#old drained ponds

[cera-writes]

Requesting Nightcrawler with a mutant who prefers animals to people. They tolerate and later fall for Kurt because he treats everyone and everything around him with gentleness and genuine care.

A/N: thanks for requesting this! I think we can all agree Kurt is a huge lover of animals <3 Pairing: Kurt Wagner x gn!reader Tags: Introvert/extrovert friendship, developing feelings, mutual respect, empathy, animal communication, feeling like an outsider, found family

Kindred Spirits

The Danger Room hummed as it deactivated, the acrid tang of burnt wires filling the air. You sank against the deactivated training bot, massaging your temples. Another grueling session of hand-to-hand combat left you feeling drained. You weren't built for close-quarters fights. Your mutation, while interesting, wasn't exactly combat-oriented. You could converse with animals, understand their thoughts and emotions. A skill that, you often felt, was wasted in the X-Mansion's focus on battle.

A soft thud caught your attention. Nightcrawler perched on the bot beside you, his tail swishing gently. "Rough session?" he asked, his voice laced with concern that felt genuine, a rarity amongst the boisterous X-Men.

You shrugged, a low sigh escaping your lips. "It's not my forte." Truthfully, it wasn't just the fighting. You yearned for the quiet companionship of animals, a yearning your fellow X-Men didn't quite understand. They found solace in training, in the camaraderie of shared experiences. You craved the solitude of the woods, the gentle understanding of a curious deer or a wise old owl.

Nightcrawler tilted his head, his yellow eyes filled with empathy. "I understand," he said softly. "Sometimes, the chaos can be overwhelming. Even for someone who thrives on it."

You glanced at him, surprised. "You get it?"

"Of course," he chuckled, a sound like wind chimes. "Being different can sometimes make you feel like you don't belong. But that doesn't make you any less valuable."

His words struck a chord. You'd always felt like an outsider, more comfortable deciphering the chirps of sparrows than the banter of humans. Yet, there was Nightcrawler, a walking embodiment of "different," accepting you with open arms.

The following weeks saw an unexpected friendship blossom. You found yourself drawn to Nightcrawler's quiet gentleness. He wasn't just kind to people, but to everything around him. You watched him patiently soothe a scared kitty in a back alley, his voice a soothing murmur that calmed even the most agitated beast. He spoke to stray dogs on the city's streets, his words eliciting happy tail wags. You, the introvert, found yourself drawn out of your shell, enjoying the quiet conversations you shared with him, the gentle teasing tinged with a genuine respect that warmed your heart.

One afternoon at the park, you found him by the koi pond, his blue form a stark contrast to the vibrant fish. You approached hesitantly, your voice barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"

He looked up, a smile gracing his pointed features. "Just admiring the silence," he said, gesturing to the fish. "They have such a peaceful energy, don't they?"

You sat beside him, drawn to his peaceful aura. You confessed your introversion, your longing for the quiet companionship of animals. The words that usually felt awkward tumbled out easily, unburdened by judgment.

He listened intently, his expression filled with understanding. "Many find strength in crowds," he said softly, "but there's nothing wrong with finding solace in solitude. It's a different kind of strength, but strength nonetheless." He met your gaze with his warm yellow eyes. "And your ability to connect with animals," he continued, "that's a gift, Mein Freund. It shows a depth of empathy most people can only dream of."

His words filled you with a newfound sense of confidence. For the first time, you saw your introversion not as a weakness, but as a strength. And your connection with animals, a skill often scoffed at by others, was a gift.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the pond, you leaned your head against his shoulder, a silent gesture of gratitude. He didn't need words. His smile, warm and genuine, spoke volumes. In that quiet moment, you realized you weren't alone. You had found a kindred spirit, someone who understood your need for solitude, someone who saw the beauty in your differences, someone who, just like you, possessed a heart that resonated with the quiet whispers of the natural world.

A wistful look crossed Nightcrawler's face as he spoke of his past. "Back at the circus," he said softly, "I used to spend hours with the animals. They never judged me for my appearance. We understood each other in a way most humans couldn't."

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. A silent understanding passed between you, a shared love for creatures who offered companionship without judgment. In that quiet moment, you realized you weren't alone. Not anymore.

[volturissideslut]

First interraction with Marcus volturi and any character you want please 💗

𝕸𝖆𝖗𝖈𝖚𝖘 𝖁𝖔𝖑𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎

It was winter in Italy, and the coldest one yet. At least in your short lifetime. Visiting family and friends who lived here was always such good fun, though there wasn't as much to do here in the small town of Volterra in comparison to home. Yes there were markets and cafe's, but it still wasn't home.

The thought was shaken from you by the cold icy breeze. When you were a child and thought 'Italy', you were surrounded by the ideas of tanning and boats, gelato and galleries. Not the current minuses in temperature and frost, nor the redness of your nose and jutter in your shoulders. Just two weeks, and then home you shall arrive. But for now this pond isn't too bad a view.

"Cold, Tesoro?" A voice shakes you from your stupor, low and gravelly. Wizzing your head around to meet his gaze, you find eyes almost as black as the depths of the murky pond, onyx in a way unseen until now.

"A little, sir." As you speak you notice him begin to remove his cloak, a black that blends in with the midnight, looking as if it were a colour sample from the night itself. Your hand somehow raises itself, a motion attempted to stop him. And yet it does not. "I'll be fine. Really."

"Doubtful" is all he gives in return, taking a place by your side as if it was the most natural thing in the world - instinct. Your brows furrow and our heart quickens just the littlest.

"Who are you, anyway?" It comes out brash, rude almost despite you not having meant it this way. It would be understandable, though. A strange man wrapping his cloak around you in the middle of the night, and staying silently by your side. Luckily enough he chuckles, obviously finding something humorous about the moment.

"Who am I?" Though you cannot see his face as you both gaze upon the pond, you can hear the grin in his voice, the amusement he finds in this little interaction. "My name is Marcus. I occupy and own the castle grounds you are trespassing on, as well as the water and fish we are watching, tesoro."

"Trespassing?" You can almost feel life itself draining from you in dread of the trouble you might have accidentally caused. Who was he? Hopefully you hadn't somehow angered the man who owns a bloody castle. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I can lea-"

He stops you from removing the cloak he had draped over you, halting your voice with a simple hand raise. Figures it works on you and not the other way round. Finally, he turns his body toward you fully and allows you to see his full face. Pale yet inviting. Old and wise, yet young and hopeful. "There will be no need for that, dearest. You are welcome here. In fact, do you wish to see my library? Perhaps it shall be yours one day too."

And though every bone inside of you should be screaming stranger danger you cannot help but trust him somehow. Somehow, when your arm links with his you can do nothing but melt into his touch. Somehow, when you enter inside him warm and inviting home and learn of it all, you can't help but bare your neck and entrust yourself. Damned Italian winter.

Though you and your husband are now eternally colder.

[ruskaroma]

ordinary, corrupt human love. | chapter 1: written in blood.

Warnings: this series will include highly disturbing/dark topics such as stalking, unhealthy obsession, graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore, manipulation, gaslighting, large age gap, emotional/psychological abuse, dom/sub undertones, bad BDSM etiquette, etc.

this is a dark fic, written in john's pov and a glimpse of how his mind works. if you still continue to read and get triggered, that is not my responsibility.

Summary: John finds himself a new obsession.

Author's note: this is my first ever fanfic for this fandom and i am beyond excited to share this with you guys! though i must say before you begin, english is not my first language and there might be a few errors in my writing here and there, so i apologize in advance.

but either way, i still hope you enjoy this piece, and i can assure you that once i finish writing this series there will be more to come! i really enjoy writing john wick be a merciless bastard who kills everything that breathes, and i hope you enjoy it too as much as i did.

please, please, PLEASE tell me what you think in the comment and reblogs and likes would be so appreciated. it motivates me to write even more :)

(also this is not edited so all mistakes are on me and i apologize)

Word count: 8.1k

also read on ao3.

It’s one of those days again.

The sound of his watch ticking is the only thing keeping his car from being too quiet. His eyes watch every single movement of his target, never leaving his sight. It won’t be too long for John to finally strike, he just doesn’t want too many civilians seeing the horror that’s about to happen right before their very eyes.

His mind is thinking of many things he could do with this target in particular. A lowlife thug that got himself involved with a very dangerous Italian mob, but then again that’s not the reason why John’s murderous intent is at its peak at the moment.

He’s angry at something, he just doesn’t know what. And this target of his isn’t helping his situation at all. Reading his criminal record made John think this could be a chance to cure his boredom. This man is not only a sex trafficker, but also a pedophile who has a history of targeting teenagers to rape and sell to the black market that’s as fucked up as him.

He doesn’t normally take his time thinking of ways to kill his targets. He points, shoots, leaves. This one in particular though, got him facing a side of him that John himself doesn’t want to face.

He would start by breaking every single one of the man’s fingers. And if that doesn’t do any justice, he’ll cut them off.

One by one, let the man savor the feeling, let John relish the nightmare.

He could slit the man’s throat, watch as life drains away from his body, watch as the man clings to his legs for mercy. John could even pull out the man’s dick, step on it, fucking cut it off and shove it so far down his own throat that he couldn’t scream for help if he tried.

It’s John’s version of Colombian Necktie. A classic, only ever tried it out four times, hopefully this would be the fifth.

John is never the one to take pleasure in killing people, but these past few months have proved him otherwise.

Maybe it’s because of Helen’s death, and the way he was basically forced to sculpt the demons he buried back into himself. His only remaining bit of humanity was taken from him, and he’s coping in the most unhealthy way possible. Perhaps Winston was right about dipping his pinky a little too much into the pond, but it was inevitable.

John has gone back to his old ways. Taking contracts here and there to distract himself from the void in his heart. He remembers how burying a knife into someone’s throat for the first time in many years has ignited something in him he didn’t even know he had.

That’s why he’s here, exiting his car in a swift move, following his target as quietly as possible into a narrow alleyway that stinks of garbage in piss. This would be a nice place to kill a guy like him – right where he belongs.

John’s movements are so discreet the man couldn’t even sense him until John wrapped his right arm around his neck and his other hand went to cover the man’s mouth. He walks them both to the back of a building as the man struggles, where John’s sure no more people are present, and he kicks him on the jaw to stop the man from making any more noises.

John can make this quick. Pull out his gun and blow his brains out. But there’s that sinister glint in his mind that’s telling him to do something unimaginable – grotesque even – a death a man like him deserves.

The man tries to swing his arm at John but misses pathetically. The poor guy’s already shaking and John hasn’t even begun.

John doesn’t respond to the pitiful attempts of questioning who he is and who sent him here, he simply pulls his knife from his pocket and wastes no time slashing it against the man’s throat, the blood spraying all over his face. The man tries to stop it by shakily covering the deep cut with his hand, but it’s useless.

He’s gargling, choking on his own blood, and John’s watching it all unravel with a familiar glint in his eyes.

John is contemplating if he should follow the plan he made in his head or just leave it like this. Somehow, the sight looks rather incomplete to him. He knows what he’s done is not enough, but that could be just the rage talking. The man’s already dead, and surely cutting off his dick and shoving it so far down his throat it comes out of the wound would leave an ugly reputation on his name. 

Would that be a good thing? John is already feared enough, would it be a good thing to make people fear him even more? But then again, this won’t be the first time he’s done it. Doing it again one more time wouldn’t make any difference.

He glances down at the dead body on his feet before he kneels down to do the unforgivable.

Slicing off a man’s cock is easy. Too easy. John’s knife is perfectly sharpened and stoned, he merely uses any strength to cut it off. The sight is so fucking ugly, too much blood, but nothing he can’t handle.

Once that’s done, John uses his other hand to force the dead man’s jaw open, immediately greeted by the foul stench of blood as he shoves the unpleasant dick into the man’s open mouth. The genitalia is definitely not long enough to reach the throat, but that won’t be any problem for John.

He grits his teeth as he forces his hand in there, not bothering to care even if the jaw breaks and the hole becomes even wider, his goal is the only thing in his mind.

The blood continues to drip and he has never been so grateful for wearing an all black uniform for this occasion. Soon enough, after a few minutes of such a brutal wrongdoing, John sees the tip of the cock reaching the deep wound on the man’s throat as it continues to peak its way out.

A sick, small smile spreads across John’s face. The smile is barely there, but he’s fucking enjoying this more than he’d like to admit. He can only imagine how the news would spread across the assassin underworld like a wildfire.

The Boogeyman’s back in business and he’s scarier than ever.

Perhaps this might be the way to lay his point across. This is a way to show them that it was not a good idea pissing him off, killing what’s his, and bringing him back in business. They’d regret it, but it would be already too late for that.

John uses his other hand to pull the cock right out of the man’s throat but not completely. Half of it is hanging out and John thinks he could even consider this as a masterpiece. There’d be flies and maggots that would make the scenery better, but the cleaning service is there for a reason. He can’t just not use it.

John stands up from his position, pocketing his knife back into his pocket before retrieving his phone with the other. He dials a number, waits for them to pick up, all while admiring his work on the ground.

His previous contracts these past few months all ended in such an unimaginable, ugly way. He figured that by showing them that he’s capable of such brutality, it would increase the numbers of people calling him in for more jobs, because this is exactly what they wanted. They wanted Baba Yaga, the ruthless killer of the underworld who stops at nothing to finish his job, and he’s simply giving it to them.

Someone picks up the call and he straightens his posture, checking the time on his watch before speaking.

“This is Wick. John Wick, yes. I would like to make a dinner reservation for one.”

The news spread faster than anticipated.

The notorious man John Wick, the hot topic of the criminal underworld at the moment, even gained the attention of The High Table, and it all happened in the span of one day. That’s how quick the news spread amongst his fellow assassins, though that’s exactly what he was going for.

John expected it so he isn’t surprised when he receives a call from Charon saying Winston wants to meet him.

He inserts a coin in the door and the small window opened briefly. The guy on the other side immediately recognized him, not wasting a single moment to open the door and let the man of the hour in. All eyes are on him the moment he steps into the club, but no one dared to murmur anything to anybody – not when the man himself is here.

They know better.

John spots Winston at his usual spot drinking his usual order, signaling John to sit beside him where a glass of bourbon is already present. 

“Jonathan,” Winston greets, raising his glass. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

“I figured,” John replies, though not interested. He slides himself to the booth and takes a sip of his own drink. “I don’t understand why though.”

“Are we really playing this game, Jonathan?” The manager raises a brow. 

“I was just doing my job.”

“In a way you don’t normally do,” Winston then adds. “Or should I say, in a way you don’t even do.”

John gives him a look, but he could tell Winston doesn’t know how to interpret it. His face remains emotionless, not letting the mask slip and grant Winston the privilege to take a peak. John will continue to play this game until he’s satisfied, until he feels something again. Surely he’ll find what he’s looking for while doing the only thing he’s ever good at – slaughtering.

“Let’s just say I was trying out a new technique,” John says, voice deep and almost sinister. Winston’s scared, though he doesn’t show it, John knows. 

“I have known you ever since you started, Jonathan. Not once did it cross my mind you would do something so.. horrifying as this. You discarded the body like he was some sort of pig, so believe me when I say I couldn’t believe it at first.”

John has no idea why Winston’s whining about him being horrifying, when that’s all they’ve been saying about him ever since he joined. He didn’t gain this reputation for no reason, now he’s just simply showing them what more he’s capable of.

“You should’ve seen his record.” His tone is menacing, swirling the drink in his hand as he stares deeply at Winston’s eyes. “He’s worse than a pig.”

The drop of the curse word takes Winston by surprise. “So is that what it is, then? You killed him that way because you think he deserved it?”

“Not really,” John simply sighs, leaning back on the leather seat as he takes another sip of his bourbon. He really isn’t planning on staying longer, but Winston seems to be taking his sweet time asking him a bunch of stupid questions. “I couldn’t care less of what he’s done. I was simply… bored. Saying that I did that because I think he deserved it gives people a reason to think that what I did was justifiable.”

The look on Winston’s face says enough. He’s afraid of John, afraid of what he has become. Hearing John say he did such an unforgiving thing just because he was bored is beyond frightening. No man has ever inflicted so much fear on him before – at least not until John.

“I think we’re done for tonight,” Winston finally says, not wanting to hear any more disturbing thoughts of John, but he remains polite and calm for the sake of their friendship. “You have a good night, Jonathan.”

John gives him a nod, standing up from his seat and downing his drink in one go. “Goodnight, Winston.”

He exits the club with an eerie aura following behind him, not caring about the way people are looking at him like he’s got Death himself walking beside him.

It makes him wonder that maybe death doesn’t follow him after all.

Maybe it is him.

Someone offered him five million to fuck up a man who allegedly stole a fuck ton of kilograms of cocaine from their warehouse, and really, who is John to decline the offer?

Hunting the man is easy. It didn’t even take a day to locate where the man lives, and John’s already breaking into his apartment to shoot the guy and leave. There’s no point in rummaging the place for the cocaine, all of it is already up the man’s system by the looks of it, and killing him is John’s job.

John wants to finish this one fast, he’s got other business to attend to. As he backs up the frightened, pathetic excuse for a man against the wall, he takes his gun out of his holster and aims directly at the head, right between the eyes, and he watches in great pleasure as the residue of his brains splatter against the walls and the floor.

This man didn’t even put up a fight. John thinks this is a waste of time.

He exits the apartment with disappointment heavy on his shoulders, slamming the door shut. Although the gun he used has a silencer, the rooms are too close to each other. He’s sure there might be other people who heard the shot of his firearm.

The apartment building is located at the filthy side of New York, where most known drug dealers and junkies do their nasty deals. It’s no surprise that as soon as John steps a foot out of the worn out building, all eyes are on him, but mainly on the clothes he’s wearing. They’re planning on mugging him out, and John would like to see them try.

Just as he’s about to walk to his car, his phone rings abruptly in his chest pocket. He retrieves it in one swift motion, not noticing that a gold coin fell out as he does so, and he continues walking to not waste any more time.

“Sir! Excuse me, sir, you dropped something!” John hears from behind. He doesn’t bother looking.

The call isn’t nearly as important as the business he needs to attend to, so he hangs up the call and pushes his phone back into his pocket. As soon as he does that, he feels a small hand touching his shoulder.

John’s hand immediately flies to wrap his large hand around the person’s wrist, turning around to see a young woman with a bewildered expression on her pretty face, little fingers holding his golden coin that looks far too big on her hand.

She looks scared, terrified, and oh how fucking awful that makes John feel. Like he’s been punched right in the fucking gut. He’s enthralled.

“I wasn’t–you dropped it and I’m just giving it to you, I promise!”

She’s looking at John with big, doe eyes. She also looks freshly showered, wrapped in a black puffy jacket that makes her even smaller than she already is. John lets his eyes linger on her lips, so plump and glossy. Her voice sounds sweet, soft, something John isn’t used to hearing.

John can’t help but to stare.

“Are you–are you gonna let me go, mister?”

The way she stutters triggers a hot feeling in John’s guts, and can’t help but to rub his thumb on the girl’s dainty wrist before slowly letting her go.

So delicate, he could snap them in half.

“Sorry,” John apologizes, taking the coin from her hold, and his fingers itch at the way her skin feels so soft against his rough hands. “Force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” she smiles a little, and there goes that hot curl in John’s stomach once again. “That thing looks expensive so be careful next time.”

Just like that, John doesn’t get the chance to reply back. She makes her leave and patters away from him, and he watches. He watches until she’s out of the view, taking a turn to a corner, leaving John with something he can’t quite figure out yet, but he soon will be.

For the first time in a while, he feels something new.

Suddenly, everything is too good to be true.

John will find himself staring at his hands for too long, still feeling the ghost of her soft skin on his fingers, fantasizing about her pretty face and soft, plump lips.

It’s scary for him to feel something again because that only means destruction. John likes to believe he has a gift of ruining everything he touches, especially the pure ones – like her. It’s a proven statement. Just look at Helen and Daisy.

This little one won’t be any different, he’s sure of it. John’s whole body is heating up everytime he thinks about her. The look on her face when she saw John’s chilling expression, her wide eyes, so glossy and innocent.

John wants to see her again.

His fingers itch, yearning to touch her again. 

Why he’s suddenly interested in a young woman he just met a few days ago, he has no idea. John’s a bit confusing – fucked up, even. He long accepted the fact that his mind is nowhere near healthy years ago. He tried to push those thoughts away when he met Helen, but now he’s out of his shell and back in business, there’s no need to.

He’s always been one of the wolves, and now that he’s laid his eyes on his next meal, he will make sure there’s not a single thing that will get in his way to hunt her down.

He had a crisis for two days before doing the unexpected. It didn’t take long for John to find her. 

Now, John has been following her around for a week, and he noticed a certain pattern his little one likes to follow as she goes on her day.

The very place where they met is where she lives, surrounded by a bunch of goons who have no idea what to do with their lives. John begins to wonder why she’s living in a place like that. He could take her, put her somewhere safe, under his care and protection. Make sure no one will dare to lay a finger on her.

John knows where she works. At a veterinary clinic not too far from her apartment, which is why she walks to work every three in the afternoon, but not without stopping by in her favorite deli and getting a large order of her favorite sandwich. She’s a part-timer. She’d be at school from seven to twelve, and at work from three to eight.

John finds the little things she does amusing. He’d be seated in a cafe right across from her work, watching how she moves around her office through a big window, petting and cooing at the animals who come and go.

She’s so perfect, so pure, so naive. She has no idea that a monster is lurking ten feet away from her, watching her every move like a hawk, thinking about the ways he could destroy her, make her his.

John is not delusional. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing and he’s aware of what people might call him. 

Stalker.

Creep.

They don’t know him though. They don’t know why he acts this way. They’d do the same if they were him, that’s for sure. He’s not the bad guy here, he’s simply just protecting her little one, even from afar. John went as far as destroying a whole Russian Bratva for a mere puppy and a car, he’d do even worse if she’s somehow taken away from him.

John sees her exiting the building and his first thought is to follow her. He stands up from his seat, the cup of coffee long forgotten as he makes his way out of the café and keeps a safe distance between the two of them. It’s risky, especially in the broad daylight, but John knows she’s too oblivious to notice.

She’s with her friends this time, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by John how she clings at the shirt of her co-worker as they cross the street, small hands fisting at the fabric. He thinks about how he won’t ever let go of her hand once she’s his. He’s not big on physical affection, having to grow up with no parents and a rather strict orphanage, but maybe he could be gentle. Engulf her hand in his, stroke it with his thumb, tuck her hair behind her ears, show everyone that she’s already owned.

They wouldn’t dare to lay their hands on her again.

John walks in the middle of the sidewalk, not bothering to move away despite seeing people approaching. He doesn’t need to, the look in his face is enough for people to give him the way. It’s interrupted however, when someone does try to get in his way, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back a little.

John clenches his jaw, pissed. He takes his eyes from his little one and on the person who so rudely interrupted what he’s doing – it’s Marcus.

“John? I was just looking for you at the Continental.” Marcus has a small smile on his face, clearly not aware of John’s expression.

His eyes dart behind Marcus, where his little one is supposed to be, but she’s gone. John feels something curl in his stomach, his fingers itching again, eyes rapidly searching for her in the sea of people.

He looks at Marcus again, deciding he’ll just find her later, but he worries that something might happen to her now that John’s attention isn’t on her.

“Why?” he almost snaps, voice deep and laced with no emotion.

“Why? Because it’s been quite some time, John. I haven’t heard from you since the Iosef situation, but I did hear you’re back in business,” Marcus replies, but when he sees how distracted John looks, his voice falters. “You working?”

“Yeah.” The lie comes off smoothly. “I’ll see you around.”

John taps Marcus’ shoulder, trying to sound as polite as possible even though he badly wants to break a couple of his teeth for taking his attention away from her. He knows Marcus is probably noticing something, but John’s never the one to care.

Marcus drops the subject. “Alright, John. I’ll see you around.”

With that, John disappears in the crowd with no looking back.

It’s been awhile since John last took a job.

He can’t seem to take his eyes away from his little one. He can’t stop fucking stalking her from morning to night time.

John’s afraid that once he takes his attention from her even for a second, something bad might happen to her. It’s engraved in his mind that she can’t protect herself and he’s solely there to be the protector.

No one would understand. He’s doing this for her own good.

John’s absence at the Continental doesn’t go unnoticed by Winston and Charon. They’re his favorite, after all. Watch his every move carefully ever since that ugly murder John did. Perhaps he could make his next kill even uglier. To them, it’s vile and grotesque. For John, it’s special and unique.

This time, it took a good self-beating before John decided to take a contract. Three million to hunt down a rival crime lord, nothing he can’t handle, but somehow it brings an unusual feeling on his shoulder he isn’t fond of. Perhaps because John’s leaving his little one for a while and he isn’t quite sure what to feel. Worried and pissed – but mostly worried.

That is why he hired someone to trail his little one on his behalf. Everyone in business would do anything for a coin despite how fucked up disturbing it is. John offered a generous amount of coins to keep the assassin’s mouth shut, but he also held him at gunpoint and gave him a good talk before he sent the dog out in the field.

His only job is to keep an eye on her, report everything he’ll see to John, and maybe even take pictures for safety purposes.

John has been overseas in the last three days, and everything that’s been sent to him has been his only form of entertainment. There’s videos of her giggling with her friends, videos and photos of her in the library, outside her school, her work, and even in her apartment. There’s also information sent to him about the background of her friends – every single one of them, because John didn’t pay so much for nothing.

There’s one particular friend that ticks off John in all the worst way possible. He’s young, around her age, and the way he hugs and touches her just fucking sets him off. John wants to break his fingers in half. He reminds himself that once he’s home, he’ll make sure to take care of that boy himself.

“What else have you got?” John questions through the phone, and it doesn’t take long for his precious dog to respond.

“Oh, he is one creepy motherfucker. I’m starting to understand why you’re so riled up with this guy, boss. The urge to strangle him every time he gets in the picture gets stronger and stronger everyday.” He hears a laugh at the other end. The guy that’s working for him – Alex, if he remembers correctly – is young, new in business, knows not to fuck with John so he keeps his job adequate. If Alex ever notice how fucked up John is for making him follow a young woman to keep his life in order, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Just tell me when I can shoot this guy and I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

“Leave him. Keep an eye on him, but don’t kill him,” John advises, his tone leaving no room for discussion. “I’ll handle him myself when I get back. For the meantime, focus on Y/N and keep any troubles out of her way. Fail that task and I’d serve your head hot on a platter.”

“You got it, boss.”

John is playing nicely.

He’s not going to force his way into her life. He’s gonna be welcomed, with open arms, desired.

There are times he’d thought about giving in to his desperation and act with his dick instead of his head. There are times he’d thought about following her to a dark street, where no one’s around, he’s on the prowl and ready to pounce. He’d put a fabric against her mouth and nose, laced with enough chemicals to make her pass out and for him to carry her in his car with no problems whatsoever. John thinks about how he’d make it look like he’s just picking up his very drunk and passed out girlfriend and no one would know a goddamn thing.

John would keep her in his house where she won’t need anything but him. 

But of course, he’s not that cruel.

They’re only thoughts. Thoughts that he tries hard to keep away, but at the end of the day he reminds himself that he’s better than that.

John is not going to force his way into her life.

He’ll make sure to get her addicted enough to come crawling at his feet herself. She’ll be dependent on him, won’t be able to live without him. John will make sure his plan will go out smoothly or otherwise he’ll be the one bringing Hell with him on this land and seek as much havoc as he possibly can.

The death emissary himself will strike tonight.

A Friday night out with her friends has John on high alert. That’ll only mean she’s constantly surrounded with people, god knows what could happen if John even takes his eyes off her for a second. He lurks on the side, blending himself with the crowd as much as he can all while keeping his gaze on her. 

He doesn’t need any drugs to keep his mind insane, because the sight of a specific man getting very close to what’s his is enough to make him visualize all the ugly and twisted ways to kill a man.

She’s wearing a thin silky dress that’s low on her cleavage and shows her perky breasts. She’s currently the flame in a room full of moths, John included. Everyone’s eyes are on her, observing the way she sways her hips and sings along to the loud music – John’s fingers itch.

The itch to kill is back again, driving into his veins, his hands twitch on the table. John wants to pull out his gun and shoot everyone in this fucking room. He wants to stab them in the eyes one by one and make them feed it to themselves. He wants to grab this guy on the neck and slam his head against the wall repeatedly until his brain scatter all over the fucking place and there’s nothing left for him to ruin.

This guy is getting on his fucking nerves.

John watches as the man smoothly brings his arm on her shoulder, whispering something in her ear that doesn’t make her look so impressed. In fact, she looks disturbed, uncomfortable, tense. Despite the guy being her friend, John could tell she doesn’t feel comfortable with the way he’s showing her affection.

It’s hard to see her like this, but he knows he can’t just jump in between the two of them and beat the shit out of the guy until he chokes on his own blood. He’ll have to wait, maybe after this party, he’ll strike and discard the body in a way that’ll make even Winston spook in his sleep. It’s not a major offense to kill a man that’s not in the game anyway – or at least that’s what John tells himself.

This guy wouldn’t be able to be three feet near his little one once John’s done with him. He’ll be six feet under.

John sees her swiftly moving away from his touch, trying to make her rejection look as polite as possible, which receives a not-so-amused reaction from her little friend.

This guy doesn’t deserve her at all. No one does. Except maybe John, but that’s because he knows he’s capable of actually taking care of her and keeping her safe. Nobody would understand what he feels, what he yearns, what he wants.

Good girl, John thinks. Walk away.

His gaze follow her as she makes her way to the backdoor and out to the cold air of the city. John follows in a hurry, keeping a safe distance between the two of them, then opens the door as quietly as possible so he wouldn’t let his presence known.

There are a few people on the street, either having a smoke break or making out against the piss stained wall, but she stays just beside the busy road as she wraps her arms around herself.

His gaze burn daggers on her exposed back, the urge to cover her up with his jacket and take her home. A drunk man comes stumbling out of the club, accidentally tripping over his steps and he pushes her hard enough to make her yelp as her heels lose balance and almost making herself get run over by a passing truck.

Almost.

Everything happens so fast. One moment John is standing five feet from her, the next is he’s grasping her wrists in his hand and pulling her back to her feet and dragging her back to the curb. He was already on the act once he saw the man exiting the club, he knew exactly this would happen.

The scene looks strangely familiar, one John could never forget. The same position, same hand placement, same rough fingers around her wrist and dark eyes boring into hers – their very first meeting.

“You!” she gasps, not caring about the fact that she almost just got hit by a fucking truck. “I know you! You’re the guy outside my apartment that day! What are you doing here?”

John stares. Predictable. Of course she’s talking to him like they’ve known each other for years. She’s too friendly.

“Hello to you too,” John replies, though his tone is blank as well as his face. “You remember me.”

“‘Course I do,” she giggles, a little tipsy, pupils dilated and licking her lips nervously. “You’re pretty hard to forget. I remember asking my neighbors around the area if you’re new there, turns out you were just visiting.”

John furrows his brows, hand still not letting go of her wrist. What does she mean by she’s asked around the area about him?

His face must’ve looked confused, he sees her grinning childishly. “It’s a coincidence that I see you again!”

Not a coincidence, but fate.

John doesn’t believe in a lot of things, but he believes in fate. Fate brought him Helen, and now fate is bringing him another angel. If she really went as far as asking the neighborhood about his existence, then it must be fate.

“I’m Y/N. I figured if we keep bumping into each other then you should at least know my name,” she says, completely oblivious that John already knows everything that has to be known about her. From her little mannerisms to the last name of her fucking grandmother. “May I know yours or are you just gonna stare at me all night?”

“It’s John,” he gulps, not wanting to look like a loser in front of her, not after everything he went through for her. “It’s really nice to see you again.”

He sucks at this. He fucking sucks at this.

“You haven’t answered my question, by the way. What brings you here?”

It hangs in the air, John lets go of her wrist. Luckily, he thinks fast enough and says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Work.”

“Ah, work,” she nods. “You work here? In the club? What are you, a bouncer or something?”

“I don’t. Someone I work with is in the club.” A lie, but it’s not like she would know. “We had a talk.”

“Not really a man of words, eh?” she raises an eyebrow teasingly. 

“This is the most words I’ve said in the past few days,” John says. “I’d say you’re special.”

The look on her face is enough to make his entire night even better. Blushing, lips opening and closing, not knowing what to say. John wants to graze his thumb on her lips, thinking about how good it would feel stretching over his cock.

He blinks. Where did that come from?

“For someone who doesn’t talk much, you sure make it sound smooth when you do. Are you always this slick, John?” she giggles again, music to his ear. “That’s actually better than what I heard from my friend earlier, so thank you.”

“That’s good to know.”

Before she could say anything back, the door of the club opens once again and her friends appear, waving a hand at her and beckoning her to get inside. She looks at John, gives him a sympathetic look, as if apologizing that their talk gets cut off too soon.

“I’m really sorry but my friends want me back in there. Hopefully we can continue this again, yeah?” she smiles cheekily, tucking her hair behind her ear. “If you want, you could give me your number so we can talk someplace else? You know… with no one bothering us and all that.”

There it is. John didn’t think it would be this easy to sink the hook in. All he needs to do is pull and take what’s meant to be his.

“Sure.” He enters his number swiftly, feeling that familiar burn in his guts once again when he sees the wallpaper being her pretty face. “Feel free to message me whenever you want. I’ll make time for you.”

She looks at her phone and smiles before starting to walk away from him, waving a hand goodbye, but it doesn’t feel like a goodbye. John knows it isn’t. She’s already his the moment she started talking to him again.

“Of course! Get home safe, John! I’ll see you soon!” 

“You too.”

She doesn’t know John won’t be heading home any time soon until he knows she’s safe and sound in her apartment.

Jay Lopez.

The name burns on his tongue. Bitter and resentful. He stares at the photos his precious dog sent to him and he has to stop the impulse to burn every single one of them.

Jay Lopez is the guy that’s been leeching on his girl since the dawn of time, and thankfully John is here to put an end to it. 

He’s hideous. It’s interesting how John stooped this low that he’d be willing to kill a college student for being too near his little bambi, but alas, he’s never the one to care for such things. Morals and righteousness have never been in his book, not now, nor ever.

It’s only a matter of time until he gets rid of this pest. He’s fucking creepy, follows around not only Y/N but a bunch of other women. 

John doesn’t want his death to be quick and simple. He wants to do it in an ugly way, make sure his body will never be found, make sure he’ll never get to lay his hands and eyes on what’s his. The way Jay stares at her in these pictures ignites something evil within John’s veins. It’s been awhile since he felt something like this.

“Alex.” he looks at his pet standing by the door, waiting for the next command. “Bring him to me alive.”

“Can I at least rough him up a bit?”

John doesn’t answer at first, looks back at the photos on his table. “Do what you want, just make sure he’s still breathing when you bring him here.”

“On it, boss.”

Truth be told, John doesn’t need a pet to order around for this job. He has himself – a labeled attack dog of the Tarasovs for years, their hellhound, chained and muzzled unless they need him to kill. He’s a one man army as some would say, he doesn’t need Alex running around doing tasks for him, but it sure does make the job a lot faster.

It’s not a way to downgrade his reputation nor skills to hunt, he really just needs this Jay guy gone as fast as possible.

On the same day, Alex manages to haul a very brutally violated Jay to the floor of his basement. He stinks, pants wet from piss and a face John is having a hard time recognizing.

“You said rough him up a bit, not make him look unrecognizable.”

“Same thing.”

Jay is sobbing his eyes out, his cries of pleas falls to deaf ears and John just wants to fucking bash his skull with his own foot. “W-who are you guys?! What the f-fuck did I do?! Get me out of here or I’ll tell the fucking police–”

John kicks him on the chin hard to stop the goon from rambling. “You’re not telling anybody any shit, tough guy.”

“So, what are you planning to do to him? Can I watch?”

“Can you handle it?”

Alex shrugs. He’s in the presence of the most dangerous assassin in the underworld, wouldn’t hurt to learn anything from his skills and techniques, doesn’t matter how fucked up it is.

John nods towards the chainsaw sitting at the corner of the room, and Alex turns to face him with wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, man. You serious? Last time I heard you’re a hitman, not a serial killer.”

“Same qualifications. Same thing.” John grabs the man by the arm then drags him to a chair. He takes a rope from the table and swiftly ties him up securely. “We start with the head, then arms and legs. It would be hard to put his entire body in a drum full of acid, so we need to cut him off one by one.”

Alex looks like he’s about to run off somewhere safe from what he’s witnessing. “You’re talking like you’ve done this before, holy fuck.”

John gives him a look, and Alex immediately shuts his mouth. Right. He’d done this before. This is completely normal.

“I’ve been following you for a while, Jay. You’re a creep who befriends pretty girls, then you’ll drug them and make them have sex with you,” John taunts, the sound of his heels hitting the concrete floor is enough to send shivers down his spine. “Is that what you’re also planning to do with Y/N? Be her friend and fuck her once she’s drugged up and vulnerable?”

It’s a bold statement coming from John himself since he’s no better man than Jay, but at least his intentions come from a different place.

“You-you’re fucking sick!” Jay spits.

“I’m sick? I’m not the one going around making girls uncomfortable now, am I?” he picks up the chainsaw, then watches in enjoyment as Jay widens his eyes in fear. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, Jay. You won’t be able to use your pathetic little dick of yours to any woman ever again, and most importantly –”

John fires up the chainsaw, adrenaline coursing through his veins when he sees the horrified look in the man’s face as he tries to get up and scream for help.

“I can finally sleep well at night knowing you’re not in Y/N’s life anymore.”

As John steps into the light, a roaring chainsaw in his hands, Alex could only watch in horror as the basement gets painted with blood in mere seconds.

There’s a vacant apartment just across her room, giving John the perfect view of what she’s doing while she’s alone.

Most of the time, John will pull up a seat beside the window and take pictures. The other half of the time is just him staring, observing. It seems that she’s too comfortable knowing there’s no one across the building so she doesn’t close the curtains, leaving John no choice but to keep his eyes on her.

He found this place just three days after following her. He couldn’t help it. Following her to school and work suddenly wasn’t enough for John that he had to find a way to somehow watch her even in her sleep. 

He should be ashamed of himself. He should feel guilty for what he’s doing – he should stop, but he just can’t. John’s already done too much. This is like being pulled back into the underworld all over again but this time, there’s something good that’s waiting for him on the other side.

Maybe it’s the delusion that comes with it that’s not stopping John from whatever he’s doing. Lately, he’s been thinking about how life would turn out to be if his plan goes out smoothly. They’d live happily ever after, she would end up loving him just the way he planned it out to be, and John will make sure no one will ever dare to take those peace away from him again.

He’d make sure no one will ever come close to her again once she’s his. She’d be isolated but protected. Just how John likes it.

It’s been two days since John gave his number, but he knows she’s just giddy and nervous to text him. He’d seen her staring at her phone, biting her bottom lip anxiously, thinking if it would be a good idea or not. He knows she’ll give in one way or another because he sees it in her face. She’s too easy, too gullible, too naive.

She’s lonely, just like him.

John could tell she’s waiting for someone – she’s desperate, no wonder she asked for his number the second time they met. She wants someone to take care of her, to hold her, tell her that she deserves the world. That someone is John whether she likes it or not.

This isn’t just any unhealthy obsession. John finds himself too deep to get out. He knows her little mannerisms, studied her every action, has a red room full of her pictures and no one can’t say he’s not ready to give up anything for her. John has already given up his sanity ever since he mutilated a man for being too close to her.

She’s his life now, his everything.

John watches intensely as she shreds her clothes in her room, baring him the full view of herself naked, and John grips the side of his chair too hard his knuckles turn white. This is the first time he’d seen her naked, it’s so sudden and so… perfect.

His cock fattens in his pants as he observes every curve of her body. Her waist is fucking perfect and her body is thick yet delicate. John thinks about bruising her sensitive skin, leaving a mark that will show everyone that she’s owned. He would love to see her in a collar, hear it jingle when she crawls. 

She’s completely fucking naked that John wonder just how naive she is to think there would be no one seeing her like this. What if John isn’t the only one watching her? What if somebody else sees her like this? His fingers itch, jaw clenching.

He’d kill them. He’d kill them in front of her, and the thought somehow made his cock hard even more. He grimaces, disturbed at the reaction of his body.

John doesn’t really understand the sexual aspects of killing, but now he’s thinking about how she would react if she sees him working. He’d kill someone in front of her and he’d see the look of disgust and betrayal in her face. He can already imagine how her eyes would well up with tears and fuck, his dick shouldn’t be this hard.

She’d fear him, and John would be turned on. How fucked up would that be? Just how fucked up can his mind get?

He resists the urge to wrap his hand around his cock because fuck no. He would not stoop this low, he is not a teenage boy. No matter how strong the thoughts get, the thoughts of wrapping his own hand around her neck, squeezing it hard and cutting off her airflow as John forces his cock in her cunt, hearing her mewl and scream and beg to just –

John sucks in air, eyes back on her in her room, wrapping a robe around herself and heading to the bathroom. This is fucked up. His cock is incredibly hard and leaking, and his mind won’t stop thinking about how good her pussy would feel around him.

He’d talk her through it. Whisper sweet nothings in her ear as she releases around her cock, praising her for being such a good girl. Then he’d fuck her again, in a different position, debauching her in different ways not even the devil himself could think of.

John would ruin her, and she will have no choice but to accept it.

He brings his hand to his face as he sighs deeply. He wonders what Helen would feel of what he’s doing. Disgusted, no doubt. This is not the same man she fell in love with years ago. He would never do something like this, but fate has its plans, and John believes everything happens for a reason.

She was brought into his life for a reason and it’s up to him whether he takes.

John doesn’t realize that he’s been staring at nothing for too long until she comes back in his view once again. Her hair is still wet, still wrapped up in a fluffy pink robe, and John’s fingers itch to grab, squeeze, possess.

He sees her picking up her phone, staring for a moment before her fingers start typing. John has been anticipating this moment for so long, the time has finally come.

In his chest pocket, his phone buzz silently, the vibration sending excitement in his whole body.

There it is.

13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : hello! this is Y/N from the club the other night

13.06.15 11:46 PM UNKNOWN NUMBER : also that Y/N who returned your super expensive looking coin hehe ;) i hope you didn’t forget about me!

There it fucking is.

John’s lips curl into a small smile. His efforts are finally paying off. 

All he needs to do is to get what’s his.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

I keep going to the river to pray

Written for the March pop-up challenge of the @steddieholidaydrabbles

Prompt: spring

Rated: M

Tags: Italian Steve Harrington; naiad Eddie Munson; past lives

CW: child molestation (not from MC); nudity; fade to black sex

Notes: Moooom, hype is turning the blorbos into water creatures again!

Steve is five years old and the water whispers to him. 

“Steven, come back inside,” Mom scolds and yanks sharply on his hand. “Nonna told you the woods are off limits. The water is too dangerous. Heavens, I can't leave you alone for two seconds, can I?” 

Steve wants to cry. To thrash and kick and scream at the injustice of it all.

Because she is leaving him alone. All alone in this strange country where there's nothing fun to do and where nobody speaks his language, for an entire summer. How's he even supposed to listen to Nonna when he doesn’t understand her half the time? 

The only place where he finds comfort is the spring. The little pond with its crystal waters surrounded by crumpled pillars. He doesn’t know why, just knows there's something here that calls to him. 

Mom doesn't understand, and Steve is too small to fight as she drags him away. Something splashes behind them, like a large stone sinking underwater, but by the time he turns, all he can see is ripples on the surface. 

He doesn’t know why he says it, because there's nobody here. Nobody he can see. It feels like the right thing to do, though. 

“Don't worry,” he whispers to the water. “I'll be back, promise.” 

The water whispers back. 

*

Steve is thirteen and a man follows him into the woods. He's been lurking in corners and doorways in the village all day, smiling, staring, speaking saccharine words in broken English. 

Pretty boy, sweet boy, come here. 

By the time Steve notices he's trailing behind him on the lonely road in the fading daylight, it's too late to cry for help. He ducks into the shelter of the trees without thinking, not looking back when he hears the man give chase. Darkness is falling around him, but he doesn’t need to see. 

All he needs to do is follow the pull. 

The spring reflects the moon and stars, silver waves bouncing off the trees and pillars. 

“Help me,” Steve whispers, just as a hand grabs his wrist and spins him around. 

The man's face is a mask of primal hunger. His eyes glint, dark and unblinking- 

-and then they catch on something behind Steve's back and bulge. All the color drains from his face. He stumbles back, releasing Steve’s wrist, muttering a word in Italian that he doesn’t understand. Then, he turns and runs. 

Steve stares after him, heartbeat roaring in his ears. By the time he remembers to look behind him, there's nobody there. The spring lies silent in the starlight, but the water isn't smooth anymore. A circle of ripples is spreading, not far from where he's standing, waves lapping against the shore. Steve imagines he sees something slipping out of sight in the water, like dark tendrils of seaweed. Then he blinks and it's gone. 

Steve smiles.

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly. 

*

The water murmurs back. 

Steve is eighteen and everything is bullshit. He perches on a fallen pillar, toes dangling in the water, watching the sunset behind the trees, and feels sorry for himself. 

He can't protect his heart from being broken, can't get into college, can't even get his parents to love him. They probably believe they're punishing him by sending him back here, he thinks with a laugh. Idiots. They know nothing about him, nothing about the pull he feels towards this place. He's been feeling it more and more lately, even with an entire ocean between them. 

“Have you finally come to stay, sweetling?” 

Steve doesn’t startle. Simply blinks back from his thoughts and lowers his gaze, like it's always been the two of them out here. Maybe that’s true. 

“You're not scared,” the boy from the spring observes. His head is poking out of the water between Steve’s legs, long dark hair brushing his ankles. He's naked under the water, skin pale and smooth as marble. “Do you not fear me?” 

“Why would I? You've never given me reason to.” 

The language that slips from his lips is strange. Not English. Something closer to the butchered Italian he's picked up over the years. He frowns, briefly, but the boy's lips - pink and full and glistening with tiny droplets - curl into a smile and he forgets to wonder about it.

“Clever child.” Long fingers curl around Steve's calves, sliding up his legs. “I'd never harm what's mine.” 

The fingers slip under the hem of Steve's shorts, gracing his inner thigh, and he gasps. 

“Yours?” 

The boy hums, pulling himself from the water a little, so that his shoulders emerge. His hair is a dark, tangled halo around his pretty face. It tickles Steve’s skin as the boy noses along the inside of his knee.

“Yes, mine. You feel it, do you not? The pull.” 

Steve nods breathlessly and the boy smiles against the soft flesh of his thigh. 

“Of course you do, sweetling. It has been forever since I met someone as responsive, but you? You remember, don't you?” 

Steve pauses. Is that what pulls him here? Memories of a time he shouldn’t recall? Of a place far more splendid than the crumbling ruins around them, a place filled with song and laughter and the strange but familiar language that keeps tumbling from his mouth? 

The boy - the god - watches the shift in his face and smiles. Nimble hands settle on his hips, pulling him closer, and Steve slings his arms around slender shoulders as the pillar slips out from under him. 

His god's eyes are bright as he walks them to the middle of the pond. 

“It has been so long, sweetling, and I hunger for worship. Will you give yourself to me again?” 

“I do not need to,” Steve smiles as he is slowly lowered into the cool waters. “You've always had me.” 

His god smiles and pulls him in, and Steve sighs against those beautiful lips. 

The water welcomes him home. 

In Roman mythology, naiads (better known under the name of their Greek counterparts, nymphs) are nature spirits most commonly associated with water, guarding rivers, springs and the like. Some were worshipped as local deities, with shrines built in their honor.

[devotekuna]

Dad!Geto headcanons/drabbles

♡˗Geto who has experience rasing kids as he adopted Mimiko and Nanako, but not having experience raising babies let alone with someone else, it was nice having someone else to rely on.

☆His daughter who's called Hana is a carbon copy of him, black long hair, curly at the start but it would soon turn into long lushus locs.

☆Hana was very clingy when she was a baby, always crying when she didn't sense her father's presence, it was always so draining when he went to his little cult meetings as nothing would soothe her, not even her favourite and only aunts, Nanako and Mimiko.

☆Whenever she sees him coming towards her, crys stopping at an instant, little hands reaching out for a hug, who could blame her? She adored him despite her only being a few months old.

☆Geto who always puts her to sleep, even if you said you could do it, partially be abuse he wanted you to rest but also because his daughter loved him too much, always rocking her to sleep as she slept on his shoulder or patting her back.

☆Adores Hana reaching for something on his head, either it be his nose, earrings or hair, somehow always getting to chew it, complaints coming from his mouth as soon as he feels her release his hair and the wet surface hitting his skin.

☆Hana most definitely likes butterflies, always picking up a purple one and bringing it to him, sometimes putting it in his hair then trying to braid it, despite her efforts it still ended up flying away and the hair a mess.

☆Sometimes she gets taken to his cult meetings to keep the members off guard as she stared at her only for suguru to deal with his business.

☆She definitely dressed up like him, trying to bribe him with her cuteness and admiration for him to bring her with him, he always rejects her as he doesn't want her to see what he does only to promise to buy her Ice-cream or something.

☆Whenever they go to the park which isn't very often, he always carries her on his shoulders if she's too tired, always stopping for her to pet the cats or to go on the swings.

☆Hana loves when he cooks for her, always trying to help him, either by cutting up vegetables or helping stir the pot. She'd find a way to be close to her favourite parent, it being clear that she's a daddy's girl.

☆Whenever he falls asleep somewhere where his daughter can reach him, she takes advantage and puts sticks and felt tips all over him, but if she's feeling tired she'll grab her toys, blanket and pillows, always prodding one under his head as she sleeps on him, blanket wrapped around both of them.

☆He has a special room dedicated to her shenanigans, hiring a babysitter to do whatever she likes only if she doesn't get hurt, threatening to kill them if they upset her.

☆He's the type to walk Hana to school on the first day, wishing her a good luck and giving her a kiss on the forehead even if he was late for a meeting saying that they weren't as important as her.

"Who's/Where's my little princess?" "Papa brought you back some souvenirs!" "I'll let you braid my hair whilst I work" "Ask your mother if she wants to watch a movie with us" "It's a daddy daughter date"

☆He'd most definitely sacrifice anything for her, even if it was his own life, which goes the same for you too.

☆He captures curses which would make his daughter happy, take a curse that looks alot like a unicorn for chance, he'd spawn that in for her to ride it.

☆Hana definitely offers him some sweets or tea to make the taste of the cursed spirits go away as she hates seeing her father in discomfort. Always taking up on her offers.

☆He'd own a pond full of koi fish or a cat which he lets his daughter take care of, always loves coming home to the cat purring at his feet with his partner and daughter.

[jealousveronya]

Would've, could've, should've - Chapter 1

Summary:

Everyone at the Spring Court always talked about how menacing and ruthless the High Lords were, especially the strongest High Lord, the High Lord of the Night Court. And Feyre did fear him, but when the entire world seemed set on reminding her how she needed to be protected, something even her husband couldn't accomplish without her sacrificing her freedom, she couldn't help but imagine a reality where he wasn't a threat, but the one she clung to breathlessly every night.

After all, if she needed to be protected, the company of the strongest should suffice.

However, that was just a fantasy Feyre created to escape to when she couldn't get out of bed. It meant nothing. She hadn't even met the lord of the night.

But what happens when she does and can't stop a blush from creeping onto her face as she finally puts a face to all her sensual fantasies?

Read Chapter 1 on: AO3 or continue reading

Seven thrones, crafted out of purest white marble, encircled a pond that shimmered in the daylight with lotuses gently drifting across its surface. The seven thrones were meant for the seven high lords, the rulers of Prythian. Six were occupied, but one remained empty, a truth no one dared to speak of yet, nor its implications.

It had been a considerable time since the high lords held a meeting, their mutual disdain apparent in the uneasy silence that hung over the gathering.

"For how long do you intend to keep us in the dark, Beron?" Tarquin asked, scratching his chin, a hint of mockery woven into his words.

"I have a court to attend to. Explain the reason for this meeting at once, or I'll return to it." Tarquin crossed his legs. A slight wave in the pond splashed Beron's leather boots, prompting a mischievous smirk to dance on the High Lord of Summer's face.

Beron, the high lord with auburn locks, exhaled as his fingers drummed against the throne. He behaved as if he were the father of five insolent brats he'd summoned for a lecture.

"I had honestly hoped someone else would be the first to admit it, but I see it all comes down to me. Very well." He leaned back in his throne.

"A spark of my power has vanished," he declared.

Whatever smug expression had been on Tarquin's face instantly evaporated into thin air.

In a world where even a spark could mean the difference between life and death, high lord or slave, the danger of this confession did not go unnoticed.

"Am I the only one?" Beron asked, looking at the other high lords with a narrowed gaze.

"Regretfully or fortunately, you are not the only one," Kallias began. "I noticed it too. I was at breakfast when I felt it just... leave. That was about two months ago."

"I have also experienced it," Tarquin added.

The other high lords followed with their agreements.

"It's just a spark now, but who is to say how much more will vanish, how much weaker we will get?" Beron balled his hands into fists, slamming them against the throne. "It's natural to suspect Hybern—perhaps they've found a way to drain us of our power slowly; Cauldron knows how much they'd want that. But we also can't dismiss," he looked toward the seventh throne, the empty one covered in dust,

"him."

Silence flooded the room.

The seventh throne was meant for the death incarnate, the strongest high lord, the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand—the only male in Prythian who could make all the other high lords take a step back, even if some wouldn't admit it.

"Well, shouldn't he be here then? So we can ask him? If he's responsible, he already knows—there's no point hiding it from him." Helion broke the silence. He had been avoiding Beron's gaze the entire meeting. Although the rumors of his affair with Beron's wife were old, the bitterness between the two males was still palpable.

"And if he isn't to blame and was somehow unaffected unlike us, do we need to let him know we have grown even weaker?" The high lord of the autumn court spat.

"I have to agree. We can always plan a second meeting with him, but perhaps we don't need to tell him everything from the beginning." Tarquin followed.

"So what would be the best way to handle this?" Kallias spoke as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His power was leaking from him, so much that the part of the pond in front of him was slowly freezing.

"I recommend sending spies to the night court. We need to see if Rhysand is planning a war, and whether he is gathering armies. As strong as he is, if his goal is to weaken us so he can take over, he still won't try it without an army. If there is no army, we'll meet again to discuss what should be done further" Beron suggested.

Agreements could be heard from all sides of the hall, except for one. Beron's eyes followed the silence until they stopped at a male dressed in green, blonde strands of hair covering his already unreadable expression.

"You've been awfully quiet, Tamlin. Is there any reason for that?"

Tamlin hummed in dismissal before replying.

"No, you have just said it all. In fact, I volunteer one of my spies for the mission."

Upon the end of the meeting, Tamlin had winnowed back to his manor.

His hands were shaking slightly, his vision blurred, claws growing longer every second as the beast inside threatened to come out.

He had barely kept it inside during the discussion, gripping the armrests of the throne for dear life.

Since he'd gotten the letter from Beron that called for a meeting he had prayed to the Cauldron that this wasn't the topic. That no one had noticed the missing sparks of power. Or that if they had noticed, that they didn't care enough. They were just sparks after all. They were so insignificant compared to the entirety of a high lord's power, power capable of maintaining an entire court, keeping a season everlasting.

He took slow steps up the staircase. The weight of his secret was threatening to push him back down.

What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to handle this? Right now they believed Rhysand or Hybern was to blame, but it's only a matter of time before they find out the truth.

The all-too-familiar scent hit his nostrils. It was the sweetest scent he had ever known. He relished in inhaling it before his feet followed its trace. 

Slowly opening the door, he peeked inside.

It was a moment to behold. Water was splashed everywhere, bubbles were spilling out of the tub. Light from the windows passing through the bubbles reflected rainbows on the marble floor. And inside the tub lay a female with golden wet hair framing her face and one leg lazily draped outside, swinging back and forth.

The sight of the female he held dear to his heart was a momentary reprieve, forcing the beast to retreat within the chamber of his soul as if her presence alone could pacify it.

As if for the first time ever, Tamlin exhaled, only for a second though  as the sight of her was also a reminder of the ever-looming threat.

The meeting had been a threat, a warning, because of who she was - because around her shoulders, that were peaking out of the water, tiny water wolves were frolicking - water wolves that she was creating. Her face wore a concentrated expression with furrowed brows as her delicate hands shaped water into wolves and gave them life.

Finally breaking her focus, taking notice of Tamlin, she looked up. Her blue orbs graced him with their sincerity as a smile found its way on her lips. Her skin started emitting a glow with intensity similar to one of the sun.

If he wasn't mesmerized he might have squinted to protect his vision.

And as the final punch to the gut, to remind him again of whaz she was, instead of speaking, she gently entered his mind.

"I missed you."

Tamlin could spend an eternity in that tub snuggled up against Feyre, kissing the nape of her neck, listening to the faintest of her moans, her fingers tangled in his hair, if the Cauldron only allowed it.

His teeth grazed her skin in between his kisses causing Feyre to shudder and pull on his hair harder.

The beast inside of him wanted him to mark her, to declare her as his as if that would protect her.

“Are you ready to talk about what happened?” Feyre asked using her daemati powers, trailing her nails against the inside of his mind. As much as he was settled inside her physically, she was inside him mentally.

He bit her neck eliciting a sharp gasp from her. It wasn’t enough to mark her, just enough for her to feel the sharpness of his canines and how easy it would be for him to pierce her skin.

“I prefer it when I hear your voice.” Tamlin pulled on her plump bottom lip with his claw. He wasn’t interested in containing his claws like he had been doing at the meeting. Not with her. With her he didn’t need to hide or fake control.

And the reality from who she had gotten her daemati spark wasn’t really allowing him to even try concealing them. The fact his magic was running through her veins now was eating at his heart, especially when she was so determined on using it so frequently.

Violet eyes flashed in his mind, but he quickly composed himself.

“Fine. Are you ready to talk about what happened?” Feyre asked audibly now, pink covering her freckled cheeks.

“No,” Tamlin murmured before shifting his hips. Feyre breathed out a song of pleasure as her eyes rolled back into her head. “Fuck, Tamlin.”

He licked the sensitive place he found above the collarbone. 

He’ll protect her.

He’ll protect her from everyone. 

No one will take her from him.

His jaw closed around the curve of her neck, this time with enough force to draw blood.

“Feyre,” Tamlin started as his tongue tasted her blood.

“Hmm,” Feyre moaned.

“You’ll cook us alive.”

At that Feyre noticed the rising temperature of the water, a consequence of her skin getting hotter and hotter, almost igniting fire.

“Cauldron, sorry.”

Tamlin’s chuckle echoed against his mark.

”I can’t- I don’t know how to stop it.”

At that Tamlin picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as he stepped out of the tub and headed towards Feyre’s bedroom. He made a point to step on one of the water wolves following them, turning it into a puddle.

“HEY!”

Tamlin only laughed in response.

“I need to practice. I need to get better at using my magic.” Feyre sounded disappointed.

“Nonsense,” Tamlin commented as he walked over to the bed, leaving a wet trail behind them.

“I could help you with the court, I could do so much.”

He lowered her onto the silky sheets. “You are already helping me.”

She looked to the side out of embarrassment.

“I could help you in other ways.”

“I am the high lord. I think I’ll manage. Besides, I want to take care of you. Not the other way around.” He kissed her breasts.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to stop taking care of you.”

“That,” he warned “is an exception.”

His kisses started to get lower and lower. “Which we will get to later.”

“I just think that I should train, get better at using it.”

But Tamlin did not respond.

[tomorrowsgardennc]

so this is how i started down the rabbit hole of wanting/needing a frog pond...

it all started when i was dumb and left my gorilla wagon outside during that hurricane that came on through, beryl betty, beejou, beetlejuice... already forgot the name. but it dumped a TON of water in the span of only 1.5 days, so of course the wagon got full super quick. i guess it also rained frogs instead of cats and dogs because some frogs laid eggs in said wagon cart. now the thing is, i own this cart wagon gorilla because i need it. i use it quite often, considering how many raised beds i've been constructing and replenishing compost for. but frogs win over me.

i've been checking my no longer gorilla but now frog wagon cart daily since then, and now i'm down to i believe 5ish tadpoles just chilling in there. and yes i washed my hands thoroughly after this video. also wave hi to me at the end.

i believe i have picked a good dedicated space for a permanent frog pond in the middle of one of my raised beds in the front yard. i plan on surrounding it with vegetable plants all year round (dinosaur kale in the winter, then next year will be purple tomatillos). i had cantaloupe plants in it before but man i couldn't reach the middle both because of my back and because the bed is just too square.

so the only remaining question i have before i commit to this is that do i need a run-off drain drilled near the top for the next downpour, or does it just do that on it's own and no worries about it?? this is an old hydroponics bin that i used once and was like 'cool. but a tower would be better' so i don't plan on using it ever again for that purpose.

thank you to soooo many people who helped me when i first panic posted about what to do: @the-thing-of-worms, @martha-anne, @roseredsnow, and @mrsjdavis. without your advice or thoughts i would not have kept going with this idea!

i now know to add plants to the water, and going to add rocks of various sizes in and around the pond. i'm debating on adding fish, because as much as i would love that idea - i'm worried about the pond freezing in winter and also not only parsley but other cats in the neighborhood just coming and eating them all. but i guess that's nature for you. totes going to put in a water pump to keep the water moving, that will be like step 1.

oh, and a photo of the frogs that live in my yard. no idea of the species, but man they are everywhere.

[mykingdomforapen]

chapter 10 of "courage of stars" will be coming next week and guys, I'm so nervous. I am so excited and I'm so nervous. This chapter is many things. It's where I got to do some things I've been really wanting to do. It's where I cross a point of no return in the story. I got to try a different style. It's where the line blurs between fanfic and a genre that I respect and fear.

It's also a huge factor in why this fic is rated M. Hoo boy.

So! In lieu of updating today, so that you won't have to face a three week wait afterwards, here's a fun little drabble/filler episode:

-

When Lu Guang was four years old, he lovingly killed three tadpoles. He had scooped them from the pond in a plastic cup and brought them home happily, convinced he would raise them into froghood. By Thursday, all three of them floated lifelessly in the surface of the bright blue tub in which he housed them. His mother poked them curiously with a chopstick while he sobbed into his grandmother's lap.

"Don't be so sad, Guangguang," Maamaa crooned as she patted Lu Guang's head. "You tried very, very hard. We all know that you did your best." 

"I killed them!" Lu Guang wailed into her skirt. "I just want them to be frogs and now they died!"

"Oh, A Guang," his mother said as she furtively plucked the dead tadpoles into a bundled newspaper for a more discreet funeral. "This is a good learning experience, right? Now you know what not to do with a frog. See, it's good to learn with the wild tadpoles, before you spend money on a pet. You know better for next time not to use tap water."

Lu Guang sobbed louder ("I meant it to be comforting!") until Yeye came home. Maamaa intercepted Yeye before he walked through the door and sent him on a mission to bring home steamed bai tang gao as a consolation, and Yeye beelined to the nearest vendor to bring home a steaming, buoyant cake of tangy sweet rice. Lu Guang chewed on it sullenly on the living room sofa after bidding the dead tadpoles goodbye into the storm drain.

Yeye sighed as he sat next to Lu Guang, stroking his grandson's little head.

"You know," he said, "when I was little, my father raised bees."

Lu Guang blinked up at Yeye with teary eyes.

"Honeybees?" he asked.

Yeye nodded. "My father was a very adventurous man, you know. A scholar, but always enjoyed the outdoors. He got it in his head that he would like to try raising a colony of honeybees. I was so excited to help him. I thought we would have hives and hives of bees, but what do you know! Only a month or so of having the bees, one day they all flew away. The queen said, no more! I was so disappointed."

Lu Guang sniffled. Yeye scratched the back of Lu Guang's head.

"After that, we stuck with chickens," Yeye said lightly. "What do you think of chickens, A Guang?"

Lu Guang shook his head.

"I like frogs," he whispered.

"You want to try raising frogs again?"

Lu Guang nodded. Yeye smiled crookedly.

"Ah, well," he said. "Chickens are smelly, anyway."

-

For Lu Guang's seventh birthday, his parents took him to the pet store.

His mother had promised him a pet frog for when he turned seven, partly because she had assumed he would grow out of frogs in three years' time. She was a woman of her word, though, when she noticed him checking out library books about frog care and frog types when he hit age six. When asked if he wanted to invite friends over to play, he shook his head and asked to go to the pet shop.

So on Sunday when Ba and Ma were off work, they took Lu Guang to the best-rated pet shop in the city, four subway stops away from Peidi University. Lu Guang was shaking with anticipation as he counted down the stops, donning his frog bucket hat in celebration and looking away solemnly when teenage girls cooed at him. All he could think about was his dream coming true.

“Now, A Guang,” his mother said breezily as she took Lu Guang’s hand to wade through foot traffic. “When you pick a frog, you have to make sure it isn’t poisonous, okay? Mommy is afraid of poisonous animals.”

“I don’t want a poison dart frog,” said Lu Guang, albeit with reservation. “They won’t have them in a pet store.” 

He did not know what sort of frogs were available in the pet store that Ma and Ba were taking him. Ba, in all his practicality, had assumed that they would go to one of the street markets and pick up a frog that was meant for the dinnerplate. He expressed mild surprise when they turned left to the subway station, so Lu Guang knew Ba wasn’t going to be any help in asking for clues. 

“All right, Guangguang,” said Ma as she ushered Lu Guang into the pet store. It was a corner shop with clean glass windows, full of tanks and cages and colorful habitat accessories. Colorful parakeets squawked and glittering snakes coiled under sunlamps, and Lu Guang’s little heart began to race with anticipation. “Only one frog, do you understand?” 

Lu Guang nodded, his eyes as wide as coins as he stared up at the tall towers of tanks. There were saltwater coral fish dancing among anemones, drowsy tarantulas (Ma squeaked at the sight of them), sunbathing turtles, bearded lizards, and–

Lu Guang felt his jaw drop. 

An Amazon milk frog. 

It was just at eye level with Lu Guang, so that when he pressed his nose to the glass he was eye to eye with the docile pale blue frog. It perched on a rock under the sunlamp, milky blue and content to stare back at Lu Guang. It was perfectly patterned, gummy blue webbed feet, and a lipless mouth that promised simplicity. 

It was, in short, the most wonderful creature that Lu Guang had ever seen. 

He stood up on his tiptoes to get a closer look at the frog. Its tiny breaths puffed in its throat in a fascinating rhythm. It was like seeing a real-life Doraemon in Lu Guang’s eyes, or Sun Wukong–a fairy-tale celebrity come to life, except instead of comic books it was Lu Guang’s frog encyclopedia. Lu Guang knew its habitat, its life cycle, its favorite foods, and now he could behold one with his own eyes. 

Seven minutes passed, and his mother touched him on the head.

“A Guang, there are other frogs you should look at too,” she said.

Lu Guang shook his head. He pressed his hands against the glass. 

“Aiyah, A Guang, not too close.” 

Lu Guang moved his nose a millimeter away from the glass, leaving a smudge. His mother looked down at him with a crooked smile. 

“Is this the one you want, then?” she said. 

He looked up to his mother and nodded. Ma turned to Ba and tapped the price tag. Ba nodded solemnly and undertook the task of haggling (unsuccessfully) with the store owner. 

“Let’s pick out a tank for him,” said Ma. 

She took Lu Guang’s hand and tugged him towards the habitat shelves, but Lu Guang refused to budge. He glued himself to the spot, maintaining unbreakable eye contact with the milk frog. 

“A Guang, come on, now,” she said. “We have to give him a home, don’t we?” 

Lu Guang huddled closer to the tanks. He was convinced that if he were to let the frog out of his sight, some other seven-year-old boy would swoop down and claim the frog as his own. 

“Ba is buying the frog right now, see?” Ma said, pointing to Ba who was conceding to the original price of the pet store while he pulled out his wallet. “There. Let’s choose a tank.” 

After another minute of convincing, Lu Guang finally followed his mother to pick out a proper tank for his frog. He picked out the soil, cleaned rocks, plants, and water source that would all go into his terrarium, but it wasn’t until Ba handed to Lu Guang a plastic covered cup with his milk frog sitting politely inside did Lu Guang feel the surge of joie de vivre. He hugged the cup to his chest, whispered his thanks to his father, and then burst into tears, precisely in that order.

-

Thanks for indulging me with this little drabble, gang. Who knows, since I'm kind of keeping up this 2 week streak for the rest of the update schedule, you might see the return of Frog Guang's adventures again...after all, if you've been on my tumblr for some time, you may recall that I have a headcanon that Lu Guang has beef with one of his cousins.

Until next week!

[morbidology]

9-year-old Richard Marlow from Etobicoke was nicknamed “Peewee” due to his small stature. He was in Grade 3 and was known for being painfully shy. “He was always the first away to school in the morning. He didn’t want to be late,” his mother, Gertrude, recalled.

On the evening of the 18th of July, 1944, the most of the Marlow family went to the cinema. Richard stayed behind with his brother, Gerald. Richard pulled on a blue hat and went outside to play on his older sister’s bicycle with Gerald checking out the window sporadically to make sure Richard was okay.

At some point during the evening, Richard disappeared leaving just the bicycle behind. A search party was assembled. Police scoured the neighbourhood assisted by army militia. Ponds and creeks were drained while wells, outhouses and forests were searched.

Richard’s father, John, came home from his army station to search for his son. They sent photographs of their son to newspapers across the country and wrote to the FBI begging for their assistance. Each Christmas, they purchased gifts in the hopes that Richard would return in time to open them. For the first three years, Gertrude dreamed about Richard. He appeared “clear as day” and asked “were you worrying about me, mommy?”

Despite the extensive search, there was never any sign of Richard. There were several reported sightings across the country but none ever turned out to be Richard. Ten years after his disappearance, Gertrude passed away. “It went on and on and on, and it just broke her heart,” said Richard’s sister’s daughter.

In 1973, John passed away. Both went to the grave without ever knowing what happened to their son. They are buried in Glendale Cemetery. Beside their grave is an empty plot with no headstone, no marker, and no flowers; it is there for Richard if ever he is found.

[whitherwordswither]

05: Wrapped Up For Your Dreams, Again

Old Town, one of my favorite districts in the whole city. I had a lot of fond memories here. From hanging out at the local pizzeria and brew pub, to wandering aimlessly along the waterfront. The cherry blossoms in spring, late drunken summer nights and questionable choices.

Today, the streets were empty. Abandoned. That should have been somewhat concerning, but the sun was sparkling in the sky and a nice breeze was drifting along. It wasn't my focal point, so it didn't come off as out of place at all. My attention was glued on the two sophonts I was walking with.

These were friends I hadn't seen in I don't know how many years. We were idly chatting about our thoughts on the latest animatronic body horror jazz club ghost inception movie, Hyperbole, while we made our way toward one of the city parks. That was where Rachel's new house was. In a tree. She was very excited to have the owls over for tea and board games. My other friend, also Rachel, said we should all form a book club and read Derrida.

I wasn't sure he had all the words to keep the water wheel turning.

It wasn't long before I found myself losing focus, the Rachels faces becoming blank and featureless as their words turned from coherent to muffled gibberish. The world slowed and my vision tunneled toward an alley up ahead. All manner of vegetation and vines crept around the sides of the buildings, spilling out in to the streets like a thick viscous sewage from an old drain pipe. Pink and purple flowers blossomed between large, leafy fronds. Thorns pierced concrete and asphalt. Time froze. Everything aside from myself and the plant growth turned lifeless and gray, a scene of cement statues. My friends crumbled to dust.

The city followed suit in a cacophony of screaming birds. The vines beckoned patiently despite the collapse and chaos. I raced ahead to greet them as the dream destabilized behind me. They seemed delighted as they reached out, wrapping around my wrists and ankles, my waist, lifting me up and pulling me in to the alleyway. A very large, voluptuous venus flytrap was growing out of a pile of nondescript rubbish. It opened its maw in a yawn as I was brought toward it. I felt no fear response. No panic rose with bile in the back of my throat when the gaping mouth closed around me. The trigger hairs on the inside of the plant's lobe tickled my exposed skin and… I happily let it swallow me whole.

My next moments were spent tumbling down a membranous sinkhole of darkness, walls of silk squeezing around me, pushing. Further. Deeper.

The world turned upside down and inside out. Scenes and places from dreams I had superb recollections of… and also ones that I had forgotten through the years spiraled around me. I felt the distinct impression that I needed to choose one. I reached a hand out and grasped at the first scene that called to me. Ironically enough, it was a dream I had as a child. The setting was the house I had grown up in, my father's residence on the outskirts of the small town where Trimixthis had saved me from myself. The only difference was, in this dream, exactly as it had been before… the interior of the house was covered in wonderful and vivid flora. Small pools surrounded by crystals and minerals were in the spots in the living room where the furniture would have been. The windows still looked out over the deck and the pond below.

Thick fisherman's netting stretched across the arch leading to the kitchen, the island table strewn with all manner of urns, vases and pots of varying color. Succulents of all sorts grew, shivering and breathing in a more animate living state. The scene was so very surreal. I imagine I had chosen it because it reminded me of Trimixthis. It felt right.

And there they were. In the middle of the living room, connected with the dreamflora, smiling that strange and wondrous smile of theirs. I settled before them, looking up in to their all at once reflective yet depthless eyes, a few of their thinner vines caressing my cheeks and tracing the line of my jaw. When they spoke, it reverberated through the entire foundation, rippling outward. It made my skin crawl in a uniquely tantalizing way. "I am always amazed at how certain things remain so elegantly engrained in the human psyche. You haven't had this dream in…"

"Twenty-nine years or so…" I found myself answering, tethering on the entrails of their words.

"Fascinating, truly~" Trimixthis emitted what I took for an approximation of a chuckle as they smiled down at me.

A silence stretched between us, each caught momentarily admiring the other. I did notice a difference in the dreamscape then. It was much more than it had been, where as I only could recall the particulars of the scenery, how things looked and felt. Trimixthis presence seemed to add another level of life and flourish to it. Their song permeated through everything. If I wasn't careful I knew I would lose myself in that music, so I let my perception branch out… almost as if I could feel along their vines as they could. The house hummed its own song of being. Plants rustled in a calm wind that blew in through the open windows. The trickle of the stream that fed the pond and the bluegill grazing the surface of the water. Even the gentle sway of the large pines along the water's edge.

I ended up losing myself in a multitude of different songs until another rhythm broke me from my expanding absorption. A single vine tapped my left shoulder. I didn't notice it at first, but its continued persistence eventually brought me back to the living room and Trimixthis. They were still smiling. That same vine caressed my cheek. "My, my~ How easy you get tangled in the whirling essence of everything~"

I felt a heat rise on my cheeks as I dropped my gaze to the floor, hands idly occupying themselves with a still tendril that rested upon my lap. "Sorry," was all I could think to say.

"Don't be, sweetling. It's quite pleasant to observe. And quite a useful skill to have if you hone it correctly and not allow yourself to disperse in to obscurity." Trimixthis seemed to ponder something for a span of seconds. The notion was filed away as they shifted closer. "Earlier I asked if you had any questions. I believe you were a little too… wrapped up… to answer?"

My face scrunched in thought. Questions? I tried to retrace my morning despite the brainfog. Once I was able to pull apart the sparse memories of clothing myself and climbing up on to the couch where things really started to fuzz out, I found the inquiries I had not voiced at the time. They all jumbled together and came floundering out of my mouth at once. "Are we on… and the terminal… ship… space and… the doors lights?"

After that mess my mouth hung open in utter disbelief of its own transgression. How did words even? My brain hurt itself in its confusion.

The boisterous, beautiful sound that echoed through the dream was Trimixthis laughing. Flowers blossomed along their figure, vibrant and glowing. The sound carried on the wind and once more reverberated through the dreamland. They set a leaf beneath my chin and closed my mouth proper. "Oh, my stars… you darling thing~ Lets try that again. One at a time, shall we?"

Their vines smoothed through my hair and patted my head and I giggled sheepishly. It wasn't entirely my fault I was a pastiche of hazy recollections! But, oh what a joyous thing to feel their laughter. Every hair on my body stood on end. It was like being hugged by static that was giddy with warmth.

I cleared my throat with a nod and tried again to piece my words together in an order that would make sense for the both of us. "On… your terminal. There was a… ship. Departing…?"

"Yes. We are that ship. The terminal was displaying our trajectory leaving Earth. We should be arriving in orbit around Venus soon. I had Maraxus throttle our speed so we had time to get you a little more acclimated to things. I am afraid I have been… slightly careless with your xenodrug regimen. Honestly, I'm somewhat surprised you've maintained a modicum of self in all this. It was not my intention to foster an entirely vacant floret~ I only wished to pluck all the…" Their vines shifted much like I did with my hands when I couldn't conjure up the words I wanted right off the bat. "…unsavory petiole from your stem. Give you a… fresh start, so to speak."

I wondered about all that. Really. It took some effort, but a cursory poke around my addled mind revealed some disquieting blank spaces where I'm fairly sure, at some point prior to all this, existed… something. At the same time though, I wasn't overly concerned. The tiniest speck of a voice not unlike my own screeched pitifully from a far off void, begging for remembrance. I paid it no mind and even gave it the nudge it needed to plummet deeper and disappear. I didn't like the vibe it held. I didn't want to feel whatever it insisted I needed to feel. Instead, I beamed up at Trimixthis and clapped my hands together. "I thought never I'd get to going space!"

My head was patted again. I liked having my head pat. Trimixthis continued to smile. It was a such a lovely smile. "Chloe?"

"Yes?" I tilted my head and gazed up at them.

"Rephrase." They tapped my head once more.

Oh. Right. The words belonged in particular spaces in order to be understood. I licked my lips and thought real hard before allowing the words to leave my mouth again. This time though, I plucked them out of the air and arranged them accordingly. Because this was a dream and I could physically manifest my words if I felt like it! "I… thought… I would… never get to… go to… .." I hung on the last word, looking back over my sentence to make sure it was correct. "Space."

"Very good!" Trimixthis nodded. "I thought a nice trip off planet might be healthy for you. Now, do you want to know why we're traveling to Venus, sweetling?"

I had been curious about our destination. Venus was in no way shape or form hospitable for human life. But the affini were essentially plants, weren't they? Did Venus have something plants liked? A useful resource? I was trying my hardest to remember what compound Venus was in excess of, making strained little mouth noises as I tried to pluck the answer from the empty space between our bodies. Trimixthis pulled me on to their lap, and I cuddled up against them as I shrugged my shoulders, giving up. They seemed excited about it so all was well in my world.

"We've begun construction of an orbital platform for the collection of planetside resources. Primarily concerning the rich carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. Along with the sulfuric acids present in the cloud layers, these two compounds are highly beneficial to promoting cultivation. We've developed some lovely technology that allows us to utilize them in regenerative growth." They spoke as they let their vines worm around my dreambody, stroking and petting as they saw fit. "Carbon dioxide is by and large considered a waste product by your species, I believe. What is that cute little Earth saying? One organism's trash is another organism's treasure?"

My head bobbed with affirmation. Ah! Venus was rich in those things, wasn't it? Humanity, to my knowledge, had a passing interest in the second planet for a while. The abandoned HAVOC project from NASA came to mind. Which really hadn't gone past the theoretical stage… and after further discovery, any deep exploration ideas were scrapped for other ventures. I was intrigued by the idea of a station though, my brain immediately wandering off to dredge up fragmented memories of the first anime I'd ever seen in my grade school days that had featured an orbital ring that surrounded the Earth. Tekkaman Blade, I think it was. I wondered if I still had those DVDs somewhere…

"That is not an entirely incorrect vision of what it may come to look like, sweetling~" A light trilling fluttered in Trimixthis' throat.

I just blinked up at them. Wait. Could they read my…?

"Oh, petal~ We're in your mind. Of course I can. Silly thing." Their delightful laughter trickled across the scene, this time causing the vegetation to shift through an array of pleasing colors.

I guess that made sense. I wondered what the station was going to be like.

"Currently, there is a sizable portion that is cozy and habitable. More is being grown as we speak. I'm sure you will find it quite incredible! It is also, however, part of my job. I am an interface engineer. One of my primary duties is to make sure all our systems can connect and speak to one another. So I may become rather busy. But… not to worry." Trimixthis lifted me up above their head like a puppy, smiling up at me. I more or less dangled there and grinned down at them. "I have arranged for you to meet a number of playmates to keep you out of trouble while I'm working. While I am able to do most things remotely, I prefer onsite inspections when it comes to the more delicate bundles of sensory passthrough and~"

A distant chime sounded, something foreign. Trimixthis' attention was instantly pulled away. I could feel it. Like they were suddenly in another place, only faintly tethered to this dreamform. I tried to focus on the sound myself, because it felt so out of the ordinary. This just led to me getting caught up in the web of sensations, the flux and flow of the dreamscape like before and this time there was no tapping vine to bring me back from the ledge. I felt myself disconnect and dissipate in to the whole of everything. It would have been an ultimately strange experience had I been able to maintain cognitive recognition. Alas, the fog began to roll in through… the trees…?

I blinked, looking around. I found myself laying on a bed of soft, sweet smelling grasses in the clearing of a forest. Tiny yellow flowers dotted the small glade. I knew this place. It was usually a buffer space I envisioned on nights where I needed to coax myself to sleep. The trees stood like guardian silhouettes, the fog a comforting shroud.

Trimixthis was gone. I felt a bit of sadness that began to well in to an awful sense of desertion. Their song still echoed in some awkward proximity, but it wasn't quite enough. It was like the entire foundation of being had been suddenly ripped out from under me. I curled in to a ball and shut my eyes, rocking back and forth on my side as I began to hum the song. To keep it near. To not forget. I didn't want it to go. Why had they left me alone here?

The forest was beginning to not feel like the safety net it was supposed to be. I couldn't concentrate, the song fading by degrees. The abrupt snap of a twig had me bolting up and scanning the immediate area. Fear began to blossom within the tiny beads of sweat on my brow. I could wake up now, right? Please?

"Trimixthis…?" I whimpered under my breath.

Another twig snapped to my left and I whirled about in attempts to keep whatever it was in front of me. A huffed breath and a faint clicking noise echoed off the bodies of the trees. I couldn't tell where it was coming from. The temperature dropped like my mood, my breath expelled in wispy ghosts that drifted up toward the fractures of night sky barely glimpsed through the canopy before the fog grew more dense and only a few feet of grass remained visible.

I didn't like this at all.

A soft, almost chittering-like noise came from my right. I turned again, scrambling backward as a shape took form in the fog and crept closer. The chill I was feeling was pushed back by an intense warmth extruding from whatever it was. In its own way, it was calming and my rising panic was lulled to a more manageable state. I sat up on my knees, trying to wipe the fog away by waving my hands through the air. A futile effort. I just… I wanted to be able to see…

That thought alone spawned a decrease in the atmospheric obfuscation. Oh, big words. My brain was working.

Crouched no less than two feet before me was a creature I'd never seen before. Certainly nothing I'd ever dreamed up before, either. I tilted my head to one side and it mimicked the movement. The elongated muzzle curved with a toothy grin as we locked eyes. It had a very canine-esque appearance that was somewhere between a quadruped, giving the look of its hindlegs, and a full on anthropomorphic embodiment, noting the more humanoid forelegs. It brandished six limbs altogether. A slightly smaller set of arms accompanied their main pawsy-grabbers. It also had a rather short tail that barely touched the grass that was currently twitching back and forth. That was a good sign, right? Not that I should be applying terran-dog logic to this dream-canid. I took a breath and managed to find my voice. "Hello…?"

"Hello?" It repeated. The voice was strangely pleasant. Just this side of sultry. Playful even, with overtones of mischief. Or maybe I was projecting because of the uncanny way the entity was smiling at me. It had a double set of triangular ears and two antenna upon its head.

"Who… are you…?" I asked, and unsurprisingly, it echoed the inquiry right back at me.

When it moved forward I found myself frozen in place, either severely unwilling to take my eyes off of the creature, or entranced in its gaze. I couldn't determine which. It circled once around me, leaning in close to sniff as if we weren't in a dream and scent was real. Could you smell things in a dream? I wasn't sure if I ever had olfactory senses in any slumber-space.

The dream-dog-thing settled back in front of me, raising its forepaws and placing them under my chin, tilting my head up as it looked me over. It tilted its own head from side to side as if inspecting a specimen. It's front bappers were more like hands than paws, I noted. It's smile widened, and my eyes did the same. "M-m-my… wh-what um… sh-sharp teeth you have…"

I had always wanted to use that line in some version of reality. This was probably a good enough place as any for it to be utilized. Mostly because I had no idea what to say and had more or less just blurted it out as I remained motionless in the creature's hold. The smile faltered on its twitching lips before it leaned back and barked a laugh. Before I knew what was happening it had plopped on its haunches and wrapped all four arms around me in a tight hug as it cackled, one of the paws petting my head. A series of trill-growls, strained crackling squeaks and chuffing noises were made. It sounded like an organic dial-up modem. But then the caniform spoke.

"Eeehee~ Mixi said y'was aaaaah-durable~ Rrrright as usually, they is!"

My brain completely glossed over the usage of a nickname for Trimixthis as I wriggled in the canid's grip, managing to gain enough leverage to lean backwards in its arms. I rather wanted to look at it while I spoke than mumbling in to its… distractingly super soft chest-fluff. Which my hands were totally, definitely not playing in. So warm. So soft. So inviting! Oh, right. I needed to focus. "Heh… I don't know about… um… any of that, but. I'm…"

"Chloe, yessss? We are Viremia! Pleasurable greetings!" Any fear that had cropped up in the last few minutes was all but washed away at this point. The manner in which the entity spoke and enunciated was oddly uplifting. I quickly found its demeanor to be infectious, in a good way. Even stranger was my inability to keep my hands to myself, as if I needed to explore every soft nook and cranny of this awkward alien-canine-valley of fur. And the smell! It weaved between peony and roses and fresh earth and something else that was indescribably enjoyable to breathe in. I guess that answered my question of dream-scent.

I buried my face in Viremia's neck as we tangled together and flopped over on to the grass. Trimixthis had said there would be playmates. Was this one of them?

Viremia made a content murring noise, stretching out and allowing me to more or less entertain myself in the daze of sensations their body offered. "We's been assigned t'keeps ya company while Mixi dealsss with ssssomethin' came-up-bruptly like. If y'wants t'bein'in th' waking-place, jus' say words. Rrrf~"

A reply of mumbled nonsensical acknowledgement sputtered from my mouth, my brain simply registering that I had been given a wonderfully soft waggy-tail organism to snuggle with while Trimixthis was doing Trimixthis things.

I could absolutely live with this.

[separatist-apologist]

Still A Sunbeam

Summary: As a child, Elain Archeron is pushed into a pond by the heir to the Day Courts throne, Lucien Spell-Cleaver, and vows she'll never forgive him for it. But as an adult, Elain finds that if she wants out of an arranged marriage to a Spring Court prince, she will need Day Court's help. More is at stake than a decades-old rivalry, and when their home is threatened, Elain and Lucien will have to set aside old differences and work together

Previous Chapter | Read on AO3

“I think we may need more squash,” Elain murmured, staring at the list of prepared dishes before her. “A least twenty more, based on the way this city eats grilled vegetables.”

“Yes, Lady,” the head chef replied, bowing their head while trying so hard to smother a smile. They’d been back and forth for the last two days, stealing moments whenever Lucien’s father banged on the door and demanded his son see to his duties. Mostly, it seemed as though Lucien sat in a lot of war councils watching Spring, Autumn, and Night to see what might happen next. Lucien told her very little of what happened behind those doors, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. The minute they were in the same vicinity, the bond made demands and they weren’t even trying to stay away from each other. 

Lucien had dragged himself off her that very morning, gritting his teeth and staring at the ceiling while he dressed, all the while promising he’d be back that afternoon so they could finish what they’d started. Elain was beginning to wonder how long it might take for the bond to settle. Surely it should have settled a little? 

Shaking out her hands, Elain forced herself to stop thinking about her mate before the scent of her arousal filled the kitchen and forced her out into the gardens to think about her actions. The Lady of Day wanted a city wide celebration for the only prince her territory would ever see, which meant Elain’s mating bond was not only well-known throughout the land, but everyone in Prythian knew as well.

Elain hadn’t even had a chance to tell her parents. She was avoiding them and the letter she’d begun writing two nights before while Lucien slept, exhausted and a little dehydrated. What was there to say? She knew they had to be disappointed—all their expectations were down the drain. Two daughters, with two mates in other territories. That left Nesta, who would marry Tamlin or Killian only if they were the last males on earth, and even then it was a risky proposition.

She wasn’t ashamed of Lucien. Just herself. If she’d just done what they wanted from the beginning, maybe none of this would be happening. 

“What are you thinking about, princess?” a warm voice murmured. In front of Elain, the chef took two steps back while Elain turned, fingertips pressed to Lucien’s bare chest. She’d hear a rumor he’d started a fight with another scholar simply because the male had politely inquired after Elain. 

Clearly the kitchen staff had heard the same. No one wanted to be too close, wanted to look at her with any interest. Elain sighed, turning to look at him. “I’m busy, Lucien,” she protested, even as want ribboned through her chest. “I need to settle the menu.”

“Why?” he asked, unconcerned by the curling heat and the sounds of clanging posts and bubbling water. Elain was very concerned given once Lucien started, he didn’t seem able to stop. She was doing a little better, even as a whimper bubbled from her throat.

Get them somewhere private—anywhere was better than here. Grabbing his wrist, Elain began pulling Lucien through swinging, double doors and into a well-trafficked hallway. Servants gave them a wide berth, eyes focused on their shoes while they walked. How long would this be necessary, she wondered? 

“Elain,” Lucien murmured and she knew if she turned back to look or stopped, he’d have her pinned up against the wall before she could take a breath.

Lucien was predictable that way. 

“Elain,” he tried again when they found themselves alone on the stairs. That wouldn’t last, and Lucien couldn’t resist taking his time. Wasn’t he tired? Obviously not, given the pleading note in his voice. They just made it to the old study room—where Lucien had once insulted her so grievously, Elain had begged his mother for a new tutor. How funny, she thought absently as his mouth found hers with greedy fervor, that now they used it to be alone with each other.

“The absence is killing me,” Lucien groaned, pulling at the straps of her dress. 

“It was three hours,” she reminded him. Elain was no better, shoving at the thick strap of his clothes until they pooled at his feet on the floor. Lucien, the utter rake, was already on his knees, shoving her dress up against her hips so it pooled around her stomach. Why take her clothes off at all when everything he wanted to see and touch was barred for his approval? 

“Too long,” he groaned, his mouth kissing just between her legs. “I can’t focus on anything but you.”

“I’m starting to think you like me, Lucien,” she teased, arching when his tongue replaced his lips. How had she ever thought this was something impure? The way Lucien licked her felt holy—reverent, somehow. 

“Ridiculous,” Lucien all but moaned, eyes flicking to her face. “What gave you that idea?”

She might have laughed if she wasn’t so ridiculously turned on. And he knew it, tongue dipping inside her body, teasing and tormenting until Elain’s legs were wrapped around his head, squeezing tight to keep him where he was.

Not that it did either of them any good. Lucien didn’t let her finish on his face, his own control shredding even as Elain built closer and closer to that glittering edge. Lucien pushed inside, grunting loud enough his voice echoed over the ceiling. Elain reached for his shoulders, pulling him close enough for a kiss that tasted like her own arousal.

She’d grown to like it. 

Maybe that was just more of the mating bond, or maybe beneath her fine clothes and well-bred manners, this was who she’d always been. She certainly didn’t feel like a lady when she was with Lucien like this. And more importantly, Elain didn’t want to be a lady. Not when he pulled them both into a chair, draping her legs over his lap while he whispered, “Ride me,” and not when her nails dug into his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure shuddered through her. 

Lucien tumbled just behind, pushing so deep into her Elain knew she’d be feeling it for days. 

Panting, Lucien licked the side of her neck. “We should leave for a week—maybe two. Go to the sea palace.”

“And do what?”

“This,” he replied, capturing her mouth for a messy, frantic kiss. “More of this, all day—without an audience or my parents—”

“What about all the work you’re doing?”

Lucien groaned. “Listening to my fathers advisors bemoan a possible civil war while urging my father to condemn Rhysand and make nice with Spring? I think I’d prefer the civil war.”

“Is that a possibility?” Elain asked, thinking of her home, her family, and what the Night Court might do to all of it. 

Lucien sighed, running a hand down her spine. “I don’t know. Hybern has sent their general—Amarantha—to speak with Tamlin and some people think she’s war mongering.”

There was a beat of silence before Elain said, “If you asked, I would—”

“No.”

“But Lucien—”

“No,” he repeated emphatically. “My wife isn’t a pawn. I won’t…I can’t risk you—”

“I don’t see what choice you have if I’m offering to go,” Elain replied evenly, though her heart was beating out of her chest. “Wife…mate…I hardly see how that matters or why you think it entitles you to a say!”

“Elain–”

“If you don’t offer this as a possibility, I’ll do it myself.”

“Elain!” Lucien wrapped his arms tighter around her body, keeping her from pulling him out of her and stomping across the room. They were both still naked, still aroused. All of it was made worse by Elain’s heightened anger. She wanted to fuck him until he did what she said. “Please,” he added, pressing his forehead against her own. 

“You promised me,” she reminded him. Did Lucien think because their mating bond was all but sealed, he could tell her what to do? Because he couldn’t. She’d call the whole wedding off and leave him bereft, chafing and frustrated until he backed down. Elain knew reasonably the mating bond was clouding Lucien’s good judgment and she wasn’t going to let it slide. Not today—not ever. 

This was what he’d wanted. He’d sworn it. So Elain was going to give it to him.

Squeezing tight around his cock until Lucien shifted his hips and groaned, she wrapped a slim hand around his neck. “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” she whispered, lips ghosting his ear. “You don’t get to tell me no, Lucien. Do you understand me?”

His fingers gripped her hips, lifting her only to slam her back against his cock. “Yes,” he panted, arching his back. Maybe this was the only way to get through him right now—fucking him into compliance. That was fine with Elain, who wasn’t entirely sure how well she’d manage if she tried to draw a hard line and stay away from him indefinitely. Which of them would break first, she wondered?

Him, she decided as an image of Lucien on his knees begging floated through her mind. He’d break first—but she didn’t want to get there. “If I want to go back to Spring, what are you going to say?”

Lucien groaned, arching his neck. “My mate can do what she wants.”

Elain moaned softly, letting him feel it on his throat when she lowered herself to graze her teeth against his flushed skin.

“That’s right, Lucien. You do what I say.”

He only groaned. It was a farce, that hand around his neck and her body straddling his own. If Lucien wanted, he could have ripped her away, thrown her to the table, and had her any way he liked. He wanted this—and maybe some part of him also wanted submission. Elain had always heard that males only ever wanted to dominate—that it was instinctual, even, which often excused the worst of their behavior.

But as Elain rocked against Lucien, a new orgasm shuddering through her, she thought that maybe that was yet another lie she’d been told. Lucien came too, panting and pleading her name, teeth biting hard into her shoulder. It was a claiming mark though Elain wasn’t certain Lucien even realized what he was doing. Only that instinct demanded, and Lucien did as he was told.

In the hazy aftermath, hearts pounding in time, Elain waited for the argument to resume.

“Fuck,” Lucien whispered, arms wrapped tight around her body. “We’ll have to burn this room to the ground before someone else can ever use it.”

Elain shrugged, still a little defensive despite the fact she could feel his throbbing cock flexing inside her. “Whatever you—”

Want, she’d been about to say. Lucien reached for her chin, pulling it down for a kiss. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, thumb stroking her cheek. “I’m afraid of losing you. You could leave me—”

“So could you,” she reminded him, nuzzling him with her nose all the same. After all, Lucien had all that experience, was beloved by his court…there were surely any number of eligible females who wouldn’t care he was tied to another. 

Lucien shook his head. “No, Elain. I couldn’t.”

Long after Lucien had brought Elain back to bed and silenced her arguments, his words lingered. And Elain, who’d always believed it was the females who fell hardest, who fell fastests, and sustained long lasting relationships. Males didn’t have the ability, lacked the time and inclination.

I couldn’t. 

Elain believed that, too.

LUCIEN:

Drumming his fingers against the table, Lucien forced himself to pay attention. To listen. To pretend like he wasn’t radiating arousal even when his cock wasn’t even hard. No one was willing to sit too close to him. Even his own father had moved his chair as far as he could get and eyed him warily every time Lucien so much as grit his teeth. Even the sound of one of them speaking Elain’s name was enough to push Lucien over the edge. It was coming—the tension in the room was thick and no one dared to look at him. 

“Prince,” one of his fathers advisors began, voice rich with unease. “Have you spoken with…your ah…mate—”

A growl ripped from his throat despite his best attempt to swallow it. 

“Lucien!” his father snapped, clearly frustrated. Lucien knew his father must have been just as edgy, just as touchy as Lucien was. He’d heard stories of the early years when his mother couldn’t walk into a room without his father jumping up, monitoring the room suspiciously. Lucien felt the same way.

Elain was so beautiful—surely every male coveted her. He almost didn’t blame them. Almost, because the urge to kill one of them was overwhelming at times. Even then, Lucien’s mouth flooded with saliva, tongue pricking against the sharp canines in his mouth. 

“Did you speak with Elain—don’t growl at me—regarding being a liaison for Spring?” Gripping the table so tightly it groaned beneath the pressure, he nodded his head. “She’ll do it if she’s asked to.”

A collective sigh of relief echoed through the room. “Perhaps a letter to her parents would be sufficient for now,” his father offered, clearly trying to make peace with his son. He was also buying Lucien time—time that, given the talks, Lucien was starting to think they did not have. More and more ships from Hybern were pouring into the southern coast of Spring and no one knew what they were bringing given how tightly the borders were being controlled. 

Lucien could guess, though. Hybern had come looking for weakness and had accidentally stumbled into a blood feud half as old as Prythian itself. Tamlin, the fool, was going to let Hybern stroll in without even asking what they actually wanted. Lucien very much doubted they cared about dead High Lords. 

If they were called to war, Lucien would be expected to lead his own troops—and he couldn’t be lost to his mating bond. He knew that. Cauldron above, but Lucien knew it. He nodded his agreement to his father, and finished the meeting until it was just the two of them sitting at that table, staring each other down.

“I know what you’re going to say—”

“This is going to end in war,” his father interrupted, catching Lucien wholly off guard. “I can see no path in which we don’t march to Spring. You and Elain…” his father took a breath. “We will need allies. We will need a united Prythian. While Spring is reeling, that is the time to ensure the other courts are unified under one banner.”

“Why not outright condemn Spring?” Lucien questioned. His fathers shoulders slumped, a sigh heaving from his chest.

“We will. But Summer is keeping watch on the seas and every day more ships—huge ships, war ships—are sailing to our shores. More than is needed to punish Rhysand—but enough to sweep through Prythian and overwhelm us.”

“Why?”

His father only shrugged. “Perhaps Elain can ascertain…she still has the gift of sight.”

Lucien wanted to fly across the table and strangle his own father. It was a testament to his control that he merely bounced his leg, gritting his teeth so hard he tasted blood. “I’ll talk to her,”

Lucien promised, thinking of the day before and her hand around his throat. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her as angry as she’d been right then. He’d become Killian and he knew it—the male trying to keep her homebound, to keep her mated and married and perhaps even pregnant rather than letting her do whatever it was she wanted.

Lucien didn’t agree with Killian. But he understood the impulse right then, if only for a moment. He had wanted her to agree, to back down and let him protect her, all for his own peace of mind. It had nothing to do with her, though. He’d never even considered her feelings when he’d told her no, and for that, Lucien felt a welling sense of shame he couldn’t shake. 

“What would you have us do?”

“Kallias needs to be persuaded to stand unified. Summer, too. I trust Autumn will, and intend to speak with your brother myself given his mate and new wife come from our court. If we can shore up the seasonal courts, Tamlin may think twice. Six courts against one is a death sentence. No High Lord can fight us all.”

Lucien nodded, bracing himself for what came next.

“You have days to get yourself under control. I know it’s not ideal, Lucien, but we can’t afford to make any mistakes, and newly mated males are dangerous. If you can’t keep yourself in check, Elain will have to go alone.”

Lucien bit back the urge to roar at his father, trying so hard to prove he could do this. “I can. I will.”

“I remember those early months well. It’s unfair…but we cannot risk losing ourselves to instinct. Even in the best of times.”

“I’ll ask her to write the letter. And…and if she’s seen anything.”

His father nodded, rising from his chair. “That’s all we can do, Lucien. Try.”

Sometimes, Lucien felt like their court was the only one trying. Fair or not, the High Lord of libraries, of ancient wisdom, and everything in between, often was tasked with keeping the peace, no matter the cost. It seemed his father intended to pick up that torch and carry it forward, and one day Lucien would be expected to, too. For today, though, all Lucien had to do was ask his mate for help.

And then get back into bed with her.

Lucien found Elain in his bedroom, surrounded by trunks of her things—more than she’d brought with her—and red rimmed eyes.

“What happened?” he demanded, closing the door with a snap. He was going to kill someone for making her cry.

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “My mother had it all sent without a note!”

Lucien pulled her into his body, trying to determine if she was more sad or angry. “Do you want to write—”

“No, I don't want to write them a letter!” Elain exploded, pushing from his chest. “I’m sure this is her way of letting me know she disapproves of you and my choice to accept the bond. I just…”

Tears welled in the warm brown of her eyes. “I want to wrap my hands around their throats and strangle them!”

Lucien gave her a moment to add, “I want them to forgive me.”

“For what, Elain?”

She turned her face from him, wiping her eyes on her bare, freckled shoulder. “For being so disappointing. For not doing what they wanted. And it’s unfair because this is making me feel like there is something wrong about loving you. That I should be ashamed—”

“Elain,” Lucien murmured, holding her face in his hands. “I don’t think that.”

“I do, though,” she whispered, another tear streaking down her cheek. “Arina said fuck you to everyone here and went to be with Eris…why can’t I do the same?”

“Arina is Arina,” Lucien said, cringing a little. Arina is Arina? How was that helpful? Shaking his head slightly, he added, “And you’re Elain. I’m grateful you’re not more like Arina. If you need to mourn your family and their disappointment in you, don’t think I’m stewing in my resentment, too. I would be…wrecked if my parents turned their back on me because I chose to follow my mate. And I would, Elain. If you asked me to, I would leave, I’d give this all up—”

“I’m not asking you that. But…” she bit her bottom lip. “But I am asking that you accompany me to Spring? So they can meet you and see…?”

His father wouldn’t like it. Maybe he didn’t have to know, Lucien reasoned. He and Elain were supposed to go to Winter and Summer again…why not stop for a night in Spring. Elain could try and talk sense into her parents and Lucien could do what he did best—gather information under the guise of a rakish High Lord’s son too bored and stupid to care about anything outside of his own good time. 

“Yes,” he said, delighting in her happy, tear-soaked smile. “Of course. I would love to meet your parents.”

And, perhaps, stake his claim all over Spring. He could still see the faint bruise on her neck from where he’d bitten her. It would scar, leaving two little marks behind that carried his scent, too—warning away other males who thought to get too close, too friendly.

There were other ways to mark her, outside of his teeth and cock. And to that end, Lucien decided now was as good of a time as any. “Father has asked us to go back to Summer and Winter,” he told her, brushing his knuckles over her cheek before slowly—achingly slow—slid to one knee. “I would like to introduce you to Kallias again as my wife. Elain…” There were so many things he wanted to say. Words he could feel pushing against his ribs, bunching in his throat until they were a jumbled mess. Maybe in a few centuries, that knot would soften enough and he could tell her everything.

How sorry he was for how they’d met. 

How grateful he was that she loved him anyway. The Cauldron knew it wasn’t an easy task and yet Elain made it seem so effortless. And for Lucien, who had, deep down, never really thought anyone could love him the way he wanted them to—Elain felt like a gift he didn’t quite deserve.

She was watching, eyes wide as saucers. Reaching into his pocket, Lucien pulled out a silver band, with tiny sunstones lovingly laid against the metal while a iridescent pearl lay just atop.

“Marry me. For real,” he added, because the party his mother was throwing was merely a given. An assumption that she was his wife, even if they never made it official. But Lucien wanted it all. He wanted the mating ceremony, he wanted the marriage, and most of all, he wanted her.

“Marry me, Elain.”

[rainintheevening]

🍁🍁Comfy-vember 🍁🍁

Day 8: Thunder shower/Fresh fruit

Grant Ward & Gramsy & Phil Coulson, Agents of SHIELD, Saving Grant Ward AU

--------

The storm rolled in faster than Grant had expected, its flash and growl catching them just as they turned in at the lane up to Oakstone.

"Come on, Lady!"

Grant bolted, sprinting fast enough his tennis shoes barely seemed to touch the paving stones. Lady caught him at the turn by the rose hedge, and passed him, her chestnut ears streaming behind her head.

The rain came slow at first, big fat drops that warned of a torrent, but by the time he reached the walk up to the kitchen door, the heavens had truly opened.

He fetched up on the veranda soaked through, dripping as he took off his baseball cap and walked to where Coulson and Gramsy sat in lawnchairs, sipping sweet tea and smiling over at him.

"Did you take a swim?" Coulson kidded.

"Don't stay wet too long, honey," Gramsy said, squinting a little in the dim storm light.

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded, suddenly self-conscious under their combined scrutiny. Of course, he thought, they must have been talking about him, Coulson getting the scoop on all the skeletons in the Ward family closets.

The man looked away, out over the lawn, and Grant quickly stole the drink out of his grandmother's hand, drained it in three gulps. He ignored her exclamation and it's fondness, rattling the left-over ice cubes as he pushed the glass back into her fingers.

"Thanks, Gramsy!" he called as he bolted back to the edge of the porch, hopping a few steps on one foot then the other as he tugged his shoes and socks off, before running back out into the rain.

Soft grass, cool and wet under his bare feet, as he ran down the lawn to the pond, divebombed in, came up laughing like a crazy person. Lightning flashed, thunder close on its heels, and the rain fell thick enough he felt like he still had his head underwater. He swam to the little dock, hoisted himself out in a single easy motion, and jogged back up the hill a little ways.

Again a flash, the crack of thunder almost on top of it, and he straightened sharply out of his flinch, almost glaring up into the sky, daring it to frighten him again.

He had to close his eyes against the rain, and as he stood there, he became aware of the warmth in the water covering his face, the sticky sweat washed clean away, his quick breathing, his rapid heartbeat. His skin seemed to tingle, and then he saw the burst of light through his eyelids, heard the sound of the sky tearing, an enormous sound, followed by a boom that shook the ground under him.

Grant did not move.

Let the storm rage, let the lightning burn, he'd survive.

When he opened his eyes, he was less startled by the lightning, than he was to discover Coulson standing beside him.

The man had taken his suit jacket off, and his own socks and shoes, and now he was as drenched as Grant, head tilted back, eyes closed. When light and sound split the sky, Coulson laughed, opened his eyes to grin over at Grant.

"When I was a kid," he called, loud in the abruptly slackening rain, "I was terrified of thunderstorms." His voice dropped, smile softening. "Until my dad carried me out in a storm, danced me around in it. Once I stopped screaming, I realized it was actually beautiful."

Grant had to turn away from that direct look.

"We'll have to strip in the mudroom," he said over his shoulder. "Gramsy doesn't like anyone tracking mud on her carpets."

"True southern woman," Coulson chuckled, sloshing after him back up the lawn to the house.

Simply slipping into dry clothes made Grant feel like he'd turned on a heater, and he found himself whistling softly as he followed Lady back down the main stairs to the kitchen, where Gramsy was slicing fresh peaches into three bowls.

"You're in Georgia, child," she said, when he raised his eyebrows at her.

"In the summer," he smiled, filling in the old thing she'd always said to him and Rosie. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the thunder's growl was faint.

Glancing down at Lady, Grant snuck two slices from under the knife, dropping one on the white tile, where the little spaniel gobbled it up.

"Grant!"

He couldn't help grinning at her shocked indignation, and the backhand across his bicep was more of a pat.

Gramsey was so small and fair, so open and carefree, Grant had often had trouble believing she was his father's mother. But then he'd catch the heavy hints of sadness when she looked at him sometimes, and he knew she was reminded of the boy she once loved.

"Dropping fruit on my floor." Gramsy tsked her tongue, wagged her small knife at him. "What kind of manners is that Mr. Coulson teaching you out there in the Wild West?"

"Oregon isn't the Wild West, that's Texas." He leaned on the counter, stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"Well, he says you're the best marksman he's ever seen, so I don't see much of a difference." Gramsy's grey curls bobbed around her face as she shook her head.

Grant felt a sudden heat in his cheeks, and he stared off out the half-open windows.

"But I like him. He's good for you, I can tell. And to think he turned his life upside down for you, left the job he loved, moved to the other side of the country to give you a fresh start... well. If that doesn't tell me he cares deeply about you, I don't know what does."

Grant bit his lip, wanting to shake his head. He didn't understand it. Coulson had agreed to that within 48 hours of meeting Grant—how could he care about a nutcase teenager that much that fast?

Maybe he'd ask Ms. Trina in their next session, after he and Coulson got back to Oregon. Or maybe not. After all it wasn't like he trusted her.

But after stealing Lola, Grant thought he might be starting to trust Coulson.

"Speak of the devil," Gramsy said, as Coulson appeared, now in jeans and a t-shirt himself.

"Uh-oh." Coulson raised his eyebrows. "Am I really that bad?"

Gramsy laughed, a light sound that lifted Grant's heart.

"Not at all, honey."

"Well, you have your faults." He bit back the 'sir' as Coulson's gaze slid to him.

"Such as?" The man spread his hands in a gesture of innocent confusion.

"You are a traitor to your state, cheering for the White Sox like that."

Coulson cracked into an honest chuckle. "Yes, my parents would be absolutely ashamed of me."

"And Grant grew up in Massachusetts but cheers for the Yankees." Gramsy raised her eyebrows at his glare. "Honey, it's nothing to be ashamed of, everyone cheers for the Yankees."

"Except you," Grant pointed out.

"You know very well I don't cheer for any baseball team but the Swainsboro Tigers," Gramsy said primly. "Now, let's take these peaches outside. The humidity makes them taste better, I promise."

Grant sat on the steps, Lady lying beside him, and mostly just listened to the adults talk. He hadn't actually visited Gramsy in several years, not since he'd been sent off to Lyman Ward.

As kids, he and Rosie had been sent here for two weeks out of the summer, while Mother and Father took Chistian and Thomas off to Europe or wherever. Rosie had declared Oakstone to be fairyland, or maybe Heaven. It was understood that they would never tell Gramsy about the things that happened back home. Oakstone was a safe place, and they wouldn't even think about Mother or any of that while they were there.

Now... Grant was looking forward to going home tomorrow. He liked his job at the pizzeria, and Coulson said he had enough money to start browsing the junkyards and dealers for something good. Grant wanted a truck, Ford, something classy, but not an antique. Maybe something like what Rory Jefferson had had, not that he'd deserved it. Grant twitched, shaking off the memories of Christian's gang, tuned back into Coulson and Gramsy's conversation.

"The yard needs some work," Coulson was saying. "Not much in the way of grass."

"Oh, you should take some cuttings back with you for some roses. Maybe some Teasing Georgia, or a Tahitian Sunset?"

"I've never tried growing roses before. But Grant's been a big help tilling, and putting in a bit of a vegetable garden. We've got more tomatoes than we know what to do with."

Grant smiled a little to himself. Putting in the garden had been fun. And Sal at the pizzeria had promised to show Grant how to make a good sauce.

Lady huffed a sigh, sprawled on her side so her head pressed against his thigh, and he ran a hand over her soft belly fur.

"Good girl," he whispered.

The sweetness of peaches and brown sugar syrup still lingered on his tongue, when the clouds broke, and a shaft of afternoon sunlight spilled through.

[quietwingsinthesky]

(transgenderdoctorwhomst) the Pond Family Nightmare is so fun. and now i'm rotating the potential fallout of amy dragging the doctor into the past with her and now his options are 1. wait around for the rest of amy and rory's natural lives and then some until he lines back up with his tardis and river, or 2. choose to abandon amy and rory and figure out how to extract himself from the paradox so he doesn't have to watch them grow old and die. either way, she has brought him into his canonical worst nightmare (being stuck in a mundane linear life long term) and he wants to be mad at her but Can't. hi. brainworms.

i know right. it’s like the twisted nightmare version of fourteen ending up with donna’s family. there will be no therapeutic recovery here, just the joyful moments constantly overshadowed by the feeling of being trapped, loomed over by the shadow of death that inches a little closer to the people he loves every day. and it is so slow. simultaneously never enough time but too much, enough to fill with all the anger and fear and powerlessness he feels.

and then rory will say they’re having dinner in a few minutes, and the doctor will go to join them, and when they’re laughing and perfect and right there in front of him to reach out and hold (which he does, often,) all those feelings drain out of him. how could he leave them early? it’s a constant cycle of struggling to escape, maybe even reaching the last step, and then letting go again because he spent last night in the garden with amy stargazing when she had a nightmare. who would stay up with her if he wasn’t there? who else would understand the ache of two thousand years like an old scar in rory’s memory? that’s what he’d tell himself, the ponds need him. because if he admits he’s staying because he needs them, then how is he ever going to survive when this ends?

and then, of course, there’s also the whispers and stares the three of them would get together. i doubt a century or so in the past would make amy stop referring to them both as hers, but hey, they’re all already used to being the freaks on the edge of town. maybe this world is one where they raise a son as well. i don’t know if the doctor could bear to be a father again at this point, but he’d try. (the same way, i imagine, that amy can barely look at herself as a mother, but she has to help this boy. all three of them looking at him and thinking, “you will not live in a world as lonely as mine was.”)

he’s going to lose them eventually. and it’s going to break him worse than a nice clean snap of connection could have. they’re going to be burrowed into his bones by the end, and he’ll have to dig them out bit by bit. good luck getting him off of that cloud in the sky this go around.

[agirlwithachakram]

Currently digging a terrible hole in the backyard for my micro pond. The backyard is just clay and rocks. I am using the shovel only to transport dirt. This is a pickaxe job. The pickaxe I have is only sort of attached to its handle so regularly I have to go over to an old paver and slam the head back on so that it doesn't fall off.

Hope I don't hit anything bad

And you say well why don't you call miss utility

Well I did call Miss utility but they don't know where our sewer and septic lines are because it's a private rural residence with a private septic tank

I actually do know where the septic tank is and it wouldn't really make any sense for pipes to be in the area I'm digging so I'm not actually worried lol. Plus we had a French drain dug like a foot or two away a couple years back and that goes way deeper than I'm going

How deep am I going you ask? I am not sure yet. The idea was 15 inches but 15 inches is really fucking deep in my rock hard yard. But I still have two months to take my pre-mold back and replace it with the shallower one if need be. Though I suppose if I can get 13 or 14 in I can build up rocks around it, there's already a bunch of mulch.

Now you may be thinking but why am I putting a 20 gallon pond in the ground when a micropond can just be elevated and then you don't have to worry about all of the other problems? Well, It's because I'm setting it in my herb spiral and I'm hoping to get some frogs visiting and also it's a cool aesthetic. Will be putting hornwort and maybe some water hyacinth in and if I'm feeling really bold a dwarf water lily. And lots of rocks. And no fish. And at some point there may be like a little solar pump or something because I can't run a line without way more work than I'm willing to do

[lxkeeeee]

Epiphany

Venti x Male! Dendro Archon! Reader

Prologue

My horrible attempt of rewriting my old Venti x Dendro Archon Reader fic 'Stolas' and make it follow canon storyline as possible with canon characters and events. I'll also remove some nsfw scenes because I didn't like it (past me was very horny okay)

I'll try to add some of my og ideas to it too.

Please don't expect to much for me to actually completely follow the timeline because I don't remember much of the lore and I don't have the energy to dive into it TvT

Also romance is kinda fast paced? I really like the "I fell in love with you at first sight" and "he fell first but they fell harder" trope idk why.

Sorry for the horrible grammar, English isn't my first language. And sorry for the spelling mistakes, I'm too lazy to check this. Maybe I need a beta reader? Nah, no beta. We die like men.

Anyways!

For the prologue, I won't be using [y/n] to refer to you yet, since the timeline is still after the archon war.

Warnings: mentions of war, blood, and death. Fem-aligned dni.

Epiphany

(n.) A moment when you suddenly feel that you understand, or suddenly become conscious of something that is very important to you.

Thousand of years ago, after the Archon War...

"Barbatos." A masculine yet silky voice softly calls out.

Barbartos, the newly crowned Archon of Anemo looked behind him to see his dearest friend Stolas, the newly crowned Archon of Dendro. Barbatos' grin widened to see him. As of now, the Seven newly crowned Archons are gathered in one setting, celebrating the end of an era and welcoming a new one—one without war and chaos, one without bloodshed.

Barbatos knew the Dendro Archon only during the war, the God of Dendro actually offered to help him and his friend take down Decarabian when he was still a wind spirit and he was suspicious of him at first but the God of Dendro assured them that he isn't doing this for cruel motive, he simply wanted to form bonds with other nations to offer assistance during the war.

“I can't offer much but I believe that knowledge is power."

Is what the Archon of Wisdom have said back in the day, Stolas provided them with numerous knowledge when it comes to strategies, medicine, weapons, and more.

With the resistance's will and along with the knowledge the Dendro Archon shared to them, they emerged victorious.

Unfortunately, many lives were lost. Including Himmel—Barbatos' dear friend.

Barbatos wanted to personally thank the God of Wisdom but unfortunately Sumeru was far too away from Mondstadt. He opt to let the wind deliver his message instead. The shock on his face when Stolas replied via through flora—specifically through his very own windwheel aster. He almost fell into the pond in windrise when the flower just started talking, only to realize the familiar voice of the God of Wisdom. They talked about the war, Himmel's death, how he took the form of his friend.

Eventually they exchange messages through the flora and fauna around them.

Suddenly, the Anemo God didn't hear anything about his dear friend for a long time.

It made him worry, He just shook his head and dismissed the horrible thoughts.

Many years went by, and not once did he heard from Stolas. A part of him thought that he perished during the war.

A part of his heart ached with the thought, whether he admits it or not, he found the God of Wisdom to be quite charming. He often finds himself thinking about him.

Stolas on the other hand, he was very busy with his own nation. He wanted to update Barbatos on how he's been but he didn't find the time to.

He also wanted to focus finding a way to create a replacement for him. He can feel his power being drained.

Not only that, he has to protect his own nation from the corrupt gods, fortunately, he had his own protectors. Which were originally wandering spirits that were killed during their human life.

Those spirits promised their loyalty to him and to the people of Sumeru.

The war has ended, 7 Gnosis were given to the Victors.

Barbatos' heart still ached for the loss of his friends, Himmel, Amos, and Stolas.

Only to have his eyes widen when seeing a familiar figure at the Venue he was going for the celebration.

Their eyes met and grin immediately etched into the God of Dendro's face.

"Well, well~ If it isn't Barbatos." Stolas mused and Barbatos swore his heart skipped a beat when he heard the familiar charming voice.

Nevertheless, he just gave a grin on his own.

"If it isn't the God of Dendro~ I thought you might have kicked the bucket a long time ago." He joked and Stolas can only laugh, Barbatos' heart skipping a beat once more.

"I apologize for not keeping in touch with you sooner Barbatos, I was simply busy with my own nation."

Barbatos pouted, "Well, good thing you're still alive then! I was really worried you know?" He says as he placed his hands on his hips.

The God of Wisdom just simply let out a laugh, the scene putting the Anemo Archon in a trance.

"Beautiful..." Barbatos softly says, clearly unaware of what he is saying. Stolas' laugh immediately pausing as his cheeks became dusted with pink.

"What?"

"What?"

They both say at the same time before they looked away from each other.

"Shall we go inside? The others might be waiting for us." Barbatos nervously suggested and Stolas just gave a small cough before composing himself, "Yes, we shall."

It's been many years after the Archon War, civilizations have now recovered after that event.

But it seems not everyone managed to recover.

Barbatos, the God of Anemo is currently sitting on top of the many fallen structures of old Mondstadt, his heart skipped when he heard a familiar voice called out to him.

"Barbatos..." A voice softly calls out.

"Ah! If it isn't Stolas, I'm surprised you visit..." His voice dying in end when he saw the figure of his dearest friend.

The Dendro Archon, who used to be so bright, so alive.... Now looks so pale, and weak. The once bright [e/c] eyes have turned dull.

Barbatos immediately rushes to his side, immediately supporting the tall male, who can barely stand.

"Oh my Archons! What happened Stolas?!" Barbatos worriedly ask as carefully placed the tired Dendro Archon into one of the newly sprouted tree inside the the room they were in.

"I may have overused my power a bit, thankfully I can still recover..." Stolas nervously says as he let out a weak chuckle.

"Sumeru would have a new God soon, I god created personally by me."

Barbatos can only look at the Dendro archon flabbergasted.

He knows how smart and wise the Dendro Archon is but to to entirely create a new God?

"I cannot simply leave my people without a ruler, not during the time where they are vulnerable."

Barbatos caress the soft cheeks of the other male, making the said male chuckle.

"I'll be asleep for awhile, will you still be there when I wake up?" Stolas softly asks, eyes beginning to drop. Barbatos simply chuckle.

"Of course~ Dream of me would you?"

This time it was you who chuckle, "If my dreams are all about you, perhaps I wouldn't want to wake up." Stolas teased, eyes already fully closed, good thing for Barbatos because his pale cheeks are dusted with red.

Barbatos playfully scoffed, "Despite being weak to the brink of passing out, you still have the strength to flirt."

You chuckled, "Goodnight Barbatos." He softly says and Barbatos noticed the roots of the fauna and flora around them began to wrap around the now sleeping Archon, as if it's embracing him.

Barbatos smiled, "Goodnight Stolas, sleep well and dream of me."

Previous | Next

Me rn:

[dougdimmadodo]

Common Water Stick Insect (Ranatra linearis)

Family: Water Scorpion Family (Nepidae)

IUCN Conservation Status: Unassessed

Although its name and elongated, stick-like body may suggest otherwise, the Common Water Stick Insect is not closely related to true stick insects, instead being a highly specialized species of water scorpion (a family of aquatic, carnivorous insects characterised by their hooked front legs which, like the legs of a mantis, are modified to be used for grasping prey.) Although its stick-like body has developed independently of the true stick insects found on land, it is used for a similar purpose - like most stick insects, Common Water Stick Insects spend much of their lives perched motionless on branches or other forms of submerged vegetation, making them difficult to distinguish from the plants around them. Remaining in this position conceals them both from potential predators and from their prey, and when a suitably sized animal (usually a large aquatic insect, tadpole or small fish) gets close enough they use their powerful hook forelimbs to quickly grasp and restrain it before inserting their sharp-tipped, tube-like mouths and draining the prey of nutritious internal fluids such as blood or haemolymph (the equivalent of blood in arthropods.) Found in well vegetated ponds, lakes and (on rare occasions) lagoons across much of Europe and North America, Common Water Stick Insects move between perches by swimming, but are unable to extract oxygen from water and must instead keep the long, tail-like protrusion at the tip of their abdomen, which essentially serves as a rear-mounted organic snorkel, above the surface when perching in order to breathe. Members of this species breed in the mid spring (with females depositing a large number of tiny eggs in neat rows on aquatic vegetation shortly afterwards,) and their larvae, which are carnivorous from birth, reach full maturity when around 2 months old. Though they rarely leave the water if left to their own devices, a lack of prey may lead to large numbers of Common Water Stick Insects surfacing and taking flight in search of new hunting grounds.

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

Image Source: https://www.inaturalist.org/taxa/362340-Ranatra-linearis