath. And before he even realized what was happening, he crumpled the letter in his hand. No.

No, this couldn’t be real. You couldn’t have left. Not like this. Not without him, without any warning, without a fight.

The forest outside had taken on a deeper silence, an oppressive weight that pressed on his shoulders. The soft wind felt colder now, like the very air was mourning your departure, just as he was.

He collapsed onto the floor, the crumpled letter falling from his hand, landing beside him like a silent reminder of what he had lost.

No words left him. No curses. No screams. No tears. There was only the stillness of the world around him. The space that had once felt full of life - of your laughter, your quiet murmurs, your presence - now felt empty.

Remus was alone.

And the forest, the place he had once found solace, now felt like the loneliest place in the world again. Just like that little boy, barely 9 who was abandoned.

. How dare you think it's romantic, leaving me safe and stranded?

end. masterlist

[sugardollcurse]

hello !!!!! I'm a really big fan of your writing, you're very talented ^_^ I really enjoyed the george story and I was wondering if you could write something else about him ?? Idm what happens in it lol

𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒃𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆

꒰ pairing ꒱ george harrison x reader

꒰ summary ꒱ you end up seated next to george on a flight. he notices you’re reading a book he likes and starts a clumsy conversation.

꒰ note ꒱ hihi thank you so much for the sweet words :)) i had this in my drafts for a bit so i hope you like it!!! and yes, this tries to make actual sense of why you’re on a plane with george harrison.

You hadn't flown in years.

Not since you were a kid, and your ears popped so badly you thought you'd gone permanently deaf. Even now, the memory prickled in the back of your skull, sharpened by the low hum of the jet engines and the stale, recycled air.

You were hoping, no, praying, that no one would sit next to you. Not because you were antisocial (well, not entirely), but because planes were such a specific kind of hell. All that forced closeness. The inevitable small talk. The weird dance of elbows on the shared armrest. You'd taken the window seat and already pressed yourself as close to the wall as possible, knees pulled in, book open on your lap even though you'd read the same sentence six times already.

You heard them before you saw them, the sounds of a group. Laughter, loud voices, the shuffle of bags. Something told you this was it. The seat would not remain empty.

And it didn’t.

A body dropped into the seat beside you, followed by a half-hearted, "Sorry, 'scuse me." Accent. Not posh. Kind of mumbly. Polite, though. You didn’t look up. If you didn’t look, maybe it wouldn’t register. Maybe this person would get the hint.

A beat of silence passed.

Then: "You like that book?"

You blinked. The voice was closer now. Still low, a little scratchy. You looked up.

And then promptly looked away again.

George Harrison was sitting next to you.

THE George Harrison.

Of the Beatles.

He didn’t seem to notice your tiny internal meltdown. Either that, or he was used to it. Probably.

You weren’t sure what to say. Your mouth opened. Closed.

"It’s good," you said finally, voice smaller than you intended. It always came out like that when you were nervous. He leaned a little closer, peering at the cover.

"One of my favourites, that one. Didn’t think I’d see it on a flight."

You nodded, heart hammering. You didn't trust your voice to say more.

He adjusted in his seat, long legs stretching out slightly into the aisle until a steward gave him a look. He folded them back in. Fiddled with the edge of his cuff.

"Long flight," he said, after a pause.

You nodded again.

There was a silence. Not an uncomfortable one, necessarily. More like he was waiting to see if you’d talk.

"Sorry," he said suddenly, turning to you properly this time. "Hope you don’t mind me talkin'. I get chatty when I’m knackered."

You risked a glance at him.

He looked exactly like the magazine covers. The posters. The newspaper clippings your friends giggled over. But he also looked tired. Not in a bad way. Just soft around the edges. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair slightly mussed like he hadn’t had time to fix it after the rush through the terminal.

"I don’t mind," you said. Almost surprised at yourself.

His mouth tugged into a half-smile. "Good. Couldn’t take another cold stare. Got hundreds of those just walking down the aisle."

You let out a small, involuntary laugh. Immediate regret flooded in. Laughing? At George Harrison? What were you thinking?

But he grinned wider at the sound.

"Where you off to then? Or back from?"

"Visiting," you said quickly. It wasn’t a lie, just an edited version of the truth. You didn’t exactly owe him your life story.

"Ah, lucky you. We’re off to another gig. Feels like I’ve been living out of a suitcase for months."

You nodded, unsure what to add. He didn’t seem to mind carrying the conversation.

"What made you pick that book?"

You hesitated.

"It was in a pile. In the back of a secondhand shop. Looked like it’d been through ten owners. Felt like it deserved one more."

He tilted his head, intrigued. "You always talk like that?"

You blinked. "Like what?"

"Like it’s a poem or somethin'."

Your face flushed. You looked away, back out the window. The clouds were thick now, cottony. Everything felt surreal.

"Sorry," you muttered.

"Don’t be sorry," he said quickly. "It’s good. Makes a change."

Another silence.

This time, you filled it.

"Why are you on a commercial flight?" you asked before your brain could stop you.

He smiled again, this time a little crooked. "We’re sort of... laying low. One of our connections fell through, and the label didn’t want us waiting around in some hotel where fans might find us. Thought it'd be clever to book separate seats on a public flight. Less obvious, I suppose."

You blinked. That was actually... plausible. Kind of. You nodded slowly.

The plane started to taxi. The seatbelt sign chimed. You gripped the armrest, breath catching.

George noticed. "Not a fan of flying?"

You shook your head. "Not... not great at it."

"Hm," he said, thoughtful. "Wanna know a trick?"

You looked at him, wary.

"Pretend you’re somewhere else. Somewhere boring. Like the dentist. You ever been bored at the dentist?"

"Not really."

He laughed, the sound genuine and light. "Alright, bad example. But y’know what I mean. Think about something slow. Not scary. Helps a bit."

You tried it.

You thought about the bookstore. The one you found the novel in. Dusty, sunlit, smelling like old paper and forgotten things.

The plane lifted off.

You didn’t panic.

━━

Hours passed.

He slept for a while. So did you, sort of.

It wasn’t intentional, really. One minute you were watching the pages of your book blur under dim cabin light, the hum of the engines and occasional rustling of passengers forming a dull, hypnotic backdrop. The next, your body was slowly giving in to the weight of exhaustion and recycled air. You hadn’t flown in years and forgot how draining it was, how it wore you down not just physically, but mentally too, like being suspended in a place outside of time.

Beside you, George had shifted subtly, he’d pulled his coat tighter around him at some point, arms crossed loosely, chin slightly dipped toward his chest. His face was relaxed in a way you hadn’t quite seen yet, softer in sleep. The usual sharpness in his features had eased. If you hadn’t been so bleary-eyed, it might’ve caught you staring.

Your eyelids dropped before you realized it. The seat cradled you at an odd angle, and your neck tilted a bit too far to the left. But what surprised you most wasn’t waking up sore, it was waking up warm.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, the light overhead now off, the cabin darker than before. Something soft pressed against your temple, and for a half-second, your brain scrambled to place where you were, what time it was, who-

George.

You froze.

He was leaning gently into you, his head resting lightly against yours, your shoulders nestled together in a quiet sort of truce. At some point during the flight, maybe an hour ago, maybe more, you’d both drifted toward each other like plants stretching toward warmth.

His breath was slow, even, and audible only in the silence between announcements and engine sounds. Your heart stuttered, not in panic, but in something else. Something a bit disbelieving. He didn’t seem to notice your subtle return to consciousness, not right away.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

The weight of his head against yours wasn’t heavy. Just real. Steady. The kind of contact that grounded you.

You let your eyes drift again, fighting the dumb grin threatening the edge of your mouth.

When George stirred, it was gentle, like a cat re-situating. He blinked slowly, his brow creasing in the soft confusion of someone waking somewhere strange.

Then he noticed.

His eyes widened just a bit when he realized the way your heads leaned together, the way your shoulders stayed pressed like two puzzle pieces that had only recently found their match. You looked at him, suddenly self-conscious, but he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he gave a sleepy, half-smile. “Huh,” he murmured, voice gravelly with sleep and accent even thicker than usual. “S’pose we got cozy, then.”

You laughed under your breath, nervous and warm. “Guess so.”

He didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he leaned a fraction closer for a moment, like committing it to memory.

“Didn’t drool on ya, did I?” he asked, feigning concern.

You gave a lopsided smile. “No. You’re in the clear.”

He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face, then through his hair, mussing it further. He didn’t move away, though. Not really. His shoulder still brushed yours.

“Y’know,” he said after a beat, eyes still a little distant with sleep, “not the worst nap I’ve had. Might even be the best.”

You glanced at him, unsure whether he meant it or if he was just being nice.

Then he turned and looked right at you, soft and sure.

“Really. Best flight nap I can remember.”

You didn’t say anything, just let the silence speak for you. Let yourself lean again, just slightly. Just enough.

He didn’t mind.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

[karaaaak]

Is it 4 am when I posted this, yes. Do I car. No. Get attacked with my draft about some things about some of the specters I find neat! If anything I say in this post is wrong, or could have something added to it I would LOVE feedback, I’m still getting the hang of long form posts lol

Anywho! Most of my point here are going to be from either Wikipedia or someone else’s post. I have really bad memory so if I say something that seem familiar to a post you or someone you know made then people mention it and I’ll tag them!

First specter I’m gonna talk about is Eulalie’s.

Eulalies specter, as show, is a chimera, more specifically a Baku!

Baku’s are “Japanese supernatural beings that are said to devour nightmares”. Which explains Eulalie dreameating and possibly also the dispeller of evil spirits ability

Another fact I found interesting is that in a legend about the Baku “a child would wake up form a nightmare and call for the Baku by repeating “Baku-San, come eat my dream” three times. Then the Baku will come into the child’s room and eat the nightmare and the child will go back to sleep peacefully. However calling the Baku should be used sparingly, because if they remain hungry after eating a nightmare they may also devour the child’s hopes and dreams as well.”

Im not to sure if that is relevant to Eulalies character at all but I felt like it was worth adding!

Another thing that many have pointed out is that the markings of Eulalies arms resemble burn marks. Along with the fact that after using her dispeller of evil spirits ability she coughs a flame of fire.

Next specter I wanna talk about is Bernice’s!

I don’t have too too much to talk about with her specter, just some bits and bobs I picked up on rereads

Bernice’s specter in one of my favorites, just because of the fact it’s similar to a self defense mechanism for lack of a better term. Basically what I mean by that is the things she list is death her specter has a large amount of, and another things. Which leads me to the mouths.

The mouths, to me, are extremely interesting. If i remember correctly I read this on a post so credit or op even though I can’t remember who it was 😭. But the placements of the mouths on her specter could be the places she was touched without consent and/or inappropriately. The mouths seem to work as a self defense to her body, biting at whoever comes near on their own. Proctecting those spot of her.

Another thing about her design is the focus on teeth. First then her death and her teeth falling out, and on her specter, with the large teeth on the extra mouths. This association comes from the Edgar Allen Poe story she was based on, Bernice. If you haven’t read it I will spare you you read and put the wiki summary here

“The story is narrated by Egaeus, who is preparing to marry his cousin Berenice. He tends to fall into periods of intense focus, during which he seems to separate himself from the outside world. Berenice begins to deteriorate from an unnamed disease until only her teeth remain healthy. Egaeus obsesses over them. When Berenice is buried, he continues to contemplate her teeth. One day, he awakens with an uneasy feeling from a trance-like state and hears screams. A servant reports that Berenice's grave has been disturbed, and she is still alive. Beside Egaeus is a shovel, a poem about "visiting the grave of my beloved", and a box containing 32 teeth.”

Weird, i know. 😭

Another thing is her pearls. I couldn’t find any mentions of pearls in her story but she has a strange association with them. From them falling off during her death, her having many of them in her specter, and even her outfit in the fast pass episode (fast pass at the time of writing this but ep 126). I’m not to sure what this mean but i figured it throw it in!

Im think thats all imma do in this post, maybe if i find motivation ill make a reblog of this with Ada and Monty (if not Monty then Annabel)

[0deathpainting0]

hi! Following up on the god-like reader plot. I was kind of picturing headcanons perchance (sorry I wasn't clear lol) ex: them reacting to reader getting hurt but it doesn't hurt them, reader telling stories about the beginning of the universe, reader throwing someone with a flick of their hand, reader being stronger than them, etc. 🫶 -🍁

ur different

sukuna // mahito

🍁 anon request - hey! hi! i’m sorry this took me so long! 😅 idk why my brain refused to write for choso on this topic but i didn’t want to delay it anymore than i already had!!! so with that my sweet 🍁 if you have a specific choso request i’ll lock in just for you 😘 

warnings: swearing, mentions of fighting and death, semi stalking but everyone is just curious!, maybe like 2% suggestiveness

a/n: decided to work on like a lot of pieces at once so i’m gonna spam post soon !! 

w/c: 1.4k

                                        ≽^•⩊•^≼

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

sukuna:

The first time Sukuna saw you was in the middle of a fight when he threw a fire arrow at you hoping to get you to back up. His eyes widened when you caught it and threw it back at him ten times harder. He threw three more in your direction but soon realized you weren’t there anymore. 

He saw you again and lingered in the shadows and watched you. You didn’t fight like a curse so what were you? You held your own and then some and he had to admit his interest was piqued. He watched as a particularly brutal blow was thrown in your direction and he stepped closer. You dodged the blow and took your opponent out and snapped your head in his direction. He nodded and shrugged at you before walking away. 

Again he stands before you, a threat looming between the both of you. “I’ll let you have the first hit this time.” he holds his hand out for you. You wave him off and he has the wind knocked from him as he slams back into the wall. “Oh we could have some fun.” he pushes off the wall with a smirk. “Mm, well I’m bored.” you shrug and shove him back into the rubble leaving him to search after you. 

He wanted you badly after that. He picked as many fights as he could in hopes that you would show but you never did. He told himself only three more and by the second you stood before him. “Will your tantrums be done soon?” you blink at him. “Been throwin em for you.” he drawls, stepping closer. “Well stop.” you roll your eyes. 

You start to walk away and he grabs your arm. You turn and look at his hand and then up to him in warning. “I want you.” his voice low.  “You’re an embarrassing excuse of a king of curses.” you look him over. “You know me?” he smirks and you look uninterested. “I wanna know who you are.” he tries to pull you closer. 

Somehow he got you interested enough where you two don’t meet in the middle of fights anymore but at his place. He’s still on the fence of believing your age. “No. You’re not older than me.” he rolls his eyes. But as you tell him more things it’s harder for him to deny. “So are you into younger guys?” he chuckles. “You’re more like the king of begging.” you slide your eyes over to him. “For you, absolutely.” he turns himself towards you. 

“Want me to worship you like the deity you are?” you look at him kneeling before you as he holds onto your legs. “What would people think seeing you like this? Hm?” you tilt his chin up. “Don’t care.” he shakes his head, grabbing your other hand and bringing it to his hair. 

Sukuna didn’t care that you were older or stronger, in fact he enjoyed it a little too much. When he would lean against you he would deadweight and you would grunt having to hold him up. “Stand up.” you try and pry his fingers off. “Can’t.” he sighs. “Need you to carry me to my bed.” you would end up dragging him but you could move him nonetheless and he loved it. 

The more time you spent with him the more soft for you he became. Fighting besides him would worry him until you took out half of the enemy in one blow. He would stand back and watch you with a smile and when you felled the last one he would lift you up and parade you over their husks. 

He made you think and feel different about things you felt you knew for absolute certain. Your mind was constantly spinning after everything he said. You influenced him to show some semblance of restraint but you honestly enjoyed the change of pace he was offering you. It was comforting to be able to talk to someone who has walked terrorized this world for longer than a normal person would be able to understand. 

You never proclaimed yourself as a god but he did and he bragged about it for you. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

mahito:

When Mahito grabbed you in the middle of a fight and you just tilted your head he furrowed his brows. “You’re different.” he looks at you. “Am I?” you push him across the corridor and disappear. 

He made it his ultimate goal to find you. He spent days searching across the city for you. But little did he know that while he was searching for you that you were following him. When he turned to give up there you were. Looking at him from the shadows. “What’re you doing?” he tilts his head. “Watching you try to find me.” you mirror his tilted head. You’re gone before he can approach you. 

The next couple of nights he focuses on all of his surroundings trying to spot you. How is it that you have him paranoid of being watched? He swears he sees your hair but it must’ve been his mind playing tricks. He’s been more jumpy than normal which is causing an influx of transfigured souls being produced. 

He’s ready to give up on his hunt when he hears you. His senses have been on overdrive since you two started this game and now they’ve finally offered him help. He sends his arm elongating towards you and wraps around your wrist. His body is quick to follow and finally he’s standing directly in front of you. He searches for your soul but finds it lacking and extensive all at once. His brows furrow as he looks you over. 

Instead of meeting you in alleys you now meet with him at diners where he spends hours asking you about anything and everything. He’s absolutely taken with you and made sure to find a 24 hour diner so you both can talk over a single topic for as long as it takes. You indulge him until the overnight diner staff comes back and you two are still occupying the same booth with sunken eyes and empty cups littered across the surface. 

Soon you’ve both traded diners for the beach so you two can sit for hours uninterrupted. Clear nights are your favorite because he points out different stars and asks if you were there when each was created. The beginning of time is a topic that you two visit at least once a day. He’s so entranced at how you can remain so good after seeing everything. This thought of course stems the two of you into your second most talked about topic: good vs evil and if there’s any merit to either.

The way his mind works and rationalizes things makes you pause every once in a while. It’s genuine curiosity. Of course you both don’t see eye to eye but that’s what makes the conversation interesting. He backs up his arguments so well that sometimes he can change your viewpoint on a situation. When the two of you really don’t agree on a situation he likes to push you to see how angry you’ll get. 

He grins when your anger starts to outweigh everything else. He’ll stand up and raise his eyebrow to you and of course you’ll stand and meet his invitation. These fights aren’t necessarily serious but you always make sure to put a little more force to your first hit to get your point across. The pure amusement he gets from you being able to push him off and hold your own is overwhelming. He could spar with you for days and never get bored. The only reason he’ll stop is to ask you where you learned a technique and then listen as you tell him about a battle that took place eons ago.

Overall Mahito is in awe of you. Everything you say and do he finds interesting. Listening to you talk has become his favorite part of everyday and he feels like he’s learning something of actual value. He’s never afraid to share his thoughts or opinions with you because he knows you won’t fault him for his curiosity. 

You simply enjoy the time with a being who wants to talk about life and meanings and how everything is the way it is. You’ve never found another individual so intriguing and able to keep up with your thought process. You two challenge each other in more ways than one and your unity seems to be the breath of calm you needed this millennium. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

                                      masterlist

[slightly-sigilant]

Bathtime For Naughty Pens, aka "the header image for Phosphor's TED Talk on why in-universe Correspondents probably don't use fountain pens unless they're extraordinarily cooked"

RANT AHEAD.

First of all, the story behind this pic: earlier today, I went, "Gee, the ink in my violant sigil pen is drying out faster than I'd like. Maybe I should screw the cap on extra tight this time?" like an absolute FOOL. because the cap had DRIED BUT STILL VERY STICKY INK ALL OVER THE INSIDE. INCLUDING THE SCREW THREADS. And thus, when I went to unscrew the pen later, it would simply Not. Things were pretty dire there for a while, but after soaking the upper half of the pen in warm water and winding a thick rubber band around the barrel for extra traction, it finally came apart. I took the opportunity to disassemble it and give it a thorough cleaning, including a good long soak.

Anyway, while scrubbing dried ink out of the everything and dying the kitchen sink violant (sorry roomies), I got to thinking about how this would have been even more of a pain in the ass with actual violant ink, and how Correspondents probably use dip pens for a reason. Because we do have some canon text indicating that they do, from writing flaming missives:

Which is like, why not use a fountain pen and skip the dipping part then, right? But I have a bunch of reasons to suspect that this would only be worse.

First of all, the ink. Important fact: not all inks are safe for fountain pens. Many inks that can be used with dip pens cannot be used in fountain pens unless you want to ruin them. This is because many dip pen inks are pigment-based, which is to say that they're made of lots of little particles suspended in liquid. Those particles can clog a fountain pen if they're too big. Most fountain pen inks are dye-based, in which the color-substance is dissolved instead - think sugar in water as opposed to sand in water. (There are some fountain pen safe pigment inks that have really fine particles, but you still don't want them to dry out in your pen. Likewise for shimmer inks, which have lots of fine glittery bits.) I'm not sure how violant ink is made, but if it's ground-up violant zee anemones or something, it's not going to get along with your pen.

And even if you did have a dye-based violant ink, I still wouldn't trust it in fountain pens. As described above, real violant ink is troublesome - it doesn't want to leave the pot. It doesn't want to leave the nib. It probably would not want to leave your pen cap and grip, either, which means it would do a very good job of gluing your cap to your pen. Even if you were fastidious about cleaning ink out of your cap, it'd probably not want to leave the reservoir, and then it wouldn't want to leave the feed, and you'd spend so much time madly scribbling in the margins of your letter, trying to get it to flow again. And that's assuming the ink is wet and fresh, and that it hasn't dried out in the pen. God help you if that's the case, because you are NEVER getting that residue out.

(And speaking of maintenance, refilling fountain pens is often a messy process that gets ink all over your fingers. I hope you enjoy slowly absorbing violant through your skin, because it's not going to want to leave your skin. I hope you enjoy leaving traces of violant everywhere when it does leave your skin. I hope you enjoy having very, very memorable fingers.)

Finally, fountain pens are just more expensive than dip pens. In today's economy, dip pen nibs are like 2 USD on average. By contrast, the Platinum Preppy, one of the cheapest fountain pens out there, is 6-7 USD - and that doesn't include a converter that'll allow you to use bottled ink. For that, you'll have to cough up 11 USD for a total of 17-18 USD. (You could also buy a Jinhao Shark for 4 USD or less, converter included, but tariffs are fucking that up.) And those are cheap pens made with modern manufacturing. They cost quite a bit more back in the day, relative to inflation and the average wage.

So, in other words: using real violant ink in a fountain pen would probably fuck it up really quickly, especially considering the kind of stuff you're writing as a Correspondent, which might just set your nice expensive pen on fire. Either way, it'd be a real dent to your time and finances to keep repairing and replacing them. While annoying, it'd just be more cost-effective to use a dip pen and to replace the nibs when they inevitably melt.

That isn't to say that you can't use a fountain pen for Correspondent work, though. Just that it would be unwise. And what else are Correspondents known for, if not for making unwise decisions?

[mission-light-if]

Mission Light - Lawyer Path Part 2 - Out Now!

Hello guys, it's me again :)

First of all, I know I said that I would try to upload the update by the 8th of April, but yeah, that didn't happen, obviously.

Before my top surgery, a lot happened, and I had no time to finish everything.

I also lost some of the things I had written because I was careless.

I was frustrated about that, and after the surgery, I needed some time to recover. I also had a few complications, and university started again.

By now, I've managed to rewrite a lot of what was lost, but not everything.

Since I finally want to put something out there, and it's been six months since I originally wanted to finish the lawyer prologue, I've decided to upload what I have so far.

Which, in itself, is also a lot—I'd estimate it to be around 170,000–180,000 words :)

Now, there are still about 3-4 things missing, but when you play the new update, you'll notice that I added a short text/info when that's the case.

I will add those sections in the future. There are also some more minor things I want to add here and there, so my work on the lawyer prologue isn't finished yet.

However, since I have worked on it so much, I’m really tired of seeing it at the moment. So maybe I'll start working on the next chapter first and then get back to what’s missing in the lawyer prologue later on to regain some motivation/fun in writing. I've been wanting to start the next chapter for so long; I finally want to write all the scenes I've been planning and more.

Honestly, it’s been an up-and-down process. Sometimes I was really motivated, sometimes I wasn't, and there were just parts I kept putting off because I had no fun writing them, but I needed them for the progression of the story. So, the quality of the writing may differ in some parts.

I also have to fix the scaling and the relationship/flirt points for some characters/parts, but that's something that only concerns me for now since they aren’t really relevant at the moment, but yeah.

Starting now, I want to do weekly updates. That means, at the end of every week, I’ll upload a new version with everything I’ve written and done during that week, so please remember that. It could be a new choice, just one new paragraph, or maybe a lot of new content.

I will always tell you what I added/changed, though.

If you find any bugs/code problems, please let me know on Tumblr :)

I also try to answer the remaining asks at some point, but it may take some time since I have an important exam coming up that I can’t fail because it's my second-to-last chance to pass.

Nonetheless, I’m really proud of what I’ve achieved.

It’s been almost a year since I started working on this project, and even though I would have liked to have published more by now, I’m really happy with what I’ve done so far.

The way it’s going right now, I’ll probably be writing this for like 5 more years, but that’s okay—art takes time, and I know I function differently than others, in the way I work, think, and how my energy levels work.

I’ve worked for at least three hours almost every day on this project, at least on the days I was home and not out, and it's the most, the longest, and the most consistent thing I’ve ever done.

Even if my writing, storytelling, progression, and choices aren't perfect, I’m happy I started this. Otherwise, it would have forever remained a dream of mine.

This is the project I always wanted to do: writing, game mechanics, my art, and my characters. So, I think this will be sort of my life project.

It's really, really far in the future, but at one point, I would love to add maybe a mini webtoon, mini-games, a better sidebar, more lore, game mechanics like a diary or letters, a timeline, some voiced lines, etc., stuff like that, and maybe even a character creator drawn by me, where you can create your own character.

That way, when I finish everything, I’ll truly have my dream work of art, incorporating all forms of art I like and everything I mentioned before.

I am grateful for every person reading and liking my story; it means so much to me.

Now for the update

This update includes:

Updated Prologue and First Part:

I changed a lot of the writing/internal struggles of the main character

I added the possibility to play matchmaker between Hongyu and Marcos/Maria

I added more depth to the main character's past with Noel and the lingering effects

I also changed a lot of the choices and their outcomes

I added a new system for Noel and the main character's dynamic (hate him, believe in good/nostalgia, afraid of him)

The New Second Part:

Meet Noel again and deal with him in different ways

Learn about your coworkers' superpowers

Pick one of two choices, leading to two entirely different fight paths

Awaken your own powers

Decide how to approach the fight with Noel (on both paths), leading to many individual fight outcomes (the two different broader paths with 4 main splits and even more choices on one, and 2-3 splits on the other)

Meet another agent, Min, in the aftermath of the fight and deal with everything that happened

Ask more questions and figure out more about what’s going on and went on behind the scenes

Prepare/start to get ready to confront Noel and his group in the next chapter to finally end things once and for all

Meet more agents (Sinan and Nayla) in the end and meet your group's pet dog, Vin :)

That’s it for now :)

Take care,

Jakob

Play here

[starlostlix]

BSD 123 POSES MUCH TO TALK ABOUT!!!

spoilers under the cut!!

FIRST THINGS FIRST A NEW FREAKING CHARACTER!!!!! I got into the manga around chapter 100/101 so this is I think the first time i've witnessed a new character introduced in like real time (besides Gozen if he counts).

And here they are, Ueda Akinari! We've only seen a bit of their design but I loveeee their bob. Served.

(BTW i'm using the wiki mostly here so I do recommend searching up more about the author yourselves! this is just an overview)

So the author Ueda Akinari was a Japanese author/scholar/poet in the 1700s. His writings were often about supernatural powers and creatures - an early pioneer of the genre Yomihon. He has two main famous works, the one inspiring the character's ability being titled 'Ugetsu Monogatari', or 'Tales of Moonlight and Rain' - a collection of 9 short stories adapted from Japanese and Chinese ghost stories. Interestingly the character design has a scar on the left eye, which may link to how the real Ueda Akinari had temporary blindness before regaining vision in his left eye.

We learn that this character is the creator of Amenogozen, and has had no visitors since its creation 1500 years ago. They've likely been trapped in the divine being's core since the creation or not long after. There's a theory this could be 'that man' fyodor mentioned being who he had fought against previously, which i like the idea of. Anyways I am so so excited about this new character and what their lore may be!!! Here's how Fukuchi described the origin of Amenogozen for some more context :)

In other news we do have Atsushi and Akutagawa centric parts of the chapter. Focusing on Atsushi first, he is opening the door to the core and talking to the hallucination of the Headmaster.

I think we now have Atsushi truly rejecting the influence of the Headmaster on his life. For most of the story Atsushi has wanted to get the Headmaster's teachings and memories, and it's great that we could be seeing this happen. Although the way Atsushi reacts to the Headmaster saying he will be gone by even today is interesting. It looks kind of fearful, maybe fearing what would take his place and if something worse is on the horizon, or that he is so used to his presence that he wouldn't know what it would be like without it. But the Headmaster is gone when the door is opened, so maybe he's gone for good now? We will have to see.

Then, Akutagawa! His arc is so interesting right now and this only furthers that.

So Akutagawa is getting beat up by Gozen right now, and he's saying his vampiric healing is slowing and he could be minutes away from death... kind of insane dude. But even at this point he doesn't think of Dazai anymore!!! This chapter seems to have both parts of sskk freeing themselves from their previous abusers which I think it great parallels for them and great character development. Even more interestingly, AKUTAGAWA IS THINKING OF ATSUSHI!!!! THINKING OF HIS PROMISE NOT TO KILL PEOPLE FOR SIX MONTHS!!! THINKING ABOUT ATSUSHI'S ADVICE ON TRUE STRENGTH!!! THINKING ABOUT ATSUSHI'S SACRIFICE FOR HIM!!!

(also thinking of his mouth in the void... thinking of his lips akutagawa I know what you are/j)

And the focus on Akutagawa's eyes!!! THERES MORE LIGHT IN HIS EYES WHEN THINKING OF ATSUSHI!!! He then talks about how Atsushi is 'his ordeal', and he wanted Atsushi returned 'to me'... dude. Akutagawa is finally acknowledging his connection to Atsushi and how much he means to him and it's wonderful!!! The SSKK developments in recent chapters has been so good i'm so excited to see where it can go from here.

[I'm really excited for the direction the story is going right now it looks so interesting! It's late for me tho so I've ran out of more ideas now but I may add more tomorrow if I have any more thoughts.]

[sara-the-wizard]

Hey Sara! I never usually write to artists but your work is amazing and inspirational. I have been a fan of your work for a while, keep up the beautiful work! I hope that you have enjoyed your Oklahoma trip so far! I had a few questions I wanted to ask you tho if you don’t mind.

…

1. If you would like to share, I would like to know a little bit about you and what you like.

2. How many brothers/sisters do you have? I have a younger brother.

3. Do you have a Pinterest account? Maybe a Spotify account?

4. Do you take drawing suggestions? Do you draw the turtle tots?

*If yes could you please draw a comic I made in your style please? I will post it in another ask*

You are a beautiful person and a wonderful artist! Have a great day!

PS I hope these questions aren’t too much!

Oh man, What do I say? I could say I like to draw, but everyone knows that! I've been drawing for over 10 years? I guess not everyone know that part. I could tell them I had a Sonic the Hedghog phase once. (It lasted long enough for me to make a comic and then I was done.) Oh, I know! Health conditions! ... I've got no health conditions. Maaaann, I'm boring! I've got nothing to say for myself.

I can tell them what food I like! (Rolls out list) *ahem* I like pizza, pasta, hotdogs, burgers, birocks, pot pie, chili, eggdrop soup, pineapple chicken, tacos, chim-chimi-ch-chimichangas? And last but not least, Chicken nuggets.

Brothers and sisters? Hold on, let me do the calculations real quick... let's see, if she was born then, and she was born right before me, and he was born right after me, followed by two more dudes, one girl in between the other two girls, and that one bro born before any of us, (who does he think he is? Being born first.) My calculations come out to 7 (8 if I add myself.) Siblings, coming out to be an even number of brothers and sisters. :]

(Spoti-what?) I do have a pinterest account. Do I use it? Nuoooooo.

I have taken drawing suggestions in the past, but not so much now, (because I'm so busyyyyyy!) Turtle tots? Ehehehheheheh. Never drew any turtle tots before. (Yes you have! You just drew some for that Easter picture!) Oh, I guess you're right. Thanks inner voice!

*What is this about a story? Why am I whispering?*

Thank you very much! ❤️ So sorry it took so long to answer this ask. :(

Lord bless you, @rottmnt-lover! Hope you have a wonderful day!

[secondarysefikura]

Story idea(maybe even prompt): Cloud wakes up in a bedroom he doesn’t recognize, he’s lying in a very big and very comfortable bed, but instead of wearing his SOLIDER clothes he’s wearing nothing but a nightgown, and underneath said nightgown reveals that his body is riddled with bite marks and bruises(especially on his inner thighs). The last thing Cloud remembers is that him and his friends were about to engage in battle against Sephiroth in order to stop Meteor, but when he tries to think about what happened next his head is immediately filled with static. Cloud soon leaves the bedroom he’s in and wonders threw the hall, wherever he is the place is huge and it takes him awhile to find some stairs, and he eventually stubbles into a room with a bunch of children, all between the ages of 12 years old to just a year old. All of which bare a striking resemblance to Sephiroth and even himself to an extent. Some of them quickly notice Cloud and are happy to see him and even call him mom. Cloud freaks out which scares the children, he starts looking around frantically demanding to know where he is, who the kids are, and most importantly where are his friends? That’s when he enters the room, the moment Cloud spots Sephiroth he tries to attack him, only for Sephiroth to easily grab him and start dragging him back upstairs kicking and screaming. Cloud is so focused on trying to escape Sephiroth’s grasp that he doesn’t hear Sephiroth reassuring the children about something as he takes Cloud back upstairs. Before Cloud knows it he’s back on the bed he woke up on with Sephiroth now on top of him keeping him pinned. As Cloud tries to push Sephiroth off of him he’s yelling at him demanding to know where they are, and what happen to his friends. Sephiroth just tells Cloud that everything is ok, and that he’s just having an episode. As Cloud continues to try and fight Sephiroth while also yelling at him, his head is suddenly filled with static, and before Cloud knows it everything goes black. Cloud is confused when he sees his husband on top of him, and asks what happened. When Sephiroth tells him that he had an episode Cloud panics and asks if the children saw, Sephiroth reassures Cloud that everything is ok, he gives Cloud a kiss on the forehead before starring loving at his wife’s green and tells Cloud to rest for the day and he’ll care for the children, since any stress wouldn’t be good for him or the baby especially after that episode. Cloud reluctantly agrees and once he’s asleep Sephiroth finally leaves their bedroom, while having a sinister smile on his face.

I love Sephiroth gaslighting Cloud by claiming that any instances of Cloud being himself are really episodes of Cloud being unreasonable or delusional. Not only is a great way of explaining away any strange behaviour to their children or other people, but with enough time it could start to mess with Cloud as well. So long as Sephiroth is consistent in acting like Cloud is having an 'episode' when he doesn't act exactly how Sephiroth wants him to, he can eventually convince Cloud that he does have something wrong with him in these moments.

Also Cloud and Sephiroth are breeding like rabbits in this idea, which I honestly love. You just know that they would. Especially in any verse where the planet has been destroyed and it's up to Cloud and Sephiroth to...repopulate.

Overall I really like this idea. I may write something more about it sometime, I'm not sure. Haven't been feeling well recently.

[seastarblue]

hehe kidnapping time :>

I’d imagine this happening very close to the beginning of the story or right at the beginning :D

TWs for captivity, being drugged, being bound and gagged, disorientation, slight dehumanization, the dread of being Organ Bank’d

and finally sort of cringe writing my bad gang I’m a lil rusty…

The first thing the man felt when he woke was pain.

A shooting, skittering type of pain, one that ran from his shoulders all the way to his fingertips. He flexed the latter, realizing they were incredibly numb from the position he was in. He tried standing, temporarily ignoring the pain in his (most likely dislocated) shoulders and using the cold stone wall behind him for balance. Luckily his legs kicked back into gear quickly enough, though the pins and needles were bothersome.

He finally got into a standing position, but still kept his arms extended upward. They hurt too much to move down. The man noticed that even if he wanted to move, he could not, as ropes wrapped around his wrists and pulled him upward. That explains the pain.

Where was he…? Some sort of damp basement, he supposed, though he couldn’t see much. The smell of mildew and faint sewage entered his nose when he took a deeper breath.

There was something else there too, but the man couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something metallic, and slightly sweet, yet bitter. A curious smell, but his mind wasn’t clear enough to distinguish it.

The door creaked open, its rusty hinges screeching as a tall… someone walked in.

He couldn’t discern anything about the person, just that they were tall. Not tall enough to have to duck under the door, but tall enough to the point where they towered above him where he stood. The dark did not help. Why wouldn’t they turn on a light…?

“Awake now, are we?” the person asked, and just as with their appearance he could not recognize the voice nor make any real discernments. That certainly didn’t help with narrowing down the possibilities—the man had many, many enemies, of all sizes and sounds.

“Apologies for my timing,” they said, “didn’t think it would take so long to gather all my tools, but its better late than never, right?” The man tried to speak, but the sticky thing over his mouth prevented it. How did he not feel it before…?

His confusion must have been obvious to the mystery person, as they chuckled. “Oh, that’s just the tape. Don’t worry about that, it’s standard procedure. Can’t have my organ bank screaming, can I?”

Organ bank…! The man tried to move, to run out the door, but—agh, his hands were tied above his head, and when he moved too far his shoulders screamed with agony. How did he forget…

The mystery person moved closer to the man. He tried moving backwards, to the left, to the right, but he couldn’t manage more than a half-step.

“Oh, I must have given you too much… poor thing, you can barely move! Standing seems to be difficult as well… maybe I need to brush up on my alchemy.”

They moved backwards, and after some rustling procured a… thing. The man couldn’t see what it was.

“This is my favorite scalpel,” they said, and the man’s mind didn’t comprehend it till they suddenly switched on the light.

As he blinked away, the person kept speaking. “I figure it’d be best to give you some light. After all, you’re human! It’s not like you can see the same way I do, hehe.”

Now that the man’s eyesight had returned (mostly), he decided to take a look at the person who’d gotten him in this mess.

He was correct on the suspicion they were tall, but his eyes widened slightly at the outfit the person was wearing.

It looked like… something a butcher would wear. He looked down at himself. Bare skin, save for the undergarment covering his lower half. “I figured that even though you’re nothing but free meat, you should still have some semblance of dignity,” the butcher said, pulling their mask down slightly to reveal a wide, toothy grin.

Free meat… organ bank… the man, dazed and now thoroughly concerned, looked around the illuminated room.

His eyes fell onto the “tools” the butcher had mentioned earlier, and his blood ran cold. “You finally caught up!” the butcher exclaimed, clapping their hands in glee. “Took you long enough. Now I can get started~”

They paused for a moment. “Although, you must be curious as to who I am… let me enlighten you.”

The butcher took off their mask completely. “My name is Li Hua. Refer to me as she/her, this/bitch, I don’t care. And before you try and introduce yourself—yes I am aware that it’s simply good manners—I also don’t care about your name. All I know is, you repeatedly stole some of my most valuable merchandise, and now you are naught but a way to get that income back.”

Her smile was wicked as she said, “Now, organ bank. Let’s get started.”

———

I stand for women’s rights and wrongs 😌

writing taglist!

@bunnymermaidwrites @aalinaaaaaa @vesanal @cepheusgalaxy

@fifis-corner @urnumber1star @thebookishkiwi @sunflowerrosy-backup @theink-stainedfolk

@threedaysgross @mundanemoongirl @satohqbanana @bamber344 @imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese

@viridis-icithus @cc-writes-stuff @anothersummerofsleep @sharkblizzardblogs

@verdant-mainframe @kittrrrr @ruvastuon @agirlandherquill @annothersummerofsleep

@nczaversnick @zerotothex @oliolioxenfreewrites @bardic-tales @rumeysawrites

@pizzamanstan @seafloor509 @an-indecisive-nerd @cacophonyofwords @corinneglass

hope yall enjoyed!

[tanicus-caesareth]

guarana drama, damage control

[victorluvsalice]

Valicer Multiamory Month, Day Twenty: Dancing (All The Fairytales AU)

We're well into Multiamory March (as prepared by @polyamships) now -- and it's time for another edition of "original prompt for this day didn't work for me, so here's one of the alternative ones!" Because while I like "Time Travel" (you all must know by now that I'm a huge fan of the Back To The Future franchise), I couldn't think of anything to do with it in a Valicer/Four Victorians Riding A Roller Coaster context --

Whereas "Dancing"...yeah. That was definitely a prompt that I could fit to my OT3/OT5. XD And, after a bit of thought, I ended up fitting it specifically to the OT5 of my All The Fairy Tales AU, because dancing is very important to that story! There's both a village midsummer festival and a royal ball that everyone ends up attending, after all. And while most people would assume that the royal ball would be the more important dance in a story that's mashes together a bunch of different fairy tales, as Prince Victor Van Dort shall reveal below, that's not necessarily true...

--

Whenever a visiting fellow royal or high-ranking noble asked him when he had fallen in love with his partners (often with eyes full of confusion over the fact that that word was not “wife” and was plural), Victor would always respond the same way: “Oh – it was definitely when we all danced together for the first time.” And this would be accepted with a nod and a smile and occasionally a knowing “ah” noise, because of course that made sense. For all of them knew of the grand ball Queen Nell had thrown when he’d been found after his disappearance post-assassination attempt, and that he’d spent much of that night dancing with three mysterious ladies and the Minister of Joy of Alton Towers. It was only natural that that would be when he fell in love, not once but four times. And so the conversation would move on, and everyone would be satisfied.

What Victor would never admit to these people – mostly because he wasn’t sure any of them would understand – was that the ball was not the first time he’d danced with Victoria, Emily, Alice and Smiler. No, that honor actually went to the Newcrest midsummer festival they’d all attended the night before he’d been discovered. Back when they’d only known him as a fled nobleman’s son now working for the local tavern and boarding house, and he’d only known them as two lovely seamstresses – one soft and gentle, one vibrant and enthusiastic – a sharp-witted dogsbody for the local orphanage, and a golden-tongued fairy with a quick, brilliant smile. The memory was a dear one to him – the five of them spinning and twirling and bouncing in the light of The Wickerman’s magical bonfire (once Alice had been assured it only burned wood and never flesh), the music around them as lively as the laughter that poured from their lips. He’d swung from partner to partner easily that eve, all inhibitions gone thanks to perhaps a bit too much of Smiler’s Joy Serum, taking equal pleasure in how Emily practically glided over the earth, how Victoria made every step look elegant and graceful, how Alice was quick enough to keep up with even the fastest dancer, and how Smiler threw themselves into every motion with open, pure delight. And the way the night had ended, with all of them collapsed against each other, warm and sweaty and smiling...well. He’d looked at them and known in an instant that he could spend the rest of his life with any and all of them. That he’d never know true happiness again unless at least one of them was by his side. And he considered himself extraordinarily lucky that things had worked out so that he was allowed to stay with all of them, and make more moments to cherish. Yes, the ball had played its part in their romance, he’d never deny that.

But if given the choice, he’d relive their true first dance every time.

[lucalicatteart]

Poll adventure (paventure? lol) Day 15: read the small story tidbit below the poll for more details, OR just vote based on initial impression

(✦ see past poll results + further information HERE (link) ✦)

Yesterday's poll decided that The Adventurer should purchase some new shoes for himself while he's in the city...

~

It costs quite a bit of coin, but in the end he decides that having a new sturdy pair of boots will serve him well on his travels. After he's done in the shop, he rushes back to the local inn before nightfall, eventually settling into a somewhat restless sleep..

The next morning, he orders some cheap vegetable stew from a food stall, then lounges in a park as he has his breakfast, watching the squirrels weave through flowering trees and birds pecking about in the dewy grass.. When finished with his meal (and sufficiently recovered from the emotional turmoil of burning his tongue on the soup), he quickly sells his old pair of shoes to a sketchy pawn shop before finally getting back to his journey...

By his calculations, if he he walks all day, it should only be two more sleeps before he gets to his destination, so he sets out to travel as efficiently as possible. He doesn't have the money to rent a cart, or the skill to ride a borrowed horse, but, he does have some fancy new walking shoes and a renewed sense of purpose. No more meandering through fields looking for flowers, napping in the shade, or scanning the ground for cool rocks.. He's going to focus this time!

......After a few hours, he comes across a broken down carriage in the middle of the road, with few people surrounding it, seemingly stuck trying to repair a wheel or something. It's hard to discern from afar..

Maybe if he helps them, he could get a free ride.. or some coins.. or make a new lifelong friend! Who knows? Possibilities flood his mind, this is what adventuring is all about! Wandering into interesting situations and making the most out of them!! .. But, then he recalls his previous oath.. he's supposed to focus today and not allow himself to sidetracked.. And who says he has the skills to help anyway? It could always just be a waste of time... Hmm...

What should he do?

~

~

Additional Information

the adventurer's current main quest: follow his map to reach the abandoned castle ruins and see the rare animal specialist about the mysterious egg he has

[kralmajales]

Thinking about what if the Joker stayed dead after Dick killed him and the consequences of that……. I do think Dick would (at least attempt to) avoid Batman for the rest of his life after that. Enjoying coming up with even more consequences 🤔💭