#might polish this up and add some more to it then post to ao3 as its own full thing. we'll see

[guacamolleee]

welcome to thedasweekend :D how about "magical exhaustion" from the heavy content prompt list, with your ship of choice?

Thank you for the prompt!!! I'm gonna combine this with the kiss prompt from @seigephoenix. For @thedasweekend

Not gonna lie, this one kinda grew legs and ran away from me. I started with "hm I'll keep this under 500" which turned into "let's do 1k only", then into this...

Set post-Tearstone Island, so spoilers ahead. Angst (with a happy ending!). 2,284 words.

“What the fuck just happened?” Taash’s horrified whisper was loud in Emmrich’s ear, the sky rumbling above them just as Rook blinked out of existence, Lucanis still prone on the ground but breathing.

“I don’t know, but we need to get out of here — now!” Davrin pulled Emmrich by the arm. He resisted, trying to reach the spot he last saw Rook. Davrin tugged him harder. “Come on!”

“Rook, she— The rift—”

“We’ll figure something out. She won’t want you stuck here.”

Neve and Taash helped Lucanis up, gripping him tight as he leaned heavily on one side, gritting his teeth. Taash’s hands were shaking, Neve’s mouth set into a grim line.

They ran, the sky spitting fire above them as Elgar’nan raged at his sister’s death. Emmrich could scarcely remember how his feet carried him — Davrin or Neve or Taash or someone, he couldn’t even recall who, steering him through the Eluvian as his heart lodged itself into the pit of his stomach.

Behind them, Solas stepped out of the rift, lyrium dagger in hand.

***

Bellara. Harding. Rook. His Rook. Just… gone. How could this be?

His companions argued around him.

“Solas is in Minrathous?” Taash was furious. Emmrich could almost see the smoke coming out of their mouth.

“Last I heard. The people are even calling him a hero, defending the city against Elgar’nan’s forces.” Neve's hands were tight around her cup. “Funny that.”

“How did he get out of the prison?” Davrin asked.

“Rook, I think.”

“No.” Taash’s voice was hard. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does. Think about it.” Neve placed her cup on the coffee table, legs crossing on the couch. “Rook disappears, then we hear Solas is out and about waltzing in Minrathous. There are reports he’s using a dagger made of lyrium — the one we last saw Rook pulling out of Ghilan’nain at Tearstone Island.”

“He used his connection to Rook, pulling her into the Fade so he could escape,” Emmrich concluded, voice subdued, the icy hands of fear and regret gripping him. The fool he was, spending his last conversation with Rook arguing. Emmrich should have told her he loved her, should have spent the night mapping out apologies on her skin until she was breathless. Would that have made this heartache better or worse? There was little point wondering now, but he could not help himself.

“Yes.” Neve turned to him, face softening. “Emmrich, I’m sorry.”

Emmrich did not answer her.

***

It had been a week now. Emmrich had stopped drinking tea by the third day, needing something stronger to keep him awake. He switched it for a copious amount of coffee, whatever Lucanis had available in the kitchen, taking a pot for himself and spending the day holed up in his laboratory.

He left the Lighthouse only once — traveling to the Necropolis and digging through his personal library, grunting in frustrating at the useless things. Papers upon papers on etheric flows and transfusions, sub-astral navigation, autotelic bonds, and a thousand other things that could not help him now.

It took an hour of fruitless searching before he made his way to the Necropolis main library instead, eyes darting from one title to the next, fingers full of paper cuts as he skimmed through tome after tome for something, anything useful.

And still — he was no closer to finding Rook.

When he returned to the Lighthouse, face in his hands, Emmrich wept. Nails bit into the skin of his forehead, palms pressed into his eyes as he broke down quietly, one shuddering breath after the other stolen out of his lungs. He allowed himself a few useless minutes of wallowing before he went back to work.

Even Johanna let him be, for once, a silent watcher.

***

Sometimes, Emmrich felt guilty for not caring more.

Not for Rook, no. The heavy stone of guilt had settled deep in his gut, desperation gnawing on his bones like fate’s favorite chew toy.

But for Harding. For Bellara.

Dead and missing. Taken from their little group just as easily as Rook had been.

Neve visited Bellara’s room every day, sipping coffee and staring at the gadgets and artifacts strewn about. No one was quite sure what system of organization it followed, but Bellara could always make sense of the mess. Flitting about like the hummingbird her brother called her. The silence was far too loud in her absence.

Meanwhile, Taash rarely left their room now. On the few occasions he would pass by, he would hear grunting, the sound of steel hitting the floor again and again. And when they did go, it was off with Davrin or one of the others, only to come home smelling like blood. He didn’t dare disturb them.

Three souls for the price of one so-called god.

Was it worth it?

Were the scales balanced in whatever cosmic game they were in?

Did the Maker, in all his knowledge and in all his silence, deem this fair?

Emmrich tried not to think about it.

***

One day, he found a letter on his desk, a wisp hovering near it curiously. His name was embossed on the back in Rook's curled, loopy handwriting.

He opened it without thinking.

Emmrich, If you're reading this, then something terrible has happened. I hope you can only forgive me. Know that I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. There was so much I still wanted to do with you. I wanted to celebrate our victory, pop open a bottle of your best Antivan red and get drunk on my couch. And once the hangover wore off, I wanted you to take me home, show me your books, your collections, your bed. I wanted to plant lilacs in your garden. Then I wanted to marry you, exchange our gold in the big Chantry in Nevarra City or our living room, it wouldn't have mattered. Then we'd have a baby. Or two. Or three. My hair, your eyes. It would have been perfect. And perhaps it’s selfish of me to say this, especially now, and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me for this too — but I'm glad I went first. I died in love, and I will stay that way forever. Even my last thoughts were of you, I'm sure of it, and I do not have to live in a world where you do not exist. I am so grateful for that. I love you, Emmrich Volkarin. The Veil separates us now, my love, but it is thin. Press your hand against it and know I am always reaching back, my love against yours. I hope that is how you remember me — the woman who loved you, who will love you still, even across death. When your time comes — and I pray it doesn’t for a long while yet — do not fear it. It will be a joyful reunion. With enduring affection, Your Rook P.S. Please make sure they don't set me on fire. Cremation doesn't suit my complexion.

No.

No, no, no.

Emmrich balled the letter in his fist, gritting his teeth, inexplicable anger rising to the surface before he tempered it. He smoothed out the letter, gentle this time as if in apology, reading it again. And again. And again.

Rook was not dead. This letter should have never found its way into his hands, and a steely determination gripped him. He was going to find her.

***

Emmrich had a plan — a breakthrough, one could call it — and the answer was lyrium. A staggering amount of it.

He outlined his plan to the group. Rook was in the Fade and they needed a way to get her out. Among the most reliable ways to do so was to create a Fade tear, a rift just large enough to pull her through in a place where the Veil was thin and where she would likely be on the other side. He had already found a few powerful spirits in the Necropolis willing to help search for such a place. They had always been fond of Rook.

But to create the tear itself, they needed something powerful. Blood was what the magisters of old used to enter the Black City. That was not an option. Neither was Johanna’s method of trapping spirits in her Gloaming Lantern. That left two other things — Solas’ magic and lyrium.

While they did not have Solas himself, and he doubted the man would be willing anyway, both Bellara and Emmrich kept detailed notes on the dagger — drawings, potential schematics, outlines of the etched runes, the etheric flows, materials they could identify.

It should be enough to recreate it — create their own lyrium dagger.

(Ambitious, he thought to himself, and he could almost hear Johanna taunting him about recreating original sin just for a paramour or some other nonsense. But for Rook, he would gladly do so.)

Neve was quick to agree — it was their best bet, and the rest came around quickly. Davrin helped source the lyrium from Kal-Sharok, the dwarves willing to lend their aid, both in Harding’s memory and in return for all of Rook’s help.

Emmrich was immensely grateful and, for the first time in what felt like eternity, his chest lightened by a fraction, a small seed of hope planted.

***

It took another week and a half to recreate the dagger as close as he could — unrefined, unstable, but not useless.

Emmrich gripped it tight, hands shaking so much he was almost afraid he’d drop it. Where would they be if he did? Another week wasted, perhaps. He leaned heavily on his desk, one hand clutching it for balance, the wood almost creaking under his fingertips. He could only stare at the dagger — it was pretty, he admitted, though the blue glow of the lyrium was more subdued than the real thing and it buzzed uncomfortably in his hand like electricity ready to pop.

Unrefined. Unstable. But not useless. Emmrich repeated it in his head until the words lost their meaning and the world began to blur around him. He shook it off.

It would be enough.

He prayed it would be enough.

***

The ritual site.

“This damned place,” Neve said under her breath. “Where it all started.”

Neve, Emmrich, and Lucanis spread out — finding the place where the Veil was thinnest using their magic or, in Lucanis’ case, Spite. Davrin and Taash stayed close to the mages, weapons out, watching for any sign of trouble.

Emmrich climbed the stairs, one hand gripping his staff, the other stretched out, pressing against the Veil. He remembered Rook's letter — he would find her reaching back to him, he was sure of it.

Then — a snag, a place his fingers could nearly pass through, his magic flaring, itching under his skin.

“This way. It’s thinner here!” he called out to the others.

Taash was beside him, readying their axes in case something goes wrong. “You better be right.”

He nodded, grim, then he took the dagger from his belt.

Raising it high, he poured his magic into it, following the lines etched under its surface, willing it to do as he bade. For a moment — nothing, just the buzz of magic in his ear, powerful and potent, amplified by the dagger until he nearly went deaf.

Then it caught, notching into an unseen barrier, digging into the Veil. Emmrich felt it, resonating deep in his bones, making his teeth clatter, and he pulled down with all his strength.

“They’re waiting for you.” Emmrich heard a distant voice, unable to recognize it. “Just take it one step at a time.”

“Goodbye, Varric… and thank you.”

Rook! It was Rook’s voice and Emmrich felt his heart soar, pounding hard in his chest, blood rushing around his ears.

Lucanis came up behind him, the quickest of them all, hearing the voice as well. His breath hitched. “Rook!”

Then Emmrich saw it — something bright, a shape of a woman and a dwarf. “There! A light.”

Lucanis called to the others, hands on top of Emmrich’s before thrusting both their hands into the tear, the dagger flying behind them and hitting the ground with a clatter. They felt an arm latch onto theirs. “We've got something. Get ready,” Lucanis shouted.

Taash threw their axes to the ground, seizing Rook’s arm and pulling. Neve and Davrin were behind them, arms around Lucanis and Taash, pulling at their signal. “Heave!”

The Fade tear resisted, unwilling to give Rook up for a heart stilling second, before abruptly giving way — and the entire group came tumbling down to the ground, Davrin catching Neve as she nearly fell down the stairs.

And Rook.

Rook.

Rook.

She was in Emmrich’s arms, gasping, and he narrowed to just the feel of her, Emmrich turning blind to the rest of the world.

“Rook, darling, oh, my darling.” He clutched her cheeks, drinking in her face, the cuts and bruises from Tearstone Island still somehow fresh. He would have to inspect those closer later — but now.

Now, the universe righted itself again, and he crashed his lips into Rook’s unheeding of the rest of the team that wanted her attention. This he would be selfish in. This he needed more than anything or anyone. The inelegant clash of their teeth, lips smushed together as wetness poured down his cheeks.

“Emmrich, Emmrich.” Her sweet voice grew distant. He panicked as the edges of his vision blurred. “Emmrich!”

The strain of the last fortnight caught up to him, the dagger having drained the last of his reserves. Emmrich swayed and the world tilted around him. The last thing he saw was Rook’s face — though he couldn’t say he minded that one bit.

[durrtydawg]

Look, Don't Touch.

(Sam Drake x F!Reader smut) 3rd person

CW: It's smut, it's sex polleny, and it's got a big, fat, dubcon warning. Also a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, internal conflict, etc etc. For detailed tags, please check out ao3, as funnily enough, I literally cannot add any more text into this post 😛

Masterlist

This is long. Horrendously long. Like... *18,000 words* or so, so I don't want to hear any yapping if you click 'read more' and don't actually want to read. Dare I say, quantity over quality? Sorry to those that wanted this split into parts, but honestly... I couldn't make it work, so here we are. Regardless, I hope someone out there enjoys this!! It's been my baby for a while, and whilst not the best thing I've written, I need to let it go before I, too, become a reprobate by force x

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

“In the wake of the Second World War, the elusive Polish alchemist Dariusz Cassimir left behind a legacy shrouded… ooo… in mystery. Hmm. Shrouded is a fun word.”

“Big door. Ominous etchings. Doesn’t get more ‘shrouded in mystery’ than that. This has gotta be it.”

“O-kay… But how do we get in?”

She shrugs, turning back to him with a raised brow. “Oh, I don’t know, Sam, maybe the huge lever right next to said mysterious door?” She purposely targets her flashlight at his face, making her way over to the lever. He swats her with the notes in his hand.

“Okay,” Sam sniffs, striding ahead with a crack of the knuckles after he fixes his own torch to his belt, “‘Cause of the attitude, I get to open it.” He grins sarcastically, making sure to gently nudge her shoulder as he passes, thrusting the papers he was reading from into her hands.

Her eyes roll, but she finds the cockiness endearing- and he knows it.

“Known for his work in chemical weapon and explosives development throughout the Great War, and the start of the Second, Cassimir's true genius lay in the shadows, where he conducted secretive experiments with potions, remedies, and poisons, yada yada… yeah, right.”

She continues reading out from where he left off as Sam checks around the lever for any dodgy set-ups that might send the two of them plummeting into an inescapable pit, falling victim to some sort of horrific creature ready to maul the two of them to death, or perhaps crushed by a flurry of falling boulders, etcetera, etcetera. No death trap is too garish in this line of work.

“Oh. Listen to this. Ahem. Despising intrusion into his work, Cassimir was rumoured to eliminate those who stumbled upon these experiments without permission.” She hums. “So, not only was this guy insane, but he was a murderer too- hey, be careful with that lever, please... I don’t want a repeat of the Tuscan trap door incident.” She sighs, fingernails trepidatiously digging into the straps on her backpack as he braces his hands against the lever.

“Still not over that, huh?” Sam snorts, turning back to her with an arrogance-tinged smirk as she grimaces, folding the paper and stuffing it into her jacket pocket.

“My ankle isn't.”

He scoffs. “Every possible trap we’ve come across today has either rotted itself out of action or has been destroyed by some other poor bastard that got here before us. Besides,” He stamps a boot against the ground to prove his point, “It’s a dense stone floor. I don’t think trap doors are a cause for concern here.”

“Famous last words.” She murmurs as he pulls on the lever, a soft grunt signalling that it takes more effort than initially predicted. “You sure you don't want to find another way in before you start fiddling with- nope? Okay.”

“What’s…the worst…” he pauses, re-positioning himself to give a little more force to the lever, “that could- Ow, Jesus!” He cuts himself off with a hiss of pain as the lever finally gives and he stumbles upright, wincing.

“Aw. Too much strain on your big, strong, man muscles?” She questions teasingly as Sam glares at his hand, flexing his fingers with a frown.

“The damn thing pricked me.”

A sudden deep rumble through the ground prevents her from quipping back as both of their attention is now taken by the stone wall in front of them slowly sliding to the side with a wince-worthy scrape.

“It’s always fascinating how something so archaic can still be so…mobile.” Sam says inquisitively, causing her to snort.

“Talking about you, or the door?”

He offers her no more than an unimpressed glare, lips pursed and eyes heavy-lidded, still scrunching and un-scrunching his hand.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, ya know.” He grumbles, watching a cheeky pout form on her lips.

“Thank you. Anyway, it's probably not that old. Cassimir used this place as his base between the first and second world wars, which, in the grand scheme of things, isn't that long ago. I’m guessing, with all the influence he had-”

“-He spruced up the place. New doors. Lick of paint. Few booby traps for good measure. The usual stuff.” He concludes for her with a slow nod, eyes narrowed at the lever, attention diverting back from the door to his palm.

She snickers.

Her smile deepens into a grin as he bares his teeth in irritation at his tiny little injury.

He grumbles, thumb rubbing small circles on his palm.

She steps forwards, “C’mon, grump. Serves you right for touching things you shouldn't.”

“Well, thank you for exhibiting the utmost care and patience.” He responds, brows knitted together as he continues to scrutinise his hand.

“Don't guilt-trip me.” She turns back and holds onto his wrist gently to inspect the palm of his hand. A little more than a pin-prick sits in the centre; a fresh bead of blood oozing to the surface each time he wipes one away. 

She pouts as she examines it, then offers a quick glance to the lever to see…nothing interesting at surface level. She turned to him with a moue. “What is it? A splinter?”

“Don’t think so.” He mutters, wiping the speckles of blood onto his jeans, nose scrunched into an expression of disapproval.

“Well…You’ve gone through far worse. C’mon.”

He hums in amusement at her dismissal of interest before the two of them begin to walk down the newly revealed corridor.

As she disappears off into the distance, Sam takes a glance at his assailant, cringing as he notes a tiny divot in the centre of the smooth, varnished wood of the lever- furthermore, two engraved letters beneath it. ‘I D’.

“The hell does i-d mean?” He mutters, glancing at his hand again and wiping it on his jeans for the second time with an irked grunt. Strange.

“Noooo!” Her voice echoes from around the corner, attracting his attention back to the task at hand. Or… away from hand, rather.

He turns in her direction, approaching from behind as she grumbles at yet another obstacle. She frowns down at a dormant stone pressure plate on the floor.

“Guess old Cassimir really doesn’t want us getting in there, huh?” Sam mutters, making his way beside her as they both look at yet another enormous door blocking them from proceeding any further.

“Yeah. What an asshole.” She turns to Sam, tongue swirling contemplatively around a molar as he looks down at her with narrowed eyes. “Any lever this time? Stupid thing won’t do anything.” A tut from her makes him chuckle, watching her impatiently scuff the toe of her boot against the plate as if it’ll make it do something other than sink into the ground a little.

He shakes his head, hands on his hips as he ponders their next move. After a moment, he pouts.

“You… think you can squeeze through there?” Sam questions, eye-line fixing onto the discoloured stained glass of a small window framed by stone above the door.

Her cheeks puff up as she assesses the window held ajar by some sort of rusted hinge. A slow exhale deflates said cheeks before she shrugs.

“You severely underestimate the size of my ass, but yes. If you can get me up there, I can certainly try to ‘squeeze through’.”

“Hmm.”

He leans back, making a show of inspecting her rear with exaggerated intrigue.

“Oh, y- yeah, you might be right.”

She flashes a middle finger. “He's here all week!”

“You'd love that, huh.”

“Stop flirting for a sec and help me up.” She teases, feeding his ego slightly.

Ready to crack on, Sam crouches a little, a small grin pinned to his face at her quip. He puts his arms out as she takes a few steps back.

"M'lady."

"Alright, Patrick Swayze." She chuckles, diluted sarcasm in her tone. “Watch those hands.”

He scoffs in response, patting his thigh as if to non-verbally tell her to shut up and get on with it.

After a little run up, the pair manage to execute a relatively successful boost manoeuvre, resulting in boots scuffing against the stone wall as she scrambles the remainder of the way up to the window.

“Nobody puts Baby in a fuckin’ corner.” he commends her dexterity from the ground, his continuation of her reference sending a grin creeping onto her face as she pushes the window further open, wriggling her way through the gap.

“Damn right.” She replies, eventually disappearing out of his sight. She slides down the wall, dust and flecks of rubble curling off of the surface as she approaches the ground.

Dusting her gravelly hands off on her leggings and adjusting the torch clipped to her backpack strap, she begins to look around.

“Shit.” is all she can muster.

Sam glances up at the stained glass, thumb rubbing at the sting in his palm, eyes focusing on coloured Latin lettering separated by intricately crafted lead framing.

Firmitudo Intus Aequilibrio

“You okay?” He pushes, his voice muffled from behind the wall, head tilted to the side in thought as he reads the stained glass. The cogs turn, congruous smirk etching its way onto his lips- his knowledge of Latin permits a little smugness, or so he tells himself.

She nods slowly, before realising that Sam can’t actually see her, almost too distracted by her new surroundings to offer a verbal response.

“Y-yeah, I’m all good.” She clears her throat, turning off her torch. “This place just… you ever seen Shrek 2?”

The stone walls, worn and weathered, stand sentinel, bearing witness to the passage of time. They’re tall. Imposing. But there’s a beauty to their eeriness, aided by the soft, colourful glow from the bottles that haven't succumbed to time.

"Sure. Great hangover movie."

Dust particles dance in the air, caught in the soft rays of crisp winter moonlight filtering through thick tree roots that make up the ceiling, casting ethereal streaks around the room.

"Well, picture the shelves in the dinky potion room."

The shelves, carved untidily into the walls, cradle a trove of relics from bygone eras. Flasks, vials, and jars, now cloaked in the patina of age, their contents long untouched- some clearly from medieval times; when the crypt was first used as an underground apothecary, to more contemporary receptacles used by Casimir himself to store whatever insane concoctions he experimented with; early 20th century brand logos indented into glass, less worn and more transparent than others.

"The one that cat gets the potion stuck in?"

"That's the one." She titters. Sam hums in understanding. "Ha. 'That cat'."

The lair’s height is imposing, a testament to the grandeur of Casimir’s forgotten pursuits. Yet, amidst the stone walls, pockets of soft, colourful radiance emanate from a select few frosty flasks perched high on the shelves. These remaining potions, survivors of the relentless march of time, cast speckled, saturated glows of purples, pinks, and blues around the plethora of other vials and tubes that have greyed and muddied over the years.

It’s all quite something.

She steps back, lips parted as she takes in her surroundings, fingers wrapped around the straps of her backpack. Her breath catches as she feels sudden give in the ground beneath her, calming when she realises she’s trodden on another pressure plate, though this time it doesn’t remain unresponsive.

As the door behind her rumbles and begins to grate upwards, she turns as her heart rate spikes in shock. Sam, still standing on the corresponding slab, watches in intrigue as the room she’s in reveals itself to him. He smiles when he sees her, the mechanism suddenly making sense.

Wagging a finger up to the latin-scribed stained glass window, he chuckles knowingly.

“Balance.” He says, winking at her as she tilts her head cluelessly.

“What?” She asks as he saunters into the room, shining his torch around.

“Latin. See, I’m the brains of this whole operation.”

“Hm.” She huffs. “Thought you were the beauty.”

He scoffs in response to her attempt at sarcasm, walking past her to the heart of the room as the door scrapes shut again. “Hey, you said it.” He smirks over his shoulder at her as she shakes her head.

A stone slab serves as what Sam presumes was once Casimir's makeshift desk, worn and weathered and mossy like the walls that surround it. On its surface, an array of flasks and mixing bowls, each bearing the damage of countless failed experiments, sitting in a dusty mosaic of scientific chaos.

“Spooky.” She mutters, crouching to inspect some brittle bird bones sprawled out on the stone surface. Aged twigs and fibres, remnants of ingredients that probably pulsed with life once upon a time, now lie in withered repose, their potency surrendered to decay. Sam huffs.

“Oof. It is stuffy as balls in here.” He mumbles, hands skimming through parchment laid on the surface.

The room's cold dampness has left its mark on scrawled notes and papers, ink faded, edges curled, bearing witness to the crypt’s neglect.

“Cold as balls.” she contradicts with a punctuating shiver.

Sam gawks at her as if she’s just said something completely insane, but she’s too busy plinking flasks around to notice. It's goddamn roasting.

That, and her idiom makes no sense whatsoever. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so preoccupied with how antsy he feels.

He rolls his neck, an uncomfortable crack making him huff again, yet as his head hangs sideways, he catches a glimpse of something a little more substantial than a few sheets of faded parchment.

Nestled within the clutter, a chunky, leather-bound notebook sits, worn from use, but still relatively intact. “Hell-o.” He purrs, pushing aside some of the papers to grab it.

“What’cha got?” she chirps, still facing one of the many shelves, crystalline clinks reverbing off of the walls as she continues imbibing in her own curiosity.

“I think,” Sam's fingers delicately trace the timeworn pages of the notebook, each page imbued with the secrets of Casimir’s elixir recipes and incantations, “we have got our hands on Mr. Magic Man’s recipe book.”

“Ooo. Anything juicy?”

He leans a hip against the stone, cupping the book in one hand whilst the other tugs at the sherpa collar rubbing against the back of his neck. It is stuffy.

"Uh, yeah, there's... there's definitely some interesting stuff in here," He replies vaguely, his mind preoccupied with the subtle shifts in his body's temperature.

“Spill.” She says, finally diverting her attention from the shelves, a frosty puff of air billowing from her lips as she speaks.

As his eyes scan the complex instructions and cryptic symbols, a particular recipe catches his attention, intrigue somewhat subding his discomfort. "Here's somethin’," he murmurs, his voice just managing to keep his uncertainty under wraps. “'Whisperwind Tonic,’” Sam scrunches his face up, his brow furrowing in concentration as he reads the intricate script.

“Grants the drinker the ability to move unseen and unheard for a short period of time.” He scoffs at the page, subconsciously rubbing his injured hand against the corner of the notebook in an attempt to relieve the subtle ache that’s beginning to radiate from the centre of his palm. 

“Bullshit.” She snorts, putting a bottle back to its rightful place on the shelf in front of her.

“Right.” He clears his throat as he continues to peruse the notebook's contents. Did he eat something funny?

“Keep going. I’m intrigued.” She turns around, making her way towards him to take a peek at the book herself.

His eyes narrow as he faces her, her proximity suddenly more pronounced, the surrounding heat sending him into a slightly dizzying haze. He shakes off the feeling, rolling his shoulders before reading again.

"There’s... potions to manipulate memories... truth elixirs. Nonsense. All this stuff for people who can’t get laid. Probably just a bottle of rohypnol, right? I mean, how else can someone make a ‘passion elix--”

He coughs suddenly, choking on his words before looking at her with some sort of incredulous bewilderment that makes her stop in her tracks.

“What?”

“Jesus, girl. You got enough perfume on?”

“I don’t- what do you mean?”

He scoffs, grimacing. “Whatever you’ve got on? Ease up on it, next time, huh?”

She grumbles, hopping up onto the table beside him, pulling the collar of her jacket up to her nose. She sniffs. It smells like nothing. Just… her. Not good, not bad. She kicks his shin playfully.

“If you think I smell like shit, just say. It’s been a long day.”

“Nah, you don't…” He scratches his palm again, a faint frown creasing his brow as he notices a faint discolouration at the centre. He rolls his wrist to determine whether or not it was just a trick of the light. “You smell really good, actually.” He speaks, though it’s like he’s unaware he’s said anything.

She does. Good enough to eat, in fact, and as she leans in, resting her chin on his shoulder with an amused smirk on her face, Sam's line of sight is dragged from his hand to her eyes, narrowed slightly by her bemused smile. His vision blurs slightly and his brows furrow as he struggles to refocus.

She inquisitively tilts her head, and slowly, he finds his eyesight refocusing on the part of her neck left exposed between her hair and the collar of her jacket. It looks soft. Smooth.

Inviting.

The gentle glow of colour coming from the shelves behind them, reflecting off of her skin mesmerises him, and he finds himself wondering what it would be like to bury his face in the curve of her neck, to dig his fingers into its nape, and let his teeth leave small, speckled bruises behind, to hold her in place and breathe the sweetness in as her breath cools his skin. It's an urge, almost. Raw and overwhelming.

One that he quickly snaps out of.

His cheeks flush as he realises the deviance of his own thoughts, the suddenness of it all leaving him... reeling, to say the least.

“Okay, Romeo.” She teases. “Sometimes I think we’re lucky that this line of work doesn’t have an HR department.” Her voice feels like a hug and a punch to the jaw at the same time, nonetheless, her giggle pulls him back to reality, his attention snapped back to his aching palm.

He frowns deeper, a faint purplish hue beginning to emerge at its centre, subtle discolouration spreading slowly like tendrils of ink on cotton, becoming more pronounced by the second.

He swallows hard, the thickness of the scent oozing down his throat still, leaving him momentarily breathless.

"I, uh..." he stammers, his mind racing to find an explanation for the sudden onslaught of whatever-the-fuck-just-happened, whilst all the layers on him begin to feel like cling film. It’s irritating. It hurts, even.

Her smile falters a little. “I’m… just kidding- hey, you good?” She reaches for his wrist to see what keeps grabbing his attention.

“It’s nothin’, forget it," he stammers, voice a little strained as he closes his sore hand into a fist. He shakes her off of him with an unconvincing snort in a poor attempt to save face.

His attempt at self-preservation only causes her to mirror his embarrassment, and as Sam feels the scent dissipate slightly, an uncomfortable tension takes its place.

He watches her eyes narrow in the corner of his vision, suspicion flickering in their depths as she studies her companion's sudden unsettled demeanour. 

“Right.” she mumbles, slapping her thighs awkwardly. “Well… I’m not one to waste perfume on a job. Especially with you for company, so…” her voice trails off, waiting for what she thinks is an inevitable clapback. It doesn’t come. Her face reddens as her eyes move around awkwardly, though fortunately, he’s too focused on turning the pages of the book to notice.

”Hey.” She says, prodding his temple with her forefinger. “You… sure you’re okay?”

Sam flinches at her touch, a jolt shooting through him as he sniffs to maintain his composure, standing up to distance himself.

“Mhm,” he replies hastily, his gaze darting away from hers as his mind races to find a plausible reason behind the overwhelming sensation. “Yeah, yeah, fine…just- think I ate…” God it’s hot. “-Damn jacket.” He grunts, putting the book down to tug the denim off of an arm, shaking it off of the rest of him impatiently.

She hops off of the stone and backs away, a perplexed laugh escaping her.

“Don’t be evasive!”

“What? It’s…I’m hot. Shit.” Sam mutters, his irritation mounting as he tries to regain control of the situation. He scratches the palm of his hand, and, with a sigh, moves further away from the stone counter, throwing off another layer.

Left in his t-shirt, she gawks at him as he preoccupies himself by looking at his hand once more.

“Samuel, It’s like… sub-zero in-”

“Look. It is warm. I am warm.” He scrunches up his hand with a sigh, frustration progressing strangely fast as he cuts her off. “So, I’ve taken my jacket off. That a problem?”

Her grin falters. She awkwardly teeters from side to side as she decides to keep quiet.

“I could smell… somethin’, thought it might’ve been you, now it’s gone. Just…” He trails off, taking a deep breath as he tries to steady himself. Tilting his head up to the ceiling, he basks in the brief recess from the sweltering heat clinging onto his body, “Just…park it. Please.”

She frowns, her gaze lingering on Sam for a moment longer before she holds her hands up defensively, dismissing the strange encounter with a slow nod as she turns her head back to the shelves.

“Parked. Dick.” she retorts, a façade of amusement decorating her tone in an attempt to lighten the mood, covering the awkward swallow and slight flush in her cheeks one might get after being scolded by a teacher in front of their class. Meanwhile, Sam fixates his attention back onto the notebook in his hands.

As he continues to flip through the brittle parchment, a developing sense of unease begins to tighten his chest. From the corner of his eye, he watches her hop off of the table, tightening her ponytail as she ambles awkwardly back over to the shelves. He parts his lips to apologise, but a painful pulse coming from his hand re-diverts his attention.

He squints between his hand and the intricate symbols and arcane diagrams, words written in faded text, but just as he begins to take it in, he feels himself struggling to focus.

That same sickening sweetness from moments ago slowly assaults his senses again; it’s like a thick, unshakable mist, seeping into his nose, clinging to his throat and settling heavily in his lungs.

Attempting to clear his throat without drawing her attention, Sam shakes his head, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he does so. The back of his hand instinctively rests against his nose, as if warding off the unexplained, worsening discomfort. 

"You…” he swallows, the room seemingly closing in on the tension his outburst had created, “Y’sure you're not wearing perfume or something? Jeez, it’s givin’ me a headache," he mutters with a meekness that she finds irksome.

She scoffs in irritation. "Oh my God, no! What are you talking about?" she retorts, pointing emphatically toward the shelf of vials, her impatience palpable as his attention remains surgically attached to the notebook. “Will you focus?” She looks back at the shelf.

Five of the vials remain untouched, surrounded by that same soft glow he was fixated on moments ago. 

“We need those ones, right?”

Sam, however, remains frozen, his eyes now locked onto a specific page.

“Id. The word- it wasn’t a… damn abbreviation.” Freud's structural model of the goddamn psyche.

“Huh?” She prods, arms folded, brows arched.

“Freud…Id and ego.” Unable to detach his attention from the inked pages, he ignores her as his lips move silently, mimicking the phonetics of the symptoms written on the frail parchment.

The pinprick- sore, burning now, in fact- has become the centre point of a spider's web of dark hairline veins, matching the worrying description in front of him. His gaze shifts between the book and his own hand, a growing realisation drilling into his brain as he watches the deep colour reach his wrist. This is when he remembers the engraving on the lever. Id. the insatiable id, the book says. He scoffs at the audacity of it all. Wonderful!

His own blood flow pulses through his ears, clouding him with more anxiety and indignation, and dread pitches in his gut-

"Sam!"

"What?" He snaps, abruptly smacked back to reality as her irked voice pierces through his fearful focus.

As her gaze settles on him, flustered, brows knitted together in vexed concern, she momentarily holds back her annoyance, her brows furrowing as he blinks, attempting not to entertain the gravity of the situation unfurling in front of him.

 “Jesus, are you PMSing or something?” Her sarcasm goes hand in hand with her raised brow, smirk combo, amused disbelief taking her over. Yet, her own annoyance gives way slightly to genuine worry as she observes the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his expression. "What’s in that stupid book that’s got you so worked up?"

She looks… good. When she's flustered. Annoyed. The flyaway hairs and the frown. He supposes she thinks she looks intimidating. It's having the opposite effect- nope. No. That's enough. 

"I’m not-'' he fumbles an attempt at trying to reassure both himself and her. "Just…” he clears his throat again, the musky sweetness still violating his respiratory system as his eyes twinge with guilt at his sudden attitude change. “Nope. Doesn’t matter." Quickly closing the notebook, Sam clutches it under his arm, straightening his posture, and offering a nod and an awkward smile. “I, uh, didn’t mean’ta…” He trails off, a soft haze forming over his vision. 

She's not stupid. She sees the growing urgency in his eyes that hints at a deeper worry, and it makes her huff. Why can’t he ever just say what he’s thinking? Or, perhaps better, apologise properly?

She sighs and shakes her head. She spends far too much of her energy stressing about him and his wellbeing, when he probably couldn't give a shit about her outside of a job. Enough self sabotage.

“Whatever…can you… get me up to those shelves? Place is starting to give me the creeps.”

Should he show her the book? He looks back to the dark colour continuing to weave through the veins in his palm.

He considers the danger he’s in- that she’s in, if this isn’t, in fact, total bullshit. His blood flow picks up the pace, and he gets hotter. His mouth feels tight. Wet and dry at the same time. God, he feels sick-

“Oh my God, Sam, snap out of it!” She steps closer to him, making him stiffen in apprehension. “I need to get on your shoulders. Focus, please.”

Please. Please please please- the rasped desperation lodged at the back of her throat makes him shudder. He wants to hear her say it again and again and again-

“Do I need to smack you?” The thought of her palm thwacking against his cheek slices through his thoughts, her voice low, bordering irate. He swallows again.

A strained shake of the head is all he can manage in response, and the urgency of their situation propels him into action- if they could just get out of here, he can distance himself. Fresh air cures all ailments, no?

"Alright, just-" he mutters, voice tight as he takes a hesitant step closer, throwing the book to the ground and kicking it aside. His stare flickers briefly to the discoloured veins now reaching his fingertips, and he swallows in silent acknowledgment of the dangerous path he seems to be treading. Still, with a deep breath, Sam carefully lowers himself to a knee, jaw clenched, skin clammy as he beckons her over.

Oblivious to the tumult going on inside him, she moves, adjusting her stance over him. His hands find support on her hips as she sits on his shoulders, but as their skin brushes directly for no more than half a second, his breath catches and he almost chokes.

“You okay?” She asks out of obligation, looking down at him warily.

Sam inhales deeply, nodding in response, jaw clenched, desperately trying to ease up his heart rate as he pushes himself up, raising her to the height she needs.

He tries to steady himself, but as every sense intensifies to an unfathomable degree, he has no choice but to close his eyes to try shutting them out.

Sam can feel the rhythmic rush of her pulse resonating through him, every beat amplifying that strange suffocating sweetness that continues to overwhelm his senses whenever he’s close to her.

“Hurry it up.” He winces.

“Pot, kettle, black.” She retorts, leaning forwards, backpack unzipped as she reaches for the first vial, and as the softness of her voice reverberates through him, his spine is graced with a shiver.

As she reaches up, her body shifts slightly, and he tightens his grip to keep her steady. He can’t help but notice the way her breath hitches, just for a second. It’s a small sound, almost imperceptible, but it makes his chest tighten with a fierce, protective… is it desire?

"Almost there," she says, her voice a little breathless from the fear of falling off of him. "Just...keep still."

"Doin’ my best," he murmurs, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. He wonders if she can feel it too—the electric current. A persistent, dull thrum tugging and squeezing and pulling at every cell and synapse in his body.

Her thighs tighten around him ever so slightly as she reaches for a further vial; the fabric covering them brushes against his ears, the sensation overwhelming enough to make him grunt and dig his fingers even deeper into the flesh of her hips.

As he does so, the details of her body become vividly apparent beneath his fingertips– every fibrous contour of muscle, the softness of fat, the rush of blood beneath her lycra-clad skin– his senses are heightened to an almost unbearable degree, and his head turns sideways as he tries to steady his shaky breathing- the dichotomy of duty and… maybe temptation… playing out in a near-excruciating loop in his mind.

He feels a pull. His nose- his mouth, are lured towards her inner thigh. He swears his stomach growls at the scent of her. If only he could taste her. Drink her down- devour her until he drowns- Shit. No. No-- they need to wrap this the fuck up. Get the hell out of here.

“C’mon.” he grits- whether it was more to her, or his way of trying to pull himself together, he doesn’t know. He lays his head against her thigh, willing for it all to be over.

He wants to yell at her- tell her to stop being so inquisitive-- to stop finding the need to read the labels on the fucking vials she’s still gathering, but if she speaks back to him again his knees might just give.

You're going to be fine, he unconvincingly tells himself. That's what you do. Deal with things. More importantly, she’s going to be fine. Fresh air, he thinks again, they’ll be out of here soon.

Sam’s eyes begin to glaze over again, fingers pressing ever-so-slightly deeper into her as he tries to keep his vision focused.

He’d be able to control himself, he’s sure of it. He’d stare down at the floor as they both retrace their steps out of the crypt, in his head repeating the notion that whatever’s affecting him will just… go away- it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it, it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it-- diminishing any thoughts of how easy it would be to grab her whilst she walks just ahead of him, blissfully unaware of what he wants to do to her.

Oh. What he wants… to do to her.

Pinning her against the wall. Tearing through that perfectly stitched seam on her leggings right between her thighs before even giving her a chance to react, or, God forbid, to protest before he breaks her in.

He absentmindedly licks his lips.

Thoughts of the financial reward, the glory of finding this place- fulfilling their client’s desires, blah, blah, fucking blah, fade into the background as a primal spark flickers deep. The awareness of the perilous temptation turns into some sort of hypnotic drumbeat in his head, rational thoughts singed at the edges, slowly burning into ash and flaking away into thin air.

As his nose and mouth press against her inner thigh, the tension peaks and he becomes overwhelmed by her; Sam's breath quickens, and a possessive hunger simmers behind his eyelids.

His lips part, brushing against her, teeth grazing against fabric- an exploration that hovers on the edge of giving in to something far removed from sanity.

Feeling a warm tickle, she diverts her attention from the shelves in front of her to Sam’s head between her legs.

She swallows, a fleeting pull in her core as she takes in the sight of his fingers dug deep into her hips, but quickly shrugs it off in favour of understanding why the hell he’s breathing so heavily against her, and why on earth his mouth is pressed against her leg.

Sam inhales, opening his mouth wider, taking shallow breaths.

Then, he bites. 

It’s a feral snap into temptation he was trying so hard to fight against.

As his teeth clamp down into the meat of her thigh, she squeals, wobbling, then falling back and off of his shoulders, her skin grazing harshly, simultaneously snapping him out of whatever sick trance he'd fallen into.

“Fuck!” She shouts as her body thuds against the ground. She painfully drags herself into a sitting position, face contorted into an expression of complete disarray as he gawks at her, horrified.

“Shit- are you-” Sam rushes over to see if she’s hurt, but as his hand brushes against her shoulder, he has to fight against himself in order to suppress a groan. It’s too much. He painfully wrenches his hand away, subduing his own body's desire to keep it there. He cowers back. “Oh, God.”

One hand cradling the back of her head whilst the other pulls at the fabric of her leggings, she frowns, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders uncomfortably as she leans herself away from him.

Wide-eyed frown fixed to her face, she checks her hands for blood. Nothing, thank God, other than a dull ache that sears through her upper thigh.

“Did… did you just fucking bite me?!” She asks, voice quiet, dipped in anger.

Sam doesn’t reply. He’s shaking, hand clasped to his forehead as he glares at the floor, unable to bring himself to look at her. His hand obscures his vision and he breathes heavily at the sight; the purple steadily darkening into the veins in his wrist, fading into his forearm. The book is right. And he’s absolutely fucked.

Meanwhile, she double takes. Sam, leggings, Sam, leggings. There’s a slight fray in the fabric.

She pulls herself to her feet, wincing at the all-round ache in her body, astounded.

“What the hell is up with you?!” She hisses at him, taking a step closer before he holds a hand out defensively.

“I- I’m- no, stay over there, I… I don’t know. I don’t-” He splutters, doubling over as if he’s been punched in the gut as she gets closer. He stumbles backwards, back smacking against the stone table with a force that makes him grunt. “Somethin’- something’s happening t’me.” He rasps, wide eyes glued to the palm of his hand.

“Yeah, no shit.” She spits, looking at her leg again. “You broke the fucking skin- how-” Her voice is tinged with exasperated irritation… that quickly morphs into extreme concern when she finally takes in his appearance. “Jesus. W-what is going on with you?”

Sam’s sweating, despite it being cold enough to see their own breath, his sleeves clinging to his arms, fabric glued to his torso as his chest heaves unsteadily. His eyes are wide, and as they traverse away from his palm, down his body, it’s clear that they’re wide in realisation. 

“You-” He’s fucked. Which means she’s fucked. How on earth is he supposed to explain what’s going on here? “You’ve gotta go.”

She huffs, ignoring his plea. “Do you need… water, or something? Painkillers?” She asks, panic creeping into her voice, dropping to her knees as she throws her backpack to the ground. She holds it open, hands ferreting around for her water bottle, clattering around the vials that miraculously remain intact, whilst Sam’s eyelids grow heavy.

“N-no.” He shakes his head, turning back to her to make sure she’s unharmed, but as soon as he looks at her, he’s unable to avert his gaze from the fullness of her thighs as she kneels. “God.” He mumbles, salivating.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s losing himself.

He musters the strength to force his eyes shut, and it hurts. Every part of his body wants her. To look at her, to touch her, to… taste her, even- but the slither that remains of his weakened mind can't allow it.

Shaking her head, she retrieves her flask. “Here. You’re sweating.” She says, walking over to him. “It’ll cool you down.”

Sam swallows a whine, and lowers himself fully down to the ground with a self-loathing groan, hunched over, eyes squeezed shut as he attempts to drive out all sorts of depraved, wanton thoughts that keep flitting in and out of his head unprompted.

“N-no. Don’t come near me.” his hushed murmur comes out gravelly as she wearily dips her head down to meet his eye line, concerned at how he’s lowered himself to the ground. She takes a nervous breath, kneeling to his level as he lets out a defeated sigh.

He keeps his view of her hidden by his arm as she extends her own, ignoring his plea to instead tilt his chin up and hold the flask up to his lips. He shudders, his whole body trembling as his eyes unwillingly fix on hers, cursing under his breath at the touch of her cool hand on his skin. His gaze draws lower to her waist, her hips, her soft stomach- his hands clenched tight into his jeans as he fights against the impulse to lunge at her.

She tilts the flask and upwards and watches his throat bob as he swallows. She swallows too, almost choking on her dry throat. The longer she looks at him, the more the chill in her bones dissipates- the more she feels warmth seep into her bloodstream.

Her skin against his feels like molten metal, and he shakes with the ever-growing impulse to grab hold of her. To touch, and to be touched. He pushes the flask away in a brash attempt to get her away from him, then holds his breath as he tries to focus on the small bit of reprieve the cool water has granted him, even if it is no better than a bucket thrown over a forest fire.

“Any better?” No answer. She huffs, screwing the lid back on before backing up a little. “Can I trust you to get me back to the window so we can get out of here, or are you gonna bite my other leg, too?”

“Can’t-” Sam blurts panicked, eyes wide as his head darts in her direction.

“Oh my-” She laughs mirthlessly, strenuously rubbing her face before eyeing the room to see what else she can come up with. “Where’s that book?”

No. He’s going to throw up. He can’t let her find out. If he just waits it out, everything will be fine. His gaze moves to where he’d kicked the notebook- just under a shelf. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“Jesus chr- where’s the notebook, Sam! The one you were reading!”

Unfortunately, her eyes follow suit, and as she catches a glimpse of the frayed leather binding, she crawls towards it.

He watches in a sort of trance-like state as she flattens herself against the ground, moving her torch around underneath the dusty shelves in search of the book he’d kicked under them minutes ago. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll look for answers myself.”

This is perfect. He could go for her right this second. Pinning her down would be easy- she's so small compared to him. So weak. A pretty little lamb, all ready for him to slaughter. He suppresses a moan at the thought.

“Got it.” She jumps up, fragile book in hand, and he smacks himself in the face with a grunt.

Revolting. Selfish.

She starts flicking through the pages, face riddled with ire as Sam's breath hitches. “No. Don’t- don’t look in th-” He lets out a panicked whimper as his body reacts to the feeling of his shirt peeling on and off his skin; he starts to hyperventilate. Clasping his hand over his mouth as he strains painfully against his jeans, he winces. “Shit.” He swallows, covering his face with his hands as he leans back against the stone. 

She watches his Adam's apple bob as he quietly gulps down air in an attempt to calm himself down.

“You’re hardly in any position to tell me what to do.” She reads; pages upon pages of notes and diagrams elude her as she takes cautious steps towards him, but as his hands shoot out to stop her coming closer, she stills, and takes him in.

She notes the uneasy tremble, the sheen of sweat, flushed cheeks, and the uncharacteristic panic. Perhaps even more alarming than the complete absence of his calm and collected nature is the wispy nebula of blackcurrant-purple bleeding outwards from the more concentrated black in the centre of his palm, up into the veins leading towards his elbow.

She steps closer.

"Don't." He snarls, flecks of frightened spittle coming through his teeth. And this time, she does as she’s told.

She exhales shakily, eyes fixed on the sight of his hand- she swears she sees the dark wisps expanding.

"I- I need to find out what that… purple shit is."

She keeps flicking through, rubbing at her thigh as it twinges with discomfort.

"Yeah, well," He mumbles through gritted teeth, shoulders heaving as if he's fighting the most ferocious of fevers. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

"Ignorance is only making things worse." She snaps, fingers desperately frittering between pages of Casimir's stupid fucking disintegrating notebook. "Why don’t you just tell me what’s happening?" She laughs- no mirth in sight, eyes watering as her head throbs and her insides churn with dread. “Tell me what’s going on. I bet I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix- Shit, there’s that goddamn smell again.” He laughs ironically, before hissing in discomfort and writhing slightly.

She rests the book on the stone desk with a frustrated grunt, holding it open with one hand whilst the other arm wrestles off her jacket absentmindedly, sighing in relief as the cool air ventilates under her t-shirt. She shakes her head in disbelief before flicking to the next page.

She looks at Sam dead in the eyes, trying to steady her own heart rate as she does so in hopes he’ll pass her red cheeks off as some sort of side effect of the cold. Cold. It was cold a second ago, wasn’t it? 

As soon as she looks back at him, a stifling humidity continues to build. It must be the intensity and the… abruptness of the situation. She goes to remove her jacket, until she realises it’s already off. She feels like she’s wrapped in a layer of plastic- hot, flustered, and her leg fucking kills- This is the last time she lets herself get so… pent up over him.

“You’ve- gotta go.”

“Go?” She huffs, annoyance permeating her tone. She shudders, her face running even hotter, his voice alone enough to render her knees weak, and her throat tight. “You'd love that, wouldn't you? Ever the hero. Asshole.”

“No, I- Fuuuck!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling. Admittedly, it unnerves her, so she turns her attention back to the book, fingers scrambling from dog-eared page to dog-eared page.

“So, you’d rather I let your stubborn ass stay here, suffering from- who knows what- ow, my God.” She hisses, the urgency and irritation in her voice making a return as a dull ache throbs through her thigh. 

“You can’t be near me.” He mutters into his hands as he doubles over, just loud enough for her to hear.

Inhaling sharply, a brief but intense pang of emotion stirs within her, an ache born not only from the profound lack of understanding of what’s transpiring, but also, admittedly, the slight sting of… is it some sort of infantilization? She thought they were over that! They’ve been partners for months now, and he still doesn’t trust her? Why is he trying so hard not to let her know what the problem is?

And then there's the rejection, of course. That hurts almost as much as her developing headache.

“Well, unfortunately, I have to be near you. I can’t get out.” She points to the stained glass window. “I need you to get me up there-” He cuts her off abruptly with an irritated grunt, jaw clenched in warning.

“I can’t!” He shouts.

“Why?” She shouts louder, stepping closer again.

“Stop-”

“Don’t tell me to stop-'' She follows his eyeline, landing on the writing on the window that he’s transfixed on again. “Firmitudo Intus- what?” The script grates clumsily out of her throat as she rubs feverishly at her sore leg. “Tell me what it means! What’s wrong with you?!”

“S-stability in- in balance. How- ughh, shit- how the pressure plates worked.” Sam huffs, words punctuated with a flurry of uncomfortable grunts. “Why can’t you-- ah, God dammit- just take a hint!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling.

“Take a hint?!” She spits, voice wavering. “Screw you! Just tell me what's going on- or, or better off- tell me the fact that you can't stand the sight of me."

“No, no, no- stay there— It's not like that, I- you don't get it, it's —”

“Spell it out for me then! Stop being so fucking secreti-”

“I’m going to fucking jump you.” He bellows, his face twitching as a wave of blistering, blistering heat courses through him. His fingertips dig painfully into the stone behind him, finding leverage.

She ogles him, bewildered.

Then, after a moment, she guffaws, her fear momentarily usurped by such a ridiculous statement.

In that moment, as she mocks him, Sam feels a surge of strength shoot through him, perhaps a side effect of his desperation not to face further humiliation. It's as if some dormant force within him has been nudged awake, overpowering his rational mind, and with a grunt, he drags himself upright against the table; movements fluid. Predatory.

“You’re going… to jump me?” She sneers, her voice low, teeth bared in a sour smile as she turns to the window, momentarily considering how to get up there herself. “Hah! Of course you are. Any threat to avoid telling me what’s happening, huh? You're such a-”

Her insults die in her throat as she’s shoved harshly into the wall. The fragile book slips from her fingers, thudding onto the floor.

She stares up at Sam, wide-eyed and startled. His painful grip on her wrist, the back of her head pulsating after colliding with so many hard surfaces- it’s all making her ears ring. His grip is firm and bruising as he pushes himself onto her, his stare intense. Unrelenting.

“What are you doing?" she stammers, her voice trembling, brows furrowed in frightened confusion.

But Sam doesn't answer. Instead, he leans in closer, his breath hot against her skin, eyes locked onto hers with an unsettling intensity that makes her stomach flutter. She can feel his heart pounding against her chest as he presses into her, matching the now frantic rhythm of her own as heat radiates off of him.

Sam's certain he can hear her blood flow as he holds her gaze, his senses heightened to the point of overload. The warmth emanating from her skin, the rapid rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips, and the heady, sickly sweet scent of her- it’s all driving him to the brink of madness.

“What… the hell are you doing, Sam? Let go.” she whispers, her other hand tentatively going for him in an attempt to wrench herself free, though, with an instinctive speed, he captures her other wrist, pinning it on the other side of her head as a startled gasp leaves her lips. She struggles against his grasp with an anxious whimper, but he only tightens his hold, his wild expression a frightening mix of confusion and horror. Yet his grip on her remains tight. 

"Make it stop-," he stammers through his tightened jaw, his voice trembling with remorse. "I don't know what… I didn't mean to- I need-” A wave of dizziness washes over him as he speaks, a growing tightness in his chest, threatening to send him spiralling into oblivion- he feels like he’s going into cardiac arrest.

Her eyes are wet with anxiety as he cages her in, brows wavering as if she’s attempting to prevent herself from tearing up.

But he’s frozen. Mind rapidly toing and froing between wanting to let her go, and wanting to see her cry. What he’d give to see her eyes brimming with tears, his fingers tight against her scalp while her lips grow swollen, drenched by her own drool as he rams himself down her throat. “I can’t- I can’t stop thinkin’ about… Jesus, the things I wanna do to you.”

His fingers tighten their grip further, pushing himself harder against her, keeping her painfully upright against the stone. Their eyes meet once more as her own chest starts to heave. God. The way he’s looking at her. It’s… carnal.

Amongst this sudden yo-yoing of fear and confusion, she feels herself heat up more, a cramping feeling tugging at her abdomen as he stares at her, breathing deeply- slowly.

“What?” She just about manages to rasp, lips parted, wrists aching, head pounding. “What are you talking about?”

She knows exactly what he's talking about. She can feel him pressing against her.

“You s- sound like a mouse.” He mumbles as if inebriated, one side of his mouth twisted into an almost malevolent grin that makes her stomach drop as he presses his forehead against hers, rendering her virtually immobile. “So small. So scared.” He mocks with a pout as she shudders. “But you’re not just scared, are you?” He speaks through his teeth, eyes trailing down to watch himself push his hips against her with a deep groan.

The sudden friction sends an embarrassingly high-pitched gasp spilling out from her mouth before her teeth have a chance to trap it. Fuck.

His eyes go back to hers, darkened, pupils blown. “Thought so.” He smirks. “I can pretty much taste you from-” a grunt permeates the end of his sentence as his darkened resolve wavers.

He shakes his head, a sudden maelstrom of panic and culpability in his chest making his eyes water. 

“Not- me. I didn’t mean-” She remains glued to the wall, wide-eyed and disoriented, as he stumbles over his words, her heart racing as she watches him lose balance and fall into her, palms braced at either side of her waist as the vice-like grip on her wrists finally relents. “I’m s-” he hisses, his body burning as if demanding him to succumb to what it wants.

Much to her own dismay, she doesn’t move her freed hands- there’s no attempt to push him away again. She’s so caught up in the shock of how good that felt and all of the confusion and guilt that are beginning to plague her head. She must've hit it hard.

Sam’s hand digs into the small of her back, his shoulders slumping as his fingers slip just beneath the hem of her shirt. His grip is tight and desperate as he drops his head against her chest, leaning into her for support as he whimpers, gasping for air. “I can't help it- I want- to stop, but-” 

She takes in a shaky breath, momentarily paralysed, as if her body and vocal chords are in combat against her brain. There's something hypnotic about the way he's looking at her, something frightening about the desperation and the spontaneous Jekyll-and-Hyde-ness of it all, yes, but equally… satiating… as if this is something her body's been vying for for ages.

She swallows hard at the feeling of his skin on hers, and the soft, needy sounds coming out of him- at his weight keeping her firmly pressed against the wall, and the smell of his sweat, cheap detergent, the gift set aftershave he feels obligated to use that’s making her heart thump even harder.

All such normal things- usually so unnoticeable. But it’s a sudden assault on her senses that she can’t shake off- it clings to her, burning her eyes, creeping up her nose, down her throat, settling in her stomach. It’s grounding. Exhilarating, to the point where she wants to tug him closer and inhale him to the point of suffocation.

And she’s baffled by this revelation. Nauseated, almost. She should be angry with him. Furious. How dare he manhandle, bite, bruise and then withhold an explanation from her. Instead, she can’t help but feel an intrinsic need to keep him as close to her as possible. To see, smell, hear, taste him.

Why is her body reacting in such a way? Why is she soaking wet? 

Sam’s terrified. The thoughts he’s had in the past few minutes have been depraved. Actions violent, and he would rather die than cause her harm, so he’s trying with all his might not to let himself give in. Even if he wants nothing more.

From day dot, she’s been off limits. And he's always stuck to that.

He's aware of how she reacts every time he's pushed their banter a bit too far, leaving her flustered. Every hint of jealousy she's let slip when he's talked about his ‘dating’ life. He knows about her ‘crush’– cute, he thought, but inevitably fleeting, surely. Unlike his own feelings- oh no! They’ve fused to every fibre of his being like hot glue.

This whole situation is nothing but a cruel joke. Like fate has conspired to mock him- to force him into getting his way via a horrible, depraved, manipulative circumstance since he's been too much of a pussy to act upon it otherwise. She’s right. He is stubborn. He should’ve let her pull the damn lever. At least that way, she wouldn't be a victim. Or... perhaps less of one.

His stomach lurches and he slumps to his knees, hands maintaining an unstable hold on her hips. He feels pathetic. “Makeitstop.” He heaves again.

He tries to speak again, but as he bucks his hips again, completely against his own will, the blazing friction against his own jeans causes him to hiss, his forehead collapsing against her thigh, eyes wide as he pants for air. “Holy shit.”

She looks down helplessly, shaken and clueless. She watches his hand dig into her thigh, holding it in place as he burrows his face into it.

“You smell so fucking good, I-” He cuts himself off with a groan, shaking his head and pursing his lips. His voice comes out rough again. Dark. Crumbled asphalt, absinthe poured straight down her throat, settling into her bloodstream. “No, no, no…” He just about pulls away to give himself air, eyes flitting up to her, warring between despair and yearning.

The sight of it makes her… warmer still. Hot, even. The bite on her thigh burns as his proximity agitates it. “What should I do?” She rasps, fingers anxiously pulling at the curls by the nape of her neck as if she’s trying to withhold from touching him. “I don’t know what’s… happening.” She whispers, vision losing focus for just a moment.

"I need..." he grunts, struggling to find the words. He weakly tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, but his strength is failing him. "I need you to... take it off... please," he begs, his voice barely more than a desperate whisper.

He looks so pretty like this. On his knees… whining softly, cheeks flushed, his hands grasping at her. It’s so unlike him. Samuel Casanova Drake- reduced to this. The flirtation. The teasing. Getting her all worked up on purpose, only to be reminded that she’s nothing special- that that’s just the way he is. All bark, no bite. Is he being taught a lesson?

She swallows thickly.

She thinks about how it felt when he grinded himself onto her and forcibly suppresses a moan as a pleasurable jolt shoots up her spine, setting her hairs on end. Her head is swimming. This is all so… artificial. So odd. She’s always been attracted to him, but fuck, this is wrong.

She hesitates, her heart pounding in her chest as a wave of guilt-ridden nausea rushes through her. Is- is she taking advantage of him?

“Please.” He repeats, his plea punctuated with a desperate whimper. She blinks, nodding, and with trembling hands, she crouches and reaches for the hem of his shirt, her fingers brushing against his heated skin. Gently, she lifts the shirt over his head, her touch lingering on his arms as she pulls it free.

Sam gasps as the cool air hits his bare skin, a momentary relief from the feverish heat consuming him. He leans heavily against her, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. "Thanks," he murmurs, his eyes closing briefly as he savours the sensation.

She swallows hard, feeling a strange mix of fear and sickening lust fester in her bloodstream. Her hands remain on his arms, steadying the both of them.

"What now?" she asks, her voice barely audible.

Her eyes are drawn to the sheen of sweat covering his body; the way dark hairs lay matted on his chest, softly trailing down his stomach, past fading ink and mottled scars, beyond where his belt keeps his jeans smouldering against his skin.

She watches her own hand rest under his chin, tilting him up to her. It’s like she’s watching it unfold through a TV screen.

Delicate wisps of condensation coming from his parted lips makes her mind wander; What would they taste like? How would the roughness of his stubble feel against her? Her mouth, her neck, her bare stomach, down down down- she's had these thoughts before; fingers delved between her thighs as she stares breathlessly up at the ceiling.

Saliva pools under her tongue as she imagines rutting against his pretty nose and open mouth like a bitch in fucking heat- oh god- her teeth graze her lower lip as her thoughts begin to spiral further than usual- why are they spiralling like this?

She’s sweating.

There’s so much desire- so much insatiable hunger in his eyes alone as he looks at her that it makes her thighs tense together. As she does so, she’s reminded of the bite again. It fucking hurts, snapping her out of her depraved trance; her eyelids flutter unsteadily as she regains focus, her cheeks burning.

His pulse thuds frantically against her thumb, and her nails stroke gently at his skin as his shoulders rise and fall harder, amplifying his restraint which is growing more and more painful by the second. 

“You…” he pauses and grunts, fighting himself as his eyes remain shut. “Don’t… know what to... ugh- hurts. It’s too- too much." Every tiny little touch feels like he’s being swallowed whole. It’s like a cold spring and a flow of lava all at once, and he wants to scream. 

She pulls her hands away, looking at them as though she’s the cause of the problem. Hoping to herself that her sick mind will sort itself out if she distances herself from him.

He shakes, sweat beading off of his chest, blood pumping through him at a dizzying pace as his eyes pine for her.

“N-no.” He’s craving- starving. A trembling hand raises to her wrist, and he winces as his fingers wrap around her. As his fingertips dig into her forearm, the thought of sudden absence of her touch feels like a death sentence. “Don’t.”

He swallows audibly as his body jolts again at the touch. The contact hurts him. Arouses him to such a painful degree, but he’s not letting her get away. He can’t- he doesn’t want to. He’s too far gone.

Sam’s eyes squeeze shut and he screws up his face in some sort of pained internal conflict. He grabs her wrist tighter and she winces, but as he drags her hand back to his face, her eyes follow.

“Help.” he blurts, finally deciding it’s time to bite the proverbial bullet as he sits fully and leans back against the stone table, accidentally pulling her with him. “I need- need you- your help. The last pages- another way to-” He eyeballs the notebook. “Make it stop. Before I hurt you again.”

She picks up the book and kneels. Her thumb swipes across his cheekbone as his hand rests over hers. Her hands on his bare skin are fucking excruciating; he can feel every single ridge of her fingerprints despite her stillness, like thousands of knife edges grazing his skin all at once.

“Okay- I- I’m looking.” She says, and oh, she sounds like velvet. Liquid gold that he just wants to swallow forever and ever and ever. He’s transfixed by her lips as she speaks, absentmindedly snaking his other hand up the nape of her neck and into her hair.

His fingers tighten their grip, gently pulling her head backwards, and with watery eyes he nuzzles into her neck, breathing deeply- slowly. “Hmmm, God.”

His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips grazing over her neck make her swallow hard. She doesn’t need to read the book to know what’s going on. He whispers breathless apologies, guilt making his heart ache whilst he loses control of the rest of his body.

Her eyes continue to flit around the pages nervously, no longer to read, but to hide. This is ridiculous. Her skin hasn’t felt this sensitive before.

Her eyes fall over a likely explanation; a sketch of a lever mechanism, an embedded sharp needle, designed to assault the user of the lever- the intruder, all annotated in scrawled purple ink.

This artifice serves twofold: first, as a deterrent to the audacious; and second, as a penance, a punishment to those who dare disrupt the harmony of my sacred space. May they find the scales tipped; themselves lost within the labyrinth of their own psyche, ensnared by the very primal urges that govern the basest instincts.

She looks at his hand again, and takes in the details written on the page. Primal urge. Base instinct. Her cheeks flush as she converts the words into layman's terms, confirming her theory.

“It’s an… aphrodisiac.” She affirms.

As the wayward thief succumbs, such symptoms shall manifest: The skin shall burn, the point of breach becoming the source of a webbed discolouration as dark as ones fevered desire, and the pulse shall quicken with an infernal craving, subjugating the relentless pursuit of knowledge with the all-consuming tug of the insatiable id. The mind, entangled in the labyrinth of unbridled lust, shall forsake rationality. The thief shall be led astray from their pursuits, ensnared by their own voracious yearnings, knowledge plundered.

Sam hears the uncertainty in her voice as she grapples with the implications of the infection. Their eyes meet for a split second, and he feels a surge of humiliation that’s so unfamiliar to him he’d probably wretch if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied.

She takes in a shaky breath returning to the page again as the pieces begin to fit together.

“S’there another way?” he murmurs into her, the low vibrations of his voice making her close her eyes for a moment. She grunts to herself, forcing her eyes back to the page.

In the safety of companionship, the afflicted may find respite. Should the infection remain unchecked, the heart will strain beyond its limits, ultimately succumbing to the weight of its own longing.

The ‘cure’  is plain and simple. Two people. Balance. Or, by the sound of it, death.

She shakes her head.

The thought of said cure makes her shiver, tongue rolling over her bottom lip.

A coil begins to tighten in her abdomen as he groans into her skin. His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips on her neck make her exhale harshly.

She looks at her leggings as another sore, shooting pain emanates from the bite mark, Sam’s wandering hands peeling apart the small tear in the fabric as his teeth graze against her throat.

Realisation fills her lungs, a bubble forming by her tonsils; the disorienting mix of undeniable, rising pleasure and panic creeping into the forefront of her mind.

Her skin looks mottled, veins deep purple.

Just like his.

The telltale discolouration, mirroring the ominous staining making its way up Sam's arm sends a shiver through her as she comprehends it all. As she watches his brows waver in internal dispute, her own contort in… concern, yes. But also a sense of desperation, wanting to feel more as Sam drags himself more upright with a cracked groan that makes her lips part and her throat seize when she’s pushed harder against him. More importantly, perhaps, the relief from knowing that neither of them can help it. That, for what it’s worth, is a mutual need.

She takes a gamble, grappling with the part-insidious, part-alleviating truth as she looks back to him, legs parting to straddle him properly.

Her chest heaves; the air feels thick, and there’s a strong pulsing ache between her thighs every time her nipples rise and fall, sore and tender underneath her tight sports bra. All of her clothes feel tight, creating tangible friction all over; her whole body, her face, her skin- is clammy and sticky and so fucking overwhelmingly hot.

A small part of Sam is still trying to stop, to control himself, but as he drags himself away from her neck to look at her, it’s clear that this prolonged contact has its consequences; his psyche swells with a sudden growth in appetite as she settles over him, and suddenly, he barely registers that he’s doing anything at all.

Moving his hand to the back of her head, he pulls her closer in a sudden move that draws a gasp from her as her hands brace themselves on his chest- the sudden harshness of his desperate fingers tugging at the roots of her hair is unexpected. The strength coming from this movement alone renders her unable to pull away- even if she wanted to.

He pants harder, unable to let her go, but so afraid of causing her harm all the same. His fingers impulsively flex at her scalp, and she gulps down a whine at the sensation as her eyes squeeze shut.

“I’m- I’m s- I can’t stop. I’m sorry-”

A hand moves from his chest to the back of his neck. With a gentle pull, she guides his gaze downward, her fingers pulling apart the material to trace the mottled purple that’s started snaking across her skin.

Sam's heart lurches in his chest, an undercurrent of panic rising up his throat like bile.

"No, no- what did i do? I-“

“Sam.” She hushes, pressing her forehead onto his, forcing him to stay still- to focus. She silently implores him to find solace in her. “It’s... we’ve just gotta...” Her eyes non-verbally tell whatever flecks of her Sam that’s still in there that she’s here for as long as he needs her to be. That she wants this. She's wanted this. That she’s willing- God, she’s willing.

This is where he feels himself begin to dissolve away completely. Prolonged closeness. Her voice. The heat rising throughout her pretty little face, the growing heaviness of her eyelids, her freckles subdued by an involuntary heat spreading through her cheeks.

And, he can feel the warmth pooling between her legs.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that this kind of reaction from her is fuelling him. He needs more of it. Craves more of it.

He’s slipping just beneath the surface, but he’s too tired to drag himself up for air. He supposes he doesn’t really need to, now. He could drown in her and die happy.

She’s starting to feel it worsen, too. The ache. The coercion of mind from body.

Her lips brushing against his feels like molten sugar; a searing heat that’s so sickly sweet he can’t pull away despite the blistering heat that’s destined to leave a nasty burn.

“We’ve just… gotta…” she repeats slowly, voice low and speech slurred. She can’t finish her sentence- every part of her is swarmed by the need to close the gap. She has no idea how he’s managed to hold out for so long.

With a shaky exhale, he nods, releasing the tension he's been painfully holding onto, allowing himself to surrender to the overwhelming heat pulsing through him. He finally allows himself to sink under as she plants a tentative kiss on his lips. A kiss which he only returns, though much more urgent- more voracious; it’s like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of the desert- it’s his first sip of fresh water in days, and it makes her eyes widen.

She brings a hand round to the back of his neck, clinging to him eagerly, her thighs spreading further- non-verbal consent, a silent plea for more as she begins to feel the simmering deep in her belly hurriedly rise to a boil.

He grinds himself upwards without a thought, and she whimpers into his mouth. The friction, the sweet, fucking friction has him press back into her desperately, wanting more, sending a groan up from deep in his chest.

He’s gone. Rationality dwindled entirely as the slightest bit of pressure is applied, steadily being replaced with a frightening strength and burning need to have his way no matter the consequences.

She feels her heart rate quicken as she takes in the sight of his pupils. They’re fucking blown out. The pretty specks of amber that normally contrast the darker brown in his irises have been eclipsed by a deep amethyst.

“… want...fu-” Sam’s voice becomes lower still, grating through gnarled teeth, and as his fingertips dig into her back, keeping her in place, he shifts again- he’s so hard, so perfectly angled underneath her- she salivates as she chokes out. “Want to f- fill you up.”

Hey eyes gloss over and her brain numbs. She nods frantically. Heat floods between her thighs with a vengeance, rationality waning as a shockwave shoots through her arched spine. She wants everything to be touched by him.

The third time comes quicker; more brutal, more needy, taking advantage of her lack of composure as she succumbs to his grip, his mouth hungrily taking a dive for her neck again, except this time there’s less restraint. None, even.

“Oh-- sh-mmf-” Her body shudders as she slurs her words, and as his teeth pull harshly at her skin, she cries out into her hand.

Her legs tremble, knees aching as the stone beneath them digs in, breath pitching in her throat as she’s hit with a shamefully sudden climax.

Her wide eyes water as her hand remains clasped around her mouth, chest heaving as she struggles to register how little action it took for her to come, waiting for the pressure to abate and the fog to clear.

Instead, as she feels his hands roam, and watches his frantic eyes fail to decide what to settle on, the fog only thickens, overruling any semblance of critical thinking.

It hits her like a fucking tidal wave, in fact; she can’t fathom anything other than the fact that she needs more.

And in that split second, she surrenders to the pull, inhibitions fizzling away as she leans in, closing the distance between them again with a fierce determination. A surge of adrenaline tips her over the edge and she takes control, seizing him hungrily, fingertips digging harshly into his scalp to bring him back up to her. He protests, growling, biting harder until he feels himself pried away by force, her nails pressing into his jaw, leaving crescents as she gets him where she wants him, lips crashing together again in a tumultuous collision of lust and fervour.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She wants everything off- to feel her skin pressed up against his, but the time it would take to unbutton and unzip is a repulsive notion that ignites an almost animalistic frustration within her. The thought of it drives her insane- feverish fingers move from his hair and chin, and instead scramble for his belt buckle, clumsily tugging it apart as his teeth mirror the action at her bottom lip.

The messy exchange of teeth, tongue, and spit takes precedence over Sam’s brain, and he feels himself fall into her, torsos glued desperately together as the heat in his belly burns stronger. Hot blood pumps rapidly to his cock as her choked mewls drag him perilously close to the edge after no more than some mere friction.

His mouth traverses down her chin to her throat, ravenous groans muffled against her skin as he grips onto her for dear life, beginning to feel some give in the confinement of his jeans as she unzips them. She doesn’t even try to pull him away this time- her objective has changed.

He’d swear if he could, but his brain can’t even conjure up letters any more.

His teeth pierce the delicate skin of her neck, and a startled cry escapes her lips as she loses balance and tumbles backwards onto the unforgiving stone beneath them.

Sam looms over her, his weight pressing down until she feels almost crushed beneath him. Only his hand, gripping the back of her head with a fierce intensity that verges on violence, prevents her skull from meeting the ground with bone-shattering force.

His weight bears down on her, the back of one hand planted firmly against the ground underneath her head, while the other moves to maintain its bruising hold on her jaw, thumb hooking around her bottom teeth.

Every nerve in her body seems to betray any remnant of morality as she keens, her thighs tightening around him, trapping him in place as grinds himself against her. He selfishly draws tiny pinpricks of blood from her neck, and she claws at his arm, holding it against him as she bites and sucks what he gives her- almost every inch of her has become an unforgiving erogenous zone; it's all too much but not enough. It’s not enough. Teeth piercing her skin, tongue lapping up the mess- It’s an exquisite sort of agony, and she wants- needs- 

“More.” She murmurs around his thumb- or is it his finger now?

His teeth leave a trail of fire along her collarbone, her jawline, finally settling on her pulse point as it throbs beneath his lips. He grunts in response. There, he bites down harder, eliciting a guttural sound from deep within her throat as she struggles to catch her breath beneath him. Every break of the skin permits small bleeds of that relentless purple colour, rendering her virtually feral as she grows increasingly more overruled by the substance.

Rough hands roam beneath her t-shirt, sending goosebumps rising over heated skin as speckled blood bruises settle around her neck wherever his teeth have failed to puncture. To find some semblance of control amongst the chaotic frenzy, her trembling fingers pull at the waistband of her leggings, her urgency matching his own.

Fumbling clumsily, he joins her, his fingers tugging at the fabric with an urgency nigh on feral as his other hand harshly kneads at her waist. God, he wants to dig his fingers into her flesh, to break the skin, tear her apart, and fucking consume her from the inside out.

Before the waistband can even reach her thighs, she’s reaching down, pulling him out, drawing him towards her as a dribble of precum trickles over her fingertips, and he pushes up his torso to watch.

He’s sensitive. So, so, sensitive. In her desperation to pull him closer, she squeezes her palm around his shaft, and he chokes on his sudden gasp, hands smacking hard against the floor to hold himself up. 

Fuck. She wants to hear him do that again.

She grips him harder, stroking up and down with a cruelly tight fist. He’s all breathless whimpers and fluttering eyelids, allowing her to revel in the sounds as he drinks in the sight of her hand wrapped around him.

He shudders, undone, from virtually nothing, shaking violently and audibly moaning behind pursed lips. He can’t even think to muster up a verbal warning before he comes, pearly hot liquid spurting over her hand, dripping down onto her stomach. Yet, similarly to her, there’s no comedown. No time for shame about such a short build up. He’s still hard, red hot and weeping, body vying for more as his eyes glue themselves to the mess he’s made on her t-shirt, seeping through to her skin- Christ, her skin-

He’s hooked; her plushness, every recess and every convex curve, how her t-shirt clings to her stomach, made tacky by him. If it were possible, he’d cover her in him just so he could spend minutes watching it drip and bead and roll across and in-between her soft, smooth, warm skin. Sam’s so mesmerised that he barely even takes in the fact that he’s pushed her t-shirt up, his tongue and teeth licking and pulling at her stomach until his hips buck harshly at the saltiness of her sweat mixing with the flavour of his own stickiness. He shudders.

Her hands slide and scramble, clumsily unhooking her bra, scraping her knuckles on the floor beneath her before pulling it all off, over her head; all just in time for his mouth to open and cram as much of her left tit inside as he can. Sam sucks with a ferocity that’d be frightening if this wasn’t a shared affliction, rutting his hips sporadically against the bunched up fabric of her leggings rolled down to her thigh.

Her nipples are hard, sore, aching, and the pressure of his teeth rabidly biting and pulling, contradicting the soothing warmth of his tongue rolling in tandem, make her jaw go slack and her brows knit tightly together as she tries to navigate the fluctuating sensations.

Her hands slide over the back of Sam’s neck and down his shoulder blades, to his waist, his hips, sticky fingers stretching, running over hairs and scars and flexing abdominal muscle as they reach for his cock, slick, swollen, and heated as it meets her palm. Squeezing him closer to her, Sam groans, mouth pausing its assault on her chest, face falling flat into it, bucking harshly as she impatiently pulls him close, close, closer, writhing restlessly ’til her leggings are low enough for her thighs to part enough to let him in.

Incoherent, mumbled moans are hummed and panted into her tender chest, hands digging into the flesh of her waist as his shaft is squeezed and dragged against her sopping cunt. She moans, a languid, filthy thing as he meets her swollen, sensitive clit, the sodden cotton of her underwear brushing tortuously against it as she brashly pulls them aside.

His impatience builds, fingers digging into her deeper and deeper until they become restless and tug fiercely at her leggings. She hisses sharply as her naked back scrapes suddenly against the floor, her body shunted downwards til one of her legs are fully exposed to air, allowing Sam to hook his knee under hers, pushing up harshly and pinning her thighs apart- access that they’re both burning for. She urges him on with a whine as he pushes down on top of her, words lost to the both of them, communication reduced to vying grunts and desperate writhing.

His pupils dilate enough to make him look feral, purple-flecked irises madly dancing left, right, up, down, as if committing the sight of her, greedy and parched, to memory, before he finally complies, long groan grating out of him as his tip breaches her slightly. He can’t hesitate any longer. His lips part as his thick cock sinks into her inexorably, leaving her completely pliant beneath him. Despite how impossibly wet she is, the stretch is still so intense- she feels like she’s being split in two; it’s both the best and worst thing she’s ever felt, but something she never wants to end.

“S-ss…” She hisses, screwing her face up in frustration as she tries and fails to say his name, nails digging into him more. “Pl-P…” She grunts again, frustrated with her inability to conjure words. Her thighs tremble, the sharp, tight warmth in her stomach tugging and pulling and obliterating every sense as she tightens around him, eyes flickering, rolling back almost painfully as he fills her deep, retracts, and fills again, each time not stopping until he’s buried to the hilt.

For a moment, head spinning, he stares down at the way her head falls back, eyes squeezing shut, arms flopping, knuckles smacking against the ground as she traps a warbled cry behind her teeth, greedily sucking him into her. He grunts, brows drawn together, and thinks he’ll never be sated again like this. It's perfect. If only it weren't manufactured.

Heat sears him apart from the inside out, savage gluttony evident in the way he gasps and he groans when his hips slam forward, over and over, pressed so tightly against her that each movement reverberates astoundingly against her clit. She’s so tight, so perfect, so wet, around him as she whines and bucks up into him.

Sam holds her down; hand pinning forearm, fingers digging deeply into stomach and waist, knee prying thigh from purple-stained thigh, pumping into her at a relentless pace; She groans as he harshly works her open, arching into him as her stomach tightens— tighter, tighter, tighter, until she’s screaming, unpinned arm smacking into his back, nails clawing crescents into his sweat-slicked skin as another wave of arousal floods every sense of her being.

She can’t breathe- she doesn’t want to- the energy needed to do so would take away from the white hot pleasure coursing through every inch of her. Liquid gushes, her cunt clamping down hot around him and squeezing, milking him so tight it makes him choke on his own sharp inhale, so good it burns- it’s almost excruciating. He shudders as he breaks, palm slamming against the floor to hold himself up when he comes, too.

She groans at the fullness and the warmth of him spilling inside her, breath coming out in messy, uneven bursts as she feels herself suck in every drop.

For a moment, she watches him come down from his peak, heavy-lidded eyes grazing over the vulnerable crease in his brow, the way his cheeks flush as he catches his breath above her, and his parted lips- she wants to kiss him. Sweetly. She wants him to let her show him she's not a ‘kid’. She wants to feel what it's like to be wanted by him. She's strong, capable, undeniably and irrevocably attracted to him, and… God… She still feels hot. Despite coming twice- or is it three times, now- the need for more is already becoming unbearable, and she fails to decipher if these thoughts are coming from the chemical festering in her veins, or if they're being made apparent due to its diminishing strength. She stings. Oh, she's a mess.

He’s still hard inside her, twitching, demanding still. The question gnaws at her, but her body burns for more, more, more. He slows above her, the lack of physical stimulation, and the completely deriding overstimulation of her mental state making her eyes water. She wriggles slightly, an impatient grunt echoing around the small room as she tries to roll her hips under him. The stillness of his cock inside her has her mewling, still spasming softly around him.

“S- Sam-” She sputters, eyes widening in realisation of her somewhat rehabilitated ability to speak.

For just a few seconds his mind’s feverish occupation dilutes, replaced with a glimpse of a soft, sated afterglow… he falters, his mouth hanging open like there’s something he wants to say. 

“Mm…more. Need more.” She beats him to it, murmuring between shallow breaths, feeling the rising ache cloud her mind already.

His heart thuds so fast it’s a surprise it’s not sat in his throat- is it gratitude he’s trying to muster? Or, an admission perhaps? “I-” Just like her, the words are fighting to get out of him, but just as he strings a sentence together in his head, he starts to tense again. “Gotta… I- I’m-”

For a second, she feels sympathetic as she watches him war with himself. But her body doesn’t let the sympathy hang about for long, and she finds herself making his mind up for him, tugging him down by the back of the neck, tongue meeting tongue as she ferociously bucks up, calf hooking around thigh to pull him tight against her, giving her leverage to twist her hips and roll them both around.

It burns, the white hot anticipation, and he can barely move. His brain has been dumbed down; near-irrevocably stuck between wanting to split her open again, to keep biting and bruising and claiming, or to actually feel- to savour her in her entirety. His indecisive stupor makes him ache even more, brows knitting together tightly as his mind tries and fails to establish where to go next.

Sam can barely process anything outside of the softness of her sticky palm on his chest, the ridges of her fingerprints and the gentle sharpness each time her nails brush against his skin as she pushes him against the ground. She rolls her hips, soft curses spilling out of her lips as she feels his hands clumsily dig into her ass. He shuts his eyes, head lulling sideways as he swallows hard, choosing to feel.

Grip loosening momentarily, his eyes open at the feeling of her fingers branching up, wrapping themselves around his throat; loose, but just enough pressure that he can feel his own pulse reverberate against her thumb. She squeezes harder, turning him to face her, his head numbing with a pleasurable fizz as his vision transfixes on her.

He's too tired to fight against her- truth be told, he probably wouldn't try if he did have the strength. Jesus, she's so pretty, he thinks. Well that makes a change. Significantly less violent than the thoughts circulating his head earlier. She could squeeze tighter and tighter if she wanted, and he still wouldn't protest if it meant he could watch her, like this, from underneath her. Especially when she comes again, back arching as she moans like a fucking animal- and still she doesn't stop.

“So- you’re-” Between the pressure on his throat, her relentless pace, and his own spasmodic panting, he can barely string a sentence together, “s-damn tight- so good- fuck.”

He finds himself completely and utterly caught up in how tight she still feels around him- how fucking gorgeous she looks with her eyebrows drawn tightly together, eyelids heavy as she ferociously rocks her hips, stomach flexing, tits bouncing- the speckled bruises and drying blood stippled across her neck and collarbones- and then there's a hard pang of guilt; he did that to her- made her bleed- infected her- it's his fault that she's being made to give him this-- exactly… what he's wanted…for months.

He expects the thrumming ache to cloud him over again, but it never comes. Instead, a strange clarity claws its way through the haze of his mind. This is what he has longed for for months, but now that it's here, the moment is tainted by anguish. It took this entire horrible ordeal to force him to act upon his feelings, and he mourns the likelihood that this will be the one and only time he gets to be this close to her.

And then, beneath the sorrow and the dread, there lies a deeper, more corrosive guilt. It gnaws at him, a conscience-grating burden that leaves him nauseous. Despite the mental torment, despite everything, his body betrays him, running rife with boiling hot pleasure. The contradiction tears at him, a cruel reminder of his own skewed morality and the complex, painful nature of his...is it his love for her?

The obscene squelching sounds and the wetness leaking out of her and down her inner thighs, forming small puddles on his skin, and the floor, and, fuck, as she murmurs an exhausted plea, the taste he's getting of being wanted- needed- used by her- it all sends him over the edge.

She whimpers and falls into him, moaning incoherently into the crook of his neck as her fingers tighten, nails scraping against stubble, and-- jesus, he's coming again.

His hands meet her upper back, holding her down as he fills her once more, rasped groans and a string of murmured curses vibrate against her skin as he swallows against her hand. He holds onto her selfishly, savouring the feeling of her weight on top of his- bare skin on bare skin, the way she seeks comfort in him- he's thought about this countless times… and he hates how much he's enjoying the consent-less reality of it.

Her movements slow, becoming sloppier, lazier, her energy dwindling as she tries to chase the release she desperately needs. She whimpers, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes, dampening Sam's shoulder as they fall, and she finds her swollen, sensitive clit with one hand while the other moves from his throat to his hair.

He continues to hold her as his sensitive cock twitches inside her, nose nuzzling into her hair as he whispers; "Did you...?"

She shakes her head, a soft whimper coming out of her as she tries to push herself into another orgasm. The sound of his voice. Raw, raspy, quiet in her ears makes her tear up even more, and all of a sudden, her body's pursuit of pleasure has become torturous. She looks at Sam, his eyes clearer, amber flecks of colour visible again, his expression one of concern and exhaustion. Guilt churns in her stomach, sharp and nauseating, as the fog in her mind grows lighter by the second- the physical pain persists.

Her body, still wracked by the effects of the drug, betrays her with every shiver, flush of heat, and every desperate circle of her fingertips. She feels humiliated, the intense need now a source of shame, tucking her head back into his shoulder as she arches her back despite herself. Tears well up in her eyes, and she can’t meet Sam's eyes. "I... I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I still need to-" she sniffs, "I can't- hurts."

Sam’s heart aches at the sight of her distress, and he nods, one hand smoothing down to her soft hip as the other stays on her back. He breathes in the scent of her hair, wanting to savour the moment- hell, he probably won't see her again if this is how she's reacting before she's fully recovered.

He wants more of her, he knows he does. But he's sensitive… and the clarity is still there. The clarity. The stabbing, blunt, serrated knife sawing in and out of his gut that makes him realise that he's never going to have this again. And that none of it was real anyway. But she sobs, and the sting in his chest wanes from his pain to hers. For now, curing hers takes precedence. 

Gently, he pushes against her, and exhausted, she complies, rolling back round to her back, eyes closed, borderline hyperventilating. He pulls her hand from between her legs and she huffs out a shaky breath.

“Sorry…hgnn- I'm sorry.” She whispers, her chest tightening.

He watches her try to cover her face with her forearm, and as he slides out of her, she sobs quietly, tensing her thighs together and rocking her hips softly to try and give her clit the friction it needs as she's left empty.

He rubs the palm of her hand with his thumb, gently lacing his fingers between hers, eyes glued to the way their skin glistens with their mixed arousal. “None’a that.” He says, squeezing her hand as he gently pries her thighs apart. “Not your fault.”

She whimpers up to the ceiling.

“God, it really hurts, Sam.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He holds himself up on an elbow and exhales. His free hand traverses down her torso, giving her waist a reassuring squeeze before reaching between her thighs.

She keens at the nickname, making a shuddered whimper as his fore and middle fingers gather some of the copious amount of shared arousal, rubbing against her carefully.

“This okay?”

Her chin trembles as she nods. “I need more.” She whispers, and almost immediately he pushes two fingers knuckle-deep into her aching cunt, pearlescent slick oozing out onto the palm of his hand down to his wrist. She squeezes his hand instinctively, a groan bubbling out of her throat.

His eyes follow the trail as his fingers stroke her from the inside and his thumb flicks softly at her clit, her soft moans permeating his mind. He's hard again; the thick liquid warms his wrist as it trickles down further, up to where the veins in his forearm meet the inside of his elbow- the veins that were deep purple not too long ago. He looks at his hand, then her thigh; still a small webbing of colour coming from the bite mark, whilst nowhere to be seen on him.

He swallows. There's a soft haze over his brain again, but it's gentle this time. Normal, even, bar the bittersweetness of it all. There's no burn. No malicious desire eating away at him… He just wants to savour her; to soothe, to make her feel better. She looks so ashamed. He wants to take that away from her.

Sam glances back up at her, eyes shut and arm crossed to cover her chest and it feels like a kick in the stomach. He purposely slows his hand, and her eyes open.

Before she can choke out another plea, he leans over her again, pressing his lips to hers gently, slowly building up his hand’s pace as he feels her sigh heavily. His chest thuds as he takes the time to memorise the softness of her lips, acknowledging that this might be the only time he gets to be so soft with her. It breaks his heart- another unforseen circumstance.

Her stomach flutters as he kisses her, the unexpected softness of it making more tears prick at her eyes as he works her closer to her peak. She moves her arm from her chest back to his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

After a moment, he moves from her lips, gently licking and pecking at each bruise and break in her delicate skin, relieved that there's no more purple, but unable to shake the guilt as he mutters apologies interspersed with each break for breath.

She squeezes his hand back, her whole body tensing.

His mouth traverses lower; down her sternum, all the way to her lower abdomen, until he reaches the tops of her thighs, where tacky quickly turns to wet as he moves lower still. Her breath catches as his eyes lock onto hers, and her lips part slightly, a subtle invitation, or perhaps merely surprise, but it's enough to keep him rooted, suspended between action and restraint as he feels himself salivate. In that silence, he waits, desperately vying for the smallest sign of consent.

She winces, her body aching as it waits for release, but she doesn't break eye contact. Instead, she takes a deep breath, and her fingers, trembling, unhook from his and reach out to rest on his jaw, her thumb brushing lightly against his lower lip. It's so brief and gentle it almost feels imagined. Yet, it's there— an undeniable gesture that heats his blood- organically, this time; He tastes them both on her skin and fuck, it's nothing short of heavenly. 

He swallows, eyes flitting around, learning the sight of her by heart before looking back up at her. He licks again and his cock twitches.

With a mixture of reverence and hunger, he closes the distance between them, movements measured and purposeful, each stroke of his tongue filled with a tenderness that belies all of the turmoil eating away inside him.

Her grip on his hair tightens as she sighs up to the ceiling. He loses a little restraint as she breathes out his name, begging him for more, and small, neat licks turn more rabid when his hand wraps around his shaft. He pumps himself with the same intensity as his tongue as it works in and out of her, his soft groans making her hips buck into his mouth as her breaths become more shallow.

She moans- cracked and raspy with exhaustion- at the feel of his lips, his nose, his tongue licking and sucking and savouring the satiating nectar dripping from between her trembling legs. His tongue broadens to gather and swallow before alternating to target her clit with the tip, wet and hot as he laps and swirls and buries in and around her. He tightens his fist around his cock, causing her stomach to roll as he moans into her- it's sloppy and messy and downright vulgar, but there's something so enamouring about his enthusiasm. His forearm wraps under her thigh, pulling her tight against his mouth as he grows closer to another climax of his own, and she gasps and arches even closer.

"Fuck, Sam-I, I'm-" she can feel him looking up at her as she struggles to string a sentence together, using the sight of her to coax his own pain-numbing, breathtaking orgasm. He moans, stimulating her tenfold as he releases warm ropes onto himself, his eyes rolling back as he near-suffocates against her.

He keeps going, and going, even when he lets go of himself to grip her stomach and pin her down- and she almost chokes, unable to breathe as she's utterly overwhelmed by the pleasure and the raw, visceral feelings for him that stabs relentlessly into her heart. She feels the pain raking its way through her body dissipate with each second that goes by.

He's so good. So fucking handsome.

She finally comes, a warbled cry trapped behind her teeth as her eyes squeeze shut and a rapturous wave of coolness floods her body. It's overwhelming- asphyxiating, even; tears streaming, fingers knotting rougher into his curls as he holds her tightly in place, devouring her through and past her climax. He takes and takes and takes-- shit, he loves this.

"S-sam,"

He loves this.

"Agh- Sam, pl- stop-"

He loves this. He fucking loves this- her. He- he loves-

She yanks hard enough on his hair that he's forced away from her with a pained hiss, gasping heavily like he hasn't taken a proper breath in minutes, his entire face from the bridge of his nose down glazed and glistening. He looks so pretty. She aches.

His eyes traverse, conflicted and somewhat melancholic from her thighs, up to her face, and she sees that he's... crying too. It's alien to her. What has she done to him?

She holds his gaze, her own eyes red-rimmed and tear-filled. The regret feels like a physical ache in her chest, mingling with the remnants of aftershock and the soreness between her legs and all over her broken skin across her thigh and décolletage. Despite the excruciating shame, she wants to reach out, to tell him that it's okay, that they had both been caught in the same storm. But the words don't come.

Instead, she sits up ever so slightly, wincing as she scoots closer, their bodies brushing as she nervously pulls his head to her shoulder; a tentative, fragile gesture, but she hopes it speaks volumes nonetheless. He stiffens at first, but eventually relaxes, his arm scooping beneath her to hold onto her gently.

She cradles his head against her, staring at the ceiling with tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. The physical pain was dulled now, but the emotional ache was fierce. She had never fantasised it being like this, tainted by necessity and confusion, and she doesn't know what to do. It's suffocating.

For a moment, they both just breathe, soaking in the sickly, unfiltered aftermath of the whole ordeal.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours—they've lost all sense of time in this weird fucking space where the boundaries have been irreparably corroded. They're cold. Exhausted. Emotionally bare. And now he feels like a damn coward, letting her stroke his hair and cradle him against her chest, after all he's put her through. He grits his teeth in an attempt to keep his watery eyes from spilling over.

But the attempt fails, and he hates how uncharacteristic this is. Screw this place. Screw Cassimir. Screw their client, screw his own greed that brought them here in the first place, and screw- fucking screw her for taking away his ability to remain a husk- and for letting him hurt her.

Finally, she pulls back as she feels her skin dampen and his shoulders jolt ever so slightly, her hand forcing his chin up. Her eyes search for him, and in that moment, she fully takes it in, and sees what she hopes to be the same fear, the same shame, and yet, the same insane level of care that has gnawed at her heart for so long.

Sam opens his mouth to speak as her brows furrow, but no words form, let alone come out, aside from a pathetic, choked sigh that hints at the tumult of emotions stirring inside him. His tongue rolls over his lip, and the lingering taste of them has him shudder and shut his eyes.

He can’t bring himself to look at her, the shame too sickening, too palpable. But then, as he pulls away, getting up to his knees as he fumbles with his jeans, he feels her hand on his arm, steadying him. He looks down, and in her eyes, he doesn't see pity, or accusation, but- and for a second he considers pinching himself- understanding, a non-verbal acknowledgment of his vulnerability.

Delicate and trembling, her fingers reach up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw as if to reassure herself that he is real, that this moment, however fleeting and fraught with confusion, was real. At least she'd have it stapled to her memory. Sam closes his eyes at her touch, a self deprecating huff leaving his lips. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm; a silent apology and a desperate plea for reassurance that she's actually thinking what he hopes she is. He even hazards a look to her thigh for any sign of coercion from the drug still coursing through her, but there's no purple in sight.

She reaches one of her arms above her head, just about reaching her shirt. She grunts in disgust, the material sodden, and she drops it back down with a shaky huff, the room's frigid temperature finally having an effect once more.

Sam pushes himself up again, rubbing his damp cheeks with the back of his hand as a sense of normalcy seeps back into his senses. And with that normalcy, grief.

He finds his t-shirt, quickly sliding it over his head despite the excess of sweat and bodily fluid covering both his skin and the material. He grimaces as it clings to him, and she watches on with a poignant shiver, pulling her knees to her chest after adjusting her soaked-through underwear, her boots scraping against the ground as she does so.

He clears his throat, picking up his plaid overshirt from where he'd discarded it earlier before looking over his shoulder at her as he pulls the sleeves through the right way. 

Someone has to speak sooner or later, she thinks, but can't bring herself to. Her nails scratch nervously at her skin as she weighs up what to do, trying not to cry at the prospect of Sam's walls being rebuilt so fast after pouring everything- mind, body, soul- into her moments ago. She feels so naive- so fucking silly-

“What was it you said earlier?”

Her head shoots up as he speaks, caught off guard by how much he sounds like his usual self. Charming, cocky, collected.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyebrows drawing together and her eyes narrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity. Her lips part just enough to show she's on the verge of speaking, but she holds back, waiting for his next words to clarify the moment.

He extends his shirt out to her, lips quirking into a soft, somewhat reassuring smile. She looks at him for a moment, taking the shirt and putting it on.

“Somethin’ about an HR department?”

She looks at him, a soft laugh fluttering to the surface. It's a quiet sound, tinged with shyness and still wrapped in the lingering sadness of their shared ordeal. Her eyes lower for a moment, the weight of everything that happened settling in.

Seeing her reaction, Sam gets up and moves to where her water flask lies discarded. He unscrews the cap and pours some onto a clean part of his t-shirt. She begins to button her shirt, but he stops her, silently asking for a moment longer.

“Can I?”

She lets go of the shirt, and with gentle, still slightly shaky hands, he dabs the wet cotton softly over her wound-ridden skin.

She watches him, the sadness in her eyes gradually giving way to something softer, his tenderness speaking volumes. As he continues to tend to her wounds, his mouth twists in thought, like there's something he wants to say. So he does.

“I'm sorry.”

He's not the type to apologise, so eye contact is impossible.

“What?”

He continues dabbing at her skin in silence.

“Sam.”

She covers his hand, stopping him from finding any other distraction.

“You didn't ask for this."

He frowns. “I- I just put you through… somethin’ not far off of assault, and your response is-”

“No. Not one part of that was assault-”

“She says, as I wipe up blood from bites I gave her.”

“Yeah, with the mouth that's covered in my cum.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but he can't find anything to say. His cheeks redden.

She sighs again. They're going in circles and she wants to put an end to it all- she's tired. Filthy. Possibly concussed. Which she uses to excuse what she does next.

“Can I try something?” she asks. Fuck it.

“Try what?"

Without another word, she steps closer, her eyes searching for any sign of protest. When she finds none, she leans in and kisses him, her lips soft and warm against his, holding none of the desperation or haze of their previous encounter, completely free from the influence of any perverted pill or potion.

What's she got to lose?

Sam is shocked at first, his body tensing. He instinctively pulls her off, his eyes flitting around her face as his jaw loosens and tightens in search of something to say.

Her heart sinks and she steps back, “Thought so,” she smiles sadly, backing away, knowing it was a mistake to try. "Can we... can we get out of here?"

He should hate himself, right? He's gone against everything he's ever stood for- let every non-committal brick he's built since teenagehood crumble to dust. He's gone soft. Sentimental. By force, to begin with, yet he still hasn't stopped himself. It's… Pleasant. Is this the balance Cassimir fetishised over?

Screw it, he decides, Because if he has to stand by and watch her grow apart from him when she's just shown the same as- if not more vulnerability than him, what use are a few walls?

He pulls her back, his lips finding hers again. This time, it's different- there’s no urgency, no magical compulsion, but rather something deep- genuine. The kiss is tender, filled with all the emotions they’ve been too afraid to voice, and he feels years worth of tension escape him. His sore muscles loosen, hands cupping her face softly, and she melts into him.

When they finally pull apart, their foreheads rest together, and this alone feels infinitely more intimate than anything that had transpired beforehand.

"So... is it safe to assume that we're both on the same page, or...?" She swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper, but her usual playfulness breaks through, and it makes him smile.

"What, that we're both in dire need of some good laundry detergent and a shower? Or was there somethin' else on your mind?"

She snorts, gently kicking his shin, the enormity of months worth of repressed feelings finally worn on the proverbial sleeve. She takes a deep breath, the worry in her eyes softening as she looks at him.

"We have a lot to figure out."

He chews the inside of his lip contemplatively, still not entirely sure there’s any reason why she’s being so gracious. So calm, despite it all, like he deserves any of it.

There’s a beat.

And then he nods. Because that’s why she makes his entire psyche shift off-kilter- makes him notice his bad habits.

"We'd… uh, better cash those vials in."

She sees a million-and-one thoughts behind his eyes, but he needs to rest. So she waits, head tilted, suspecting he's got something else to add. 

"How else am I supposed to afford a five-star first date?"

The other million thoughts can wait.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

I promise to write something short and funny next time x

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is: @teddywesworl! teddywesworl has 17 fics posted to AO3 in the Stranger Things fandom and all of them are in the Steddie tag!

@dame-zoom-a-lot recommends the following works by teddywesworl:

Dissonance Theory

A Gem Beyond Counting

Schiava

In the Kitchen or the Tulips

Anemone

"Her fic, Anemone, got me into Omegaverse because it was so good and so weird and just perfect. She's introduced me to so many cool tropes, and she always manages to put her own spin on it. And her dialogues are so funny that I accidentally quote them from time to time." -- @dame-zoom-a-lot

Below the cut, @teddywesworl answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I think Steddie’s appeal to me is rooted in class tension and social power. Within the insular confines of a small town in Indiana in the 80s, these two guys couldn’t be much more different—Steve’s parents have a giant house and buy him a BMW, while Eddie lives in the trailer park with his uncle and tells stories about a father who taught him to steal cars. Steve peaked as the top jock in high school, while Eddie, held back from graduating twice, delivers abrasive monologues from atop cafeteria tables and runs the much-maligned D&D club. But then you peel back those surface layers, and they’re both fundamentally good dudes who will lay everything down for the people they care about. It’s really fun to both read and write about the ways the tension inherent to their circumstances might resolve.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

Honestly, it sort of changes over time? But I’m a softie at heart, so it has to have a happy ending.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Anything to do with power exchange. :)

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

Sleight of Hand by Smithereen (@flieslikeamoron on tumblr)

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I have most of an outline of an incubus!Eddie fic sitting in my google docs. No idea if I’ll ever write it!

What is your writing process like?

First, I get possessed by an idea. Then I obsessively rotate the idea in my mind for 12-48 hours, picking apart what’s compelling about it and concocting like… key moments and images and concepts that give the concept its legs. Then I build an outline around those key pieces. Then prose.

Do you have any writing quirks?

Probably.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

When I’ve finished writing. I did Deathsleep sort of on a schedule, but I chafe against anything that makes fandom feel too polished or like a job.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Deathsleep. Please read Deathsleep. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written, and it’s not a close call, and if I get my original fantasy fiction published one day, everyone who’s read Deathsleep will immediately be able to tell what it was a rehearsal for.

How did you get the idea for Anemone?

So I resisted writing omegaverse for a long time because I didn’t think I had anything to add to the genre and furthermore didn’t have anything fun to say about the Gender of it all. But then @jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s, @r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e, and @stevehairingtit kept saying interesting things about omegaverse both in fic and in conversation, and I realized that I did have something to contribute: a background in developmental biology. So Anemone actually started as a way to discuss how certain omegaverse conventions (in particular, bitching) might work if they were real. And then I stirred in a healthy portion of my love of extremely weird and fucked up power dynamics.

When writing In the Kitchen or the Tulips, what was something you didn’t expect?

The intergenerational storytelling. I had no idea all the parental figures were going to be as important to everything as they ended up being. It’s sort of obvious in retrospect, but it came out of nowhere during development.

What inspired In the Kitchen or the Tulips?

My love/hate relationship with soulmate AUs. What a weird and complicated fanfic trope, right? As soon as you start thinking about them too hard, they start saying some very strange things about, say, free will. I wanted to sink my teeth into that idea. I wanted to look right at it. I wanted to ask what makes a soulmate bond work or not work, and I did NOT want the formation of the bond to be the climax of the story.

What was your favorite part to write from Schiava?

I basically have no memory of writing the entire Vino series. I was possessed, five minutes passed, and then three fics existed. I really like the bit where Vecna tries to take Eddie back and Steve figures out how to prevent it, though. :)

How do/did you feel writing A Gem Beyond Counting?

Gem is the most self-indulgent fic I’ve ever written, just because it was born from doing one of those fanfic trope tier list memes and then making an outline out of my whole S tier row. It was a blast.

What was the most difficult part of writing Dissonance Theory?

DT took forever to finish. I got stuck on the train station in chapter 4, just couldn’t quite figure out how I wanted to resolve Eddie’s human relationships. I got through it, though, because I really wanted to get to the knife stuff.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

Deathsleep acumen sequence.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

I’ve got my head down writing a fantasy novel at the moment, around 30k in the draft as of this writing. If anybody’s into stories about monsters, monster hunters, imperial collapse, and dragonslaying as a metaphor for cultural genocide, I post occasional updates about it on my tumblr and I will be super obnoxious if/when it gets published!

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Thank you to whomstsoever thought of me for the spotlight! Love you, steddies.

Thank you to our author, @teddywesworl, and our nominator, @dame-zoom-a-lot! See more of teddywesworl's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[lurking-latinist]

How to Suck Less at Summaries

Probably almost anyone who's ever posted a fic to ao3 or a platform with a similar interface has been hit by that moment of panic, breaking in on the euphoria of having finished and polished a fic--"what do I put for the summary?!"

So much so, that "I suck at summaries" in the summary box has become something of a cliche. It's very understandable! You've already put all that work into writing the fic itself, and now you have to write ANOTHER thing with its own set of conventions and expectations? No way!

And I want to start by saying that that's absolutely fine. Fic writing is your hobby, your creative endeavor; you're not obligated to do anything in it that you don't want to. You can leave the summary box completely blank--ao3 will let you--and there's no reason you shouldn't, if that's what you want to do! If you're happy with your summaries, please don't change them. There's no wrong way to do summaries. This is your invitation to ignore the entire rest of this post!

However. My impression is that an awful lot of people aren't happy with their summaries. They would like to have summaries that catch a reader's attention, that fit common patterns, or that give a good representation of the fic; they're just not sure how to accomplish that, or what readers might be expecting. And the good news is that writing various styles of summaries, like other kinds of writing, is a skill you can improve--and that there are some tips and tricks that can help you write the kinds of summaries you may want to write more quickly.

How do I know? Well, on top of having read I don't know how many fics, I've published 200 of my own, with all different kinds of summaries. (In fact, writing this post is my treat to myself to celebrate publishing 200 fics!) So I have a lot of trial and error experience to draw on. I'll be using my own summaries as examples (plus some hypothetical examples), because I don't want to be nitpicking anyone else's!

I'm going to throw in a cut now because this is gonna get long.

What do you want to accomplish with your summary?

That's the first question you might want to ask yourself. And the answer really is up to you! The name "summary" suggests it's supposed to be a sort of short version of your story. That's one option. But summaries are often used to accomplish various other things, too: some of my favorite summaries don't really tell you anything about the plot of the fic, but instead give you a glimpse of the writer's style or lure you in with a question. It can also fill organizational purposes like commemorating the reason the fic was written (although author notes can also be effective for things like this).

Most fundamentally, I tend to think of the summary box as a place to manage your readers' expectations. I want them to have some sense of what the fic they're about to read might be like, and I want to present that in a way that highlights why it might be appealing to them. Of course, what I write won't be appealing to every reader--and an effective summary, plus accurate tags and ratings of course, allows a reader who won't enjoy what I have to offer to quickly keep scrolling and find something that fits their tastes better. But the way I think of them, summaries are really mainly for readers who will enjoy my fic if they decide to open it. A summary for a fic is like a pretty package for a gift: the gift is great in itself, and the nice gift-wrap makes it more eye-catching and more fun to open!

Sidebar: This "managing expectations" thing is, I think, the reason why authors sometimes add notes in the summary like "I'm sorry if this sucks" or "this is my first fic, it's probably terrible." I completely understand where this comes from--you don't want to make your readers expect some kind of genius literature and then only have something to give them that you yourself are still insecure about! But I really do think they're generally counterproductive. On the one hand, that kind of negative self-talk will tend to undermine your own confidence and make you more insecure about your writing, not less; on the other hand, they can subconsciously prime your readers to notice weaknesses and issues that they might otherwise not even have paid attention to! That doesn't mean you have to pretend you think your writing is perfect; very few of us do think what we post on fic archives is perfect. There's nothing wrong, even, with a note like "this is my first fic" or "this one is a bit experimental, I'm not sure how I feel about it" or "this wasn't written in my first language" or even "this is an old fic and I don't think it represents my best work anymore", although I tend to put that kind of commentary on craft in the author's notes rather than the summary, but that's just me; there's no rule. As an example, when I recently published my first fic in the Hornblower fandom, which has a historical setting I wasn't previously very familiar with, I thanked my beta for helping me avoid "historical howlers" and added "any remaining are my own responsibility." That made me feel better about potential mistakes in research by showing that I was aware I might have made some. I put this in an author's note at the end of the story. But, for the sake of you as a writer as well as me as a reader, I'm asking you--please don't start out our reader/writer relationship by telling me it's terrible! Give yourself a chance to shine. Even if there's a lot you're insecure about in your fic, there's something you love--maybe it's the premise, the ship, even one particular line--that makes you want to share it with the world. Use the summary to highlight that. As your reader, that's what I want to know about!

Anyway, now that you've decided what you want your summary to accomplish, there are a couple of very easy ways to fill the summary box that you might want to consider--if they make sense for your fic.

Just quote the prompt

When I write prompt-fic, often very short, I frequently just quote the prompt itself as the summary. An example would be my 3 Sentence Ficathon fic archived on ao3. Since the challenge in this event is to write a complete fic in only three sentences, a summary wouldn't be much shorter than the fic itself! So I just do summaries like

For reeby10's prompt: "Doctor Who, Clara/Twelve, unforgettable."

(Gaps)

This can work outside of prompt memes, too. If you're doing a monthly challenge, for instance, something like

Flufftember day 21, 'breakfast in bed'

might tell your readers all they need to know to be interested in your story and know what to expect.

Set the context

For some fic, the most important thing you want your readers to know going in is something about the fic's context. For instance, with drabbles I sometimes use the summary as a place to sneak in information about setting/what's supposed to be happening that I didn't have room for in the drabble itself. For Susan's Twist, a 100-word drabble, I set the scene in the summary:

Susan is grooving to the latest chart-topper of 1963. But for some reason, the song makes her grandfather uncomfortable.

which meant I didn't have to use any of my 100 words explaining "Susan was listening to the radio, when..." Since Susan's Twist was inspired by someone else's Tumblr post, I could also just have referenced that post in the summary. But in this case, I chose to phrase the premise in my own words in the summary, and cite the Tumblr post in the author's notes (I also tagged the OP when I shared the fic on Tumblr).

Flower Children is an example of a drabble with a not particularly effective summary where I could have used this strategy quite effectively. The summary is just

Neither of them wants to fight.

which is all right, but which doesn't do much to set up the (admittedly cracky) Eighth Doctor/Dalek Oswin pairing that motivates the fic. But then, I've always felt like I didn't have quite as much of an idea as I'd like about what the context for this fic is supposed to be. Maybe I'll write more about them sometime.

Setting the context can also be useful for summaries of AUs. Very often, what draws people into AUs is the AU concept itself.

For instance, the premise of my story te quaerens, Ariadna is that the events of the audio Zagreus go differently and the Doctor remains possessed by/transformed into Zagreus. So that's what I said in the summary:

The Doctor is still Zagreus, but he and Charley find ways to keep going.

In this case, the summary is accomplishing more than one thing; it explains the concept, but it also indicates a bit of the story's tone--it's fairly optimistic given its premise, and it's more about how their relationship evolves than any particular plotty event.

With setting change AUs--especially in familiar AU settings, like a coffeeshop, high school, or fantasy monarchy--often what readers will most want to know is what roles the characters are filling; in other words, how the translation from canon to AU has been made. For instance, my story Warmth is already tagged as a coffeeshop AU with the Fifth Doctor, Nyssa, Tegan, and Adric, so the summary indicates that it's told from the perspective of Tegan as a new employee:

Unexpectedly stranded in London and looking for work, Tegan finds a place where she just might fit in.

If she had been a longtime employee or a customer, that would have changed the story's dynamics, and I would have wanted the summary to reflect that instead. I could have also added that the Doctor is the shop's manager and Nyssa and Adric are the existing employees, but I decided to let the story itself reveal that in this case.

With someone's planted a bath bomb in the matrix, which is a retail AU inspired by an incorrect quotes tumblr post, I just stuck the whole tumblr post in the summary box:

Romana: When you work at lush and a customer comes in and bites the soap because they think it’s cheese… this happens way more frequently than you think. Leela: If you stopped literally presenting soap as deli food this wouldn't happen. Narvin: Who goes into a bath store and thinks something covered in glitter is cheese? Brax: Who goes to the store and just takes a bite from the cheese? ~incorrectgallifreyquotes.tumblr.com

I might do that a bit differently now--maybe more the way I handled Susan's Twist--maybe something like this in the summary:

An uptight employee and a too-suave customer are making Romana's job managing a bath store way too stressful. Thank goodness--probably--that her best friend works for mall security.

And then I'd have put the tumblr post that inspired it in author's notes.

Thing is, though, that reflects my taste and what I think is effective now, but it doesn't mean I did it wrong the first time. People read and enjoyed the story, and it was fine!

Also I just showed this post to Moki and she said she thinks the first one's more intriguing. So that just goes to show, it's really a matter of taste.

This strategy is also useful for missing scenes and things like that. Something as simple as

While waiting for Z to return from the rendezvous, X and Y have a conversation.

can draw in readers very effectively, especially if X and Y's conversation was kind of obviously a gap in the story that they might already be curious about.

Use a quote

A surprisingly effective and straightforward way to create a summary is just to use a quote from the fic. I've seen tons of great summaries like this that hook me in immediately. I struggle with using it myself, because I want the line I quote to be powerful/impactful/intriguing and give some sense of what the plot is like and make sense out of context, and I don't often seem to be able to find lines like that in my own work. But I did for The Moon by Night:

It could not have been more than a day that we clung to the hull of that station full of troopers.

Since this is a space AU for a historical fiction novel, this line gives some sense of how the events of the story have been translated into space, and also shows the voice I'm writing in (I tried to follow the style of the original, which is first-person, which is unusual for me). If you can find a line like that in your work, it can be a great summary. You can even just put the first couple of lines of the fic, especially if you've already worked to make them an effective hook!

You can also use a quote from another source. Was there a line or moment from canon that inspired the fic? A poem or song that fits its mood? You can use the summary as a sort of epigraph. (I often use author's notes for this as well.) If your readers vibe with the quote that inspired the story, they're likely to vibe with the story as well.

I did something like this with Absent thee from felicity awhile. The title is a quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet, and all I put in the summary box was another quote from a couple of lines later:

…to tell my story.

This is so short and contextless, though, that I'm not sure how effective it was. It maybe only works if you recognize the specific Hamlet scene that it's taken from and have thought about that scene in the context of a specific episode of Hornblower. (I promise that, if you do, it's heartbreakingly ironic!) This could have been a good opportunity for me to do a double summary (see below), especially since the story is epistolary and I could've established its context. Although I did kind of like revealing who was reading the letter and when slowly over the course of the story.

Okay, but I do want to explain the plot

Right, so we've established that effective summaries don't have to be in that "back of the book blurb" format. But sometimes you want them to be. Sometimes the thing you're most excited about is the story's plot or events, and you want to communicate that to the reader. But you already wrote the story in order to communicate the plot to the reader; how do you condense it into a sentence or two? Here are some tips that may help.

Are you using familiar tropes? If so, just mentioning them will likely tell your reader not only what the plot is, but that (if they like that trope) they're likely to enjoy it. For instance:

A and B are trapped in a snow cave/ice planet/walk-in freezer and must huddle for warmth.

That particular one will also explain a bit about the setting, if you want.

Relationship status/development is also something that many readers want to know, whether it's a romantic or a gen relationship (e.g. characters becoming friends or realizing they see each other as family). For instance, if A and B admit their romantic feelings for the first time in that huddling for warmth story, you might add:

They get a lot closer than either of them expects...

I rather like ellipses at the end of a summary; I think they imply, sort of, "read the fic to find out the rest." I sometimes use them to soften a summary that feels a bit abrupt. I feel like this might be just me, though? So if you don't like ellipses, nothing wrong with ending that same summary with a period.

If you have a fic where the entire content is some emotional development between characters, the entire summary can easily be that too!

I don't really write smut so I don't have good advice for summarizing it, but I get the feeling this might be a relevant strategy for it?

What changes in the story? This could be a change in characters' attitudes towards each other, in the information they have, in their physical situation, or anything else. A story doesn't have to be about one single major change, but there's almost always at least one. (Or a change fails to happen, but in an interesting way: "five times Lois Lane didn't realize Clark was Superman" would be a perfectly intriguing summary!)

What demands are made of the characters? Many stories involve a character overcoming some kind of challenge or meeting some kind of test. A summary can indicate what that challenge is--and you don't have to indicate whether or how the characters meet it! This can contribute to a feeling of suspense, so that the reader feels they need to read the story to find out how the characters react. For instance, I summarized my story Journey as:

The Doctor and Ace need to stop a dimensional leakage to put a life-sucking entity back where it belongs. But to do so, they'll each need to protect the other in their own way.

What are their own ways? Do they succeed? The reader can probably guess that they do--but how? Their attention is caught, and they'll have to read to find out!

Some notes on format and style

Summary style is as personal as the rest of your writing style, so this is only intended as a mention of a couple of trends I've noticed.

Sometimes summaries are 'in-universe'--i.e. they describe the characters and what they do, without reference to the existence of the fic itself as a textual entity--and sometimes, like the "five times" example I gave above, they refer to the fic's format, characteristics, relationship to canon, etc. in direct terms. (For instance, the example I gave for a missing scene was 'in-universe,' but I could just as well have said "While waiting for Z to return during Episode 3..."). Either of these approaches are fine, although I personally tend to incline more towards the in-universe style unless I have a particular reason to use the other, such as in Differences of Opinion, which took a lot of metatextual explaining:

When I read enough easily-crossed-over stories, such as for instance the Age of Sail books that I have been reading lately and also spaceship stories inspired thereby, what inevitably happens is I end up with a nebulous meta crossover setting where they can all hang out outside of their respective canons. Here's one conversation from that setting.

I keep wondering if something more terse might have been more effective, and I could have put all that in the author's notes. But I really think that for anyone who would enjoy this fic, the metatextual complication is a big part of the appeal. So I put it in the summary.

It's pretty standard to write in-universe-style summaries in the present tense, even if the fic is in the past tense. "The characters do this and that," not "the characters did this and that." You don't have to, but it's what your reader is most likely to be expecting.

It seems to be quite common to have a double summary: one that maybe reflects the style and tone of the fic, and another, more matter-of-fact one that explains the plot. They're frequently joined by "or." I don't typically use it--maybe because I rarely have the problem of having too much summary--but if you do, this could be a great solution.

Spellcheck and proofread your summary extra. Whatever strategies you normally use to make sure the words in your story are the words you actually meant to write, it's a good idea to turn those strategies on the summary with special intensity. After all, this is your first impression on your reader, so you probably want to look as polished as possible!

These are just a few things I've noticed that I tend to think about when staring at that blinking cursor in the summary box. I hope they may help you, too, to feel like you have something to say in that moment!

[window-window]

ENTERING THE LABYRINTH.

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WAYS TO REACH ME:

starlightswordfight → Tumblr main

STARLIGHTSWORDFIGHT → AO3

starlightswordfight → Tapas

starlightswordfight → Neocities [UNDER CONSTRUCTION, NOT YET MOBILE FRIENDLY]

— ww_home → Neocities; Window Window [UNDER CONSTRUCTION, NOT YET MOBILE FRIENDLY]

I am also working with Writers4Relief! If you like my work, original and otherwise, I highly recommend checking the cause out!

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WINDOW WINDOW DIRECTORY

SUMMARY

A brief look into what kind of story Window Window is, and other information like when you can expect the comic to be out. [HERE]

CONTENT WARNINGS

Sensitive subject matter that will appear in Window Window. I strongly suggest looking through this before reading. There will also be a page for content warnings on the site once I have it up. [HERE]

CREDITS

Shouting out everyone who's helped me with the comic! And I mean everybody. [HERE]

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WINDOW WINDOW EVILPOSTING

TAGGING SYSTEM

# window window → this tag is going to be on EVERYTHING. Character references, writing about said characters, other doodles, additional worldbuilding that might not make it into the comic, you get the idea!

# [character name] ww → character tags for Window Window. Since some characters' names are more common and it's not impossible that there are people out there who might share them, I add "ww" at the end so we're all on the same page. (Any resemblances to any real people are COINCIDENCE and UNINTENTIONAL!)

# window window updates → I will be posting announcements for the comic updates (and any updates on the process of putting everything together behind the scenes) here and giving it a separate tag so that, and anticipated update schedules, are easier to find!

# window window concept art → rough drafts, panel ideas, anything that I want to share that will not be present in the comic without a lot of polishing first

# window window worldbuilding → lore posting! and anything, and I mean ANYTHING, that doesn't get to shine or really appear in Window Window directly. Background characters, pop culture, rumors and speculation circulating the Labyrinth from the outside point of view, things like that!

# window window interrogation room → Q&A! The ask box will stay open unless people get weird with it! Feel free to ask about the characters and whatever else you'd like; if it's something I'm comfortable sharing and not spoiler territory, I'm more than happy to answer!

# window window nonsense posting → window window nonsense posting

WHAT YOU'LL FIND ON THIS BLOG

I like to play and draw. That's it. This sideblog is where I evilpost about these characters and about whatever worldbuilding I can get away with!

The official comic won't be here, but I will be posting about the comic and progress updates on this sideblog! (For archive purposes a lot of it may also be transferred to the Neocities website once I get that running. I have absolutely no idea how to code but I've seen several friends of mine either have sites there or consider it so My Turn Now)

[bluedalahorse]

Blue’s Contrary Young Royals Opinions Poll (make your own if you want to!)

Just for funsies, I created a poll about my Contrary Young Royals Opinions. I’m calling them Contrary rather than Unpopular because different things are popular in different parts of fandom, and things cycle in and out of popularity, so who knows what’s popular even? Rather, these are just things that I am stubborn and ornery about. Some of them might be mainstream opinions, but I am stubborn and ornery about them all the same.

You all know that I am an August Enjoyer who obstinately ships sargust, so I did not put that on the poll. I also feel that my sargust shipping and August enjoying sometimes obscures my other contrary opinions because it’s like, my signature trait. So this is a chance to talk about other things!

Please vote and reblog for the sake of fun and interesting data. Add commentary in the tags if you feel like it. Also feel free to create your own Contrary Opinion poll, because I wanna see what other people’s contrary opinions are.

Explanations below the cut. Click if you want to know more about what each poll button means to me in more depth.

Wille is demi and bi and should explore his gender more post-canon. Now, in canon, Wille is unlabeled, and I wanna respect that. So this is more headcanon than anything else. I know some folks read Wille as exclusively same-sex attracted. I do not (although I support people doing such) but I also read him as much more on the demisexual and/or demiromantic end of the spectrum than anything else. Of course I am aspec, so I’m seeing it through this lens. On the gender side of things, well, I just think it would be neat? Wille trying on nail polish and then furiously scrubbing it off breaks my heart. It feels like the royal fam has controlled Wille’s gender expression most of his life and made him present in this more conservative masculine way, and he hasn’t had many options. I also do think Wille’s explosive anger is something he’ll have to grapple with in the future, and I see his anger as tied to a lot of the masculine socializing he was raised in. So having outlets for his feelings that are a little less conventionally masculine could be good. Let Wille wear nail polish. Let him wear skirts. Let him experiment with his hair! I’m of the opinion that even cis people should explore their gender, so even if he played with his gender expression for six months and then decided he’d continue to present conventionally masculine again, that would be good for him. (But in my heart I’m a bit of a he/they Wille truther, not gonna lie.)

Simon does some things wrong and that’s wonderful actually. Let me explain what I mean by this. There is a popular view of Simon where he’s very selfless and makes sacrifices for his loved ones and stands up for what he believes in, while also having to suffer and do a lot of things out of desperation. This is true. There is also a co-existing side of Simon that’s a little less selfless, a little more ambitious, and a little bit more likely to make assumptions about what other people want or need without consulting them. There’s the Simon who feels he has to protect Sara when she clearly doesn’t want him to, and the Simon who hides things from Linda when he shouldn’t. There’s the Simon who calls Bjärstad shitty in a way that upsets Rosh and Ayub at the beginning of season 1, who enlists Rosh and Ayub to help intimidate August in 1.3 without fully thinking about how they might feel about it. Yes, Simon does a lot of things out of selfless care for others and out of desperation, but to assume he only ever does things for selfless, desperate reasons without any selfish impulses or ambition mixed in is… well, it misses some of the most fascinating contradictions in his character. Let Simon be a selfish teenager sometimes! It’s developmentally appropriate and it might one day save his life.

Dirtbag Erik > Perfect Brother Erik. I never really gravitated toward the perfectly supportive headcanon for Erik that was popular in some corners of fandom. I know this is not a radical thing to claim after season 3 and a lot of people are coming out of the woodwork and saying it. I think the point I want to make here is less that Ambiguously A Dirtbag Erik is canon and more that he’s inherently more interesting to me to read about than Saint Erik, Patron of Lost Little Brothers. I’m sort of fascinated by the way that interactions with family members always have layers, and that you look back on past events and uncover more of the layers as you grow up. That’s the shit I live for in fiction. I also don’t love discussions about “what would Erik do if he were alive” because I enjoy sitting in the horrific tension of characters not knowing but having to build a better world in his absence.

August/Nils should have a lot more fics on AO3 than it does. As far as I can tell it has one. One! I ship August with Sara first and foremost but August and Nils have some unexpectedly tender moments in season 3 that made me go “wait, that’s interesting…” about their relationship. Yes, August keeps calling Nils nouveau riche. Yes, Nils finds August’s perfectionism annoying. These are all just tensions to play on to make the eventual bittersweet, conflicted makeout scene more bittersweet and conflicted and hot. If August/Vincent can suddenly gain more fics post season 3, it surprises me that August/Nils hasn’t surpassed them.

Linda deserves to have a life and hobbies beyond her kids, and especially beyond being perfect for her kids. Don’t get me wrong, she does care about Simon and Sara a lot and does what she can for them. And because we’re watching a show centered around teenage characters, we’re mostly gonna imagine her in her capacity as a mom. But I also love seeing the moments in canon where Linda is less than perfect—when she embarrasses her kids, or when she comes down hard on them in ways that are less than helpful—because that shows the human vulnerabilities beneath. That she’s trying to figure things out in the moment, and she isn’t always right. That makes me love her more. And I’d desperately love to see Linda have a hobby like, I dunno, writing a crime novel every NaNoWriMo or something. (I have put this into a fanfic, actually.)

Frida and Malte and Nikita are the hottest of the Main Five actors. I get the appeal of Omar in abstract way, but he looks exactly like the crush of one of my chief OCs in a YA novel I was writing, so I think of him as OC Rose’s crush and feel no draw to him myself. Edvin is a great actor but does nothing for me aesthetically. Oh, aesthetic attraction. So individualized to all of us!

Salice is more meaningful to me as a platonic ship than a romantic one. I am so glad they bring people joy as a romantic ship, and I’m happy to gift the fic ideas I do get for them to the people who love them, but for me they matter more as best friends. When I write them, I draw on real platonic friendships I have had in my real life, ones that matter a lot. Sara breaking up with August to prioritize friendship feels more radical to me. Also sometimes I think I’m a Bad Sapphic for having these thoughts about Salice, but then I remember that Heart and Homeland has so much sapphic content involving Felice and other women, as well as just sapphic content beyond that, and I sleep easier.

Rosh should be shipped with all the other girls, and frequently and creatively. Yes, Madirosh is an overnight fanon sensation we should celebrate that. Yes, Stella/Rosh took us by surprise and by storm for a hot minute, and we should do more of it. But have we considered… Fredrika trying to angrily and messily seduce Rosh because Stella seemed to be crushing on her? How about Rosh and Felice as a glorious butch/femme power couple? How about if Sara is gonna date a tall athletic brunette she dates one who plays a real sport (football) and not a fake sport (rowing)? I hope we all see the vision.

Oops Vincent is sympathetic sometimes. Look, I am not going to deny that Vincent is a bully who sucks. I also think his first year letter was telling. In the letter, Vincent, at sixteen, has just received his ADHD diagnosis. That’s a long time for a rich white boy to go without getting one! That means he’s probably had sixteen years to struggle to pay attention in class—he’s probably acting out and moving around a lot, and internalizing the idea that he Can’t Do School. His parents probably make some “boys will be boys” excuse at conferences. Then he finally gets the diagnosis and gets put on meds. My sense is that Hillerska only cares that his meds don’t make him disruptive in class. They probably don’t care about teaching him alternative study methods that actually work for him, or creating an environment where he feels empowered to use accommodations. And as folks who are knowledgeable with ADHD know, if you get behind in school like that, it takes more than meds to catch you up and help you feel empowered in class. When we see Vincent after his national exams, he’s drawing dicks in the dirt, because he can only envision himself as the class clown who fails academically. He says the academics don’t matter as a self-soothing technique. He’s become mean—mean in a “funny” way—as a way of feeling like he has a “thing” at school. And yes, Vincent will probably be “fine,” he will remain rich and go big game hunting and marry a trophy wife into adulthood or whatever. Again, he sucks! That does not change the fact that Hillerska failed him and his neurodivergences, and that he could actually have a sense of real efficacy and self-compassion for himself as a disabled person instead of just being “fine.” Daddy I don’t love him. But Daddy I would like him to feel empowered to use his extended time on tests. Daddy I would like someone to teach Vincent the pomodoro method as a study skill.

Secondary characters shouldn’t have to be wilmon shippers to be likable to fandom. It throws me out of a fic or a headcanon when secondary characters only are there to support Wilmon being the cutest soulmates ever. I don’t mean when someone like Felice offers a supportive comment to them as a couple, or occasionally thinks they’ve done something cute. I mean when characters sound exactly like shippers in fandom, with similar talking points, and when we as readers of the fic are supposed to sympathize with them because they sound exactly like us. People… don’t talk about friends and family and classmates the same way they talk about fictional blorbos.

YR does not share a universe with RWRB. This idea was more widespread in the old days of fandom, so this Contrary Opinion feels more vintage. As far as what I do think it could share a universe with, I vote for Tana French’s Dublin Murder Squad novels, for the class conflict and the incredibly complex characterization. I would also say Ashley Herring Blake’s Girl Made of Stars has a lot in common with YR in terms of how it approaches trauma and family relationships.

The intimacy scenes in season 3 (especially the big one) made me feel kind of uncomfortable, actually. Something about the changes to directing style and how they were filmed. I don’t really want to explain this one right now but maybe I will someday. So this one is also there for folks who viscerally felt that too.

[snugglesquiggle]

Just finished reading your corrupt combustion notes and damn you cooked up another fucking banger!

Some of my favorite parts are J's powers (of course), Nori's whole vibe, the way you shine the spotlight on Beau, which I love that they're kind of the main character here, with Cyn infesting them.

There's also all the mysteries, like who's giving the orders, what's the solver's final goal, how different is the solver from Cyn, and Nori's whole backstory. I especially got caught on both Doll and Uzi - they're getting along! Go them! But also the mystery of what they're up to, and how it ends up. I wonder how many plot beats will come from JJK, how many from MD, and how many will you make yourself.

Speaking of Doll, I love what you did with Adam - a tragic tale of losing yourself, and even when given the chance to turn away you don't. Girl is probably gonna be devastated.

Not gonna lie, some of the parts of all your outlines feel like good enough writing to just put on AO3. Can't wait to see what you do next, whether or not it involves Murder Drones!

thanks for reading! i'm glad you enjoyed

there's quite a few plotlines i'm itching to do write ups for. i'm very proud of what i have in store for j and uzi. and that's without getting into my thoughts on v & lizzy, or what i have planned for alice.

but most of all, nobody is prepared for the "pilot" — which at this point, is such a byzantine clusterfuck the relation to episode one is in the manner of the ship of theseus

the problem with posting these outlines is that i get caught in a paradoxical spiral. if it's good enough to post, then it's good enough to polish. and the trouble with polishing, is that if i'm gonna sit down and check for typos, i might as well tighten up the wording here and there. if i'm gonna tighten up the wording, i might as well add a few more details for clarity and impact. if i'm adding details, well it's kinda jarring if the fidelity is inconsistent, might as well flesh out the sparser sections too. if i turn this summary into a mini scene, i can add this cool character beat or i can foreshadow this plot point. and you know, if i reimagine this bit entirely, couldn't i make it more dramatic, more inspired? if i can make it a little bit better, why not take it just one step further?

which all then just snaps back to "if i'm gonna post it, i might as well draw the rest of the owl" and it's just.

[leatherbookmark]

i have been tagged! by @lansplaining, @thatswhatsushesaid and @aeide-thea, thank you! the templates are a tiny bit different but i'm just gonna smush them together ( ‵▽′)👍

last song: this post took me a LONG time lol, so shatter by dreamcatcher when i started, to be by your side by nick cave (i know it from the bird movie) approximately in the middle and suga's interlude by halsey and, well, suga right now as i'm finishing it.

favourite color: yellow! warm tones in particular. i was very into red (not pink!!! not pink!!!) as a kid, then blue and purple and, gasp, pink, but at some point i realized i'm drawn to warm yellow objects because they just feel so happy. so. 💛

currently watching: this one youtuber does yearly videos on their favourite and least favourite kpop album packaging, and the one for 2023 came our like, yesterday. it's a surprisingly fascinating topic! (darts a look at my most recent book on polish typographic book covers. darts a look at another book i have on polish Boxes and Packagings. or maybe i'm just interested in that stuff. hm) i also kept on nodding along almost every sentence, because I Too am ridiculously opinionated about album packaging, lol.

last movie/show: the new percy jackson show!

sweet/savoury/spicy: complicated question, need at least two business weeks to ponder. but if i had to rank them, it'd be sweet > savoury > spicy? i don't care about spice, tbh! but that might be because i'm pretty bad at handling it, lol. when i cook ramyeon, i have to add half of the soup powder packet and additionally soften the spice with coconut/rice milk :')

relationship status: single, and unsure if i'm sad about it or glad i don't have more stuff to be anxious about lol.

last thing you googled: "tag piping", after some posts about how ao3 doesn't do it for the silmarillion characters anymore, apparently. i think it's supposed to be like, appending aliases/other names to the tag, like my | jgy, but i'm not sure why it's called that exactly. i also went to check what the tags look like now and hm. i'm not sure if adding (tolkien) to the names of very obviously tolkien characters is much better, but i don't really go there, so

current obsession/s: my lads my dudes my little guys ateez, i guess! but that aside, hmm. i don't currently have any microobsessions, but before, it was mechanical pencils and their leads. oh! analog cameras and identifying them on photos of kpop lads is also somewhere out there. whatever this is. my last.fm account. gifmaking and how the hell do people make their gifs so sharp and crisp? actually, um, let's define an obsession, shall we...?

tagging: feel free to do it, feel free not to, etc, @natandacat @madtomedgar @labyrynth @crashorpie @gloriousmonsters @raise-me-up-take-me-up @woobifiedvillain @paperchamomiles @mariposakitten

[splinter-cat]

On Beasts in Blue and further stories

So, since we're getting pretty close to the end of Beasts, I figure I should make a post about my intentions going forward.

Once Beasts is complete, I'll be taking a little break, and then I want to start editing it with the goal of self-publishing in mind. I won't be talking about this on AO3 for obvious reasons (can't mention anything monetary there) but on here I can talk about it.

Most of the edit will either add scenes and details or change them slightly. I want to set the world in an actual city (Atlanta Georgia is what I have in mind) and flesh it out a bit more. I also want to add more scenes for certain important characters. There are a few minor characters I will probably be getting rid of or combining so it's easier to follow along (don't worry, I'm not taking out any fan favorites).

The original version of Beasts will stay on AO3 for free for those who want it, while the edited version will be sold as an ebook and hopefully later a paperback. I'm looking into platforms for this, since Amazon is... questionable on whether they'd allow some of the content in Beasts. There's a few other possibilities, but... well, the fact is that Witness to the Dead and the currently titled Toy Soldier will be even worse in some respects and just straight up might not be allowed on many platforms.

I am also looking into (paid) sensitivity readers, particularly for Rowan and Alicia's parts of the story. This is one part of things that may delay a self-publish, because I'm looking for readers who not only can help with the right intersections of identity, but who are willing to read (and understand the genre conventions of) whumpy m/m supernatural thrillers. I'd really rather not publish without getting a sensitivity read first, considering the nature of their stories.

What does this mean for the sequels? Well, Toy Soldier is not highly dependent on events that happen in Beasts. Only Cooper's part of things is relevant, really, and his part in the story is going to remain largely unchanged. This means I can go ahead with writing and posting it to AO3 with the same goal in mind of doing a later edit and publish.

However, Witness, being Alicia's POV during Beasts, is going to be delayed. I didn't want to, but with certain changes I have planned, it would be weird for me to write it to be in line with the AO3 version while also working on the edited version. Additionally, it probably won't be posted to AO3. I will probably release it as either a free or cheap novella elsewhere at a later date after it's gone through editing as well.

All in all, I love Beasts as it is, and I never expected it to grow as much as it did. But I know there's some things that could be better, and I'd like to exercise my writing chops and really polish it up.

[peeble-pin-chinno]

Life follow up + updates about the account

Hi, i'm back for a short while. Approaching a day where i'm out of class for now with the goal of make some short updates regarding this social + my twt (ain't calling it X, fuck it):

Schedules for each social has been settled: For Twitter are Thrusdays and sundays For Tumblr are Mondays and fridays (or incase of a skip Tuesdays and saturdays)

Continuation of Bey OC week: This has been too slow, due taking care of not burnt out or even, plannificate with no sense. As i'm close of finalize it with four ilustrations remains. So when it finalizes, might try other challenges for keep it alive at least or even, trasnportate into OC related stuff/projects.

Cherimu's update - First launch (with no polish) of the AO3 book: The book has been launched, however needs some stuff for add or even polish from the dust itself. Some drawings are remain and building the second chapter (yet on hold until more news) Plus keeping hidden the date where this one launches and more details, soon to be shown.

And talking about life updates: I'm working on various projects, between these are my brand, products, how does it work, etc. Along give a good use to my abilities as an artist. Hopefully this would work out with the time i'm going to spend wisely. We see in the next post (Friday) !

[yukidragon]

After I had so much fun making a silly little poll on twitter about which SnaccPop Studios character readers would like to see me write in a reader-insert fic, I decided to make a poll for everyone here as well. Since tumblr posts allow for more words and options, I decided to add a little twist to this version of the poll.

Surprise! It's not just SnaccPop bachelors involved this time. Everyone's favorite ocean boy Cove Holden from Our Life Beginnings & Always is also an option, along with Jack's female counterpart, Funshine Jill!

You can also vote whether the writing style will be 1st person (staying in a neutral narrator's head for a reader-insert experience) or 3rd person (getting to see both characters and their thoughts).

I joked that if the twitter poll got at least 1000 votes I would for sure write a story about the winner, knowing that I wouldn't reach that many, but the actual amount wound up being a lot more than I expected. So this time I'm actually committing to the bit.

This poll is going up for an entire week. Not only I write a 1000+ word flashfic about the winner, but if I reach 1000 votes, I'll make two short stories about the winning option instead of just one.

If you're interested in a different sort of story than any of the options presented, feel free to leave a comment. I won't guarantee that I'll feel confident enough to write the suggestions, but I am curious to know what you're interested in seeing me write. Maybe I can have different options if I do a poll like this again.

I also won't guarantee that I'll write a teaser paragraph based off the poll leader for every 100 votes like I did over on twitter. Though you never know. It was fun leaving silly commentary and incentives on the twitter poll as it went along.

If this poll goes well, I might do something like this again in the future. Maybe I'll even feel bold enough to hold a contest of some kind when I hit 1000 followers.

If you want to check out stuff I've written to see the difference in the writing styles of 1st person vs 3rd person before you make your choice, feel free to check out my writing tag for my rough drafts or my AO3 account for my polished works.

Thanks in advance to everyone who participates, and to everyone in general for following a silly writer like me. You're all wonderful. 💖

[nowoyas]

Edible Arrangements 32

First - Prev - Next - M.list - Ao3

A/N: this isn't late it's still sunday don't look at me I was debating whether or not to put a baby in the cake I'm baking don't LOOK at me

short chapter today, but unrelated oneshot coming next weekend! I ended up wanting to polish it before posting.

Chapter Summary: Life isn't just the romance genre.

Warnings: mild angst, murder talk, serial killer talk

Word count: ~2400

“P-pardon if this is a weird question, Detective, but do you have some kind of truth-detection quirk, by chance?”

Damn. Izuku’s gone in for the kill. You sit nervously on the far armchair, still cradling Sbeve to keep him from flinging anyone’s drinks or any mischief of the sort. He’s content to stay there, which is a blessing in itself.

The detective raises his eyebrows. “I do, as a matter of fact. How did you…”

He’s telling the truth.

Fucking hell, he’s telling the truth.

You’re suddenly tense as all hell, wondering how best to approach any word that might leave your mouth. You’ve done nothing wrong, to your knowledge it’s not like you murdered the girl, and you’re tense all the same.

Does everyone feel like this around you all of the time?

“O-oh, I just know someone with a similar quirk! You both do the same thing where you just kind of visibly accept stuff people say without worrying too much about it. I know I can be hard to believe sometimes because I have a bit of a nervous stutter, so it’s actually reassuring to know that you don’t think I’m lying!”

Well, Izuku sure feels the pressure.

“Especially about the tenancy thing,” you add with a sigh. “I agreed to rent the room from him before either of us realized he was a professor at my school. You would not believe the shit my best friend gives me about it.”

Detective Normal laughs. “Well, I believe it, if it’s any consolation. I’ll admit it looked a bit strange to me, all things considered. I’m Detective Tsukauchi, [name], in case you missed it, and this is my partner Sansa. I’ve just got a few questions for the two of you, if you’re willing to answer them.”

You nod, thumbing at Sbeve’s ears to soothe your nerves. “Yes, of course! You’re, um… You’re here about Momo, right…?”

He nods. “I’m afraid so. But let’s not worry about jumping into that right away—are you an Ossenfelder student, Mx. [name]?”

You nod. You can’t help but run your brain over exact activation requirements for his quirk. His partner is keeping quiet—does it only work on questions he directly asks, perhaps?

He hums. You’re watching his face carefully—his eyes narrow just slightly.

You have to be speaking, then, you’re guessing. Verbal responses are necessary.

“What’s your major, then?”

“Quirk studies and theory,” you parrot automatically. “I wanted to go for something more practical at first, like business, but, well, you know. I just didn’t like it.”

There. The subtlest wince. How you’ll know he senses your lie.

“I have to admit, I do believe that the pair of you are just roommates, but it is interesting that you and Dr. Midoriya are living together and he teaches courses in your major.”

You blink slowly. Tilt your head.

“…he does?”

“Sometimes!” Izuku pipes up. “Mostly senior-level stuff. They kind of have me fill in wherever there’s gaps. I was going to bring it up if I actually ended up teaching another Quirk Theory course while you were still living with me, since it’d be really questionable if you ended up in my class.”

(Tsukauchi writes something down.)

“Well, that answers a few questions,” he jokes. “How did you end up living together?”

You sigh, long and tired. “I was desperate. Got fired, got evicted, wasn’t getting work, tuition payments were getting ever closer. Had a very public panic attack in a bookstore cafe, and Izuku ended up comforting me and offering to let me rent a room from him. We didn’t figure out until my boxes were already in his driveway that he taught at Ossenfelder and I went there, but I really haven’t had any better options in the meantime, and we make great roommates, so I haven’t been looking. Rent’s basically nothing, and I earn it back by keeping the place clean and making Izuku’s house not feel so completely empty.”

He nods. He doesn’t ask where you get the money to pay him with, which is fantastic, because you’re not sure “blood money” would go over well with the pretense of a joke being thrown out the window. “I see. So, less about you, and more about what brought us here today: Did you know Momo Yaoyorozu?”

You go carefully, silently still.

You knew, of course, that they would ask. That's why they came here to begin with, it would be stupid to assume that they wouldn't, but the directness, the frankness of it has you feeling hollow all over again.

And it's stupid! Because you didn't know her well enough for this! But this is what's happening all the same, and so you sigh and snuggle Sbeve a little bit before you answer. "Um, yeah. I did. But not all that well. We had a class together last spring, kind of. Or, uh, she TA'd one of my classes. We weren't particularly close, but she was really understanding about my, uh, ongoing mental health issues. I'm... guessing that if you guys are going around asking questions about her, then it wasn't, like, a car wreck that did it."

The cat man, Sansa, grimaces. "Not exactly, no. But we aren't really at liberty to discuss details."

"But—" You suck in a deep breath through your teeth. You think you know how to do this.

Izuku is watching you with mild alarm as you appear to deliberate your next words, when really, you're realizing something.

This is familiar.

It slips, just a little bit, against your brain, one of those things that must not be important, but—

"Please. I just, two years ago on campus I was attacked? By a girl posing as my roommate? And I don't, I don't think they ever caught her, just identified her as a serial killer, and then I never heard anything back?" The tears come unbidden.

Crying on command. Fucking score.

"I just... if she was killed by the same person, because that girl got away because I didn't notice I was living with a serial killer for months, I don't—I don't—"

Tsukauchi shares a look with Sansa. Tsukauchi nods.

Additional score for a near-death experience being used as fuel to pry information out of the cops.

"I actually remember your case," Tsukauchi says. "I didn't recognize you at first, I apologize. Have you been well?"

A short, wet laugh. "I live with a rich college professor who took me in entirely out of pity for me because my entire life has just continued falling apart ever since everything happened with her, and now a girl I know—fuck, knew—"

The pity between them. Izuku, nearly vibrating in his seat with his usual distress at seeing you upset.

You wipe away a tear. “Sorry, sorry. I just… please. I need to know that it’s not… not her.”

Tsukauchi’s lips are pursed tight. You know nothing you said was a lie, so you’re sure he’s thinking, thinking how much to tell you.

“We don’t know enough to say whether or not it’s a related incident yet,” he says finally, the faintest glow to his skin. They have something. “What I can tell you is that several of the circumstances are similar.”

You perform your best recoil. “Y-you think it could be—“

“There’s a possibility. Miss Yaoyorozu was found with stab wounds and strange marks on her body. But listen, that’s all we can tell you, okay? If you see her, or notice anything strange, give us a call.” He slides a card towards you—his number, most likely. Contact information, in case you run into her.

You’re aware of that.

But this has suddenly become very, unbearably, real.

You set Sbeve aside, shivering at the thought of it all. “I, um… I-I need to go, if that’s okay. I don’t think that I can—that I can continue this conversation anymore.”

He considers it, then nods. “Will you be alright, left alone?”

“I’ll be alright long enough.”

It’s not a lie, and so he doesn’t raise any protest. You steal one last look at Izuku before retreating up the stairs, away from the conversation.

When, at last, you’re behind a closed door, you don’t know whether to smile or cry.

You think you might do both.

~

A knock at the door. It sends vibrations against your head, gentle, where you’ve sat with your back against the door since you closed it.

“[name]?”

Izuku.

You take a shaky breath, crawl away from the door far enough that he can’t hit you when he opens it.

“Are you okay?”

You’re not. You’re exhausted. He has to know that. How, you don’t know, but he has to.

“I’m going to open the door, okay?”

You don’t move. You’re sure the image of you is unflattering when he does open the door, and he jolts and nearly leaps back when he sees you, numbly sitting there, back facing the door because you couldn’t be assed to turn around.

It takes less than half a moment for him to recover, and then he’s sitting on the floor beside you, thigh pressed up against your own. “I see you are not okay,” he says gently. “The police left, so if you need to… I don’t know, break or anything like that, feel free.”

“I was just saying true bullshit to get him to talk,” you mumble, leaning your full body weight against his side. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear him say that it had nothing to do with her.”

An arm winds around you as your first tears finally fall. You shrug it off, lay on the floor so instead you’re resting your head on his lap. “I’m not okay,” you say at last. “You’ve been scaring me and she’s dead and that serial killer might be back around or else it might be the one you’re hunting and I still haven’t healed from the last fucked up shit I had to go through and—“

He shushes you gently, a hand coming to comb through your hair. “I never meant to scare you.”

“You’ve done nothing but work on finding that man for two months now. If I wasn’t fairly sure you couldn’t die, I’d be terrified.”

“You know why this is important to me.”

“I do,” you whisper. “But… What are you going to do when he’s gone?”

He smiles. It's weak, doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm not sure that you want the answer to that."

"Izuku. What are you going to do?"

Silence. "You know, we as real people don't know much about actual vampires? They're a relatively new phenomenon, at least where definitive research is concerned, rather than just as a figure in popular culture. We really know almost nothing except the basis—vampires can be created, they drink blood, and they're basically undead and have to be killed specific ways. We don’t even know whether this counts as a quirk or something else entirely."

"Izuku."

"I'm—I'm going somewhere with this. Trust me.”

He really is, so you purse your lips and feel his hold on you tighten. "I've done a lot of scouring. Trying to find whatever shreds of truth I could to understand what the hell I had become. But the thing is just that—we don't know. In some interpretations, once you're a vampire, you're a vampire forever unless some intrepid hunter manages to kill you. In others..." He sighs. Suddenly, his arm around you doesn't feel comforting anymore. The more he speaks, the more the warmth in you curdles. "In other interpretations, lines of vampires can be taken out by destroying the original. If you kill a sire, all of his offspring will die with it. In a lot of them, that's true, actually. Basically most of them outside of the—the romance genre. So really, it’s impossible to tell whether—“

“What are you saying?” The words come out cold.

“I don’t think we’re living in the romance genre, [name].”

You can’t help the way you recoil. “You’re saying that by hunting him, you might…”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take to destroy that man.”

“Izuku, that’s—“ The anxiety rushes your veins, leaving your hands numb as you jerk away. to look at him. To search for any hint of a lie.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the wild rage rears up in you in response.

Because there’s the lie.

“Y-you know you can’t—“

“I know,” he says, defeated. “I can’t lie to you.” A pause. “M-maybe we shouldn’t have this conversation—“

“No. Izuku, you need to—“

“[name]. This isn’t about—it has nothing to do with you. I have been living entirely to see him again, to destroy him for what he’s done, what he continues to do. Longer than you’ve been alive I have been living to kill him. I’m sorry it upsets you. I-I am! I never want to do anything that would put you in distress. But you have to understand that nothing you could say to me is going to stop me from this. He killed my parents. He killed my mom, right in front of me, just for having been there. I've had to slip into the background to watch everyone I had ever known either die or grow unrecognizable, while I stay here, alone, stagnant! I'm not just going to give up on stopping him, on getting m-my—"

"If you really think you're alone, then I have to ask what we're doing here."

He freezes, eyes wide, a veritable deer in headlights. "Y-you know I didn't mean—"

"No. No, you were right. I think... I'm going to go to bed. You go... grade papers, or hack police databases, or whatever it is you've been doing to destroy yourself instead of sleeping."

You stand, brush past him.

"Where are you going?" he asks weakly.

"I left my phone downstairs."

When you come back up, your recording stopped at last, he's gone. Your room is empty. The light is on in his fucking hidden office.

For the first night in ages, you sleep in your own bed. If the pillow is stained with tears when you wake up, that's between you and Sbeve.

Tags: @tooloudarts​ @sapid-rose​ @xxangelpridexx​ @warmchoccymilk​ @lirinstaalem​ @izoodles​ @my-bnha-things​ @denise-the-death-goddess​ @themerpenguin​ @sincerelybubbles​ @fudobaby​ @imabootywarrior​ @chickynn​ @fuc-kingmonkey​ @vinumumbra​ @the-secret-thief​ @lianatriestosurvive​ @kc-korra​ @kiliakit​ @hay-leeeah​ @meowkid1000​ @mha-baku-todo-deku-kiri​ @jojo-buttercup​ @starfishlovingbnha​ @neomuxuxi​ @lollawindsay​ @mrsreina​ @anime-simps-blog​ @wwwwyamd​ @omiwashere​ @emilytheeggy​ @subwayslander​ @thelittle-witch​ @sparkexplosive​ @shoutaaizawas​ @vanilladyfics​ @stargazerunlimited​ @luigisdivorcelawyer​ @chaoticevilbakugo​ @deeplightgarden @stxrrielle @idonthaveanameideayet @snowymaltese @bnha-babygirl

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[siriannatan]

Unwelcome Visitor

After some bad sleep, I decided I'll post THE fic a bit later today. Eating a pączek (polish doughnut with like jam in it) I feel much better about life.

AO3

Joey sighed over the mess of his latest potion experiment. It was a deep and annoyed sigh at all not directed at the mess his workspace was at the moment dues to the failed balancing of ice and fire. No. It was directed at an at all not invited guest chuckling in amusement at his experiment's spectacular end. Why was he still tolerating this man just letting himself into his home?

"Should I give you a few pointers?" the guest asked, the amusement still clear in his voice.

"Should I report you to authorities, necromancer?" he huffed, turning to look at the always messy in that perfect 'I totally did not work on my hair an hour before even thinking about leaving for the day' wavy dark hair. Perfectly pressed and clean black and green robes. Scott S. Major, a witch expelled from the Witch Academy and witch society for practising necromancy. And his dumb handsome face that has not aged a day since Joey saw his expulsion as a young student of the Academy about seven years ago. Not even one wrinkle. Creepy. Handsome but creepy. And he was staring at Joey and the soot on his robes with an amused grin. "What do you even want?"

"You make it sound like I ever wanted to conform to Witch Council's boring rules," Scott sighed but his grin did not match it in the slightest. "And like you haven't asked for my help first, and more often than I ever asked for yours, little Witch-Boy~. Who knows, Council just might have a sense of humour and toss us into a cell together, provided they can catch me," Scott chuckled waving his hand and making all the dust vanish off of Joey.

"Just leave me be, I'm busy," Joey scoffed. He was fully capable of cleaning his own robes, thank you very much.

Scott made an amused noise and glanced at the brewing mess. "With blowing things up?" he grinned even wider, annoying the FireFrost witch.

"Sometimes progress needs a few explosions to happen," Joey tossed, trying to sound casual and not at all bothered but not quite making the mark. Scott's giggle had him even more annoying than his experiment failing. That was a step to success. All Scott's giggles made him feel was annoyed. "Just go back to your..." Joey turned away from the not welcomed in his house guest to go over his notes and add some more when a pair of arms wrapped around him.

"I think that instead of stressing over that... invention... you need some rest. Doesn't that sound nice?" Scott muttered right into his ear. Lacing his voice with some charm.

Joey almost gave into said charm, realising what was going on at the last second and breaking it as his brain started to fog over and thoughts slow down. "I'll rest when you leave me alone and stop trying to make me into one of your mindless undead puppets," he huffed with effort, pushing the necromancer away.

"How do you know I'd let you be mindless? There's far too much up there to waste it like that," Scott chuckled but a hint of disappointment crossed his face. He was totally trying to kidnap the younger witch...

"You're the worst kind of bastard," Joey scoffed. No more turning his back to Scott. Never ever again. Under no circumstances. 

Scott chuckled as he shrugged. "Honestly, not the worst I've been called," he admitted. "And maybe I was actually worried about you, hm?"

Joey did not trust Scott at all. It was not the first time the necromancer tried dragging him away to wherever he operated from. And probably not the last. "Just leave me be," Joey sighed, leaning on a clean part of his workbench. "I have no time to waste dealing with you," he huffed offering the necromancer his best glare.

"Oh, trust me I know your little problem," Scott grinned and Joey froze. How did he... "And becoming..."

"No. Go away. GO AWAY!" Joey yelled, preparing a frost-fire bolt to throw at the annoyance.

"Okay, okay, I'll go," Scott grinned. "But do think about it, darling. It'd be a waste for someone as talented as you to end like that," he grinned, turned away and after tossing a kiss over his shoulder and left.

Joey waited a minute. And another. And one more for good measure. Once he was pretty sure there were no necromancers in his house he crumpled to the ground. How did Scott figure out Joey's own magic was slowly killing him? How... could he somehow sense that he was destined to die young? Frost and fire were not meant to go together and... Would being dead even stop that? No way. Scott was wrong. 

Joey would figure out a cure. And he needed no Scott and his creepy smiles. He just needed some more time.

Time was all he needed. And he didn't have much of that left...

He'd just have to double his efforts then...

(let me know what you think in comments and tags? how does one Tumblr?)

[screadingchallenge]

Behind the Keyboard Volume 16

Please note that Behind the Keyboard will be posted once per week during the Reading Challenge. We’ll go back to twice a week in mid-August.

Behind the Keyboard is a series of interviews with different Schitt’s Creek fanfic authors. The series will last as long as there is interest (from authors) and capacity (from me). If you are an author from the Schitt’s Creek fandom who would like to participate, send a DM to this account.  

Each author was given ten questions. The first five questions are the same for every author, the last five will vary.

Remember, this year’s Reading Challenge begins July 15, so polish up those MFL lists.

Let’s meet our next author:

weathereyehorizon / @weathereyehorizon​

How many fics have you written?

I’ve published 24 for the Schitt’s Creek fandom, and 2 under a pseud for Outer Range. I cannot believe that number!

When did you publish your first fic on AO3?

July 9th, 2021. 

Describe your writing process from “Oh, I have an idea” to pushing publish on AO3. 

I typically start with a pretty strong idea of where I want my story to begin and end, and then I map out a few plot points along the way. From there I usually go and plug in dialogue, because it’s what comes easiest to me. I then work through adding in some description and exposition, and send it off to my beta to (lovingly) rip apart. The final step, of course, is boarding the struggle bus to write a summary, add tags and come up with a title. Those are the worst parts of the whole process. There is much whining. 😂

Tell me about your most recent fic? What do you love about it? Is there anything you think you could have done better?

It’s a 5 + 1 from Clint’s POV (You Might Say I'm Here for You) that takes us through a weekend where David and Patrick are visiting The Brewers. Patrick and Cint have some much needed conversations over the course of the visit. I love it because it’s not necessarily something I would typically write, but I wrote it as a gift for a dear friend, and tried to hit a bunch of her jams in doing so. It came out really sweet and I think that I did well with hitting the notes of Clint’s POV. I think I could have fleshed out the emotions of some of the scenes a bit more with more description. That’s an area I generally recognize as a weakness and am always trying to improve. 

What advice would you give to someone who’s thinking about publishing their fic for the first time?

Write the stories that you really want to tell and read. Writing for yourself will help to keep the joy in writing, because it can be tough out there sometimes.

Do you use a beta? Why or why not? Do you beta for other people?

I do. My beta makes everything I write a million times better than it started out. She helps me troubleshoot when things aren’t working out, brings a fresh set of eyes to catch things that I’ve missed, and gives me so much encouragement about what I’m writing. It's such a special relationship to me. I do beta for others, and I’m also a professional flailer.

Alexis is trapped in a drug lord’s palace and you have to convince her captors to read your fic in order to free her. What’s your best sales pitch for your favorite fic?

I’m going to cheat and choose my Stevie & Patrick are Buds series. As a Gen series, the stories will never be the most popular, but every single one of them is written with so much love. Stevie and Patrick’s friendship is very important to me, and I think it comes across in every story I tell about them. Also, many of them are utterly ridiculous, and laugh out loud funny, if I do say so myself.

Is there someone(s) who has made your writing better? In what way?

I have an amazing community of writer friends, and can say without a doubt that they are all much stronger writers than I am. Spending my time talking with them and getting their input on writing, as well as reading their work, makes me a better writer. 

Do your IRL friends and family know you write fic?

They know I write all the time, and know I have an online community of friends that I share my writing with. My writing has always been for me, and I think they inherently know that, so no one has ever asked the specifics about what I write, and I haven’t offered it. If someone was to ask, I  would tell them. I don’t think reading and writing fic is anything to be embarrassed about. People should be able to do what brings them joy. 

Tell me about your current WIP if you have one.

I’m sure everyone who answers this question is going to say that they have many current WIPs, and I’m no different. The one I am trying to devote the majority of my time to right now is my first multi-chaptered long fic. It’s a post-canon story where Patrick reinvents himself as a first responder. Schitt's Creek faces a major natural disaster that puts their community and their lives as they know them to the test. David and Patrick need to work out how to come back from the life-changing events that take place. There’s only the slightest bit of angst, and lots of banter and sexy times throughout. 🔥

[gray-soul]

What you should know about me

Hi I'm gray-soul, but you can call me: GrayS0, GrayS, Gray or if you know me from ao3, Szara Dusza, Szara.

Some people, like to call me Gummies, Gumiś, you can call me that too.

I'm Polish, go by she/her, and I'm a mess, genuine mess.

I write stuff on ao3, play the piano, sometimes post on my youtube, draw and check out, a ton of fandoms. (A skele-ton)

My ao3:

My youtube:

(New since I can't seem to recover the old one)

Don't be shy! I love to chat with strangers online.

My favorite artists are: Mateusz Dąbrowski (ExCharny), Comyet, Nyoomian and my friends of course.

Here's probably an incomplete list of the fandoms I've been/am in about which you can chat with me/ might make posts about eventually:

HOLLOW KNIGHT!!!!

DEAD CELLS!!!!

HYPER LIGHT DRIFTER (I cried)

THE TRANSFORMERS!!!! (I hate the Bay movies though)

JOJO'S BIZZARE ADVENTURE!!!!

UNDERTALE!!!!

1984!!! (If it's a fandom)

THE SANDMAN!!!! (I hate the Netflix ver. I love the comics though)

HOMESTUCK!!!!?

NIGHT IN THE WOODS!!!!

Ace Attorney!!

ULTRAKILL!!!!!!! (Kinda shit at it but it's GOOD)

DELTARUNE!!!!

DON'T STARVE!!!!

STARDEW VALLEY!!!!

THE MOOMINS!!!!

The Hex!

Pony Island

Inscryption!!

Buckshot roulette

The grim adventures of Billy and Mandy

Sherlock Holmes (the book series)

Valorant for some reason (I play it, I basically bother everyone about it)

Same with Overwatch apperantly, (I know the lore, and a couple of characters edit: I just started playing it)

Borderlands (mostly Borderlands 2, a childhood game of mine, 10/10 would play again edit: got borderlands 3 and I am loving it)

TITANFALL |2!!!!!!! (a certain person got me addicted in fps games with lore)

Apex Legends!!!!

EDDSWORLD

Mystic Messenger

Bendy and the inkmachine

MOB PSYCHO 100!!!!

Malediction!!!

Welcome To Night Vale!!

Minecraft

SPIDER-MAN (Spider-verse)

Saiki-k

60 seconds

Dogman (the movie)

Mashle

ONE PUNCH MAN

Big hero six

.... Countryhumans? (I like Countryballs more. I hate the fandom, but I like the illogical concept. Don't come after me.)

Sam and Max!!!!

Dsmp (I left it a long time ago)

Fnaf

Dsaf!!

Wander over Younder

MONKIE KID!!!!

Pokemon

ONE PIECEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Black Hat!!

Cult of the lamb

Ninjago (not really caught up with it though)

DDLC

Dangaronpa (ehh not really in it now)

Fullmetal alchemist (I don't like brotherhood.)

Darkest Dungeon

FRANBOW!!!!

SALLY FACE!!!!

LITTLE MISSFORTUNE!!!!

GRAVITY FALLS!!!!

Ms Kobayashi's Dragon Maid

The Stanley Parable!!!!

The Mandalorian? (Not the Starwars though, even though I know some stuff about it)

Hanako-kun

Camp camp

Sonic (IN THE YEAR 2024. AND IM DEEPLY AFFECTED BY ALL SONIC MEDIA TYPES)

Creepypasta? (Long, long time ago)

HxH

Mystery Skull

SVTFOE basically my childhood

Soul Eater (anime)

SNK or AOT (anime)

Adventure time (currently rewatching)

Bee and Puppycat

Team fortress 2

Spyro (watched a gameplay once)

Swords and Sandals. (Idk If this game even had a fandom, but I am the fandom)

Inazuma Eleven (soon) (friend told me most of the lore already)

Dragon Ball? (I only watched one movie with my friend, simped for Gamma 1, and Piccolo for some reason, and kept saying that it's a jojo's refrence)

Mha. (Yeah, no. Do not talk to me about that one, I hate even remembering it.)

Had an animation meme phase

A lot of old rpg horror games made in game maker like IB

Also by: I'm in the fandom, I mean I have a ton of Pinterest boards for these, on which I add stuff regularly, and a ton of unposted fanfics/fanarts in my sketchbooks.

Note: I block everything that seems like a spam bot. Please, if you're a new user just reblog something or add some stuff on your blog.

[batfam-slash]

About to post this on my Ao3 shortly - but here’s a sneak peek for you lovely folks!

*****

Bruce can feel a muscle in his jaw twitch.

It’s not often that he questions his own decisions, but he’s starting to really regret this one.

He eyes the pole that they’ve temporarily installed in the Batcave warily, and he can’t hide the displeasure from his face when Dick hooks his knee around the pole, grips it with one hand and swings himself around it with ease. Dick is frowning with concentration as he then locks both ankles behind him and swings round the pole again effortlessly.

Of course he’d be good at this. He’s an acrobat.

“We’re working on the choreography,” Dick says to Bruce with a laugh as he shows off a few moves, clearly thinking that Bruce’s displeasure is caused by the lack of a polished routine.

“We’ve just been trying to master a few moves,” Tim adds. “Dick is a lot better than I am.”

The boys aren’t even in any kind of skimpy or revealing outfits yet. They’re just wearing compression shorts and tank tops at the moment, but Bruce honestly thinks he might have a heart attack just from watching them on this pole.

Bruce knows he shouldn’t be worried. He’s put the omegas in his pack in far more dangerus situations before; this should be a simple undercover job gathering intel. But no alpha wants to put the omegas of their pack in this position; dancing for a room of lowlife alphas who will treat them like pieces of meat.

And it’s not a jealousy thing. Dick is beautiful and receives unwanted attention from alphas all the time; Bruce is used to that. He’s used to lowlifes sniffing around his omega, and Dick always deals with it with such grace. But he knows how it makes Dick feel, and he knows this is going to be a thousand times worse.

And Tim…Tim is so young. He’s less confident than Dick when it comes to this sort of thing, and Bruce can’t believe he even thought this was a viable idea.

Jason seems just as concerned as Bruce. The younger alpha is sat at the side watching quietly, but he’s tapping his fingers nervously on his thigh as he watches Tim take his turn on the pole. Tim is his omega, after all.

Tim isn’t quite as confident as Dick, but there’s no doubt he’ll look convincing with a little more practice. Bruce can already feel his stomach sink as he imagines how some of the alpha criminal lowlifes in Gotham might react to an omega like Tim doing something like this.

“This is bullshit,” Jason says through gritted teeth, addressing Bruce. “You shouldn’t have asked them to do this.”

“I’m starting to think you’re right,” Bruce agrees.

Everyone freezes and looks Bruce. It’s not often that the pack alpha shows hesitancy or uncertainty. It’s even rarer that he agrees with Jason.

“We can do this,” Dick says firmly. “We just need more practice. We won’t let you down.”

Bruce has heard this too many times. Too many times have the members of his pack put themselves in dangerous situations so as not to disappoint him. Especially Dick.

“I know you can do it,” Bruce says softly. “It’s not your abilities I doubt. I just don’t want you to have to do this.”

“I agree, father,” Damian pipes up. “Allowing the omegas of our pack to behave like whores will only dishonour us.”

“Damian,” Bruce snaps. “Go back upstairs. You shouldn’t be watching this anyway.”

This is one case where he wants Damian on the periphery.

There’s a flare of annoyance in Damian’s scent, but he obeys Bruce after Dick strokes his hair.

“Bruce,” Dick sighs, and the tone of his voice makes it clear that he’s speaking not as Dick nor as Nightwing, but as the pack omega. “This shouldn’t be a decision that you make in isolation. None of this l’m the pack alpha, so what I say goes bullshit.”

“He’s trying to keep you safe, Dickhead,” Jason interjects.

Bruce glares at him. The support is appreciated, especially as it comes from Jason very rarely, but the disrespect towards his omega is not.

“I want to speak to Dick alone.”

He watches as Jason wraps an arm around Tim and gently guides him away, leaving Bruce and Dick alone together. His omega looks half amused, half defiant as he folds his arms.

“I’m not telling you not to do this as your pack alpha.” Bruce steps forward, placing his hands on the younger man’s hips. “I’m asking you as your mated alpha. Please, Dick. This isn’t about jealous pride, or dishonour or anything like that. This is about your safety.”

Dick snorts. “I get shot at, like, all the time and this is what’s worrying you?”

But Bruce must look worried, because Dick’s scent shifts to something more soothing and his face softens as he cups Bruce’s jaw.

“Oh, Alpha. This really is bothering you, huh?”

Bruce sighs. “Please. Like I said, I’m asking, not telling. I’m asking you not to. On this occasion, I made a mistake asking you and Tim to do this. I want you out.”

He squeezes Dick gently before pressing their lips together.

Dick doesn’t look happy, but he nuzzles Bruce’s neck. He always responds better to a request than an order; something he has a say in.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna lie,” Dick chuckles. “I was starting to have doubts the minute I saw Tim try on a tiny thong. Back to the drawing board then?”

“Back to the drawing board,” Bruce agrees, feeling a lot more relaxed.

Dick smiles, his expression warm again, as he steps out of his alpha’s arms and grabs the pole, locking his ankles around it to give a little twirl.

“Seems a shame to waste this though.” Dick does a few more spins, laughing as he slips down the pole again. “I’m just starting to get good at this. And I can think of one rich alpha I might want to dance for.”

Bruce can feel his heart start to beat a little faster. Even after all these years of training himself to keep his emotions and his body in check, Dick is the only one who can make him throw all that control out the window.

He steps forward as Dick leans across for another kiss, still gripping the pole.

No mission or intel is worth more than this.