#some lovely items from some lovely friends

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Ideas: 170 Character Quirks

Quirk—a peculiar trait; idiosyncrasy; memorable little things about a character’s personality that make them charming, endearing, weird, or unique; can be cute habits; is anything worth describing about a character.

PERSONALITY QUIRKS

Very introverted, quiet and reserved, keeps to themselves

Highly extroverted, loves socializing and meeting new people

Mega control freak who has to have everything their way

Neat freak (often coincides with control freak)

Total slob who never knows where anything is

Super stubborn and will never admit when they’re wrong

Brutally honest and can’t lie to save their life

Extremely judgmental of other people

Short-tempered, especially when irritated

Always patient, even when frustrated

Hilarious or odd sense of humor

Very hard to make them laugh

Loves to eat and is obsessed with food

Loves to drink and is constantly partying

Constantly complains about everything

Extremely loyal and will do anything for their friends/family

Adventurous and willing to try anything

Cautious and careful no matter what

Energetic, hardly ever needs to rest

Sleeps all the time and still gets tired during the day

Horrible sense of direction and constantly gets lost

Overachiever who loves school/structure

Really modest and won’t ever brag about themselves

Extremely emotional and will cry at the drop of a hat

Stoic and detached, rarely shows emotion

Wildcard whose behavior is unpredictable, even to their friends

Notoriously two-faced and will betray anyone

Charismatic and can convince anyone to do their bidding

Very proper and always polite to others

Dates tons of people and has a new boyfriend or girlfriend every week

Obsessive personality — whether it’s a TV show, brand, musical artist, or even another person, they’ll get attached and think/talk about it constantly

PHYSICAL QUIRKS

Unique eye or hair color

Has two different eye colors

Extremely short or tall

Some discerning physical mark — birthmark, freckles, mole, or scar

Wears unusual glasses

Has braces and headgear

Large feet — may mean they’re clumsy

Bites their nails/lips or chews on their hair

Constantly fidgeting and can’t sit still

Acne, eczema, or other skin problems

Many tattoos or piercings

Often sick or has allergies (constantly sniffling/blowing their nose)

Talks very loudly or quietly

Says everything like it’s a question

Terrible breath — may be a coffee drinker

Gets sweaty easily (especially when nervous)

Unusually hairy arms or legs

Very long painted nails

Always wears a faceful of makeup

Has a stutter or other speech impediment

Incessantly clicks a pen

Often tucks their hair behind their ears

Constantly chews gum

Has a toothpick dangling from their mouth

Always picking their teeth

Smokes and has a raspy voice

Breathes heavily or snores

Is extremely muscular

Walks very slowly or quickly

Left-handed or ambidextrous

Constantly scratching themselves

Has some noticeable physical tic, like a twitch

Always wears a distinct item of clothing or accessory — a favorite pair of socks, a lucky jersey, or even a particular shade of lipstick

STRENGTHS/TALENTS

Fantastic cook or baker

Skilled musician (piano, guitar, violin, etc.)

Artistic talent (drawing, painting, sculpting, etc.)

Model athlete (football, hockey, swimming, etc.)

Great at voices/ventriloquy

Can do sleight-of-hand — may be a pickpocket

Speaks multiple languages, even obscure ones

Knows everything about history

Mathematical or scientific genius

Brilliant coder and can hack into any database

Skilled mechanical inventor

Can build or put together anything

Super-quick logical reasoning

Exceptional memory/genius IQ (several of the above might fall under this)

Special connection with animals

Super empathetic and understanding of other people

Extremely fast runner

Contortionist (can twist their body into any shape)

Psychic talent (can predict the future)

Amazing mechanic

Super strength, flying, invisibility or other superpowers

Unusually high tolerance for pain

Survival skills like hunting and fishing

Quick reflexes, acts fast in a crisis

Brave and fearless, not scared of anything

Able to talk their way out of any trouble/invent stories on the fly

WEAKNESSES/NEGATIVE TRAITS

Awful driver

Always running late

Illegible handwriting

Terrible at public speaking

Socially awkward — hard for them to make friends

Has tons of credit card debt from online shopping

Self-destructive and always wants what’s worst for them

Gets blackout drunk every time they go out

Extremely conceited or arrogant

Compulsive liar

Manipulative of friends

Gets jealous over nothing

Often mean for no reason

Unbelievably self-centered

Extremely passive-aggressive

Is a hero who doesn’t like using their superpowers

Arachnophobia (irrational fear of spiders)

Coulrophobia (irrational fear of clowns)

Agoraphobia (irrational fear of leaving the house)

Pantophobia (fear of everything)

COMMONLY USED QUIRKS

Pale skin

Crooked smile

“Intense” stare

Relentless clumsiness

Artificial hair colors that are supposedly natural

Characters thinking they’re unattractive when everyone else thinks they’re beautiful

OTHER QUIRKS

Dresses all in one color

Bedroom is decorated exactly like a Pinterest picture

Won’t drink still water, only sparkling

Refuses to use headphones and blasts their music in public

Always dresses too nicely for the occasion

Walks around barefoot, even in stores and other public places

Hates being inside, sleeps and goes to the bathroom outdoors

Can’t help but look in every mirror they pass

Wears a small plastic backpack everywhere

Preps their meals three weeks in advance

Drinks shots of espresso all day long

Sings opera in the shower

Always sneezes around pets

Has a collection of something mundane

Makes their own (terrible) abstract art and hangs it on their walls

Gets super excited about Christmas and then really depressed in January

Refuses to wear glasses even though they need them

Carries around a secret teddy bear

Has been wearing the same friendship bracelet for three years

Fastidiously lint-rolls all their clothing

Will leave a shop or restaurant if someone walks in with a baby

Extremely superstitious (knocks on wood, avoids the number 13, etc.)

Drops everything other people ask them to hold

Likes to go out dancing by themselves

Prefers to have the lights off or dimmed at all times

Only reads books written before 1900

Only watches movies that get really bad reviews

Always wears multiple sweaters on top of each other

Won’t eat anything that doesn’t have bread (at least on the side)

Thinks they’re a time-traveler from the medieval era

Gives friends and family excellent homemade presents

Leaves the office last every day so they can push all the chairs in

Hates jagged numbers (always fills their gas tank to the dollar, sends emails on the hour, etc.)

Has an imaginary friend they still talk to, even in adulthood

Owns a lizard that they try and use as a guard dog

Listens exclusively to Britney Spears

Leaves little notes in library books for future readers

Uses tissues to hold onto poles on public transportation

Wears their hair in Princess Leia buns

Never goes a day without talking to their mom

Hums “In the Hall of the Mountain King” when they get stressed

Clucks their tongue while walking, so they sound like a horse

Quotes Pulp Fiction all the time

Loves hanging out in completely empty places

Convinced they’re going to die in a freak accident

Grows all their own food in their vegetable garden

Never pays for train or bus tickets

Can recite Shakespearean sonnets

Recycles and eats vegetarian, but only out of guilt

Has a “vision board” posted on their ceiling

Loves the beach but hates swimming

Flicks people in the forehead when they get annoyed

Laughs at everything, even bad jokes

Curates a great Instagram feed of street art

Sources: 1 2

[mrsdesade]

Hey, could you write a homelander x reader where she works at Vought and unknowingly gets his attention and he stalks her?

Hi dear anon, thanks for your patience!! I don't have much time to write full fics these days, because life is happening and I'm very busy physically and mentally, but I can happily offer some headcanons 💕

Homelander's obsessive behaviors headcanons

First of all, his romantic gestures, while seemingly sweet, are often rooted in his need for control and his inability to understand healthy relationships. His actions can be seen as manipulative and even frightening, especially when considering his overall personality and powers.

Constant surveillance: He would employ his super hearing and x-ray vision to keep a constant watch on you. He might use these abilities to monitor your home, workplace, or any other place you frequently visit.

Data collection: He'd collect as much information as possible about his current obsession: you. This could include your daily routines, social media activity, and even your deepest fears and desires. He might use his Vought resources to access private databases.

Preserving memories: Homelander might keep a collection of items that remind him of you, like a lock of your hair or a piece of your clothing. Oh God If you gift something to him, he's going to cherish this like a museum piece.

Love bombing: He'll shower you with love and attention, he loves doing it, especially at the beginning of the relationship, to reel you in.

Unwanted gifts: Homelander would often leave small, often expensive gifts for his favourite persons in unexpected places. These gifts could be anything from flowers to jewelry, and they would always be personalized to show how well he knows you. Often with small notes inside. Doll, baby, my girl, nicknames are on plate.

Sudden appearances: Homelander would frequently appear where you least expects him. He might show up at yor work, your home, or even a random location you're visiting. At least three times at week, minimum.

Testing your loyalty: He might create situations to test your loyalty to him. This could involve putting you in a difficult position or asking you to do something that makes you uncomfortable.

Excessive praise: When you two are together he would shower you with compliments, often going overboard and making you feel uncomfortable. He might even compare you to other people, always putting you on a pedestal. You're his precious treasure and he loves you so goddamn much.

Isolation tactics: He might try to isolate you from their friends and family at some point, making you believe that he is the only one who truly understands your needs.

Future planning: He might make elaborate plans for your future together, down to the smallest details, without ever consulting you. He'll make grand plans for the two of you for sure. This could include things like buying a house together or having children.

Gaslighting: If you decide to start to question his behavior, Homelander might resort to gaslighting. He could make you doubt their own perceptions and memories, making you believe that you're just imagining things.

Public displays of affection: Homelander might engage in very public displays of affection, such as putting his arm around you in front of a crowd, or giving you a very long, lingering kiss. This is partly to show off his "perfect couple" image, but also to mark his territory.

Obsession with physical touch: Homelander might find ways to touch you, in every moment, he need that, even if it's just brushing against them or holding their hand. He would crave any form of physical contact.

Nightmares and sleep disturbances: His obsession for you would consume his thoughts, leading to vivid nightmares and difficulty sleeping. He might even develop a fear of losing you really easily. Despite his outward confidence, Homelander has a deep-seated fear of being abandoned. This fear can lead him to become increasingly possessive and controlling.

-------

Thanks again for the request, enjoy! Kisses kisses! 💕

[lady-phasma]

I felt compelled to cite my sources for Armand and Lestat being an item off and on over the years. I’ve been in this fandom too long to get involved in ship wars or to really have an OTP for these crazy-ass vampires. I happen to love Armand and Lestat from the books and think that Assad and Sam make it work so well on screen. I hope we get loads more of them for season 3.

Anne wrote all of her characters as deeply flawed, we can all agree on that, but the nearly fanfiction level of “let’s see what happens when two of my most flawed characters get together” writing she did in TVA is brilliant. Book spoilers below.

Here's a link to a post I made about Lestat's perspective of Armand from TVL. (I have included one quote from TVL below because it's too precious to exclude.)

Lestat spends almost a full page describing how he sees Armand at a ball at the Palais Royal:

Yet never had Nicolas, mortal or immortal, been so alluring. Never had Gabrielle held me so in thrall. Dear God, this is love. This is desire. And all my past amours have been but the shadow of this. - The Vampire Lestat, p. 275

They literally feel the same about each other: instant attraction, love, desire, and so on. And it is powerful.

So powerful that hundreds of years later (in one of my favorite passages from any of her books) Armand is the only person allowed to approach an unconscious Lestat. Not only approach him, but allowed to lay down next to him and cuddle, caress, and console Lestat, to cry onto him.

I looked down on Lestat, who was unchanged, his hair fallen as before, a little over his left eye. His right arm was out, and his fingers curling upwards, and there came from him not the slightest movement, not even a breath from his lungs or a sigh from his pores. I knelt down beside him again. I reached out, and without flinching or hesitating, I brushed his hair back from his face. I could feel the shock in the room. I heard the sighs, the gasps from the others. But Lestat himself didn't stir. Slowly, I brushed his hair more tenderly, and I saw to my own mute shock one of my tears fall right onto his face. It was red yet watery and transparent and it appeared to vanish as it moved down the curve of his cheekbone and into the natural hollow below. I slipped down closer, turning on my side, facing him, my hand still on his hair. I stretched my legs out behind me, and alongside of him, and I lay there, letting my face rest right on his outstretched arm. Again there came the shocked gasps and sighs, and I tried to keep my heart absolutely pure of pride and pure of anything but love. It was not differentiated or defined, this love, but only love, the love I could feel perhaps for one I killed or one I succored, or one whom I passed in the street, or for one whom I knew and valued as much as him. - The Vampire Armand, pp. 368-369 (emphasis is mine)

But the contrasting absolute annoyance Armand has for Lestat is hilarious! He loves him but can barely stand him sometimes (that isn't unusual for Lestat's admirers).

Lestat, not a bad friend to have, and one for whom I would lay down my immortal life, one for whose love and companionship I have ofttimes begged, one whom I find maddening and fascinating and intolerably annoying, one without whom I cannot exist. The Vampire Armand, p. 276

But it's the way he describes things that happen to him that maddens me, the way that he connects one incident to another as though all these random and grisly occurrences were in fact links in some significant chain. They are not. They are capers. And he knows it. But he must make a gutter theatrical out of stubbing his toe. The James Bond of the Vampires, the Sam Spade of his own pages. - The Vampire Armand, p. 288 (emphasis mine)

Though Armand's head on Lestat's arm might be the most beautiful image of the two of them from any of the books, this line gives me chills every time:

"Lestat, my Lestat - for he was never theirs, was he? - my Lestat was crazed and railing as the result of his awful saga […]" - The Vampire Armand, p. 320 (emphasis mine)

Yes, your Lestat.

[silhouetteonpaper]

Goodbye

Summary: It’s time for you to move out of the compound now that you’re ready to move onto bigger things in life—things you’re more passionate about. But what happens when that means leaving the person you love the most? Natasha Romanoff x Reader WC: 1,235 Warnings: Veryyy angsty, not proofread completely A/N: I’m going through some huge changes in real life so this was really therapeutic to write, I’m sorry in advance 🥲

Your hands grasp the rough edges of the cardboard box as you stack one on top of another. The collection of your items once sprawled across the room, now subject to a pile in the corner. All the things you’ve collected over the years, from clothing, to pictures, to memories, all with their own spot in the place you call home.

But you can’t call it home, not anymore. As of last week, you finally decided it was time to make a change. Sticking around the compound has made you miserable, each day leaving you beside yourself with boredom and a desire for more. So, you chose to commit to the one thing you’ve been dreaming of for years now; a new home somewhere you felt you belonged.

It’s not that you don’t feel a sense of belonging here in New York, you just knew this situation would never be permanent. It’s been years of waiting for the ‘right’ day to leave, and you soon realized it was only your procrastination—among other things—preventing you.

As you place the small box on top of the growing stack, the girl you’ve spent those years procrastinating for walks in. “How’s the packing?” Natasha’s warm smile lightens the whole room, now left dim and colorless by the lack of decoration.

You both eye the boxes. “Good, yeah.” Your answer sounds more like a question than a statement, but Natasha already knows how you really feel. After all, you’ve spent the last few years by her side. She knows you too well.

A relationship had stemmed a while back, but ended a few weeks ago when you both wanted different things. She loved you too much to hold you back, you loved her too much to leave; it was a decision you weighed on for a while. Now, you’re content as friends… or as content as someone can be after giving up a relationship that meaningful.

You’ll always have a longing for Nat, and her for you, but no one can change your true destinations in life. You’ve never been the superhero kind, and that’s alright with you. A part of you just wishes that didn’t mean leaving Natasha.

“What’s on your mind?” Natasha asks, surveying every inch of your expression. You sigh, rubbing your forehead out of uncertainty.

“Not now, Nat.” You breathe. The last thing you need right now is to confront the remaining pieces of the strings holding you and the redhead together. You’ve finally committed to this new path, and you can’t let yourself fall backwards.

She nods once, dropping the subject. Friends usually can talk about their feelings, but the two of you know it’s easier to be together than to be friends. Natasha sits on your bed, watching as you continue to throw the last remnants of your existence at the compound into a new box.

Her gaze falls on one of the few objects still sitting on your desk, a silver-framed photo of you and her both in uniform. Tony had just made you a custom suit, you were beyond ecstatic about it. Natasha was excited to finally have you on a mission, the two of you being inseparable.

But that novelty wore off quickly; you went from going on missions every week, to maybe once a month. You weren’t happy, and she knew that. But neither of you were willing to mention it out of fear of what the future would hold.

“I remember that day.” Nat speaks up, nodding toward the photo. You chuckle, looking at the large grin plastered on past-you’s face. You both were together, her arm is hooked around your waist. A faint flutter in your chest makes you crave for that touch—the idea of what could have been. But you swallow it just as you did with your grief over leaving.

“That was a while ago.” You brush it aside, going back to packing. You open your desk drawer, revealing numerous photos of the two of you taken over the years. Quickly and quietly, you slip them all into the box before Natasha has a chance to notice. No one needs to make this harder than it already is.

Natasha stays silent for a bit, but you can feel her eyes watching you. It’s easy to sense that she’s deep in thought, and you debate asking what’s on her mind. But she beats you to it with another topical conversation. “I’m excited for you.” She voices.

You want to agree, tell her you’re excited too. But the truth is, something else is getting in the way of that. There’s something more to it, beyond the idea of waiting until the right moment to leave—waiting until there’s absolutely nothing left between you and Nat.

As you run circles around your room packing boxes, you realize exactly what’s getting in the way. Fear. You’re scared of leaving behind a good thing in the chance there’s nothing for you anywhere else. You know how happy you can be here with Natasha, but it’s not enough. There’s a life for you to live outside of the time you both spend together, and the two of you reluctantly agreed on that.

Your fingers find the smooth edge of the picture frame, and you can’t help but feel the swell of emotion inside your chest. Natasha’s silent, studying your changing expression as tears suddenly fill your eyes. “Hey,” She stands, stepping behind you. The ghost of her hands try to offer you comfort, but Natasha leaves them at her sides. “Talk to me.”

She never asks you if you’re okay, or pretends like things are fine when they aren’t. She states things how they are, and it’s something you love about her. Even when Natasha’s blunt or too honest for comfort, you’re grateful it’s that over being stuck with what went unsaid.

You take a deep breath, so desperate to lean into Natasha’s non-existent touch. “I’m scared, Nat.” You don’t look at her behind you, just down at the redhead in the photo. “What if I don’t ever get something this good again? What if I’m making a huge mistake?”

Her expression softens. “You’re doing what’s best for you, remember? It’s okay to put yourself first. I want you to be successful in life.” Natasha voices in the most confident way possible. Neither of you are fully convinced, though.

“I’m scared to be on my own.” You finally admit, the salty tears finally rolling down your cheeks as you turn to her. It takes every ounce of self control for Natasha to not touch you, to not wrap you in a tight embrace and kiss you until there’s nothing left to fear. Instead, she looks at you with eyes full of love, and at one point—it was enough.

But it isn’t anymore. “I know.” She breathes, gazing into your glassy eyes. You nod slowly, aware that she’s not going to move a muscle, and neither are you. There’s no reason to keep torturing yourselves. You know what you have to do.

“Goodbye, Natasha.” You suppress the sobs building in your throat as the redhead’s expression falls. Both of your hearts finally ripped into two, never to be joined again. This is it.

She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t even frown. She just nods in return, leaving your bedroom like she was never there. And as of tonight, it’ll be like you never were either.

[lw77]

Diet Pepsi 💈 (LSxMV)

Chapter 1. - Angel

Max wants more than just a sub.

Who knew helping his dad at the shop would become his own personal brand of torture. He knew his dad had regulars, but he thought they’d be – old men regulars not whatever these chippendale escapees were. 

Apparently they’re contractors, who look like every middle-aged woman’s fantasy. Including Logan’s. 

And like clock-work, the group of men enter, a few heading to the drinks and some to his mom’s home-made subs. He hears Danny’s loud laugh, followed by Charles snickering as they tease their other colleague, George, Logan’s mind helpfully supplies, as he shows them something on his phone.

Logan wonders where the other one is, Max, all ruddy cheeks, bright blue eyes and big arms, who’s sadly amiss as he looks towards the floor. 

It’s embarrassing really, how at twenty-one Logan is like a school boy with a crush. If he ever confessed all the things he’s thought, fantasised about or, God, he inwardly groans, dreamt since seeing that man, it would have his Priest drowning him in holy water. 

A tap at the counter knocks Logan out of his thoughts, as he sees Danny in front of him ready to cash out. Like he knew what was going through Logan’s head, Danny’s smile stretched wider, “What’s wrong Logie boy, you disappointed it's just us today?” 

Logan squeaks as he’s caught out, face aflame, “No idea what you’re talking about, um– will that be all?” gesturing to the stack of subs and drinks Danny’s placed on the counter. 

“I think you doooo Logie boy.” Danny croons winking, as Logan speeds up his scanning before Danny can say anything else. It doesn’t stop the man from resting his forearms on the counter and wiggling his eyebrows.

“You’re awful, I’m telling my mom not to make any more of her salami subs.” Logan whines, trying to threaten Danny’s favourite sub away in hopes of ending his teasing. 

Danny smiles cheekily in response, “Your mother loves me, she would never do that” as he taps his credit card on the reader. 

Putting the items in plastic bags, “Maybe I’ll just throw them all away then.” Logan says petulantly. Taking the bags from Logan, “Oh come on Logie boy, that would just be wasteful. Now don’t you worry, he’ll be back next week!” Danny shouts with one last wink as he heads out. 

It’s loud enough that Charles and George, who were still hanging by the front, look up and laugh as if they know exactly who Danny is referring to. It makes Logan let out an embarrassed “Danny” as he hears the group’s laughter continue out the store. 

_______________________

Logan is snug in their usual booth, waiting for Alex and Oscar to return with their first round. They’re celebrating Alex’s new job tonight.

“Alright, two pitchers of beer for us and a Sommersby cooler for the princess!” Oscar announces loudly as he sets down their drinks. Logan snatches the cooler and pulls it closer.

“Oh, come on, Logie bear. You know we’re just teasing you,” Alex says, only making Logan scowl more.

“Seriously, what’s gotten into you this week? Did your mom accidentally sew up your fuck-me jeans again or something?” Oscar asks, furrowing his brows in genuine curiousity.

Logan groans and sinks further into his seat. “No, worse.”

“Did she try to set you up with one of her awkward co-op students again?” Alex asks.

Sitting up, Logan protests, “Okay, that was one time! Checo was sweet—he just had really sweaty hands.” Realizing how pitiful that sounds once he says it, he rests his head against the booth's cushion.

Alex and Oscar sit in silence, giving him space to finally share what’s bothering him.

“You know those hot regulars my dad has? The Chippendale escapee contractors? Danny Ricc—you know him, Alex.” Leaning in, Logan hisses, “Well, they definitely know I’m into their friend or colleague, whatever he is.”

“Yeah well, Logan, you’re not exactly subtle. It’s pretty obvious you’ve got a crush on that guy,” Oscar replies, in an all too annoyingly factual tone, Logan decides.

“And your pupils get huge dude when you like someone. There’s no hiding your attraction buddy,” Alex adds, raising his hands in surrender.

“Oh my god, how am I going to face him now that I know his friends know? Meaning, he knows too. So mortifying,” Logan says, fully aware he’s whining when they’re supposed to be celebrating Alex. “Sorry, I’ll snap out of it… or I’ll move out of town.” He says the last part a little too seriously for his friends.

“Anyway, that’s my week. Now—Alex, come on, tell us about the job! The floor is yours.” Logan gestures with a flourish.

Alex and Oscar share a look. “I got hired to consult as an architect.”

Logan perks up and excitedly congratulates Alex, asking where. “At Danny Ric’s company—your favorite!”

“Oh my god, you’re going to be a part of the Chippendale escapees?” Logan squeals, both hands slammed on the table as he leans over in excitement.

Oscar, observing the scene then asks, “Time for a cheers then?”

“To Alex joining the Chippendale escapees!” they cheer, clinking their beers and can together.

“Oh my god, you’re going to work with Max. Alex, you love me, right? You’ll tell me if he ever talks about me, or if he says I’m cute?” Logan continues, getting even more embarrassing. Oblivious to the widening eyes of Alex and Oscar as they glance behind him.

“…Oh my god, he came in muscle tee a few weeks ago and I just wanted to bite his biceps because they looked so big and they are so big—”

“Ow! What the hell, Oscar? We use our words now.” Logan admonishes, bending in his seat to rub where he got kicked. But he freezes as he hears a familiar laugh. Looking up, he sees Danny standing by their table, amused, and oh god, Max, arms crossed and wearing an equally amused expression.

Now looking no better than his best friends, Logan’s eyes are wide, his face is scarlet, and his mouth hangs open in shock as he realizes they must have heard everything—or at least enough. Maybe he can learn to love Checo’s moist, moist, hands because Mexico is definitely far enough.

“Hey, boys, didn’t mean to interrupt your evening. Just came over to congratulate our dear little Alex on joining the company! Our youngest yet!” Danny sings, wiping a tear for dramatic effect.

Meanwhile, Logan, snapping out of his deer-in-headlights look, is now studiously examining the table varnish, hoping the two men forget his earlier soliloquy over the other's (big) arms.

Good-naturedly, Alex invites Danny and Max to join them in the booth, leaving Logan pressed arm to leg against Max, his best friend completely uncaring of Logan’s gay panic.

Logan starts drinking from his can, hoping to avoid any conversation. But before long, Danny, Alex, and Oscar finish the two pitchers and decide they need to get the next round. Logan’s eyes widen as he mentally pleads, *Don’t leave me alone.* But both Oscar and Alex blissfully ignore him.

Staring at his drink as if it's the most interesting thing, Logan catches a glimpse of Max turning his way.

“Heard you missed me at the store.”

Logan looks at him, feeling his cheeks flush. As Alex pointed out earlier, his attraction to Max is probably written all over his face.

“I—um, no, just wondering where you all were,” he stutters, wetting his lips. “Not just you.” He leans back against the wall as Max essentially cages him in the booth, one arm resting on the back and the other bent on the table. Max’s body warmth and sandalwood cologne envelop Logan, blanketing his senses. Max’s gaze drops to Logan’s lips, a small smirk playing on his face, "Really?" he prompts, "Ye-yeah" Logan breathes out, Max's eyes flick up to Logan's at his answer and his lips break into a smile as he replies simply “Okay, if you say so.”  And, all too soon, he leans back, creating some space as the sounds of the bar filter in again, grounding Logan, feeling like he must be in heaven with Max so close.

Clearing his throat as Danny and the others join the table, Logan sits up, gratefully accepting a new can from Oscar, who gives him a knowing look while subtly elbowing Alex. Now both friends are watching him with knowing smiles, taking in his flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

Logan glares back but falters when he feels a big hand settle just above his knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. He realises he’s being asked a question. “Oh—I'm sorry, what?” he asks, confused, snapping his gaze to Max. 

It’s Danny, looking past Max with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He repeats his earlier question, fully aware of why Logan is distracted. “I asked if you’re excited to see your best friend every day now. Since your mom’s subs are legendary. And essential to a good work day”

Logan’s disbelief drips from his tone as he asks, “Even if all we have is the veggie one, Danny?” He raises his eyebrows for added effect.

Danny crosses his hand over his heart dramatically. “Even the veggie one, Logie boy! Although some of us come for the service too.” He finishes with a sidelong glance at Max.

Max, whose relaxed against the booth with his body still angled toward Logan and a comfortable hand resting on Logan’s thigh from when he squeezed it earlier to get his attention. At Danny’s insinuation, Max looks down at Logan, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gives Logan’s thigh another gentle squeeze, this time higher up, and shrugs.

The warmth from Max's touch sends a flutter through Logan's stomach, mingling with a simmering feeling in his chest that he can’t quite identify.

Thankfully, Logan is saved from responding as Oscar pulls Danny’s attention away, asking what project they’ll be starting on.

In the most teasing tone he can muster despite his fluster, he whispers, “So, service?” Looking up at Max from beneath his eyelashes.

Max leans in closer, his voice low. “You’re not the only one who's been looking, Angel.”

Logan’s face heats up further. The nickname doesn’t help his battle against arousal or the realisation that he was not subtle at all.

He blinks as he responds with a soft “uh-huh,” nodding his head, his mind feeling like cotton from their proximity and Max’s admission of mutual attraction.

Max’s gaze drifts to Logan’s lips just as Logan nervously bites his bottom lip. He’s on the verge of saying something—or maybe hoping for something more—when a cough interrupts them, making both of them look up at a smirking Danny.

“While the image of you two is a relief, we have to head back. Poker night! We just had to stop to congratulate you, Alex, on joining us.”

Logan, embarrassed by Danny’s comment, groans into his hands, while Alex thanks Danny brightly. Glancing at Danny, as he waits for Max, he leans into Logan’s ear, whispering, “See you tomorrow, Angel,” and with one last squeeze to Logan's thigh he’s out of the booth and heading for the door behind Danny. Leaving Logan bright red, his arousal flashing like a stop sign, and his two best friends laughing at his expression.  

Unhelpfully, Alex says, “Guess this means you don’t have to skip town anymore.” To which Oscar shouts, “Hear! Hear!” Logan can’t help but giggle, his embarrassment fading as he nods in agreement.

Chapter 2 of Diet Pepsi- Here

Author's note: So I listened to Diet Pepsi by Addison Rae and I just kept seeing buff/fit Max (white t-shirt, gold cross in blue jeans) and Logan vm baby boy/angel and big blown out eyes and parted lips when Max comes into his dad's store with his co-workers/friends. (i was going for a lil age diff but mostly size difference)

also i was gonna make it hotter but its like jesus had a hand on my shoulder as i got to it. maybe next chapter

[mrs-kodzuken]

yandere!suna x fem!reader headcanons ⟢

warnings: timeskip!suna, idk around 19/20 of age for the both of you, starts in hs then shifts to a few years in the future, dark content, stalking, stockholm syndrome, obsessive behavior, infatuation, kidnapping, mentions of killing/fighting, mentions of knives, wolf and bunny talk, controlling, manipulative lying, coercion, lies of traumatic past, very light mention of masturbation

yandere!suna who has had an infatuation with you since high school

yandere!suna who always wanted to be more than friends, always being with you in high school, asking you to come to his games, how did you not notice that he was madly in love with you? emphasis on the mad

yandere!suna who seemed to become more and more borderline obsessive when he suddenly seemed to know everything about you, your favorite color, drink, food, sweater, and so on

yandere!suna who became your boyfriend after you both graduated, and that's when he became more and more troubling

yandere!suna who constantly asks for your location, who you're talking to, what music you listened to today and what you were eating, it simply became overbearing and troubling to deal with

yandere!suna who doesn't take the breakup well between you both and begs for you to stay, he couldn't simply tie you up since you chose the moment when your friends just had to be over in y'all's shared apartment, "this isn't over, i'll be back bunny." he sneered, his piercing gaze and words sending chills down your back as you told him to leave immediately

yandere!suna stalks you without you knowing, watching you brush your teeth getting ready for bed, play with yourself at night, do self-care and even shower, it's been weeks since he's had you in his arms and he needs you, he can't help but to stalk his darling bunny, you shouldn't have tried to get rid of him

yandere!suna leaves you notes in your home, at your place of work, and even at your regular seat at the cafe you always go to, which creeps the fuck out of you because you especially know that it's him, these were the same tendencies he had while you were together

yandere!suna who creeps you out so much that you finally break down to your now boyfriend of two months that you didn't know what to do about your ex, he calmly tells you to file for a restraining order and to keep all the notes he's placed for you

yandere!suna who follows you when you're on the way to the police station, waiting in an ahead alley way to pounce on you before you could even get close to the haven you wanted

yandere!suna who snatches you and covers your mouth with his hand, he grips your face, tears running down your beautiful cheeks and hate in your eyes as you try to squirm out of his hold, he smirks, "i've caught you bunny, what are you going to do now?"

yandere!suna who ties your wrists together with rope, trying his absolute best not to hurt his darling bunny but you just won't stop struggling against them, giving yourself a burn

yandere!suna who seems eerily like a wolf, hunting-like eyes staring you down, he brought you back to your apartment to gather some of his favorite items so when he places you in his house, he won't have to worry about your things

yandere!suna who hears the apartment door unlocking and you start trying to scream which was muffled because of the cloth around your mouth, your voice hoarse from crying hours on end too

yandere!suna who gets into a fist fight with your new boyfriend, effectively beating his ass and knocking him unconscious because he wouldn't be able to save your life for shit, then grabs your sharp kitchen knife and looks at you, "this is what you're making me do, bunny. you just had to leave me." you closed your eyes, wailing at the squelching noise the knife made when it went through your boyfriends' body, that you couldn't unhear

yandere!suna who takes you back to his place after clearing out your entire apartment and disposing of the body, he even went as far to get you out of your lease, he did all of that and you still flinch away from him

yandere!suna who achieved his ultimate dream of capturing you forever, deciding to put locks on every door and hiding anything you could use in case you decide to leave him via suicide

yandere!suna who tries to get you to fall back in love with him, he wants you more than anything and especially wants you more to be his wife and mother of his children

yandere!suna who coerces you to pretend like nothing happened and sometime along the way (he brought you to therapy, claiming you had a traumatic past) you actually do forget about what happened, all you know is that rintarou always kept you safe

yandere!suna who finally morphed you into the perfect bunny for him, you followed everything he asked of you, you loved him (under coercion and stockholm but hey love is love right?)

a/n: hihi, i hope you like <3 i haven't wrote anything like this before so i hope it's good! i couldn't get the thought of being kidnapped by sunarin outta my mind lmfao, i hope i didn't make you guys uncomfy w dark content!! i also literally wrote this in less than an hour fr

don't steal my work pls luvs ! :)

[itsnathateasy]

Armin Week | Day 6 | SFW Prompts | Bunny Armin OR Cadet Corps Shenaningans

word count: 863 warnings: none author’s note: there are a few shenanigans in there, i promise!

@armin-week-2024

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

i couldn’t resist writing some headcanons about cadet!armin and you dating!

cadet!armin DEFINITELY stays up late with you. you casually plan these dates during supper, then pretend to go to bed, only to sneak out a couple of hours later hehe

these dates are mostly reserved for snogging

and you literally always get caught by eren and mikasa who share your not-so-secret plan

cadet!armin is the cutest by always waiting for you to be done with your food and walks with you to the kitchen where you leave your empty plates and glasses

cadet!armin also makes sure you’re together for cleaning and kitchen duties, armin is so meticulous, but you keep distracting him, making up choreos with sasha and putting on the funniest of shows and connie always joins in the dancing

but captain levi is never satisfied with your cleaning, and even less with your terrible dance moves someone pls write a hc where levi joins in a broomstick and mop/bucket dance off to sum up, your cleaning duties tend to last quite longer than they should

cadet!armin isn’t the best at hand to hand combat but the fact that you practice together all the time has helped him greatly improve and has also filled his head with nasty thoughts

cadet!armin is very protective over you and gets kinda possessive (in a cute way) when you’re not allowed to pair up for tasks because why should you be allowed to gather apples with jean just the two of you when he’s stuck with mikasa?

and no, secretly saving him a few apples to snack on when you’re sneaking out didn’t really help, but no apples were left and armin was much calmer and confident about you hanging out with the other guys from then on

cadet!armin makes sure you study together, teaching each other the material you find most difficult to understand. you even expand those study dates to invite the rest of the group, which you both regret because no studying was done BUT you both find great joy in spending time with your friends, these study dates somehow make your alone time feel even more special

also, cadet!armin used to tutor eren and connie when they needed help, but he found out they only asked for help so that they could secretly plot their pranks and needed armin’s intel

cadet!armin takes AGES to properly confess to you and ask you out even though you two have been practically an item for who knows how long

“armin, we’ve been dating for months, what are you talking about?”

“i mean uh, we’ve never really- i mean it’s official now! we never properly discussed are relationship status before”

“have you been seeing anyone else besides me?”

armin is now PROFUSELY blushing and stutters at your remark “YOU KNOW THIS ISN’T WHAT I MEANT, I LOVE YOU”

“he has been seeing eren behind your back y/n”, a comment from jean which only earned him a glare from you and a punch from eren

“this was unnecessary” armin says to eren

“punching jean is never unnecessary armin, trust me” he said and rubbed his fist against his palm

cadet!armin is the one to pour you your tea in the mornings while you and the other cadets are still having breakfast, only to mess up and spill it all on you, him and whoever is sitting beside you because you kept talking to him and looking at him with those eyes “and this is how you waste an entire kettle of fine black tea cadets” a snear remark from captain levi

levi didn’t even bother putting armin, sasha and you on cleaning duty again, he knows this battle is long lost

cadet!armin pretends to have such a hard time getting his odm straps on once in a while, so he can come to you for help, only to see you tying all these straps and knots and have you touch him, he’s cunning like that

cadet!armin was often scared because he wasn’t as strong and skilled as his classmates, but he was never afraid to admit his fear or back down, he was particularly afraid the first time you tried your odm gear and he practically smashed himself flat on the wall, the incident was a running joke in your year

connie would always make fun of the incident and he even tried to imitate armin’s face when they took him down, “it’s not even funny anymore connie, just drop it” eren would step up for his friend

“yeah, remember that time captain caught you trying to cook when the fire was out? THAT was funny” said jean and pulled armin closer with one arm, ruffling his hair

“th- thanks jean. was my face really that funny?”

“yes, it was, but it’s been 6 months, connie should entertain himself with a new joke”

the blush on armin’s face was beyond words

“maybe we’d all be funnier if we were foods, right?” sasha asked, looking at you, then at mikasa

“drop it potato girl” reiner exclaimed in a pissed off way

“NOW THIS JOKE IS EVEN OLDER THAN ARMIN’S!” sasha screamed as she started chasing reiner around

[drakomod]

Still been on a bit of a bard Finley kick, so of course I had to make him a ref!! This guy is so ridiculously pink.

His main outfit is from the BG3 Mystical Fashions mod! With some minor changes. The first outfit on the far left is an original one designed by me, you can see the full fit here. The other 3 are pulled directly from the game. And I could have honestly grabbed more XP He has so many outfits.

Comm info | Cara | Twitter | Twitch | Discord

More about Tiefling Bard Finley under the cut :D (Finley is an OC of mine that has been made into a Tav for BG3, so technically this is an AU!)

Finley grew up as an urchin outside and around Baldur's Gate. He was, as most tieflings are, treated very poorly growing up and mostly raised himself on the streets. He had big dreams that could never quite be stomped out after he had found a love for music in a music box, and later, a broken lute.

He met another young tiefling named Paisley, a young boy with a particularly strong affinity for fire. With Finley's love for music and storytelling, and Paisley's magical talents, they were able to perform on the streets and do their best to keep themselves alive.... With the odd pick pocketing here and there when necessary.

Later he managed to find work in a brothel. He had hoped for it to be his first real gig as a musician, but was offered better pay for other services that he couldn't rightfully refuse from his current living situation. Only later, when he got to go out and adventure with friends, did he truly get to be the bard he had always wanted to be.

Other fun facts!

Finley does like pink, and mainly wears it to match his skin to look non-threatening. His actual favourite colour is blue.

Since tieflings face a lot of racism and comments about their fiendish nature, Finley greatly dislikes being compared to demons and devils and can sometimes take well-meaning comments a little too seriously.

The markings on his face are partially a birth mark, partially a face tattoo funnily enough. He hasn't had the best influences in friends and partners, and previously dated someone who wanted to practice tattoos with his birthmark. Luckily it's not too bad.

He was born with heterochromia and is actually able to see invisibility without casting any spells.

the pouches on his waist hold spell components and other useful items, he also has a little latch there that holds his flute.

His primary instrument is his lyre, but since it's big and potentially unwieldly at times, he has the flute as a backup. He could also sing to cast his spells, but that can be greatly effected by his condition and emotions.

He's a bard of valor, and isn't opposed to getting down and dirty with the rest of his party. His high Dex allows him to practically tank for the party if needed. And by tank, I mean just not get hit.

He's a Mephistopheles tiefling

His glasses have a loop in the metal arms to wrap around his ear to avoid losing them in combat. It's not fool proof though and still does happen sometimes.

For people who aren't familiar with BG3 tieflings, those ridges on his skin are not body modifications, but actual bumps and ridges underneath his skin that he was born with.

[candycandy00]

Sneak Preview of Come Find Me - A Hawks x Reader x Dabi Horror Fanfic

This is just a preview of my upcoming fic. The full fanfic will be posted in a few days. There’s nothing explicit in this preview but the full story will feature dark content! Enjoy!

***********************

You step out of your parents’ house, closing the door behind you and making sure your phone is crammed into your small purse. As you step off the porch and into the driveway, you hear a familiar voice call your name. You turn to see your next door neighbor and childhood friend Touya crossing over into your yard. 

“Goin’ somewhere?” he asks, glancing at his watch. 

“Yeah, just gotta grab a few things at the store for mom,” you reply. 

He stands there awkwardly for a moment, looking around. “It’s gettin’ pretty dark. Want me to go with you?”

You smile at his concern. The two of you are both in college, but still live in your childhood homes for now. Partly because you’re hesitant to separate. You’ve been in love with him since you were children, and only recently confessed your feelings to him. In true Touya fashion, he’d scoffed, looked away, and blushed before quietly admitting that he felt the same way. 

You’re still trying to navigate this new dynamic in your relationship. You’ve only been on a couple of dates so far, and only had your first kiss three days ago as the two of you sat on your bed watching a movie. Despite being adults, you feel like teenagers sneaking around. Touya suggested taking a weekend trip just to have some privacy. You’re excited for what might happen when you’re truly alone together.

“I’ll be fine,” you tell him. “I’m just going to the convenience store down the street.”

He frowns. “Yeah, but with those rumors going around…”

“I’ll take mom’s car, okay? Seriously, I’ll be fine. We used to walk to that store all the time when we were kids, remember?”

You understand his concern. For the past few months, women around your age have been turning up dead, their bodies butchered in horrific ways. Rumors have been going around that they all had one thing in common besides being in their early twenties. 

All of them had high levels of Cupid’s Arrow in their system. 

Cupid’s Arrow is a new, very dangerous drug that you had zero interest in until the rumors started. After all, you’ve never tried anything stronger than some cheap weed Touya bought from a friend when you were both teenagers. And Cupid’s Arrow is powerful, with terrifying effects. 

Anyone given Cupid’s Arrow will immediately develop an intense romantic and sexual obsession with the first person they see after taking it. The effect is so strong that the user will do literally anything to please the object of their obsession, even if it results in great harm.

Apparently, some couples who are into more extreme activities like to try using it, and some couples have used it as a way of proving their trust in each other. And of course, like with all things, there are people who use it to abuse others, basically turning people into their own brainwashed sex slaves. 

The idea of these poor women being given the drug, being abused in some disgusting way, and then murdered while still on the drug, disturbs you greatly. The poor things probably laid there and let the killer chop them up, all the while looking at him adoringly. The thought sends shivers down your spine. 

Still, the women were all found near the city, not out in the suburbs where you live. And the store is close by. What kind of life is it if a grown woman can’t go to a store by herself? 

You give Touya a kiss on the cheek and climb into your mom’s car. “I’ll be right back,” you tell him. 

He still looks worried as he watches you pull out of the driveway, throwing his hand up in somewhat awkward wave. 

The drive there is brief and uneventful, and the small store is uncrowded. You quickly gather up the items your mom needed and a couple of snacks for yourself, then start toward the front to check out. That’s when you remember Touya waiting for you, and decide to pick up something for him. 

You head back down the snack aisle again, barely noticing the other person walking down it. You stop and look over the various bags and packages until you spot the strawberry pocky Touya loves. You smile to yourself as you reach out to grab the last pack. Suddenly, another hand is reaching toward the pocky, brushing against your own. 

You draw back, looking at the man standing next to you. He’s just a few inches taller than you, with wavy dark blonde hair and sharp, golden eyes. 

“Oh, sorry!” he says, his face breaking into a friendly smile. He’s very good looking, though you think Touya is much hotter. 

“That’s okay,” you tell him, returning the smile, “you can have it.”

“Oh no, sweetheart, you take it,” he says, flashing a grin. 

You blink at the pet name, but decide to quickly make it clear that you’re taken. “I was just picking them up for my boyfriend. I can get him something else.”

If he’s deterred at all by your comment, he doesn’t show it. Instead he grabs the pack of pocky and casually tosses them into your basket. “Don’t worry about it. I think I’m hungry for something different anyway.”

You’re not sure if he’s being suggestive or nice, so you give him an uneasy smile and nod before walking to the counter to pay, leaving him to continue browsing the snacks. 

When you step out into the cool evening air, you sigh as you hear your phone chime. You hope it’s not a message from your mom, adding another item to the list. You shift your bags to one arm and then dig your phone out of your purse, pausing in the middle of the parking lot to look at the screen. 

You smile. It’s a message from Touya, asking how the shopping trip is going. He really does worry too much. 

“Just leaving the store,” you type back. “See you soon.”

Just as you start to drop your phone back into your purse, you suddenly sense movement behind you. But before you can turn to look back, a white cloth covers your mouth and nose. You smell a strange chemical odor as your body becomes weak. Your bags, phone, and purse drop to the ground. 

A familiar, friendly voice at your ear says, “Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m taking you home with me.”

You want to fight, to struggle, but all strength has left your body. You’ve gone limp in his arms, and now, darkness overtakes you. 

[lukolabrainrot]

Calm theory anon here!!! I seen some theories about this whole A and L thing. That A force her way into a relationship with L let's discuss this. Facts we have is Luke never once address what this girl was to him. The girl appeared to have wanted to hold his hand in London for the paps and Luke actual straighten his hand (which showed that's the last thing he wanted to do). After all the hate she and he got he still has not addressed her title. So my question is why hasn't he? I have seen the argument he doesn't wanna bring unnecessary hate towards her. But she getting hated on and has been. So that argument is null and void. He's not saving her from anything. So if he's in a relationship with her why doesn't he just announce it? And announcing it can come in a simple form of just posting her in his stories. His name has already been dragged so what would be the benefits of keeping it without a title? If anything an argument could've been made if he did speak up most of the fans would stop. So why hasn't he posted her? She not even been in any of his stories. She not been in any of his post. He's not willingly launch her at all as someone that's important to him. Matter of fact excluding the two kisses we seen before January why haven't we gotten any type of kiss pictures since then. All these pap pictures and all we get is the life guard stance that you do to younger siblings or friends. Matter of fact in a lot of the pictures with L he looks straight up uncomfortable. It can't be because he's not use to camera and these pap pictures were taken without his knowledge. So shouldn't we have gotten some type of loved up picture? In the first year of a relationship is the loved up stage but the pictures we get seems like Luke's drunk to much and teach her to float. That's what we got. This is what we are basing our idea that this was a relationship on. This is why I don't think of her as his GF. The title of GF is given to someone. We the fans can't give her that title. Every outing we have seen them in has been a group outing. That we can prove there hasn't been a single outing that there by themselves (Spain doesn't count looking at some palm trees and a wall doesn't mean she was there). She can't post him and he won't her. All we have actually is why's? We have nothing really to go on. No actual statements. No actual posts. So were they really an item? Yes he went on trips with friends? But was she invited by him or his friends? The premiers was she invited by him or his sister? And if it was him why hasn't we actual see him stick some type of this is my girl? Unless this was just a friends with benefits thing and she pushing for more. I mean to me it makes sense. Luke isn't an asshole and a lot of people have these types of arrangements. It's normal in a sense. Maybe they had an arrangement. He gets sex without the complications of a serious relationship and she gets notoriety from being around him. There is so many maybe I doubt we will ever know. I will say I think a lot going on BTS. Nicola has gifted us and taken attention off Luke. Right now that's what we know for sure. Good things are coming guys

No notes!

[skzstoryvault]

Poison Drop (Hyunjin, angst, bit of spice)

F! Reader x husband Hyunjin

one-shot

Hyunjin is a house-husband in this. He still works but he's no longer an idol.

Story spans from a parallel present day until ten years later

Warnings: mentions of obsessive fans, abduction and recovering from the resulting trauma.

This is in no way meant as a commentary on the real persons depicted here. They all deserve the world.

Please be kind.

Please do not report this post. If it's not your thing, just scroll away.

If you're underage, please scroll on, there is nothing for you here.

If you enjoy this story and are reading along, I would love to hear your comments in the replies, reblogs or DMs - however you feel most comfortable.

Man plans, God laughs.

Never in a million years would you have thought you’d find yourself here, at the core of a reality you only dared to think of late at night, right before sleep took you.

You put another log onto the fire, checking the airing system, then slowly pad back to the living room.

There, the TV is on.

You look down at your warm feet, cosy and snug in a pair of red, pink and white pattern handknit socks.

From him. Everything you love to wear is from him. Every item, strung together with the patience and love of a martyr and with the joy of a small child. He sits for hours, hands diligently working the minutes away, using the yarn so generously provided by the alpaca friends who live on your farm.

The years went by, but his beauty did not. Age makes him bloom forever, like an orchid that doesn’t know it’s been plucked from the jungle and planted in a glass pot. 

You look at him - his bun is now loose, his hair is falling in whimsical tendrils down his neck, sneaking beneath the slack collar of his pyjamas. Glasses perched low on his nose, he’s focused on counting stitches, lashes lowered to almost resting on the tops of his cheeks, pillowy soft lips dark and bitten in concentration and moving slowly with his counting.

He doesn’t know you’re there, and like a thief, you pause, unknown, outside of space and time, holding your breath so you can watch him work.

How?

How did it get to this? It’s happened to you, with you, yet you still couldn’t tell how you ended up married to Hyunjin, a man so inaccessible to you the very thought of him in your mind seemed blasphemous.

You never intended to pluck him from his home country, where all his friends, family and favourite foods are. But something happened, in the fifth year of his knowing you, that made him run without looking back and seek refuge at your place, far across the seas. 

Hyunjin always awakened the most burning passions in everyone who met him - everyone but you, and only because you were genuinely afraid to let yourself feel fully. But his fans? They were some of the most unhinged in the industry and one of them used their access and skills to abduct Hyunjin and keep him locked in their cabin in the middle of privately owned woods.

You figured out where he was, working against the clock, realising that the longer he is trapped with his abductor, the higher the chance of him getting hurt. You were just a PR specialist back then, and because of that you knew how obsessed fans think and what path their unchecked emotions follow. While working tirelessly to get him back, you realised that the one thing fueling you on that mission was the love he had sparked in your previously intentionally kept on ice heart. But one thing after another - you first had to be razor sharp and cold, think like the kind of sociopath capable of abducting an idol, and then - only then - would you be allowed to be soft for Hyunjin. 

You were afraid of the worst happening before you and the police got Hyunjin back; just the thought of the possibilities robbed you of your sleep for weeks and it took years to retrain your body to shed the utter fear of those outcomes. Long after Hyunjin began to sleep next to you, carefree in his medicated slumber, you still woke up screaming, drenched in cold sweat. 

It’s been ten years since the ordeal and Hyunjin fought hard for every little piece of himself he gained back. He put himself together beautifully, but he also didn’t look back.

And that’s how he became a Dane - like you.

He only models these days; mostly for Versace - when news of his abduction broke out to brands, many were too scared to keep working with an idol who doesn’t perform anymore, unsure of what the extent of his damage would be - but Donatella saw the opportunity in the challenge and made sure Hyunjin’s public image only works for her and her brand. Sometimes, she will rave about him to someone else powerful in the world of fashion and she will end up getting him more work.

He struggles with the language, and whenever he does attempt to speak it, he is more adorable than a basket of kittens. He loves the local customs, the fashion, the cuisine. He loves being your gentle house husband, putting on cotton and flannel layers and stylish denim, knitting himself fisherman hats so he can look at himself in the full size mirror in the hallway and flirt with his reflection on his way out to do a grocery run.

His paintings sell for millions internationally. He doesn’t have to work - but the need is there, like a phantom limb pain. He will require more time to figure himself out in the absence of a continuous and exhausting line of work to define him. He grew up an idol, before getting the chance to ask himself who he is and what he stands for. Now those questions became pressing and he is searching for answers while also trying to hold the shards of his past self together. 

The band is not the same without him, and the remaining seven went on a self-imposed hiatus, mourning his absence while also understanding his need to run far and away. They are still friends, and they periodically reach out, especially Felix. Even after all these years. 

He hasn’t danced in more than ten years. It’s as though he performed vivisection on himself and took out that part of him, cutting it out and throwing it away. It was heartbreaking to see that light be extinguished so swiftly and you can only imagine how it must have hurt him. 

One part of Hyunjin died back then - you knew it as soon as you lay eyes on his shaking, curled up form in the blanket his rescuers wrapped around his shoulders.

But he’s here now, and he’s as shrouded in pure magic as ever, even though it’s just for you to see and benefit from. It still feels like one of the fae descended from legend to be your husband until some sort of spell is broken. 

You know your current domestic bliss has an expiration date stamped on it because Hyunjin didn’t choose this life freely, he ran into it, afraid of what he was leaving behind. But underneath it all, you’re not afraid of love’s ending, because beneath it lies an even bigger, stronger love, the kind forged amidst suffering and loneliness. You and Hyunjin will always be soulmates, even long after you stop being lovers. 

There was something your boss at the company told you - a resentment so huge, so bitter was expressed that day, in hushed tones because the bastard knew he was shooting to kill. He said he was sad Hyunjin had you and your country to flee to; that it was unfair for him to get an easy out, when he should have stayed there, grit his teeth and healed through work and discipline. He told you Hyunjin was more in love with himself than with anyone and anything else, and that you were only a small harbour in the ocean of Hyunjin’s need for adoration; that he could deny for a while that he needed everyone’s love, but eventually he would come back begging for it.

That had not been enough to get you to change your plans or to try to sway Hyunjin towards staying. But it had gotten under your skin and had festered there. Making you doubt everything and question every word. 

When Hyunjin married you, you told yourself he was just reassuring you so you wouldn’t leave him alone while he still needed to recover and learn to live in another culture and country. When he told you he loved you, you thought he was just going through the motions like all men in couples do. When he told you he was happy, you thought it was cute, but he was lying to himself to cope. 

If it really was all for real, then he would dance about it, no? Happy people dance. Men who love their wives grind on them to radio hits while making breakfast together on Saturday mornings. You hadn’t had a bride and groom dance at your wedding - you’d had a choreographed sword fight in which neither of you prevailed. Instead, you both chose to drop your sword in order to be able to hold hands. 

The reasonable part of you knew that making this the measure of Hyunjin’s recovery and genuine loyalty was insane, evil even. And you knew, on one level, that your boss’ comments had poured this corrosive foundation in your mind. It was obvious: Hyunjin didn’t dance because it hurt him to do so, it took him to his personal hell, a place he did not wish to revisit if he had the choice. This had nothing to do with you.

You knew that. But some days you doubted it; doubted everything. 

Now he’s on the sofa in the living room, alpaca sock-clad feet crossed in front of him as he knits away on his latest project. Your dog sleeps on his back, with all four paws in the air, on the floor in front of your husband. 

Not today though. Today, you came home from the hardware store, having needed some extra parts for the new kitchen you are assembling. Hyunjin spent his day outside, tending to the garden and the greenhouse, hanging out with the animals on your land, brushing them, giving them treats.

“You’re back,” he says, setting his knitting down and to the side, stretching his arms out to you and making grabby hands so you would come closer. “Kiss, please.” 

You humour him, and his kiss really conveys longing. His plush lips are hot and supple against yours and he holds you close for a bit longer, chasing your lips even after you try to end the kiss. He really missed you even though you’ve been gone for two hours, tops. 

“I cooked. So, if you want to eat before getting to anything else… we could.” He offers.

Whatever he cooked looks and smells incredible. It looks like a hearty stew with a dark, yummy sauce and many veggies. He’s made it a point to cook Danish recipes, but his creative side cannot resist remixing some aspect of them - a herb here, a spice there, wine instead of vinegar - he always changes something, and for the better. He has just as much talent for flavours as he does for colours. 

“I could go for some lunch, yeah.” You say and he hops off the couch, leading the way into the kitchen.

The early afternoon is spent in a shared bath, and then, once you get out, Hyunjin sees your bare shoulders as you drop your towel to step into fresh clothes. The moment he approaches you from behind and kisses your neck, you know exactly where you’ll be for the next few hours. 

He has perfected the art of eating you out to the brink of insanity. Knowing all the best ways to make your body respond to his touch, learning how sucking on your clit makes you squirm and grind your hips against his face, how nuzzling the soft skin of your folds has you trembling and cursing; how sneaking his tongue up inside you short circuits your entire body and has you gushing all over his face. 

It still shakes you to your core to see how much he craves you. In any way you allow.

The way he touches you when he gets in this headspace changes the way your body feels. Your inner thigh ligaments don’t hurt when he makes your legs frog out onto the sheets so he can be between them. Maybe it’s because of how tenderly his hands rub you there, making all the tension seep out of you. Your back sinks deeper into the crisp sheets of your bed, your nipples stay painfully hard even once they get used to the comfy temperature of the room, knowing that his fingers and mouth will awaken them again soon. It’s like he knows how to pour sensation into every corner of you and change it to sheer pleasure on his whim. 

For a little while, it works - he erases your mind completely and for that blessed moment, you only exist as a nexus of bliss of Hyunjin’s conjuring. He’s right there with you, whispering his love and devotion into your skin. 

Then you’re on top, sort of, because he’s not letting you work for one second - he has you perched on his lap, leaning over him just enough for him to have access to all of you, and he’s pressing himself into you with the fervour of someone whose entire life depends on getting this one thing right.

But soon, the reboot happens and you remind yourself some men are better at lying with their dicks than they are at lying with their mouths. And some are excellent at both, which is something Hyunjin must be a master of. 

He wrings three more orgasms from you, and by the time he’s coming he’s also crying, his hot tears landing on your cheeks and lips before he hurries to kiss them away, apologising endlessly. 

“It’s just, it’s ju-ust-” he hiccups, inhaling deeply, “I love you so much!” 

“Don’t,” you soothe him, feeling infinitely sorry for him - he looks like he is really buying into it all, and if he’s going into this charade innocently, it must mean he hurts himself every time he prostitutes himself to buy a moment of picture-perfect happiness in the here and now. “Don’t feel guilty for feeling.”

“I know, baby. I love you too.”

Later, he sings you to sleep, and the sentinel part of your brain registers distantly that he rearranged a Megan Thee Stallion song to sound like a lullaby just for you. 

Alright Judas, where’s your Oscar? But you can’t feel cynical about it right now, because the little beaten down part of you that does love him back without asterisks and fine print is feeling strong today.

In the late afternoon, towards the evening, you’re woken up by the sound of sizzling and the smells of delicious foods being made.

As soon as you round the corner, you gasp inaudibly at the scene before you. He has GoldLink’s Zulu Screams playing in the back while he cooks, and he’s in a checkered flannel shirt, shorts and one of the socks from earlier. 

You head for the kitchen on silent footfalls, wondering what Hyunjin is up to.

But, most importantly, the secret scene you walked in on completely erases all your doubts and reassures you fully that it’s safe to let yourself love him. He’s here with you, for you, all parts of him, chipped ones included. 

Dancing like nobody's watching. With no choreography or premeditation to his moves. Just feeling the song and moving like a grounded albatross in some places, then gracefully in others. He reminds you of Christopher Walken in that “Weapon of Choice” video he did for Fatboy Slim.

He stops mid-move when he sees you standing in the doorway, looking small in his undershirt and house shorts, with tears streaming down your face. 

“My babiest baby! What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Am I doing something wrong?” He asks, once he’s near you and his hands are reverently cupping your cheeks. 

“No, nothing’s wrong.” You say, quite coherent for how you’re feeling right now. “I’m just a fool. And- you know that I love you, right?” 

“No, no buts, Jinnie. It just feels so good to say it. Just like it felt good to see you dance just now.” 

“Yes, I do know! And I hope you feel how much I love you too!” He adds, sounding enthusiastic about getting to tell you again, this time with clothes on. “Wait. Is there a ‘but’ to this?”

“And that’s alright. I just liked seeing you having found your groove again. You’ve earned it, my heart.” you say. It’s even more important that he can dance for himself now and not think of showing it off to strangers’ eyes. All this time, you doubted him unjustly. You promise yourself silently to evict fear from your mind and trust that your shared future will be better than the past simply because it’s you and him, together. 

“Oh, that. I was just goofing off. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to share that with the world out there.”

He pulls you close and hides your face in his shoulder, kissing your hair. 

“And you’re not a fool. You’ve saved and kept me safe for so long. I’m glad you can finally breathe.”

With those words, he takes away any illusion that maybe he was blissfully unaware of the doubts gnawing at you all this time. 

It’s late, but not too late. You can finally enjoy having your beautiful and strong husband by your side. 

[melit0n]

Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 6

- Synopsis: On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a forgotten palisade of abandoned homes, shops and streets that sit mummified after a chemical outbreak in the 70s, leaving the city uninhabitable.

Over the years however, the place has become a hotspot for urban explorers and crime junkies alike.

Whispers of reanimated bodies stalking the dead streets and brutal murders worm their way into your friend's ears and, having nothing to do on your Winter break, you reluctantly agree to go exploring the abandoned city with them.

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom The Bell Tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious (you're already here!)

- Obessive!Demon OC/Reader

- Word Count (for chp): 6.9k

- Warnings (for chp): None.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/150657787

“So, are you sure you don’t want to tell me about this little love story of yours now?”

Helen giggles softly behind you. It echoes loudly in the cracking concrete bowels you trek through.

“Yes. I can assure you, the only way you will be hearing it is if you come back to Greece with me.” Something snaps under someone’s foot, either glass or the dried remains of some bug. 

You both know very well it’s a thinly veiled act of persuasion, a not-so-subtle play on your curiosity. So, somewhat determined to get whatever she had been keeping secret out of her, you put on your best pout and turn to her.

She walks right past you.

Shaking her head back and forth with a hidden knowing smile, she replies, “Making sad faces will get you nowhere, I am afraid.”

“So mean…” you grumble. Considering Helen's typical openness in her thoughts and experiences, you were genuinely intrigued. While it wasn’t mandatory, it was rare she’d hide topics she’d happily chatter about if given the chance. That said, your main aim–hidden under glass and dust–was simply to keep a conversation going. You’ve learnt very quickly that you don’t like the silence here, either. For both of your benefit, you’d much rather keep aimless chatter bouncing off the walls instead of some distant radio show. Keep your mind focused on replies and not the sickly sweet stench of flowers blooming in the middle of winter.

Of empty sockets that stare right at you.

Helen shoots a hand out, “Careful.” Puzzled, you send her a confused glance.

However, the moment she puts a foot down on the wood, you get your answer: the floorboards creaking and groaning loudly with the simple weight. While it wasn’t unexpected–every step you’d taken for the last hour or so had been accompanied by a loud squeak–what catches your attention is how far the wood visibly bends. That, and how damp it is. Damp enough that the moisture shines under the light of your torches. 

Stretching your own leg out to test them, you’re unsurprised to now physically feel how deeply they bow under your weight; whining something foreboding with each kilo you put down. Through the soles of your shoes, you can practically feel the fibres cracking. 

You sigh to yourself, half out of exasperation and something else you can’t quite pin down. 

Looking up from the rotting floor, you’re not surprised to see the rest of the story was in a similar state.

More household items are scattered across the main hall: old stuffed animals poking their saturated heads out of screeching doors. Legs, maybe once holding up sturdy tables, lean against the walls. Sodden, deflated cushions lying haphazardly on the floor slowly melt into the woodwork; plush becoming indistinguishable from the flooring.

All create a waterlogged tapestry of the past.

The wallpaper, colours faded and mixed with old graffiti not unlike a fresh watercolour, reappear in diseased patches across the walls. Even vines from downstairs creep and crawl through the crumbling structure, anchoring themselves to whatever they can find. From the withering leaves, however, you guess they aren’t having as much success as they are downstairs. 

A floorboard wails loudly from beside you. “This does not look too good.” She steps forward–really only a half-step–and begins to test the strengths of the planks in front of you. Then, she takes a full one forward with sounds from the floor that have you partially reaching your hands out, as if to catch her. You watch with a building level of unease as she attempts to spread out her weight.

Even the air is heavy. Heavy with the calm before a storm: petrichor and an electric buzz that lets you know you shouldn’t be here. Somehow, it overpowers the dust–which you’re sure sits in foetid clumps wherever the rain and wind sees fit–and worms its way into your lungs. 

It’s nothing like the air downstairs: while that was fresh, still holding hints of petrichor, this was thick. Like oil. It’s somehow worse than the stagnant air from the basement. 

Eyeing the wood, you hesitantly do the same. “Yeah.” 

Something viscous is at the back of your throat. Tastes like how decaying autumn leaves smell. 

The thin walls–either on this floor or one of the many others–waver in the wind, and you’re starting to affirm to yourself that Jeanne’s promise of the place being ‘structurally sound’ was another one of her half lies.

Four floors high, including the ground floor–five with the addition of the basement–and you’re sure you’d snap your neck. Bleed out on that ugly cream carpet with wooden wings splayed out beside you. Your only consolation is that you’re pretty sure that the main structure is made of solid concrete, sitting silently under the wood.

The gaping plaster wounds in the walls–rippling wooden muscles and creaking metal bones taught underneath–make you doubt yourself.

At best, you’d break or twist an ankle. At worst, you’ll be a bloated carcass strangled by weeds. A rotting warning to all those who enter.

No way in Hell is this safe. 

You take a few more cautious steps forwards, ears perked for the tell-tale noises of crumbling wood that would rather collapse than hold your weight. “If the rest of the floors are like this, I say we stop.” One creaks loudly, a bit too loud for your taste, and you take one backwards. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we fell straight through.”

Helen’s head lowers to stare at the floor, probably contemplating whether the risk of going crashing through four or five stories was worth taking the chance. “I think,” she takes a step forward, graceful as an onyx chess piece slid across the board. “We will be okay.” She turns to you, optimism in her eyes. It makes your shoulder sag. “We just have to keep our eyes out for any wood that is especially dark, or looks wet on the surface.” Another step forward, and you sigh as you begin to follow behind, dutiful as ever. “Is that okay?”

Kind of hard to do when all the wood looks wet, you think. Even so, you keep your nervous thoughts concealed beneath a cool facade. “Whatever you say,” you feel the cold of the water sink into your soles. “You’re paying my hospital bills if I break something, though.”

It’s sarcasm, but she still takes it somewhat seriously. “It would be my fault, so I would not mind.” She shrugs, before pausing, her weight spread between a few different planks. Then she raises her flashlight.

The centre-piece window–which never fails to draw your eye–is broken: jagged teeth glinting in the light.

A soft hum glides up her throat, “The wind and the rain from the North probably comes in here quite harshly: it is no wonder this place is so wet. Either way, I am surprised this place hasn’t fallen like, what is it- paper mache?”

It’s a simple description, one you’d easily take for an answer if not for one simple fact: both windows on the other floors were broken. Both windows faced North, as all the rest of the windows above you.

So why weren’t those as dilapidated as this one?

Wearily, you take a few more steps, trying to follow her invisible pattern of semi-promised safety. “But what about-” that is, before your feet knock into something. Something solid.

Expecting the worst, you look down with a strained look on your face. You’re met with the sight of a porcelain doll. The pale, once pretty, type you almost always see in charity shops. 

And horror movies.

Part of its silky pallor is cracked and smashed in, leaving an empty void where half its face used to be. Curly blonde hair frames what’s left of it, fading blue eyes rolled absently to the side.

“Are you scared of it?”

There’s a bit of blush on its face, too. Faded, like everything else is at the hands of time and neglect, but still there. 

“What?”

It reminds you of something freshly dead. Eyes and body empty, yet still holding onto the warmth in its fingertips.

Helen crouches down in front of it, repeating herself. “Are you afraid of it?”

You’re surprised the wood holds her weight.

Before you can say anything–let a garbled and probably incoherent answer out of your mouth–she picks it up. Handles it more like a living baby rather than a porcelain resemblance. When she cradles its head, resting stiffly in her palm, one of its eyes rolls. Rolls out of its vacant skull to stare right at you. Glossy and unblinking and reflecting flashing blue and yellow that blinds you.

Beneath light fatigue and a growing sense of alarm that refuses to go away, something rings.

“You’ll get a demon or something attached to you if you hold on to it.” You joke, eyes darting up from the glass one you’re sure sees right through your skin. Or, maybe, sees right past you.

She takes your avoidance as an unspoken yes. She isn’t wrong: if you saw that thing at the end of your hallway in the middle of the night, you’d happily give your apartment up to it.

She fiddles with the stained lace that edges the sleeves and the hem of the forget-me-not dress. “Why?”

It’s a good question–like all of her questions are. You roll thoughts around in your head, seeing how they taste on your tongue. You’d say it’s something embedded in you; embroidered into the intricate tapestry of each twitching muscle and thumping pulse of your heart. You’re afraid of the doll the same way something in the back of your mind, a knowing voice neither old nor young–simply alert–tells you to be afraid of the dark. Tells you to be wary of things that creep and slide.

Tells you to be fearful of things that try to be human.

“Probably because I’ve watched too many shitty horror films with Jeanne.” You reply. Helen simply shakes her head, and you think she knows you aren’t telling the entire truth. Either way, she doesn’t bother to pry a more self-aware answer out of you.

Gingerly, she places the doll back down where she’d found it. Its eye rolls back up into its head, having seen enough. For a few brief moments, you don’t blame it. The untouchable night that resides in its hollow head is probably a more comforting view compared to the sodden floorboards.

Both of you carry on with your hushed agreement to explore the other apartments. Helen glides across the floor with wisp-like grace, barely making a noise, while you stumble over each creaking floorboard and spend every two seconds wondering if you’re going to fall.

You stagger through a few different apartments, eyes skimming over whatever was visible and then moving on, more focused on not falling than searching for anything of interest.

After traversing the hall somewhat aimlessly–chattering to Helen along the way–you find your way into another apartment. One side of the floors has swollen, and the entire place reeks of festering mould. 

A question strikes your mind, worming its way out of your mouth as the conversation threatens to fall flat. “Hey, Helen?”

With growing confidence, you carefully step forth. The living room is lifeless; void of any furniture. It also happens to be the side where the floors rise–something very old and very slow trying to breach the surface–so you make the decision to leave the bedroom unexplored. You value your ankles a bit more than that.

“Yes?”

The kitchen is in a similar state. Woodlice crawl between the splitting wood, and a low wind meanders through the rooms like a death rattle. Between what remains of a cabinet and the wall, a cobweb hangs, weighed down by the ever present moisture that seems to loom over the entire floor. 

Its weaver is absent.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Considering her lack of reaction to your joke earlier, you’d say her answer would be a no. Either that, or she wasn’t afraid of the dead leaning over her shoulder.

“I think so. To believe in ghosts, you have to have a belief in some sort of life after the one you live, yes?”

Eventually, you find a somewhat sturdy path towards the bathroom and storage room. Much to your displeasure, the bathroom is locked tight. Even though the wood crumbles under your hands, it refuses to open. In fact, after a few tugs, the doorknob comes right off, small screws clattering to the floor.

Almost as if to spite you, the lock stays intact.

“What do you think of it?”

So, you end up trying the storage room. It’s gutted of all furniture. 

“Of what?”

The air is stagnant. Brackish. You guess it hasn’t been opened in a while. 

“The afterlife. What do you think comes after all this?” Backing up, you attempt to follow your steps back out into the hall. 

“I am not entirely sure,” she hums. As each floorboard keens under your weight, you realise that Helen is practically silent as she walks through different apartments. You only really know she’s doing so because of her voice; ebbing and flowing like a warm summer wind from the hallway. “I believe each living thing has a soul, but I am unsure on how long that soul can last.” Her voice becomes louder, “but, I think it may stay after it does not have a body to support it.” and then quieter. You don’t see her walk past your door. “Perhaps they stay because they forgot to do, or say, something before they went. Maybe they stay because they miss home too much.”

Peeking your head out of the doorframe, you can’t spot her. She must’ve already gone into another apartment. 

Looking down, you find a stuffed animal imitating you. Or, rather, you it. 

You scoff, walking out into the hall and examining the different doors. “What’s home to someone who’s already dead? You’d think a ghost would want to go wherever they please since they have no physical restrictions.” With long strides–you’re sure you look like some sort of awkward stick bug–you pass the elevator. The twin doors are wide open, and even your flashlight can’t illuminate the rubber veins that crawl along its throat.

“Home is not always a place, I think.” Her voice is closer now. 

Each door is in varying states of decay: those closer to the window in the hall are mere fragments, while those nearer to the main stairs retain some semblance to actual entryways. 

Your eyes catch onto one near the elevator: number forty-six. It’s one of the few on the floor still holding on to its once shining number, this floor being numbers thirty-three to forty-eight. Although, the four is crooked–slanted to the left like a loose skull–and the six is ever so slightly lower than it should be.

“What else could it be?”

With a jostle of the knob, you also realise it's one of the few doors that’s locked. The weight in your pockets brings a smile to your face, and you can only hope you have the right key. 

“A person.” Her voice has moved again, now on the opposite side of the hall.

You pause, if only for a second. 

You’d never really thought of it that way. 

With warmed metal under your fingers, you wonder if you’ve ever seen home inside another person. Your thumb glides over engraved numbers, hidden from your eyes underneath years of rust and oily fingers. 

Maybe in Jeanne? Or Helen? Noah? A past lover?

“If you were to die,” you bring a key closer up to your eye, the number indistinguishable. “Away from ‘home’, do you think you’d try to find your way back? Or would you find somewhere else to haunt?”

Maybe…maybe in him.

“I would want to go home, definitely.” Floor six, apt eighty four… “When I do pass, I think it will be nice to be where I grew up. I would want to see the sea again, too. I would not mind staying there after I have passed.”

If so, home is long gone. The grass is dead, and there’s no soft light in the windows anymore.

Just flashing blue and glass in between in your fingers. In your skin.

“And what,”…Floor eighteen, apt two hundred and seventy-nine…not this one either. “What if you’re the type to see home as a person?”

She stays quiet for a few moments.

…Floor three…

You squint. 

“Then I trust I will find them, and them, I.”

…apt forty-eight. Shit. 

Your shoulders fall.

“Just…uhm, let me know when you make a decision about coming with me, okay?” Helen’s voice fades and flickers like candlelight. There’s almost an echo: a second whisper layered underneath her warm tone.

Wait a minute. 

You look back down at the key. Apt forty-eight. 

Slowly, your head turns to the left. 

The last door by the stairs. 

You frown. “Yeah, no- of course.” Answering absentmindedly, you begin to stalk over to the door. You trace invisible lines with your feet, and all seems silent. 

Easily, you find yourself in front of number forty-eight, your light greeting the door: a circular glimpse that pierces through the darkness. 

You feel like you’re sensing a pattern.

It’s closed, and, with a gentle tug, you find it locked as well. 

Half expecting another talking radio, or maybe a miniature desert for this one, you hesitate to even use the key you had been wanting to make use of. You turn it over in your hand: there’s nothing special about it, nor the door itself. Both are in similar stages of disrepair, the door swollen with water and the key elongated with rust. Looking at it closer, you doubt it’ll even open the lock. Hell, the lock itself has probably rusted shut. Either that, or the knob will fall right off, just like the bathroom door’s did. 

You look between the door and the key.

Well…as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

The key slides in, and the mechanism opens with a quiet click. Seems the building has decided to grant you a bit of good luck.

The door opens with an ominous creak. Loud and anguished. 

When light finally enters the morose cave, you’re more than pleased–although admittedly a little disappointed–to see nothing abnormal. No radios, no luscious ferns, and best of all, no buzzing flies. 

Plus, it seemed to house more furniture than the last. The windows are layered thickly with grime and algae, and, even with your torch light, the whole place still feels utterly drenched in darkness. Blinking, it’s as if a thin haze–a light mist–hangs over the room. Or maybe just your eyes. 

Tentatively, you step forward, keeping a careful watch on the floor.

The floorboards whine underneath you, rising and falling like valleys and hills under your feet. 

The first thing that catches your eye is a large, embroidered armchair in the living room. Like the doll, it has dark, frilled edging–colour indistinguishable–at the end of the fabric. While it’s faded, the colours of the threads bleeding into themselves, you can just about make out a floral pattern; deep viridian in the centre, framed by jade and mulberry. 

The legs are made of sturdy wood–not cracking and splintering like the floor–which curls inward at the feet like a snail’s shell. An endless spiral unfurling from itself. It’s exactly the type of chair a grandfather, or maybe some old-money, rich man, would have sitting by the fireplace. You can practically see a soft cat curled up on the seat, slowly nodding off as the wood cackles and crumbles into cinders. 

Quietly, you wonder if anybody in this building had a cat. Or a dog, for that matter.

A board bends underneath you, and you take a step back before continuing. 

Someone must’ve, right? Your own apartment had a policy on them: no pets allowed aside from fish–and the odd reptile, though that depended on how much paperwork you wanted to fill out–but maybe this one didn’t.

The door to the bedroom opens easily.

You wonder if they had to leave them behind when those chemicals got out. If they did, you hadn’t seen–nor heard–any once loved strays on your way here. Then again, nature, aside from her plants, seems to have abandoned this place. Left it to the hands of Time and the ever changing faces of the seasons.

Much to your surprise, the main bedroom is almost fully furnished. The bed frame is still intact. Well, you think it is, until you notice it’s leaning on one side. Looking closer, you find one leg had rotted off, the rest in a similar condition. There’s a tall wardrobe on the left wall and, opening it, you find it empty. That is, if you don’t count the dust. Running your index finger over the flat surface, you find it comes off in one thick clump that sticks to your finger. Reminds you of the gum people always stick under the desks. 

With a look of disgust, you wipe it off and continue looking around. 

A soft wind coming from the smashed balcony doors is the only noise you can hear. 

You wonder what Helens’ doing. 

Then, there’s something in the air. Nothing like the dust or the scent of chocolate, but a noise. It’s some sort of chime; light and soft like the call bell downstairs.

You cross through the main bedroom entryway, intrigued and more awake than you had been a few minutes ago.

Who knows, maybe it’ll be this floor’s anomaly.

You wonder where it’s even coming from: quiet as a breath, it disappears behind each thump of the blood in your ears. Maybe from the storage closet, or the bathroom? Whatever–wherever–it was, you determine it must be close. 

Doing a double take, you quickly discover that the kitchen floor was very close to caving in.

Ah. 

Well, now you know why the ceiling was dipping on the other story. 

Seems the bathroom and storage room are off limits, then. 

Ding.

You turn your head. There it is again.

With only one other traversable room left, at least in this apartment, you find your way into the second bedroom. It’s smaller, and without a window it feels as if you’re staring into the endless throat of space.

The wood hums endless tunes underneath you, and there are shapes dancing in your vision, trying to convince you that they’re stars. Stars, and not hooded eyes of indistinct figures.

In the centre, backed up against the far wall–painted a stormy grey–is a cot. It used to be white, paint now peeling off of the wood and curling like angry fingers. There’s a small heart carved into the headboard. It’s obvious it wasn’t a part of the original design; scratchy, as if done with some knife instead of a well-trained machine. 

You like it better than the carbon copies, though. 

Above it hangs another reminder of one of the parent’s handiwork: something halfway between a traditional wind chime and a baby’s mobile. Falling apart as it is, you can still see the wood carved with pure love and twine threaded with nothing but adoration. Sanded wood and glass clink together, the wind from the hallway their conductor. 

There’s a few animals carved into twirling plaques, as well. At least, you think there is. There’s what looks to be a bird with a comically large beak–maybe a woodpecker?–and another that just looks like a homunculus with stick legs. 

It’s so utterly odd looking that it gets a chuckle out of you.

Asides from that, the only one that vaguely looks like anything living is one near the centre; a pig. It has sharply drawn trotters and floppy ears that cover its eyes. It spins endlessly in some subtle wind you can’t feel, glass frosted with the endless damp that coats everything in place of dust. 

But, from the darkness, something whispers.

You pay it no mind and continue staring at the cot and the home-made baby mobile. Each chime sounds like a baby’s wail: soft and nothing. It sparks something unknown in your chest. Maybe it's mourning. For who and what, you don’t really know. Provoked by some sort of empathy, perhaps.

You’re about to call for Helen–considering the large lack of somewhat interesting things here, you’re sure she’d like this–when there’s another whisper. It's closer this time.

What is that?

At first, you try to shove it off–there’s more broken windows than unbroken in this place. In the dark, it doesn’t take long for a person's mind to convince them that the wind is undead whispers, after all. 

There’s a humming in your ears. Not the sharp ring that usually finds you in calm silences and in the warmth of a sunny street, but constant all the same. It ebbs and flows like a breeze; the low mumble of a class yet to start: the distant hum of cars on the motorway: the eerie clatter of trees in the beginnings of a summer storm. 

It’s not distracting or intrusive like those invisible flies downstairs–buzzing ceaselessly around your ears–but not like the voices from the radio, either.

Sceptically, you walk out of the second bedroom with a growing frown on your face. The elastic of the mask’s straps dig into the back of your ears. 

Staying still, quieting your own breaths and trying not to focus on the constant thumping from the walls, you attempt to decipher what’s being said. 

You come up fruitless. It just sounds like an endless string of gibberish to you: too quiet to pick up and too muddled to unravel. 

Maybe you need to get your ears checked, too. 

Sliding your flashlight under your arm, you press down on a part of your ear, temporarily blocking out the noise. All you hear is the faint thrum of your body: each pulse of your heart, each twitch of your crooked fingers. Taking them away, the noise reappears. 

It’s somewhat of a relief to know that the noises weren’t phantoms created by your tired mind. But still, it begs the question of what, exactly, it was. Let alone where it was coming from. It could be an apartment on this floor, or maybe on one of the others. The staircase wasn’t exactly closed off, after all. 

Even so, you’re still sure it's close. A thin wall or two away close. 

So, you lightly step back to the main bedroom, expecting to pick up on some sort of change.

Nothing happens. 

A gentle gust of wind scrapes against the broken glass, and for a split second, you try your hardest to convince yourself that is all it is; the wind.

A gust pushes you forward and, wondering if the noise was coming from the bathroom or storage room, you try the kitchen.

Well, you get as close as you can to it without falling through.

Still no change. 

Mind busy with the hushed buzz, you temporarily disregard your fear of the boards underneath you and peek out into the hallway. As you swivel your head left and right–half searching for the source of the noise and half looking for Helen–you find nothing but air and rotting walls. 

Your light illuminates the staircase, almost hoping to see someone hiding in the darkness. It’d scare the shit out of you, Helen or stranger aside, but you’d rather find an obvious source than be left–quite literally–in the dark. 

You find no one.

Then, you try the other end of the hall. The lambent glow of the moon seems centuries away. 

Still no one.

“Helen?” Your voice cracks in your throat. “Helen! Do you,” You swallow something down. A clump of twitching nerves and bile. “Do you hear that?”

You wait a few moments for a response. You’re greeted with heavy silence. It’s deafening; somehow worse than being told a direct ‘no’. 

Wearily, you step out of the doorway, out of your damp burrow, and into the hallway. The creaking of the floor–of the walls–feels so quiet. 

Has it gotten any louder? Are you getting any closer?

Your light darts in and out of the different apartments. “Helen?”

Or is it getting closer to you?

“Helen! Where are you?” 

Passing by another apartment, you still can’t manage to find her. Either your eyesight is going, or she’s suddenly become one of the best hide and seek players you’ve known since primary school. That has to be it. She must be hiding from you for some reason, ready to jump out at you any moment.

Inside, you’re divided. Part paranoid, part annoyed–what if she just left you here?–and part confused. Both at the noise, and her sudden disappearance: you don’t remember her being a relative of Houdini. 

“I’m meant to be the one doing the scaring here!” You raise your voice, hoping to reach her. The faint whispers are your only response. “Jeeze, do you really hate me that much?” You try to play on her empathetic side, draw her out with offhanded self-deprecation that always makes her rebuke, but even that wields nothing. 

Brows furrowed, you begin to make another round. This time, you hastily search inside the different apartments too, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silky hair or the toe of her trainers.

You examine another apartment, almost skidding on the wet wood. There’s the flat face of a table leaning against a wall–legs missing–and another grimy, smashed window.

After practically running up and down the hallway, you can’t help the way your heart jumps in its marrow cage when you realise the volume of that uncanny noise hasn’t changed. At all. It’s not louder, nor quieter; just that same, off-putting, low mumble. 

“Helen! Come on, this isn’t funny. Just come out already.” You say it with a worried smile on your face and end it with a pathetic half-laugh.

Where could she be? You know you’re only skimming the apartments, wandering in and out of each room like a pacing animal, but with how many you’ve searched, you should’ve seen something by now. Plus, with how long you’ve been calling out for her, she would’ve come out of whatever dank hole she was hiding in.

If you were searching for Jeanne, you would understand. Unless you were gravely injured, she would continue playing her game for as long as she could. She was a proud winner who liked losing as much as she liked getting an injection: doing her best to avoid it by any means necessary. But this was Helen. Helen who doesn’t like silence. Helen who hates the dark.

There’s nothing in the next apartment, either. 

It strikes you then and there that the only other reason that she wasn’t responding was because she was hurt. Hurt to the point of being knocked out.

With the revelation, it doesn’t take long for your mind to dive into a worried spiral. What if the floor finally gave way? What if she’s already on the ground floor? Neck bent like your fingers. Face contorted with some unheard screech you’d been too distracted to hear. Broken and soulless, and bleeding and turning that ugly cream carpet red.

Suddenly, warm air blows over the shell of your ear, something teasing that sends a sharp spike of fear through every muscle. 

You jolt, veins thrumming with fear and relief, “Helen, you-”

Your flashlight illuminates nothing but air. 

That jumbled mumbling, that damned whispering, has risen: gotten louder without you even noticing it. It pounds against your eardrums and buzzes under your skin. It feels so close, yet so far, echoing out from every crevice. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.

With a war drum in your chest, you beg yourself to just calm down. All you’re doing by overthinking is making things worse for yourself, and probably Helen, too. It’s just the wind–just a creation of your overly-active imagination. Just that stupid, stupid effect Noah was talking about. 

What scares you, though, is that you begin to hear words. 

Last time you checked, the wind didn’t speak to anyone other than those fated for tragedy. As far as you were aware, you were no Orpheus. 

It’s like the radio all over again, yet somehow worse.

Thick, clotted air fills your lungs. Inhale and exhale. Stop yourself from getting so worked up: just inhale and exhale-

-But it’s so loud. 

You have a walkie-talkie in your pocket, don’t you? How about you put it to use? That’s what it’s-

-Louder. 

If she’s hurt, you’ll probably have to call-

-And louder.

You knew you shouldn-

-and louder. 

“Shut up!”

All goes quiet.

After all the noise, it feels wrong. 

In the blink of an eye, the class quietens, the motorway stands still, and the trees omit themselves to a vow of silence. 

There’s only you. You, your flashlight, the keys and your panicked breaths. It comes out in mist-like puffs in front of your face. 

You don’t remember dropping your flashlight. You don’t remember pressing your hands to your ears, either.

You take a few deep inhales. “I’m losing it. I’m absolutely losing it.” Bringing a hand to your eyes, you rub them, as if trying to dispel the lingering fingers of some sort of mania. You do it much more harshly than you really meant to. Feeling the soft tissue squish and scrape against the cavities of your skull, you hope it brings some sense back to you. 

You crouch down to grasp your flashlight again. You see your face, distorted, in a puddle on the wood. With your back constantly to some sort of darkness, you feel yourself teetering on some sort of edge, standing stock still as not to fall. Still as those looming trees that pray to Gods your mind is too young to even know the name of. 

A red hot blanket of indignation drapes itself over your fear for a moment. Whoever the Hell this was, whatever dim-witted asshole and their friends, was going to get an earful. Maybe even a right hook, if you were feeling ballsy. 

You scan the halls up and down, keeping a careful ear for any sort of movement, any sort of amused giggle. You almost expect a TV show presenter to appear with a bunch of cameras or something. Even something as outlandish as that would ease your mind.

Anything that gives you a logical explanation as to what you just heard.

You begin to even search the walls, almost expecting to find grinning eyes staring at you from behind the rotting pipework. What an absurd thought.

Then you see something move.

It's from the corner of your eye, and you pray to see Helen, or just someone, there.

You don’t. 

A chasmal wound sits before you, cracking at the edges like spindly fingers clawing their way up the walls.

Something skitters. Something dark and fat. Something with beady eyes and tiny feet. 

There's droning under the floorboards. A muted thrum that, for a few seconds, only your feet can pick up.

Then you see a tail.

And a foot.

And a snout.

And you realise with horror that there is something in the walls. Something that is speaking to you.

At first, it’s as indistinguishable as ever; that same endless murmur from before as thousands of voices speak over each other. 

But, slowly–like a church choir–they all come together, whispering in their whiny voices one great chant.

“We are small. We are many.”

And you finally begin to understand the words.

“We have teeth. We have tails.”

And all you can really do is stand in silent terror.

“We were here before. We will be forevermore.”

Over and over and over they repeat it: an unending mantra accompanied by chattering teeth and pattering feet.

You can’t even bring yourself to move, body completely unsure how to react. It’s like the flies; worming their way into your ears and resounding off of your skull.

There’s laughter there, too. High-pitched, shrill sniggering. Sniggering of a thousand strangers that you’re sure are mocking you. 

And they just keep getting louder. 

What are you even meant to do? You have to be hallucinating at this point–encouraged by a weird mix of sleep deprivation and sloping paranoia. 

You feel like you’re in some type of morbid comedy, and the joke is absolutely on you. 

It doesn’t take long before your synapses finally snap into action, forcing your legs forwards. It begins with a brisk walk and easily turns into a jog. You aim for the staircase, unsure whether you’ll be going up or down.

Abruptly, their chant changes, a few voices slow to catch onto the shift. 

“India, Tango-”

It almost makes you stop dead in your tracks: even more confused with the seemingly random words they begin chittering.

“-Kilo, November-”

You refuse to listen, just blocking it out. No need to make yourself more fearful than you already are.

“-Oscar, Whiskey, Sierra-”

And you’re almost at the staircase, when-

SNAP.

-The floor finally collapses under your weight. 

“Y/N!”

You feel your head slam against the wet, wooden flooring. For a split second, no longer than a blink, everything goes blank. 

Then there’s a strain in your ankle. And water soaking into your hoodie.

And you are very much so awake. 

“Γαμώτο- Y/N? Y/N! Are you alright?”

Your brain throbs underneath your sweat sheened skin. Something wet slides down your cheek, and you wonder if it's blood. Looking up, partially balanced on your hands, all you can really do is stare at Helen with a mixture of utter horror and confusion. You open your mouth. Your jaw whines like one of the doors, and you taste wood on your tongue. “What the fuck.”

She hooks her arms under your shoulders, mumbling apologies under her breath as she drags you forward like a limp corpse. Easily, your foot is freed. Back on your feet, you wipe any residue off of your hands and face with frantic fingers. 

Turning and looking down, you see that your luck had quickly run out: the wood had finally broken through.

Knowing that there’s concrete under it doesn’t bring you as much comfort as you thought it would. 

A cold buzz overtakes the hot pain.

“Is your foot normal? Does it hurt?”

You swing your head back around. “Where were you?”

Her face twitches in surprise, not expecting your harsh tone. “Where were you? I was asking for you to see if you wanted to go up to the next floor to see if it was like this one. I couldn’t find you so I went up to see if you were there: I came down when I heard the wood snap.”

You watch her for a moment, thinking. ‘I came down when I heard the wood’, not ‘I came down when I heard you calling for me.’

Did she…did she not hear you?

Did she not hear that?

You think your ankle should hurt a lot more than it does. You think there should be pain jumping up your leg when you put your weight down.

“I was…” Swallowing, your eyes search the floor for something you don’t know the name of. Your flashlight has skidded to the foot of the staircase. “...I was in the last apartment by the staircase.”

Her brows furrow. “Why did you not come out when I asked?” 

Your mouth is dry.

You desperately want to explain it to her. Tell her you’d be calling out for her for the last who knows how long, stalking up and down the hall. Tell her that there is something in the walls and you fear they know things you’ve tried to bury. However, the moment you re-run the memories, think over how to even begin to describe what just happened, you realise you sound mad. The epitome of it.

As supportive and believing as Helen was, there was no way she was going to believe you.

“I just…”

There’d be that look on her face. It’d be there for a second, but you’d still see it. It’d be on Noah’s face when she tells him–clear as freshwater–as well. 

“...got scared by some rats.”

You may be human, and it may be right to accept help when you’re hurting, but you still refuse to be seen as mad. 

Sick.

Her face softens. Still somewhat annoyed–for a fair reason from her perspective–but lesser so.

Nobody likes not being believed, after all.

“Rats?”

You nod. 

“I have never liked rats,” there's a smile in her eyes. You think it’s meant to comfort you. “Maybe we should leave if there’s more?”

You hope you do. You pray to Gods who have long averted their gaze from this place of endless night and thumping walls to allow you to leave. 

“Hm…well, we do not scare easy, do we? We aren’t afraid of the dark or,” she pauses for a moment. You don’t know if it's for effect or not. “Rats, are we?”

Something in you wilts when you realise she’s trying to encourage you. Encourage you to go through with things. To overcome what she thinks is just a minor fear. 

You spite August winds and cigarette smoke for sewing your mouth shut.

There’s an attempt at a smile underneath your mask. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah.”

Smoothly, her fingers intertwine with yours. She feels blisteringly warm. 

“Is your foot and ankle okay?”

You can’t bring yourself to lie. 

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

In all their ‘nonsensical’ murmuring, the words the Things speak do have some meaning behind it, if you look close enough.

On note of updates: expect an update every three weeks on a Friday. If it doesn’t come then, expect it on the Saturday, and, if it doesn’t come until then, expect that I’m busy and won’t be able to update until next week. As much as I’d like to write to my heart’s content, I unfortunately don’t have all that time :’]

- Γαμώτο = Damn it

[godesssiri]

Champaign Tastes on a Bottled Water Budget (because let’s face it, even beer isn’t cheap anymore) Thrift Tips

People are over living in white boxes. We now want richness and texture and colors and interest. Traditional design styles with lots of molding and detail and antiques are very in. People are making a living selling antiques online. Décor bloggers aspire to being able to bring back a container from European flea markets. People want to make their homes look like you have generational wealth.  But how do you have a home full of beautiful old things when you’ve got no money? Thrifting.

1. Always always check the art. Remember if you love the art but hate the frame you can always put it in a new frame, or makeover the current one. And vice versa, if you love the frame but hate what’s in it then it’s the simplest thing in the world to swap it out for something else, another piece of thrifted art, a print from Etsy or one of the many other places artists sell digital copies of their work, a color photocopy from a library book. And frames are very easy to make over, sometimes just changing the matting or painting a frame a different color or adding a little rub n buff makes a world of difference.

2. Rub n Buff or similar waxes are your friend for getting a gorgeous, antiqued look. The thrift stores are full of pieces that have great shape but they’re too modern looking for what you’re trying to achieve. But rub gold on the high points or a dark wax into the crevasses and suddenly they look completely different. I’ve got a ceramic parrot that looked very 80s when I got my hands on it but when I covered it with gold (leaving the original dark colors in the crevasses) he immediately looked like an antique. Just spray-painting something gold doesn’t have the same effect, using a wax creates depth.

3. Darken it up. Most old things are darker than new things. Darker furniture, fabrics, accessories, add depth and richness. If something is already dark, then when you thrift it then great. If it’s not then that’s what dye, paint, and stain are for.

4. Old souvenir pieces. I’ve got a load of old pieces that people have bought back from Greece and Rome, from Egypt, from China. They make my home look like it belongs to someone who has been on a Grand Tour. A lot of them are copies of ancient pieces which means they look timeless. They’re cheap tchotchkes that people have bought at gift shops but mix them in with old books and candle holders and natural pieces like chunks or crystal or large seashells, and they look classy and interesting.

5. Old books. Do you have any idea how many old books get thrown out by thrift stores? Like genuine antiques that get sent to landfill? Most thrift stores don’t want to deal with old books because they smell and harbor dust mites and are out of date and often look tatty. You may even be able to get a bunch for free if you sweet talk the volunteers. If you’re worried about dust mites, then pop them in the freezer for a few days. I know there are those who look down on people who use books just as décor, but if you using it as décor saves it from a landfill or a junk journaler and preserves it for a future generation then isn’t that a good thing?

6. Glass display items. Putting things behind glass makes them look lux and precious even if it’s some cheap trinket or even a bunch of dried leaves or other completely free natural items. Look for domes, plain clear vases you can turn upside down and glue a knob on top, display boxes holding ugly stuff that you can rip the ugly stuff out and re-purpose.

7. Antique reproductions. There’s been many points in history since humans started to mass manufacture stuff, that we have looked to the past a re-created what our forbears made by hand. There’s so much that ends up in thrift stores that looks old even if it’s no more than a few decades old. Cleverly mixing this stuff in to your décor can help you achieve the look of a home furnished with antiques at a fraction of the price.

8. Search ‘Old’ ‘Antique’ and ‘Vintage’ on FB Marketplace. Don’t get more specific than that, just literally type those terms into the search bar, set a distance you’re willing to travel, and scroll. People are always selling stuff that they don’t quite know what the heck it is, but they know it’s old. Yeah you’re gonna see a lot of trash but it’s worth it to find the treasures.

9. Candle holders and candles. I’m actually pretty meh about candles, I get why other people like them but scented candles mess with my allergies and I don’t get any joy out of candlelight – but if you feel the opposite to me, I do understand and encourage that. Candles are wonderful décor objects if you’re going to light them or not. Always check the section where your thrift store keeps candles, there’s often some really good ones. And candle holders come in so many different forms that you will always find beautiful and interesting ones. A figural brass candle holder will make my heart go pitty-pat. You don’t just have to use them for candles either, I have a gorgeously detailed pewter candle holder that I use as a display stand for a large mother-of-pearl shell, and my pair of huge Victorian cherubs currently have clear quartz crystals sticking out of them.

10. Actual antiques. I have hundreds of antiques big and small. I just tried to remember how many of them had been bought at actual antique stores and I think the total is 5. Real genuine antiques turn up in thrift stores All The Time. Sometimes the thrift store realizes what they’ve got and will price it up, more than you’d usually pay at the thrift but still way less than it’s really worth. Sometimes they don’t know/don’t care, they just want to turn over stock so they price it at whatever will get it out the door. You CAN furnish your home with antiques entirely from thrift stores. It just takes time and patience.

[xxvalkyriesxx]

Nessian Week | Day Five | Behind Closed Doors

Read on AO3 or below

@nessianweek

Summary: Sometimes a Valkyrie and a General need some TLC <3

AN: This was so cute to write! It was my first fic I wrote for Nessian week <3 Enjoy this fluff!! Banner made by me via Canva.

CW: Slight sexual content (consensual)

Snippet:

A small gasp echoed across the room as Nesta’s eyes filled with stars. Flipping back to the front cover she immediately started reading the novel. The premise was everything Nesta loved. A slew of tropes including enemies to lovers, a princess and a rebel leader, forced proximity, and one bed. The sheet laid on her face comfortably.

She was nearing fifteen pages in when the powder room door opened, Cassian standing in the doorway.

“I feel stupid.” He mumbled, a similar looking sheet mask on his own face. It barely fit his entire face as he settled down next to Nesta. She shifted looking up at him.

“Self-care isn’t stupid.” 

“But I look ridiculous right?” Cassian asked.

A nearby clock chimed as the hands rested at the twelve. The music swirled with bells and strings letting the residents of the House of Wind know that midnight was here. Nesta Archeron emerged from the powder room, wearing one of Cassian’s shirts that easily reached her knees. A gentle whimper sang from her lips as she settled into bed. Her hair was down, reaching her lower back now. It needed a trim, but that could wait. On her face rested a sheet mask, a gift that Bryce Quinlan delivered to her for her birthday that spring.

“My mom says happy birthday, and that even the toughest of warriors deserve some ‘treat-yourself’ days. Everything in here can last for a while, and no there aren’t any mind controlling parasites lurking in there. Checked everything myself.”

Nesta gave her a deadpan look before accepting the gift. It was a red box that weighed like nothing. She stared at the woman as the golden portals between their worlds glowed. Opening the box, Nesta saw the most unusual items. Her head tilted in confusion, holding up a few cold colorful packets.

“Those are sheet masks. We didn’t know what type of ones to get you, so we got you literally everyone we could think of. I wrote the instructions in your language as best I could, but it’s all easy steps. Clean your face, leave it on for fifteen minutes, then rub everything into your skin.”

The coldness of the sheet took some getting used too, but Nesta grew to love them.

The day was long as her feet ached from the week-long mission she just got back from. Nesta and the fellow Valkyries were sent to help the outskirts of Hybern where small villages were still recovering from the war. They managed to help three villages get back on their feet, providing resources from the solar courts of Prythian. The leaders of the courts met and discussed what to provide to the fae folk in need in the months leading up to the mission.

While it was primarily a peaceful mission, Nesta ended up in several small battles with some rebellious group. As the country didn’t have a ruler anymore and no heirs to take the throne, these groups weren’t too uncommon in the land. Granted most of the individuals in the group were not military trained, making things easier for Nesta and her friends to deal with, but this was only the beginning. There would be more to come.

But all of that could wait, as the House lit a fire, silencing the cracks followed by dropping a romance onto Nesta’s head.

She winced, rubbing the spot. “Ow! Watch it.”

The House made a nearby rug ripple as if it was laughing. Nesta playfully rolled her eyes before looking at the recommendation. The cover had the classic couple, standing in such a romantic pose with yearning that should have made Nesta sick, but it made her giggle and kick her feet. Flipping to the back she read over the synopsis. 

A small gasp echoed across the room as Nesta’s eyes filled with stars. Flipping back to the front cover she immediately started reading the novel. The premise was everything Nesta loved. A slew of tropes including enemies to lovers, a princess and a rebel leader, forced proximity, and one bed. The sheet laid on her face comfortably.

She was nearing fifteen pages in when the powder room door opened, Cassian standing in the doorway.

“I feel stupid.” He mumbled, a similar looking sheet mask on his own face. It barely fit his entire face as he settled down next to Nesta. She shifted looking up at him.

“Self-care isn’t stupid.” 

“But I look ridiculous right?” Cassian asked.

Nesta bit her cheek, attempting to hide the smile that was about to appear.

“Great now you’re laughing at me.”

A giggle slipped from her before Nesta placed a hand gently on her mouth. However, her shoulders shook silently. 

“I..I’m not laughing!”

Cassian stared at her with a deadpan expression. “And I don’t have wings.” The sarcasm was strong through his words.

His complaint only made her break into a huge smile. Swiftly however, Cassian swiped both of the sheets off their faces before dumping them in the nearby waste bin.

“I wasn’t done!” Nesta exclaimed, placing her book down.

“Don’t care.” Cassian joked before pulling Nesta into his arms.

Immediately her body rested against his. The hands she grew to love over the last five years traced patterns into her back. She sighed gently, resting her face in the crook of Cassian’s neck. He kissed her head gently. Their heartbeats drummed in unionsion, a golden string curled between them.

Reaching over Cassian grabbed the book Nesta was just reading. He flipped it over, reading the back.

He hummed. “All of your favorites, Nes. I swear the House spoils you more than me.” 

Nesta shrugged. “It missed me. I was gone for a whole week.”

“I missed you more.” Cassian growled. “ I can’t stand being away from you, Wife.”

The pet name that made Nesta’s toes curl as she leaned over Cassian. Wife was always something near to her soul, a small grasp of the humanity that still lived in her. Cassian was the one to suggest it, after mate wasn’t giving her the same response. However, she usually referred to him as her mate. Their worlds collided in the devoting exchange.

Gently she took the book from Casian’s grasp before placing it onto her night stand. A smirk toying on her lips.

“Care to share how much you missed me, Mate?

Their kisses made Nesta’s soul light as his hands caressed her body all over. When the two made love, they became the instrument and the artist. Playing each other to the perfect rhythm, creating a soft spoken melody that sung between the two of them. Time wouldn’t exist for them as their love was a religious experience. They kissed prayers of desires on skin, knees were matched in kneeling pink. Golden light plucked between them, reaching their holy moment.

When they were spent, Nesta laid on her belly, her body aching in all the right ways. Cool to the touch, she whimpered. Cassian mumbled an apology before he continued cleaning her off. He quickly threw the wet cloth in the nearby hamper. Gently he laid back down, pulling her close to his chest, kissing her freckled shoulders.

They mumbled their ‘I love you’s’ all the while the doors to their balcony remained closed, keeping the summer nights away.

[the-forest-library]

Bookish Holiday Haul 2023

[lucabyte]

Not all who wander are lost. Some who wander, however, are extremely, extremely lost.