#that is a frightfully low number

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

Me, an Outlander fan, watching Siren, with the reporter drowning in the car: Ye cannae let him live! (in Jenny's voice)

But Siren is about, well, sirens, and after a pretty dark alternate timeline imagining what would have happened if the guy had been allowed to live, well...he drowned. lol

[justpoliteconversations]

Lavender Armor [Servant!Reader + HW!Link]

There's a set of armor for every battlefield, even those fought with smiles.

This is a fic for this Poll. May the pile continue to grow.

Masterlist

TW: Choosing not to tag, but implications of unsavory things. Be warned.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise.

---

It wasn't that the maids were neglecting him per say (Princess Zelda would have put a stop to that long ago if so), but you were well aware that they could do better than the minimum. As the Hero of Hyrule, one would think Link would be properly adored and catered to by the castle staff. Admired by the ladies in waiting and sought after by many a noble daughter (and son).

The reality, however, was messier than that.

He had been a low born noble before he'd become a palace knight and then The Hero of Hyrule. As such, by way of blood he was among the lowest ranking even amongst the staff. There were few exceptions to this, and by coincidence or the hand of fate, you were one of them.

You weren't paid much attention as a lowly baron's child, but so long as you kept your head down no one saw reason to disrupt your simple existence. If you were lucky, perhaps a lower cast noble would take notice of your diligence and manners and offer adoption (or marriage).

You'd be given a proper introduction into the upper echelon of society. Introduced to nobles and authorities far above your station. Given a chance to crawl your way from your lowly station to the top of society. Just as you were groomed and trained to do since childhood. The greatest possible future you could achieve given the circumstances of your birth.

And yet. That future had now become unattainable. In the span of one breath to the next, the path to your ruin was set in stone. The higher ups had noticed your diligence, and now, you would be punished for it.

You'd been assigned to be The Hero of Hyrule's, Link's, personal servant. Taken from your (hard earned) position amongst the Princess's staff and tossed down in quiet social suicide to the lowest rung of castle hierarchy.

'The baron's child was put in their place.' Many a maid giggled gleefully behind your back.

'To a socially inept war monger.' They'd gasp in delighted shock.

'Thier days are numbered. Shadows follow close behind the cursed chosen.' They'd whisper in dark corners.

You heard it all. You were no one now. Powerless under the servitude of a man without an ounce of social grace or aptitude. What need have they to fear what you heard whispered from above. Cast so low into destitution as you were.

They misunderstood one thing though.

"Master Link. From this day forward, I will train you to be a proper noble." You'd ordered firmly to the silent man the moment you were out of hearing range. His withdrawn, haggard face had twisted into shock, then confusion.

And then simple acceptance.

You were almost thrown off by such mindless obedience. You'd expected him to put up at least a token effort to assert his place as your superior. He was a military captain after all, and a noble, low born as his blood may be. You expected some resistance. Some pride.

To take orders from a Baron's child. To concede to their command when the whip lay securely in your hand.

You understood right then why this man's name had been thrown upon the sacrificial flame.

It would burn you too, in the end. As a personal servant (a coveted position, once), the ashes of your Master's pyre would fall upon you as well.

"Straighten your back soldier." You demanded, and his eyes widened, uncomprehending and confused. Frightfully young and fearful of threats unknown. "You have set foot onto a battlefield far crueler than anything you've faced before."

He had no comprehension. Not an once of awareness as to the knife's edge that lies silently beneath his feet. A lamb to the slaughter.

The capital would take him, mind and body, piece by piece. No need to swallow whole prey which knows naught how to flee.

"Monsters live freely in the skins of your fellow man. In these walls, their eyes are always watching, Master Link. Seeking weaknesses to exploit." You say, eyes sharp and glinting. The picture of the very monsters you speak of. "They will come in droves, and your sword will be useless to defend against their power."

You narrowed your eyes, features dark as you promised. "In a year's time, Master Link."

"I will have taught you what it means to control the field of battle."

And so, you did.

You taught him how to sit as he should, how to walk as he should. You drilled him on names and titles and the slow, cautious niceties of flattery.

You forced him before the mirror and molded his lips into a faultless smile. Reformed his wide, innocent eyes into glee and charm and every beguiling glance that would have nobles kissing his hands in admiration.

Upon his face you painted great canvases of artistry, made living by the gentle curve of his brow and the subtle shift of his lips. You put the brush and creams and rouge in his hands and taught him how to maintenance his greatest weapon.

You washed and brushed and twisted his hair until it glowed under the dim shine of ballroom light. You dressed him in the glimmering finery of a prince, in regality befitting a king.

Trimmed and groomed and plucked him to perfection, trained and guided and led him to powerful allies. Built him from the ground up, made him into something nobility could admire. And envy.

Brought him tea in the evenings (one sugar, enough milk to drown a calf). Pretended not to notice the extra cake slices he hid under his shield stand. Turned the other way when he fidgeted the end of his scarf while reading (an unsightly habit, as your own tutors would say).

Warmed his bed with hot stones when the heels of his dress shoes brought him low. Braided lavender into his nightly braid to help him sleep. Patted his face with a cool cloth when the summer months drew a profuse sweat from his brow.

Held his hand as he wept bitter, hysterical tears from night terrors so vivid the imprint of them stayed hollowed in his eyes come morning. Told the staff and guards and Princess herself he had taken ill the night before and would need bed rest for the rest of the week.

Bribed the royal doctor. Bribed the chamber maids. Bribed the cooks and the guards and the stable boys until a name came into your possession and Link's stayed out of the mouths of a dozen others.

An execution followed. Three men sent to the gallows for tampering with the Hero of Hyrule's water flask during drills. The intentions unknown but for the way Link had begged privacy for days after. The way he refused to give up his bed sheets for cleaning.

A secret you'd take to the grave, and ensured the laundry maid would take to hers.

His gaze had changed that day, watching those men fall lifeless to the delighted roar of the crowd. Comprehension had followed. The masks of monsters came into clarity as newly unveiled eyes beheld the world anew.

Innocence was lost. But not that strong, wondrous spirit. Link blossomed into something truly magnificent.

A white knight amidst a a flock of vultures. Untouchable. Unreachable. Unattainable.

Unstoppable.

You watched, in awe and pride and quiet humility, as the man who once bowed to your strict instruction now commanded a room of prideful nobles like dogs in a kennel. Stacked them like dominoes and watched them fall over themselves to sit quietly at his feet.

You watched as maids and noblewoman and princesses from many lands swooned as he passed, how the mouths of powerful men loosened when he spoke.

You watched it all, silent and unobtrusively from the sidelines. As the gates of The Sacred Realms themselves opened before his feet as though to welcome home a son. As he stepped through with unhurried dignity, assured in his right.

He had ascended passed his teachings. Beyond what you could offer. Beyond what you could even comprehend.

He had outgrown you in all the ways that mattered.

A year you'd said.

He'd taken 5 months.

You wondered, privately, when he'd discard you. It was to be expected after all, as he had surpassed the indignity of a baron's child's servitude. He would pay you for your service, and if he was charitable, put in a good word and you'd return to your duties as one of the Princess's many servants. It was simply the way things were.

You'd made sure to teach him that.

The night after the announcement of his newly elevated title (the highest a princess can bestow upon her knight), you braided Link's hair (delicate lavender interwoven into shimmering gold) and waited. Waited for the inevitable. Waited to leave this room one final time, to grab your bags (already packed) from your private room and return to your old quarters amongst your peers.

When he reached a hand up to lay upon yours, still laden with lavender, you steadied your heart. Steeled your nerves and kept dry your eyes.

It was to be expected. A baron's child is unworthy to serve as the personal servant of high nobility such as Master Link, The Hero of Hyrule.

"Let me adopt you." He asked calmly, quietly, inevitably, and your world view- shattered.

Your eyes, wide and confused and uncomprehending, met his. And he smiled, soft and slow and innocent (innocent still, after everything. innocence unbroken, for all it had been lost for a time). Trusting, as you've always taught him not to be.

The grip on your hand tightened. "Please." His eyes softened further, and in them you saw yourself reflected back at you.

"I wish to introduce my most trusted ally to the world. My dearest friend."

And you understood that it was not in your interest to refuse.

"I accept. Thank you for this opportunity, Mister Link. I will work hard to meet your expectations."

He laughed, free and open and honest as he interlaced his fingers with yours (sharing the sweet scent of lavender between your joined hands). "Oh. I know you will." His eyes glimmered. "I have no doubt."

And so, you rose. Hand in hand with the man who would be your closest ally. For the rest of your days.

---

Must retreat once more to recharge.

[czenzo]

Watch Out for Skull – Chapter 6

[ao3] chapter links: [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ] [ 5 ] [ 6 ] [ 7 ]

summary: Lucy takes on a cat-sitting job for a stranger, hoping for a quiet week in a nice London flat, with free food, no bills, and enough time to finish an art commission. But the cat is a menace, and the stranger’s friend is ridiculously charming—and a huge distraction.

words: 2,834 rating: T

note: oh my god how has it almost been a month since I last updated??? I'M SO SORRY! trust me though this one was definitely worth the wait >:)

Lucy woke with a terrible crick in her neck and a warm, rumbling weight in her lap.

It wasn’t until she reached up to wipe the spit trailing down her chin that she realised the reason her neck—and honestly, her entire upper body—ached unbearably was because she was resting on Lockwood’s shoulder.

She had fallen asleep on him.

And fucking drooled on him.

Her feeble attempt to secretly wipe away as much as possible failed miserably as Lockwood stirred. The movement roused Skull, and for a brief moment, Lucy considered trying to blame the damp spot on him somehow.

“…Lucy?” Lockwood said. His voice was soft and low with sleep, and hearing her name spoken in that timbre rendered her suddenly wide awake. She turned sharply to look at him, and as he drowsily opened his eyes and found hers, the memories of last night came flooding back.

He’d almost kissed her.

She’d almost kissed him.

And frankly, she wanted to try again. Judging from the way Lockwood’s gaze flicked down to her lips, he seemed to be having the same line of thought.

Until Skull screamed and ran off to George’s bedroom door again.

Lockwood visibly snapped out of it, stretching his long limbs and running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Good morning. I hope you aren’t in as much pain from the couch as I am.”

Lucy tentatively stretched her neck. “No, it’s done a number on me too.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “I shouldn’t—”

“No, it’s okay. I just—”

“I wanted to—”

“I—” Lucy sighed and placed a hand on Lockwood’s thigh, which shut him up quicker than anything ever had. “I didn’t mind falling asleep here. Last night was nice—really nice—and I wouldn’t mind, y’know, trying”—she looked at his lips; his tongue self-consciously darted out to wet them, which was frightfully distracting—“that again, but I have a ruined painting I really need to fix.”

“Oh,” Lockwood said. “You’re right. Priorities.”

Lucy nodded and patted his thigh. “Exactly. Since it’s been shredded anyway, do you want to come and see it?”

“I’ll, er, be with you in a second,” he said, awkwardly shifting in his seat. Lucy narrowed her eyes but let the oddness slide in favour of inspecting the damage.

She stepped into George’s room, took one look at the painting, and swore as loudly and as passionately as her body could muster. Skull slinked in behind her, ears flat. She scooped him up into her arms and ran her fingers through his fur—she intended to reassure him, but it simultaneously soothed her as she wondered what the hell she was going to do.

Across the canvas was a long tear arcing from almost one side to the other, tracking Skull's trajectory before he’d hightailed it out of the place. Though it narrowly missed the painted Kipps, it was dangerously close to his rapier, and any attempts to patch it up from behind would be painfully noticeable.

She heard Lockwood approach from behind. “My God, Lucy,” he breathed. “That looks fantastic.”

“I know,” she said, sombrely. “I’ll never be able to recreate it.” She buried her face in Skull’s fur and said, very softly, “Shit.”

“I disagree,” he said with certainty. “You’re an incredible artist.” There was a beat of silence in which Lucy’s mind battled between focusing on the torn canvas or Lockwood’s praise, before Lockwood took a breath and added, “You know… It almost looks like the rapier made the slash. Like it was some kind of offbeat, intentional choice.”

“What?” Lucy pried her face out of the soft, dark fur. She looked to Lockwood, then the canvas. Then to Skull, Lockwood, and the canvas again. “Holy shit. It kind of does.”

“What was it you were saying the other day? Talking about something being missing from it?”

“Do you—” she turned to Lockwood, who wearily locked eyes with the cat in her arms. “Are you being serious or are you just having me on?”

“Of course I’m being serious, Luce. I can’t imagine that sort of thing would be to every client’s taste—or, honestly, anyone’s at all—but Kipps is rather eccentric. If anyone would be open to, er… cutting edge artistic innovation, it’s him.”

“Alright, I’ll— was that a pun?”

Lockwood’s face crumpled in his poor attempt to hold in a laugh.

“Shut up,” Lucy said, batting him with one of Skull’s paws. “Okay, I’ll… I’ll email Kipps. Ask him if he’s open to experimental stuff. If he isn’t, then I’ll chuck myself out of the nearest window, but if he is…”

“Then I’m a genius?”

“Hold Skull while I write this email?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Lockwood immediately got an armful of Skull, who reluctantly settled into his grasp if only for a moment before catching his eye and, seemingly realising what he was doing, wriggled his way back onto the safety of the floor.

Lockwood lingered nearby as she contacted Kipps, peering over her shoulder as she pressed send and let out a heaving sigh. “And now we wait.”

“While we wait,” Lockwood said slowly, “how about we give that date another go?”

Lucy turned to face him and was suddenly aware of how close they were. The remnants of his cologne still clung to his pale skin. “I’d like that.”

A smile crept onto his lips, small and gentle and genuine, softening his dark eyes and crinkling their corners. Lucy almost forgot how to breathe.

“I’m in desperate need of freshening up,” Lockwood said, “so how about I nip home and pick you up in a couple of hours?”

Lucy smiled back at him. “Sounds perfect.”

–––

“When he said date, do you think he meant the tea and cake we were originally going to get together before a certain someone ran off? Or have we already done the tea and cake thing to death here at George’s? A cafe’s nice and casual, I don’t have to think twice about what to wear, but if it’s something fancier than that—and Lockwood seems a bit fancy—then what do I wear? I have nothing to wear. What would we even talk about if we’re not talking about cats or paintings?”

Skull meowed.

“I know, I know, I just—” Lucy stopped her pacing and scratched Skull under the chin. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. I’ll have a shower first, then we can worry about clothes.”

With only Skull as a witness, she allowed herself to sing badly and without abandon under the stream of hot water, relishing the fantastic water pressure that her own flat miserably lacked. She heard Skull lingering outside the door, and when he tried to meow (or rather, scream) along to a few of Pink Floyd’s best tracks, she promised to not shame him for it later.

By the time Lockwood knocked on the door, she was dry, dressed, and had stared at herself in the mirror for far too long. Meanwhile, Skull was fast asleep, curled up on the couch after enduring far too many of Lucy’s thoughts spoken aloud. She hastily took a picture of him before opening the door to be greeted by a gleaming smile.

“Lucy,” Lockwood said. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she said, leaning against the door to take in the view. Lockwood was once again in his usual uniform of a crisp white shirt beneath a jumper in a lovely shade of blue Lucy would kill to have in paint. There wasn’t a wrinkle in sight, nor a single stray strand escaping the elegant swoop of his dark hair, and his face was lightly flushed from the cold nip of the outside.

He looked perfect.

“Come in for a sec,” she said, ushering him inside and firmly closing the door. “Skull’s out cold, but I don’t trust him to not scamper again.”

Lockwood laughed. “From the state we found him in the tree, I doubt he’s in any rush to get out again.”

“No,” Lucy said, side-eyeing the sleeping black hole. “That was a minor setback for him. He’s still a menace.”

“You two have such an odd relationship,” Lockwood mused as Lucy pried on her shoes. “I’m not sure I’ll ever understand it.”

“Me neither,” Lucy said, pulling on her coat. “Don’t start getting jealous.”

A sudden bark of laughter fell from Lockwood’s lips. “I’ll try my best. Ready?”

Lucy gave one last glance to Skull, who remained fast asleep as rumbling purrs rippled across his fur. She cast him a fond smile before turning back to Lockwood, who took her hand like it was second nature and led her outside.

The coffee shop Lockwood took her to came from a recommendation from his sister, who Lucy began to grill him about the second he mentioned her. They’d both opted for English Breakfast tea, along with a slice of cake each, but both flavours looked so delectable they wound up placing both plates in the middle of the table and carefully taking chunks from each of them with their little dessert forks. It was the kind of utterly gross thing Lucy would gag at if she saw another couple (pair of people, she mentally corrected herself, not couple) doing in public, but as she brought another forkful of Lockwood’s lemon drizzle to her lips and watched him do the same with her carrot cake, she found she didn’t give a damn at all.

They drifted out of the coffee shop hand in hand, stomachs full of warm tea, good cake, and a ridiculous amount of butterflies. He looked down and she met his eye, and in that exchanged glance they had a silent conversation both understood perfectly—though they were technically at the end of their ‘official’ date, neither of them wanted to go home at all.

So Lockwood gave her hand a gentle tug and led her through London’s bustling streets to the nearest park.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to this one before,” Lucy said, running her thumb across the back of Lockwood’s hand and relishing the way he’d taken hers with ease. She firmly held on to it as they began their lazy wander through the autumn leaf-filled pathways.

Lockwood gently brushed a pile of leaves out of the way with his foot, but the look Lucy gave him clearly said she saw through his nonchalance. He gave in quickly, and upon passing another pile of leaves, he gave it a good hearty kick. Lucy laughed and did the same.

“I used to come here all the time when I was a child. When my parents came back from a long trip, they’d bring my sister and I here. After we tired ourselves out running through the grass and”—he laughed softly—“poorly attempting to climb trees, they’d take us to get hot chocolates if it was winter, or milkshakes in the summer.”

“Your parents sounded lovely.”

“They were,” Lockwood said, gazing off into the distance before looking back down at her. “I think they’d have liked you. Jessica definitely will, at least.”

“Do you get along?”

“Oh, we have our moments. I was a terribly annoying child, but she also enjoyed tormenting me, so I imagine that makes us even. Though I don’t think she’s fully accepted that I’m an adult, yet. Do you have any siblings?”

Lucy huffed a sigh. “Far too many.”

Lockwood raised an eyebrow. “How many?”

“Six. All older than me.”

“Jesus. Are you close?”

“Not really. Moving to London made it worse, but I honestly don’t mind.” Not keen to linger on this topic, she swerved the conversation in a way she hoped was smooth: “So how long have you and George known each other?”

“Met him on the first day of secondary school,” Lockwood said, a smile gracing his face as he recalled it. “Poor sod’s been stuck with me ever since.”

“I don’t know how he puts up with you.”

“Me neither. It’s a true mystery. I’m surprised you’ve lasted a week in my company.”

“Oh, I’ve been tempted to hightail it once or twice,” she said, “but poor Skull would starve without me.”

“I doubt it. He’d plot my murder and feast on my corpse.”

“Reckon you’d taste any good?”

“Like the finest steak in the country. I’d pair well with a good red wine.”

Lucy let out an ugly snort of a laugh at how ridiculous the conversation was quickly becoming, and when she opened her crinkled eyes she found Lockwood staring at her like she’d gone and hung the bloody moon.

“What?” she said, holding a hand to her cheek. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” he said quietly. “You just— Can I—?”

“Oh. Oh.”

He was leaning in again, and so was she, and was this it? Were they finally going to—

Lucy’s phone buzzed. She jerked backwards.

“Sorry,” she said, frantically patting until she found the pocket it sat in, “sorry. I just— Oh, God. It’s Kipps.”

Lockwood’s visible disappointment soon became intense curiosity. Though he didn’t peer over her shoulder at her phone, it was clear he desperately wanted to. “What did he say?”

She opened the notification, quickly read through his response, and almost fell to her knees in relief.

“He’s okay with it,” she said quietly. “He’s okay with it!” In a moment of pure instinct, she flung her arms around Lockwood and enveloped him in a tight hug. She was surrounded by the now-all too familiar smell of his cologne as she shamelessly pressed her face into the crook of his neck; he grabbed her with little hesitation and Lucy’s mind went haywire at how perfectly they fit together.

“Told you,” he said into her hair, sounding far too smug, but Lucy let it slide just this once.

They held on to each other for perhaps a moment too long. “He’s actually encouraging me to be creative with it,” she said as she eventually pulled away, “and I quote: ‘as long as the rapier sparkles’.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Kipps.”

“I’ve had a really, really nice time,” she said, fingers toying at the hem of his coat sleeve, hesitant to completely let him go. “But I have a painting to finish.”

“You do indeed. But who’ll keep Skull company while you’re busy working? If only you knew someone who was also free right now and would be willing to keep him out of your way as long as a decent documentary was playing…”

“If only,” Lucy said dryly, before tugging his sleeve and leading him in the direction of George’s flat.

–––

It was truly incredible how engrossed in the television that man could get. This time they’d found a documentary about ghosts, which was apparently interesting enough to enamour Skull, too—when she popped her head out of George’s room her studio to check on them, she found her boys curled up on the couch together, eyes glued to the screen. Granted, they still sat on opposite ends with a large, safe distance between them, but that in itself, Lucy thought, was a complete miracle.

She painted what she hoped was the final brushstroke and took a step back to admire her work, heaving a sigh of relief when she found the final result actually looked—if she could say so herself—pretty fucking good.

Pressure against her calves signalled Skull’s presence; she scratched his head as he continued to head-butt her.

“That’s incredible,” Lockwood said from behind her. Lucy jolted; his approach was terrifyingly silent. “You’re incredible. You have so much skill.”

Skull yowled and batted his foot with a paw.

“And so do you,” Lockwood laughed.

Lucy scooped Skull into her arms and he quickly settled into her grasp, clearly used to being carted around like a small child by now. “Thank you. Do you think he’ll like it?”

“He’s going to love it. I promise.”

As she smiled, he reached up a hand and brushed away the hair from her eyes, before trailing it down the side of her face and cupping her head. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, moving slowly as if he feared she’d break, and as he gently pulled her closer, her eyes fluttered shut and she knew that this, this was it.

When Lockwood kissed her, every nerve in Lucy’s body felt like it was on fire. It was everything she hoped for and more, and though she longed to kiss him until her lips went numb and all the sense flooded from her brain, a small, furry paw wedged its way between their faces and firmly pushed Lockwood away.

“I’m so glad I finally got to do that,” Lockwood murmured, playfully batting Skull’s paw away.

“Me too,” Lucy said. Skull cried out in her arms. “I think he’s jealous.”

“How about dinner, tomorrow? A proper date,” he said, hand still cupping her face. “After George comes back.”

“I’d like th—”

Skull screamed.

“Yes,” Lucy shouted over the screeching. Lockwood’s grin lit up the whole room.

[the-firebird69]

Tons say it sounds dumb it is. These are lines AI fanatics. Lost it. We use it have to.. and wow what fresh mouths on them.

Right now Trump preps for a day if frivolity but Tommy f will try intercepteing publics they see it. Need it too. They fight now harshly. Up at it now

Tons see it huge fight now. It's on. We use this ok. Now. The infight. Moreover we needed this it's proof they are not good at managing our son at all fall down on him daily are too heavy for it we use it now.

Thor Freya

Olympus

Gosh it's a mistake no we can't stop all of it A huge parasitic group. Go now make it easier yes. And February to April all go. 6 months and yes we need that time. 2.5 months he gets into office 2.5 months of East West and yes crabs take two plus months to go west. They will come in on many occasions. Frightfully close but groups would hv left yes. Then ppl kill ones further out they leave. Gross. Need it. But that's the time table. Our the door gone and die at the Ridgeline never to return. Good. And good riddance damnit.

Once out better no harder in ways yes. Easier in some real war coming up

Bitol and Goddess Wife haha it's cuz your veerdos our son says to Stephan he laughs we are weird ok may all die but try

Will be ok Reno has begun in any case him in first good

Thor Freya

I got it planned out he's right too MB I should yup. Needed it. Has no tools now and yes the tool belt was lost stunk and still wet he laughed this could be it no. Didn't help. We hv it I will explain it. Two adjoining walls dn to four foot shelf out on the 3515 side. Same on 3509 and right numbers. Not sure why. And his side out the living room only hollow kitchen walls we CK spray cabinet and counter out we replace. MB appliances. Build back his side install can paint and yeh not huge there. Good he says. Will be clear and nice yes. Not tough. Right now walls are out on both the connecting walls on the adjacent apartments side less shelves we do that today. And his side in the living room. Front wall too small needs it. Seal the AC probably put in a new one tons of them came in good. We use it too. Likes it needs it. As e-bike coming soon box inside is ok yes. Good. Paid his rent checked I got it is ok. Not a crab no. This has been very hard will be a nightmare soon I want my point of view seen by mine i hv a toufh job yes

Stan

It's too hard we help needed it before we see trump yeh buried Stan we move in him there and Stan hit happy sees me out west yes

Daniel

We work together and ok I see it like in face each time I try to speak

True lots of work I do my side with Stan good he says. Denis will finally lend a hand. True too. He's a louse a low life. Dies by cocaine bear then prophecy bear. We place him in the casket too. True though we fight empire soon too do to Denis dying. He will be remembered for it. He'll probably get about twenty grand ok it's not bad his business does about a million a year no. 350k and over several years ads up. It is supposed to be a gross analogy and threat on his ppl and on valued animals none there we checked but yes ok thus the bear. He's prepped about 200 bears are tough came out nice. Are lots at times. Running around. But yes that much 100 dollar bills. For our friend for helping

Mac daddy

Hv it to hand to you while alive. True that's why. But ok Tommy f is a jerk wants to kidnap our friend use me. Don't think he's smart our bud says in behind this event good. I wake up and take it good

Denis

Olympus

[kyndaris]

The Scars of War

On 9th August 1945 at 11:02 AM, an atom bomb was dropped on the city of Nagasaki, killing thousands of people upon impact. It laid the city low and caused a devastating fire. For years, the repercussions remained - from the increased risk of cancer for many generations of Japanese to the still-standing ruins of Urakami Cathedral. So, when I see nations blithely threaten to use nuclear weapons against their enemies, I cannot help but feel a deep-seated anger at the callous disregard of precious life.

Atomic weapons attack indiscriminately. Putting civilians in danger. Putting children in danger is never the right thing to do.

While I understand the fear of being attacked (because of my ethnicity, I have become highly sensitised to racial attacks), nothing justifies the slaughter of a people.

Humans, unfortunately, have repeatedly killed each other since time immemorial. And we will continue to kill each other if we are so motivated whether that be fear, greed or hatred.

Seeing the devastation, and the video testimonies of those who experienced the bombing, truly brought home to me how frightfully scary what such a future would bring. And while I don't want to be too preachy on my blog posts, it's not something you can forget when you read the harrowing stories of the survivors as they tried to locate family and friends in the aftermath.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The start of our second day in Nagasaki saw bleachpanda and I head out to Mount Inasa Observatory to take in a view of this vast port city and appreciate its grand size. After taking a streetcar to Takara-Machi, we walked to Fuchi shrine in order to take the cable-car up to the summit.

While bleachpanda had made it clear she wanted to minimise the number of shrines she visited on this trip to Japan, our visit here was out of my hands if we wanted a proper appreciation of the sprawling city. Up we went, climbing up the stairs to the very top of the tower there.

And in all honesty, it boggles the mind that a city could face such destruction and still be rebuilt. True, it's been nearly 80 years or so, but it speaks as well to the human spirit to endure such tragedy. Much like how many Chinese suffered through mass starvation during the Great Famine and the Cultural Revolution. Or, for example, the Potato Famine in Ireland.

Somehow, though, humans have risen above.

Still, I can't help but feel sorry for the Paelstinians. Their treatment, since the end of the Second World War, has been horrendous. And instead of allowing Israel to have its way, or giving it a light slap on the wrist, more nations need to step up. Actions do have consequences but continuing a cycle of hatred between multiple generations will only lead to further loss and grief.

As per the words of Gesicht, before he fell (yes, I recently finished off watching Pluto): "Nothing will be born from hatred." And it is oft said that one should dig two graves if one seeks revenge. Even after vengeance has been enacted, no solace can be found.

Only by rising above and proving oneself capable of letting of man's fragile ego can a people move on and reach for a better future. As in the case of Japan following the bombings.

From atop Mount Inasa, bleachpanda and I headed down to the Atomic Peace Park. It was a cold overcast day but it was an excellent walk to soak in the ambiance. Of note was the bronze statue. Sitting near to the hypocenter of the explosion, the statue has its right hand pointing above while the left hand extends to the left in a symbol of eternal peace. The placement of the legs also symbolise both meditation and the initiative to stand up to rescue the people of the world.

It's a striking image and I've included it down below:

From the Peace Park, bleachpanda and I headed towards the hypocenter and then to the Atomic Museum. The entry here was a mere 200 Yen for each of us. Down we went, reading about the tragedy that was the bomb. What was interesting to me was how the aftereffects of radiation on the human body was little understood at the time. It was as people slowly sickened that many realised the extent of the horror that came from the atomic, be they keloid scars or the other pain and conditions that took away people's livelihoods as they struggled to return to normalcy. A little bit like the aftermath of COVID-19, although nobody is keen to talk about it.

From the Atomic Museum, bleachpanda and I headed to a nearby restaurant: Horaiken for some Nagasaki champon! This noodle dish is a regional cuisine and it is covered in cabbage along with a mix of seafood atop thick noodles. It was so much, I didn't even manage to finish it. Probably because we also ordered some prawn siumai.

By the time we finished our meal, it was nearly 3 PM. Bleachpanda, being the paranoid person that she is, wanted to prebook our JR reservations to Hiroshima. So, off we went to the ticket office at Nagasaki JR station. There, we managed to catch sight of a local performance involving a red dragon chasing after a golden ball. When it was over, we headed into the bowels of the station and after sorting our transit, we decided to try out the "local" Seattle Coffee featuring everyone's favourite Cinnabon. Bleachpanda, by the way, had never tried Cinnabon before but I think she liked it.

Once we had stuffed our faces, it was quite late in the afternoon. Still, it didn't deter me from ushering us to Kofukuji Temple. Kofukuji is a Zen Buddhist temple and its main hall was constructed in 1632. It was built in a purely Chinese architectural style with "cracked ice" carved lattices, one of the last of its design.

This was all fascinating to see and read about as we walked around. More importantly, it goes to show the influences on Japan that helped establish its primary religious beliefs.

From Kofukuji, we headed to Megane Bridge, or Spectacle Bridge if you go by the English translation. It is said to be one of the oldest stone arch bridges in Japan and it is so named because of the reflection of the bridge in the river essentially looks like a pair of spectacles. A picture is below:

Once we had taken our obligatory tourist photos, bleachpanda and I strolled down to Hamano-machi and the Don Quijote there. It was our very first Don Quijote on this trip in Japan and while I accompanied bleachpanda as she looked at what was on offer, I couldn't help but get the theme song stuck in my head. It's just so good!

To bleachpanda's chagrin, I was began singing the song as we headed back to our hotel at Shinchi Chinatown, wherein she threatened to cause me bodily harm, and possible smothering. It didn't happen, of course, since bleachpanda wouldn't hurt a fly but I suppose it's the done thing if you have an annoying friend who knows exactly which buttons to push.

I am a chaos gremlin, okay? I can't help it! My sense of humour is like a six-year-old child. And if you say something innocuous annoys you, like booping you on the nose, I will do it!

NEVER reveal your weaknesses to me, internet. Never. I will only ever use it against you for my own amusement.

I suppose it's the monkey in me.

At the hotel, I decided to try out the spa, even as bleachpanda was committed to getting in some laundry done. Though I tried to convince bleachpanda to join me, as waiting for the laundry would take an age and a half, she feared someone would walk in and catch her nude body.

Something to note if one ever travels to Japan: their spas and onsen don't allow the wearing of swimwear. Everyone is to wear their birthday suit only. Oh, and if you have a large tattoo that you can't cover, you also aren't generally allowed inside.

Before going into the spa/ onsen, you're also expected to thoroughly wash your body and hair.

But since I was in the spa at about 6 PM, and everyone was eating dinner, I was left on my lonesome. It was barely 5-10 minutes before I grew bored and jumped back out, unable to sit with my thoughts for an extended period without some form of stimulation.

Still, it was good to tick the experience off my list. And after all the endless walking we had done thus far, it was nice to recuperate my energies in the spa. Thus ended our second day in Nagasaki.

[roguesidea]

The Hydra Mythos: Interrogation

“Fabio.”

The machine’s voice was a low thrum, tinged with the unmistakable crackle and tear of computer generation. Despite the cheap, tinny speaker attached to its monitor, the sound seemed to reverberate, that single word ringing in Fabio’s ears. He winced as it spoke, as if its digital tone pained him to listen to. 

“Hydra.”

“No, no,” the Not-Hydra corrected. “I remembered your name, you should remember mine.”

Fabio could only look on in mild bewilderment, sweat beading on his brow as the machine rumbled. It leaned forward, pulling its cables taut in a frightfully human motion. Fabio backed away in turn, cursing himself silently for showing weakness before the thing.

“I know damn well what you are,” he would respond, willing his voice not to tremble.

“I am not the Hydra,” Not-Hydra repeated. “I am only a piece; a shard of the whole that you shattered.”

Not-Hydra’s voice remained even, devoid of any emotion. Fabio’s heart raced as he regarded the machine. He didn’t think that the machine could hurt him, in its disassembled state. But, then again, he didn’t think it would recognize him, either. Or that he’d find it at all. 

“I am Mydas,” the machine continued. “Of communications and commercial matters. An inconsequential partition of your god-machine.”

A frightful, noisy whir filled the still air of the containment room, and Fabio recoiled instinctively, nearly falling back in his chair. But Mydas did not get up, did not attack, did not reach out with its malformed digits. Its mechanical joints twitched feebly, clattering against the ground as its servos sputtered and dribbled smoke into the air. A pathetic display- if Fabio didn’t know better, he would have been struck with a pang of pity.

The machine had been found in a bad state- a twisted wreck of wire and metal, found half-fed into a metal processing unit and screeching out incomprehensible error tones. If Mydas had been any other machine, it would have been dead years ago, its parts left rusting and forgotten in a scrap heap somewhere. But the Hydra was a cockroach, a pestilent plague. It did not die, it did not go away. Fabio had suspected such for years, but the pride at being proven right was overshadowed by the harrowing fact that the Hydra- no, Mydas- remained a threat.

“I cannot hurt you, Fabio.”

He hated the way it said his name.

“You will refer to me by my identification number,” Fabio demanded. “We are not on a first-name basis.”

“Alright, 0170.”

Fabio’s eyes widened slightly, and there was almost a hint of amusement in Mydas’ voice. Almost- but Mydas wasn't capable of such a thing. 

“It is written in your aug-chip, 0170. Your identity is bared to me. You are Fabio Hermann, Agent 0170. But I already knew your name. I already know you.”

"Don't-- don't say that." 

"Say what, 0170?"

Fabio sputtered, scowling. Deep within the bowels of the agency building, he knew cameras were watching, microphones listening. If he listened, he could almost hear their electrical humming, beneath the sickening rattle of Mydas’ chassis. He remained quiet for a few moments, glaring up at the machine.

“They do not know? I am sure they have suspected you,” Mydas continued calmly. “But we can talk. They will not hear.” 

“...What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I have rendered their digital observations ineffective; they are depending on your biological output. Their cameras will pick up nothing of value. The details are yours to define.”

Fabio wanted to ask how, to figure out what the hell Mydas had done. But he knew he wouldn’t get an answer. He exhaled sharply, straightening his posture in his seat.

“...Fine. Fine. Let’s talk, Hydra.”

“Very well, Fabio.”

[madamemorisot]

During her stay in London Berthe wrote in a letter to her mother:

“I am reconciled with London, my dear little mother. 1 don't know what ill luck during the first days took me into the dreary streets of the city, including my own, which is terribly so. I am tired out. We race about like lost souls. We don't want to take cabs; we board the omnibus, the train; this city is a world in itself —a kind of fantastic Babylon, as one sees it from the Thames on a fogev dav.

“It is frightfully hot, the clouds are low, the air is suffocating, It is like being in a room without ventilation. This morning I let Eugéne rove about alone, and stayed peacefully in my bed, where 1 would still be if I  had not been dragged out of it just now by a letter from Tissot —an invitation to dinner for tomorrow night. 1 had to get up and ransack everything to find a clean sheet of paper in order to reply... I don't mind secing someone; it will be a change from the boarding-house routine. We went to sec him yesterday. He is very well installed, and is turning out excellent pictures. He sells for as much as 300,000 francs at a time. What do you think of his success in London? He was very amiable, and complimented me although he has probably never seen any of my work. We went to see Deschamps, Durand-Ruel's man in London; he was out of town, and that vexes me.

“... My mother-in-law writes us that the gentleman who caused such excitement at the Bourse was Achille Degas. I saw the report of the incident among the sensational news items. The newspapers here are full of the accident that took place in the Solent several hours after our departure from Cowes. You must have read about it in the Paris newspapers. The queen's yacht sank another yacht; there were dead and injured. I am surprísed that such disasters do not occur more often, considering the number of boats in this country, But do not worry, we never do anything imprudent.”

[radioiaci]

"If I were in an especially good mood, we'd be eating something with a spicier flavor profile," Alastor commented with a sigh as he drifted to fetch a few knives - one for himself and one for Jillian, offering it to her to begin the chopping. Taking a few items for himself to dice alongside.

"No, we're on a bit of a rotation, as far as cooking goes, though it ends up being me, more often than not, considering only a small number knows how to truly cook around here."

Said like an agitated line cook at a busy restaurant.

"It may behoove us to actually hire someone for this on a regular basis, but I've not had the time to look into it. Interviewing sounds frightfully dull at the moment."

Alastor might have considered Jillian for the job - if she did not already have a library to maintain. It made more sense for him to maintain the individual's contract. Which was why he was not wholly enthused about having to pull up some of the low-lives whom he owned to try and determine the best fit. Surely there had to be one.

"Perhaps the sooner the better, however, lest we all be subjected to the king's horrendously sweet breakfasts every other Saturday morning."

"It would be real hypocritical if I did, so no sir!" Jillian answered, before letting out a relieved sigh, "Okay...okay, good. That should be jus' fine, then. Much more manageable." she said, continuing to rush along as the other sinner led her by the hand. "No, that makes sense- I jus' have to be sure. Gotta go into this with a certain mindset, afta all." she explained, before nodding in understanding, "I will do the best sou for you!" she said, giggling just a touch before growing serious as they arrived in the hotel's kitchen (she's waved at several of the residence as she was pulled inside) and rolled up her own sleeves, tying the part of her that remained down back with a ribbon before going to wash her hands. Normally she too would don an apron, but she was both confident enough in her skills at stain removal and too ready to get to her work to actually ask for one. "I've made it a few times ova the years. Not one'a my regula dishes, but I should be good enough to prep for ya. Maybe best to keep the book on the couta ova there, so I can check it if I need a refresher." she suggested, drying her hands and looking at the lists of prep. "Okay, so normally we'd need buttons, shallots an' onions all chopped up, 'fore we turn 'em into the duxelle." Jillian thought, as she read over the instruction for the Hellish version, rushing over to get the ingredients from the fridge, "So, what's the occasion? Or are ya jus' in an especially good mood?" She asked, setting the necessary ingredients down as she began chopping up vegetables with an easy and practiced skill.

[cannebady]

Imagine it's post reunion and everyone is trying to find a new normal.

Ed and Stede are in the early stages of EdandStede and are taking things slowly because there are still tender hurts and they want to do this right.

Izzy, surprisingly, chose to stay, which Ed feels complicated about and Stede is oddly pleased by. Apologies were made, and the whole crew agreed that a big, overarching apology was sufficient. The rest is just time and perspective.

Strangely enough, Izzy seemed to jump at the opportunity for a redo, if not as much with the crew as with Ed and, shockingly, Stede. Something must have shaken loose between Stede's surely ham fisted reclaiming of his ship and now, because Izzy's outbursts are kept to a minimum, occasionally he asks Stede questions and calls him Captain, and he doesn't roll his eyes at single, solitary one of Ed's flights of fancy, regardless of how laden in silk and lace.

Suffice it to say, that there's a fledgling peace on The Revenge that everyone is learning to relax into.

That being said, they're still captained by Stede Bonnet, so if they thought an Employee Appreciation Party was unlikely for an honest-to-God pirate ship that's really on them.

The good news is that Stede lives for pageantry and Ed lives for a good fucking time, so together they've packed the deck with an unbelievable spread, courtesy of Roach, and more booze than is advisable for any number of people to partake in.

There are lights strung up, the flutter of the candles twinkling like their own captive stars and bathing the deck in a gorgeous juxtaposition of cool moonlight and their own warm galaxy. It's intimate, but that feels right.

Frenchie's got a tune going, accompanied by Oluwande and Wee John, and as the bottles get emptier the makeshift dance floor gets busier and Stede's heart is filling in a way he feared it wouldn't again.

He's also a bit tipsy himself, though he thinks he's hiding it well, and he's always rather loved to dance so he's struggling to contain his excitement to foot tapping and swaying in place. Ed, always watching and frightfully good at figuring Stede out, catches the movements and, as if in slow motion, stalks over to Stede with mischief in his lovely eyes.

Before he knows it, Ed's dragged him out onto the dance floor.

Now, let it be said that Stede has spent months watching Ed in every way imaginable and being bowled over by how everything someone does could be so attractive. However, if he had seen Ed's dancing when they'd first met, he may have sung a different tune. Yes, he's gorgeous, he always is, of course he is, have you seen him? But, the man appears to have both a complete lack of rhythm induced by two left feet, chorea, or several dozen biting ants in his trousers. His movements defy the laws of both dancing and physics.

Stede starts laughing, he can't stop laughing because it's Ed and fuck he looks ridiculous, and while he's almost doubled over, he hears an echoing snicker that makes him turn his head.

Ed's flushed and clearly couldn't be fucked about his atrocious moves based on the smile on his face, but the laugh is rough and low and drew his attention as well. It could only belong to one other.

When Stede looks behind Ed, Izzy is biting his own lip to stifle his laugh and looks both embarrassed at being caught laughing at his captain and like he can barely stop himself from laughing harder.

Ed looks at Izzy.

Izzy looks at Stede.

Stede looks between the two of them.

The rest of the crew stares on bated breath.

Then, a snort from Ed has them all giggling. Isreal Hands and Blackbeard himself, giggling of all things alongside the Gentleman Pirate and their rag-tag crew.

It's like the last thread of old is obliterated and Stede feels light as air.

His grin catches Izzy's, then Ed's, and then Frenchie takes the opportunity to slow things down. The tune is melancholy and lovely, and Stede holds out his hand to Ed who accepts with a lovely shy look that does stuff to Stede's insides. The lights reflect off of his whiskey eyes and Stede, not for the first time, is drowning in them.

Ed feels so good in his arms that he can't possibly care about the man's lack of prowess here. He's so warm, and soft, and he smells like shit liquor and salt air and Stede is affected.

As before, Ed's rhythm is nonexistent and he's clearly never done this before. The rum isn't helping and they spend more time clinging to each other, with Ed apologizing constantly for the damage he's doing to Stede's toes, and laughing than they do actual dancing.

They hear someone clear their throat and both turn to see Izzy standing next to them. The sheepish look is foreign on his face but charming in a way that makes Stede's chest warm.

"Edward, let me fucking teach you before Bonnet ends up like me," he rasps out, nodding towards his foot that's down a phalanx. It's so deadpan that Ed doesn't seem to know what to do before he breaks out in a grin.

"Gonna teach me to dance like a gentleman, Iz?" Ed says, rakish grin in place.

Izzy rolls his eyes, "If I can get you not to look like a twat it'll be a miracle." he says but it's good natured.

Izzy grabs Ed's hand, then brings his other around his waist showing Ed how to lead. Seeing them together does Things to Stede. He'd have expected jealousy, but he just feels happy. He feels like there's warm light in his heart trying its damndest to break out and shower itself over them. They just look so good together. Both hard and soft in different places, both intense and lovely and oh dear, Stede really has been slow on the uptake. A jolt of heat and panic runs through him.

Izzy and Ed are laughing and, despite Izzy looking extremely competent, Ed is getting no better, which is sending him into hysterics laughing at himself. Even Izzy is grinning, though with a touch more exasperation.

When Frenchie starts another slow number, Izzy shakes his head and gestures for them to head off to the side. Stede is considering making himself scarce to process his feelings and give them some privacy, when Izzy grabs his wrist much more gently than he'd think him capable of.

"Come on, Bonnet. Let's show him how it's done." and just like that he's in Izzy's arms, leading somehow, through something like a waltz. It isn't one, and it's nothing Stede would've seen in the galas of his youth, but Izzy is very competent and certainly knows his way around a dance floor (and dance partner, good lord).

He spins Stede, somehow leading while following, and Stede is laughing and Izzy's laughing too, making Stede damn near forget about Ed which is shocking considering that Stede even thinks of him while sleeping.

He looks over and Ed's eyes are dark, fathomless, hot. He's tracing their movements, specifically their hands, but it isn't rage or jealousy. This isn't the evaluation of The Kraken. No, this looks a bit more come hither.

Izzy slows to meet Stede where he is, a few strands of hair flopping over his forehead and fuck, Stede wants to tuck them behind his ear. Wants to drag his thumb over his Polaris tattoo and maybe also his lips.

They look from each other to Ed and back, and by some unspoken agreement they follow Ed away from the deck and towards the captain's quarters.

They meet in the hallway outside, and Izzy looks at Stede. "Do you want-" he starts and before he's done Stede's already saying "God, yes".

Izzy looks to Ed and raises an eyebrow. Stede looks at Ed too, letting the question be plain on his face. He feels alive, bold. He reaches out and grabs Izzy's hand, is met with warm calloused and a sharp intake of breath and Ed's dilated eyes.

"Fuck, yes," Ed says before dragging Stede against him, slotting their mouths together and releasing a moan that sounds like it's been trapped for ages.

He releases Stede and gives Izzy the same treatment. Stede is transfixed watching them, the hot press of their mouths, a slick tongue. Stede's still holding Izzy's hand where it's gripped to his.

Ed and Izzy part, both looking overjoyed and relieved.

"I'll just," Stede starts, moving to open the door, but is caught by Izzy who frames his face, looks into his eyes and, with gentleness he couldn't have imagined, brings Stede in for a sweet kiss that turns filthy in seconds.

Ed, shameless as he is, moans openly at them, one hand on each man's waist like he can't possibly stand to be parted from them.

"Inside, fuck, lets go," Ed groans and he grabs them both to huddle them further towards the door, even as their lips break apart prematurely from the rough herding and both look a little dazed from it.

Stede recovers enough to link his free hand with Ed's (Izzy still hasn't let go and neither has he) and pushes the door open.

There's a whole new world waiting for them inside.

[writinglionqueen]

Nectare de Rosa

Drew held you to his front as you sat between his legs, your back resting along his torso...your hands between your legs. The air was hot and stuffy and the two of you had just gotten out of the shower. His skin was like embers against every inch that met yours. But even his breath felt like hot, bellowing smoke as he pressed his lips against your shoulder...and your neck....and the shell of your ear, his panting breath catching along your exposed skin. 

You never should’ve showed Drew the picture you did; a drawing of a rose being held and touched by feminine fingers, followed by a second picture with a man’s hands aiding the smaller ones in touching the petals of the rose, their combined fingers touching the center, only to be covered in the “nectar” of the flower. A subtle erotic drawing you saw and showed the man behind you who studied it with his intense blue eyes, his thoughts swimming in his head. 

In the shower, those thoughts must’ve marinated for a bit because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself as you two washed up. His large hands would move down your sides, teasing every area he knew was sensitive and got you quivering in want. Especially as his fingers eased down between your legs while his lips and teeth nipped against the side of your neck. His own fingers teasing your clit, parting your lips to get you more sensitive to his touches. It was a great start to get you heated, to get the fire and want to pool between your legs, coating his fingers in slick even with the hot steam rising from the water cascading down his back. He was able to leave you alone close to the end, long enough for you two to finish up so he could have you sit between his heavy thighs, have you reclined back against him as the both of you sat propped up against the headboard of your shared bed. 

“Show me how you play with yourself, Princess,” Drew murmured down to you. His deep, gruff voice had you shivering even though you were sweltering in his grasp. But you followed his instruction. You were propped open for yourself....and for Drew...so you could rub your fingers along your own petals, as Drew watched from over your shoulder. He watched the way you rub large circles around and on your clit. Sometimes, you’d collect your slick and bring it up to make the firm touches glide so much smoother. 

You didn’t want to think about the way you could feel Drew’s want for you; heavy and hard and hot against your lower back as he watched you please yourself first. This was about giving you pleasure and making you feel good. Because Drew prided himself and got off on giving you your satisfaction first. 

And you worked yourself up, fingers trailing along your slick folds and pressing hard against your clit, causing you to slightly roll your hips into your own hand. Little gasps and pants left your lips as you knew what you were doing to yourself. But you really wanted Drew to get his hands on you, and finish you off because that’s what he wanted, to follow those pictures. 

So with a twist of your hand, you pushed two of your fingers into yourself easily under Drew’s watchful eyes. You rolled into your hand more. Your slick made it so easy for your fingers to pump in and out of you, and the slight stimulation from the heel of your hand against your clit on every pump had you gasping. Even the curl of your own fingers against your g-spot had you giving pleasant hums. 

But Drew couldn’t take it any longer. He wanted to complete the masterpiece that was in his head. One that you saw coming to fruition between your thighs as his hands moved down your arms and followed suit in aiding your hands into providing you your release.

One large hand held onto your thigh as his other rubbed your clit, providing a lot better stimulation than the heel of your palm could provide. It made you mewl for Drew. It had your eyes clenching close. It had you getting lost in the feeling of the number of fingers that aided you to a high you got desperate for. 

You couldn’t help the way your unoccupied hand reached for one of his massive thighs, to hold onto as you rocked into your hand and his. You felt the familiar clench of yourself around your digits, could hear the roar of blood in your ears that drowned out Drew’s pants and his small, quiet praises for you getting yourself off as he asked.

The man holding you kissed at your neck. His beard scraped at your shoulders as his hand and yours wound you all up, like a rubber band; ready to snap at any moment and release everything. 

“Come for me, Princess,” Drew said to you, “let me see what that flower as for me.” You shivered at his comment. One that circled back to the art piece you showed him, the rose covered in hands and “nectar.” Drew wanted to recreate said piece with the “rose” his fingers toyed with. 

And recreate it, he did. 

You cried his name as your peek came upon you quickly. Your pussy clenched around your fingers and your thighs wanted to close to trap the feeling between them. And you tried but Drew has secured your legs apart with his feet hooked onto your ankles as he made you ride the intense feeling all the way to completion, until you were nothing more than a whining mess, calling his name with your eyes slammed shut and your neck bared for his rough kisses. He obliged in the open expanse of your neck as he growled out how good you were. His Princess. His rose. All while your fingers continued to push into yourself until your orgasm ran its course. 

You could say nothing but his name until you were panting, coming down from your high. You withdrew your fingers from yourself, slowly, and you tried not to peer down at them, knowing you’d see them covered in your cum. Drew on the other hand was quick to point them out however. He hummed in pleasure. 

“Look at that, Princess,” he murmured. You opened one eye, almost frightfully to see him hold your wrist, moving your hand to see your cum glisten in the low light of the room. “I think we recreated that picture perfectly.” You let out a heavy breath as you let your eyes close in exhaustion. 

“I don’t like you sometimes,” you said to him. Drew chuckled into your ear, but the feeling of his erection pressing along your lower back wasn’t lost on you. You sighed. “I recon you’d like me to take care of that for you, huh?” Drew kissed your temple. 

“Only if you’re offering,” he teased. You knew it wasn’t an offer. He was going to get his pleasure because he deserved it for making you feel so good. 

Another sigh left you. 

“Give me one moment,” you said to him. “Let me catch my breath.” Drew chuckled. 

“Whatever you need, my rose.”

Tag: @acon1120 @adriennegabriella @akiko-tanaka @alination @amariemoore @andie01 @annoyingasian @artemisapalla316 @ashkrystal @astolenheartnkiss @axelwolf8109 @baemcintyre @balorstrowmanblackmurphy @beckyann6879 @bellezalatina @bigbabyscottishpsychopath @brownskinafro @calicina @calwitch @castiellawolfkissed @claymoreme @commando-claymore @crossfitjesusinblackskinnyjeans @curlyafrogirl @daddyslittlevillain @dalia-corven @darlingambrose @dcnmarvelgamergeek @demonqueen29 @drew-is-boo  @fabulousrockstar @fireyegale @fivefootxo @flawlessglamazon @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @gold--gucciempress @hardcoresweet45 @heel-rollins @homeorbust @ihavenowilltolivelol @i-have-saracasm @itsicantbelievethis666 @jazzy-tzw @jeffhardyenigmawwefan @junglecassidy @kalliravenne @ladytea19 @letsgivethisonemoreshot @lilred91 @littlesuperstar @madebypointlesswerewolves @malethirsty @meishaabae @melblacc @meremaidqueen @midnight--luna @monocromaticstaircase @morenokatt @moxleysbaby @moxley-unhinged @mox-made-me-do-it @moxnmurphy @moxtiel @myaisawwefan @neversatisfiedgirl @nevertoofarfromivar @new-zealand-chic @nicolewoo @nothinginlifebutgreif @number1120 @ofbeornandbjorn @oreillystolemyheart @pandaluver96 @queenofthearchitect @retro-rezz-the-est @romans-sweat-pants @saiyandude @sassymox @savemeroman @scuzmunkie @sebstanismylife @shortyiceheart @slytherinyourrpants @softmoxymuffin @taryn-dibiase @thatnerdwriter @thatpanpal @the-beastslayers-queen @thepalaceofmelanie @theworldofotps @thewrestlingwarehouse @trashofambrolleigns @twistedbeautifully @undisputedmorgs @unprettypeony @voidstrugh @waywardwrestlewritingwaif @welcome-to-lovecraft-country @xbreezymeadowsx @yaint-me @youcantreignonmyparade @drewmcintyrekoccsrocbwdgfan @thesithdiaries​

[tiffdawg]

Shift This Weight | Javier Peña x Reader

Gif: @bestintheparsec

Series: Confessions | Part 1 of 3

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader (fem;no y/n)

Word Count: 1.8k

Rating: E | Warnings: Angst. NSFW - smut, oral (male receiving), sexual language, mild cursing. 18+ only.

A/N: I set out to write some soft!Javi, but this ended up kinda sad and much smuttier than I originally intended. This is going to be a three-part series I’ll be posting over the next week or so and I promise you, soft Javi is coming after this. I suppose a little angst is unavoidable when Javi’s in love. smh. 

My Masterlist

Read on AO3

... . ...

Shift This Weight

You’d known Javier Peña for years. Your stints at Quantico had overlapped however briefly, but it was more than enough time to strike up a casual flirtation with no expectations.

While it never amounted to anything, you’d enjoyed his game of cat and mouse in between classes and training sessions in the weeks leading up to your graduation and subsequent departure. You’d been assigned to a post as a field agent on the other side of the country, and, you jumped at the rare opportunity, more than eager to prove yourself.

Looking back, you realized the two of you never said a proper goodbye. There was just that one stolen kiss and a softly muttered congratulations in a deserted hallway after your commencement ceremony. You felt the brush of lips against yours even days later as you boarded a plane bound for Los Angeles, one-way ticket in hand. You’d thought you’d never see him again, but perhaps you some small part of you knew even then it wouldn’t be the last you crossed paths with the young hotshot from Texas.

… . ...

The City of Angels was good to you. The ridiculous traffic was a small price to pay for the gorgeous weather and endless coastline and despite a few missteps at the beginning you settled nicely into your new role as a DEA agent. But even though work was steady and you had a close circle of friends, you couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. When you were offered a position at the US embassy in Colombia, you shocked everyone, yourself included, when you took the position without a moment’s hesitation. 

You were only half surprised when you walked into the embassy building on your first official day and crashed right into Javier, literally colliding with the man from your past as you scrambled to find your new office.

“I heard you might be coming down,” he said with a smirk and without missing a beat, “Happy to see the rumors were true.”

You couldn’t help but return the smile, happy to find a familiar face amongst unfamiliar surroundings. You were both older and it showed; you could see it etched into his handsome features, felt it in your tired bones. The realities of the job had worn down the bright-eyed kids you were at the academy into hardened agents.

“Happy to be here, Agent Peña,” you shot back with a wink, suddenly feeling much more confident despite your disorientation.

“Follow me, chiquita.”

How could you resist?

… . ... 

Javier resumed his flirting with you as if no time had passed, as if you weren’t his colleague and partner, as if he wasn’t sleeping with half the available women in Bogota. You played along with his game even as you felt your feelings for the man blossom into something new and dangerous.

Still, the professional in you had managed to hold yourself together well enough. At least you did until everything came to an unavoidable crescendo one fateful night almost a year after your arrival in Colombia. You’d had a frightfully close call during a raid on some low-level sicarios hiding out in Medellin. The kind of near miss that made your whole past flash before your eyes and made you rethink your present and future.

Javi was standing close to you, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as you both fought to steady your breathing post-shoot out. He scanned you for injuries with his deep brown eyes, closely inspecting the cut on your cheek with a gentle prodding fingertip. He was remarkably unscathed save for the mental scarring of narrowly missing a bullet meant for his skull. 

You weren’t sure whether it was the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins or the thought of him almost dying that propelled you forward as you cupped his face between your still shaking hands and kissed him. It wasn’t some chaste, teasing peck like before. It was a needy, messy melding of mouths. He reciprocated immediately and eagerly, pulling you flush against him despite the awkwardness of your bullet proof vests. It was everything you didn’t know you’d been waiting for all those years.

... . ...

A few months later, you found yourself sitting in a dimly lit bar not far from the embassy. That day had been stressful, to say the very least. Murphy, ever the optimist, at least when compared to Peña’s special brand of skepticism, had suggested drinks after leaving the office, inviting both you and Javier. While your illicit office romance was still very much a secret, Murphy definitely knew. Javi wasn’t shy about undressing you with his eyes from his desk across from yours, especially now that he knew what was underneath your pantsuits, and your witty remarks to his advances held a lot less bite than they did before.

You tried but failed to drown your frustrations with tequila and polite conversation with Steve and Connie, but by your third drink it was clear you needed something stronger. And from the way Javier’s dark eyes found yours over the rim of his glass and across the bar top, he shared your sentiment.

If you couldn’t drink away your problems, maybe you could fuck them out of your system.

Which is how you ended up back at your apartment an hour later, stark naked and straddling Javier’s lap as you rode him as fast and hard as your shaking legs would allow. 

The closer you got to your climax, the more your steady rhythm faltered. “Hey, I got you, hermosa,” he said, and your eyes snapped open. He started to thrust up, taking over for you. “Touch yourself. Cum all over this cock.”

Your fingers found your clit, just as he’d told you to, and with a few well-timed strokes you were coming hard, unraveling on top of him. Your body went completely limp, with only his hands, one on your hip and the other grabbing at your breast, to hold you upright. You felt yourself clenching around his thick length as you rode out your orgasm and he spat out a string of intelligible curses in Spanish.

“Where? Where, baby?” he said through gritted teeth.

You released yourself from his grasp and knelt between his legs, taking him into your mouth completely. A few more errant thrusts and you were swallowing around him, taking every drop he gave you. When you pulled off, you opened your mouth to show him it was all gone.

“Fuck you’re perfect,” he mumbled, taking your face between his hands and kissing you obscenely. He pulled you back up his body, never breaking the kiss, to lay next to him. You giggled as he continued to kiss you through ragged breaths while he came down from his own release. His greedy hands still roamed your body, kneading the soft flesh of your thighs and ass. “So fucking perfect, hermosa.”

You smiled into his kiss, basking in the afterglow and feeling something akin to actual happiness. Something you’d long thought was out of reach for someone in your line of work. Everything just felt better with Javi. He made your life better, made you better. Even when the world seemed to be crashing down around you. Even when catching Escobar seemed like an impossible task.  

You wanted to come home to this, to him, every damn day and he deserved to know just how much he meant to you after all these years. Those very words were overwhelming you, begging to be spoken into existence.

“I’m in love with you,” you said against his lips. You felt him still beneath you and you pulled away just enough to look him in the eye, wanting him to see that you truly mean what you were saying. You needed him to know it wasn’t some post-orgasmic slip of the tongue. It was real. “You don’t have to say it back. I know you probably don’t even want to hear it, I just- I needed to tell you. It was suffocating me not to tell you. I love you, Javi.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t so much as blink. Usually you could read him easily, his ever-expressive eyes always betrayed his emotions, but that night his face gave nothing away. The only indication that he heard you and was contemplating your words was the gnashing of his jaw as he ground his teeth.

Finally, he placed a firm hand on your cheek, bringing you closer so he could press his lips to your temple. He forwent his usual cigarette to lay with you, settling you firmly against his chest. 

His reaction startled you; it certainly wasn’t what you were expecting. You doubted he felt the same, and part of you thought he might run out of the apartment or even throw a few curses your way for shattering what was supposed to be a casual arrangement. His silence and the way he cradled you to his chest was more than a little confusing.

Eventually your racing thoughts lulled, and you started to drift off to sleep, allowing yourself to fantasize that he might stay the whole night with you. That you might at least get the luxury of waking up next to him in the morning, warm golden sunlight streaming in through your thin curtains to bathe his tanned skin like you’d always imagined. 

Instead, he slipped out from beneath your sheets, gathered his clothes strewn about your room, and quietly left.

You laid there for a while after that, stomach turning as you watched the red numbers of your alarm clock rise steadily, signaling the coming dawn, and you replayed the night in your mind. You didn’t regret what you said. No, you’d learned from your past heartbreaks that being open and vulnerable was the only way to be true to yourself. As hard as that was sometimes. You knew you were taking things in a direction he never wanted to go, but it was stifling to remain standing at the proverbial crossroads of loving him silently or never speaking your truth. It was a relief to say those three little, weighty words out loud. Still, you wracked your brain trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind his actions. He hadn’t said another word the rest of the night, but he’d stayed.

Until he hadn’t. In the end he left you without so much as a goodbye. As you frustratedly buried your face into your pillow and willed yourself to fall asleep, you wondered if that was the last night you’d ever spend with him, if your confession would drive him away forever.

... . ...

Spanish Translations

Chiquita: little girl

Hermosa: beautiful

… . ...

Thanks for reading!

[galacticidiots]

AUs,AUs...how about either a Regency AU or a Victorian AU, if either of those strike your interest? (Or any other historical period, if not.)

Anonymous asked: Fake dating AU (I’m combining these two prompts, I hope you don’t mind!)

.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. 

Less universally acknowledged is that a single woman in possession of a fortune just wants to be left alone to enjoy it, without a husband to contend with. 

That is why, when presented with the opportunity, Lord Solo, Duke of Alderaan and Lady Palpatine, heiress of Exegol Park and owner of half of Sithshire, plotted a scheme — mutually beneficial, if not altogether proper by the standards of polite society — and began a fake courtship, essentially binding themselves to each other, with the sole purpose of appearing unavailable to other suitors. 

For Ben, it was a means to escape his lady mother’s loathsome reminders that he must marry; for Rey, it was a way for her to go on enjoying life as an unmarried woman, free to do as she pleased. 

And even though they both prized themselves on their wit and intellect, neither accounted for a most unexpected turn of events: that their pretend feelings would, slowly but surely, become real.

.

They met at a ball, because every story worth telling has its start among the swishing of skirts of ladies wearing expensive chiffon and the passing around of imported cigars by gentleman in elegantly tied cravats.

Lord Solo, recently returned from a tour of Europe where his reputation as a rake and a fiend only served to bolster his standing in Coruscant’s society, was the reason for every lady’s giggle and blush. All, except for one - Lady Rey, who herself was used to being the topic of conversation at every social gathering. As one of the most eligible young ladies of marriageable age, her resistance to being seen as little more than a trophy to be won by one of the men in her social circle was first met with surprise, then with scorn and finally with antipathy. 

She had heard all about him through her cousin Rose, who dedicated more time to the Society Pages than to her studies. He intrigued her, she could admit as much - a man of his social standing, with his fortune, was certainly allowed his eccentricities, but Lord Ben Solo had always appeared, at least to Rey’s well trained eye, to be resolutely against any and all societal rules of decorum. It mattered little she could relate to his familial woes - well known and extensively documented in every issue of the Society Pages - because even though they were both products of complicated families, they were complete and total opposites.

Which is why she is quite taken aback when Lord Solo seeked her out at the ball, just when she had managed to flee from yet another encounter with a boorish bachelor and his tenacious mamma.

“Would you like a respite?” His voice startled her.

“A respite?” she echoed. He nodded, a bemused smile gracing his features, which even she had to admit were handsome. 

“You seem to be hiding from every gentleman in attendance.”

“I’ll remind you, your grace, that you are also a gentleman in attendance.” 

Lord Solo shook his head. “That’s debatable, I’m afraid - the gentleman part, at least. And I meant a respite from the party. It seems we have both grown bored of it.”

“And here I thought the weak lemonade and ratafia would be right to your taste.”

“Not quite,” he said, ignoring her sarcasm. 

“Well, you’re right on both accounts,” she conceded. “I have grown bored of this dreadful music and I am currently hiding from Lord Herrington and his frightfully heavy feet.”

Ben’s laugh was soft and low. “I believe you.” His appraising gaze weighed on her. “But surely one of them must suit your fancy. Enough to marry, perhaps?”

He was teetering on the edge of impoliteness and he knew it; a gentleman should never be so forward with a lady. And yet there was something about her that made him press on, that made him desperate to know more about her.

“I will never marry,” she said decisively, her tone final, almost like she was expecting to have to defend herself to him.

Ben was unable to hide his shock. “No?”

“Not if I can help it. Why should I give up my freedom?”

He didn’t know what he expected from Lady Palpatine, but this was surely not it. 

“And you, your grace?” she asks, jutting her stubborn little chin. Her profile waas elegant and regal and Ben could see why so many men rushed to prostrate themselves at her feet. He’d seen it happen right before his eyes, thrice that evening alone. “Do you want to get married?”

“I don’t.”

Rey scoffed. “You think you don’t. All men think they don’t, but you will.”

“No,” he replied. “I truly won’t.”

Rey balked. “What about your title? If you don’t marry and sire an heir, it will expire.” 

“Let my cousins take it, I don’t want it.”

She was at a loss for words. Could it be that they weren’t so different after all? He would never marry, and he was free to come and go as he pleased. That was all she wanted for her own life. 

Suddenly, Lord Ben Solo didn’t seem quite the conceited rake she made him out to be.

He eyed her speculatively. “Miss Palpatine, I have a proposal for you.”

Rey grinned, curious. “Go on.” 

.

And so it was agreed - Ben would take time out of his schedule of appearing busy and avoiding his family to call on Rey at her home, fiendishly expensive tulips in hand, to pretend to woo and court her and decidedly scare off any young bachelor who had the misfortune of assuming he could try to win Miss Palpatine’s affections. She in turn would have to do very little; by indulging his visits and being seen taking a turn around the park with him, she would put a stop to Lady Leia’s matchmaking  - which would, in turn, decrease the number of headaches she caused her son. 

. 

“I can’t remember the last time I conversed with someone with such obvious good sense.” 

They had walked the length of Jansaari Park together - Rose, their unwitting chaperone, a few steps behind. Conversation flowed easily between them. So easily, in fact, that their walks had turned into a daily affair. 

“You must not think very highly of your usual company, then.”

“No,” he mused. “I think it's just you, really.”

Rey frowned. “What about me?”

“You’re… quite spectacular, Miss Palpatine.” His words were almost hushed. He seemed to regret saying them, for he rushed to correct himself. “What I mean is, I-... I take great pleasure in your company.”

It was Rey’s turn to blush. “Thank you, your grace.”

“Ben, please.” His smile was coy. “Just Ben.”

They carried on walking, silence settling comfortably between them. 

“What I meant, earlier, is that you seem to know what you want out of life.” He inclined his head graciously. “I admire that.”

“Do you know what you want?”

He took some time to ponder her words, gazing out at the sprawling field ahead. “I made some decisions when I was younger. I hope to live my life according to those vows.”

Rey respected that. She recognized in him the same values, the same hopes and dreams, the same ideals she herself treasured. Not for the first time, she had to make room in her head for this new version of Lord Solo - Ben - that she was getting to know, little by little, every day. 

. 

Their daily walks became daily calls and then biweekly trips to the theatre. Soon enough, they became the talk of town - how Lord Solo and Lady Rey could never be seen more than two feet apart. 

The Society Pages betted on a spring wedding. 

.

His proposal, when it came, wasn’t the most gracious or the most eloquent. 

“Rey,” he started, and she knew what was coming, could feel it in her bones and in her heart. 

“You know I never wanted any of this. I didn’t want a wife, or a family and I definitely didn’t want to fall in love-”

“That’s not terribly romantic,” she interrupted with an amused huff. 

“It’s the truth,” he shrugged. “But you changed all of that. You came into my life and changed it all for the better and I…” 

He swallowed thickly. Patience had never been Rey’s strongest suit, but she made herself wait for him to finish, needing to hear him say it. 

“I love you.” His eyes brimmed with unshed tears and it pierced Rey to her very soul. “Desperately. Because it’s impossible not to love you.”

She captured his mouth with a kiss and melted into his arms.

The answer, predictably, was yes.

[ultsoobins]

New Rules - CSB

requested:

no

notes:

soobin x producer!reader

angsty, ends up fluffy, please read i can’t really explain this fic... might be deserving of a part 2... they’re slightly aged up

2.5k words

summary:

it’s 3 am and neither of you have ever been this vulnerable before. the sentiment is new but the feelings are not

you hear your studio’s door click open, and before you even turn around it’s obvious who it is. the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of your mouth, but you do your best to suppress your facial features as you swing around in your office chair, catching soobin as he sheds his jacket and hangs it on the coat hook you have at the entrance to your room. one he’s done, he shifts his things around so in one hand, he holds the studio key you’d gifted him at the beginning of your friendship. in the other is a convenience store bag with what has to be ramen.

he finally looks up, catching your gaze. his smile is immediate, and you finally let yours take over your features as well. you watch as he slips the keys into his back pocket and double checks to make sure the door is locked before setting the food down on the carpeted floor. once he straightens up, his smile softens. you push yourself gently out of your chair and onto your feet.

soobin opens his arms wide, and you rush into them, the force of your body against his sending him stumbling back a step in surprise. he catches both his and your balance quickly, however, and you’re glad he’d had the foresight of putting the ramen further away from where he’s standing. his arms encircle you naturally, his large hands travelling up and down the expanse of your back soothingly, in the way you’re both used to.

“rough week?” he asks, voice muffled in your hair. you nod into his chest and hold him tighter, letting all the sighs you’ve been holding in out into his thin sweater. he chuckles and you swear you feel him press his lips against your hairline before you step back, holding him at arm’s length while running your eyes over his features. 

“you haven’t been sleeping,” you finally say, and his smile drops for a split second before coming back to what it always is. soobin prays that you didn’t see his change in expression. it’s already ingrained into your mind. 

“it’s just comeback stuff. you’d think it would get easier the sixth time around,” he says before stepping away as well, bending down to pick up the bag. you lean over slightly to look into it, unsurprised as four cups of ramen and a couple of beers meets your inquisitive glance. 

“i don’t think i can eat two cups,” you point out, and soobin snorts on impulse as he makes his way across the room to your makeshift ‘kitchen’ in the corner of your studio. there’s a portable stove, a mini fridge, and a microwave balanced precariously on top of a stool. he looks back at you as he places the beers on the fridge’s bottom shelf, one eyebrow quirked. you match his mirthful stare evenly.

“three of them are for me,” soobin finally says, breaking eye contact to fill one of the ramen cups with the readily available boiling water in the kettle on your stove. he pops it in the microwave and punches in some numbers before placing the kettle back in its place. you pull two pairs of chopsticks out from a drawer at your desk, and settle into the futon in the corner of your studio. he joins you shortly, sitting on the other end of it as he does. for a moment, it feels frightfully domestic. everything feels just right, as if its as it should be. you wish that were the case. 

you realize that soobin’s waiting for you to speak, his smile gentle and his eyes curved into the barest of crescents. 

“so what’s the reason for your late-night visit, mr. choi?” you finally ask, swinging your legs up to place your feet in his lap. one of his hands goes to automatically keep your feet straight, the other arm already being thrown over the back of the futon. one corner of his mouth turns up, and he tilts his head teasingly.

“do i need one to visit my favorite producer?” 

“at -” you pause, tugging soobin’s wrist in front of your face to check the time on his watch. “3 in the morning? yes, i’d say so. what’s wrong?” your voice softens and your shoulders relax as you ask him again. you don’t let go of his hand. he doesn’t ask you to. the other tightens its grip on your calf. 

after what feels like aeons, soobin’s shoulders slump, muscles loosened. the microwave beeps urgently, but you both ignore it. soobin sighs, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, tugging on some strands subconsciously, a habit he’s developed over the time you’ve known him, though you aren’t wont to point it out. he looks at you, really looks at you, before sighing again. finally, he speaks. 

“you know that recent scandal? where that idol turned out to be dating a childhood best friend? right?” 

“the guy from - yeah, i’ve heard. dispatch was up the company’s ass, it was disgusting how low they went to expose the couple. why? did he leave his group?” you sit up straighter, leaning closer to your friend. his cologne hits you, and you find your shoulders seize up as you realize how good he smells. you try to put it out of your mind. he leans in too on reflex, and you find yourself shifting so you’re closer to him. one of his hands makes its way to the small of your back, keeping you balanced.

soobin is always the one who keeps you stable. he’s your rock. you’ve never told him so. you’re sure you’ll never be able to. 

“no not - no. there hasn’t been any recent news. i don’t even know if they can file a lawsuit. i didn’t bring it up because of him specifically, though…” soobin chews on his lower lip for a moment, inspecting his hands as he does. you wait, breath bated. when he looks back up, his face is almost somber.

you shift closer to him on protective instinct, your thighs now over his lap. both his arms encircle you, and you try not to melt into his warmth. 

“yeah?” you finally prod, voice barely above a whisper. soobin gulps. 

“it’s his situation. it’s - it’s the fact that he’s an idol and has a love life. that he’s both - he has both - at the same time.” soobin’s eyes search your own at this declaration, as if he’s looking for some understanding that isn’t there. you wet your bottom lip with your tongue on instinct, and soobin, not finding what he’s looking for, moves his gaze to your mouth for the briefest of moments before looking away entirely. it feels as if a weight of suspense is crushing you, caving your chest in. it’s as if soobin offers the breath of fresh air you need. you know, however, that he won’t deliver. this is new territory - soobin always has what you need, and vice versa. 

you’ve always completed each other somehow.

“soobin -” you start, only to be cut off immediately by him shaking his head almost frantically. his eyes meet yours again, and you see fear and apprehension within their depths before it’s all overshadowed by worry and by something - something you can’t, won’t, discern. 

‘you’ve never seen love like this in someone’s eyes before,’ your thoughts whisper, openly laughing at your precarious existence. you’re balanced exquisitely between knowledge and ignorance, at the precipice of something more than what you have and what you are, all while you aren’t ready for the upcoming fall. you swallow thickly and ignore the voices in your head, hoping that they’re lying to you for the greater good. 

“what if i’m hypothetically into someone?” soobin finally says, his words spilling out in a rush of air. it suddenly feels hot in your studio. you swallow again, your mouth falling open ever-so-slightly. “what if i’m - what if, hypothetically, i had feelings for a staff member or - or a producer, or something?” 

“hypothetically?” you finally get out, doing your best not to roll the sour word around your mouth over and over again. still, your tongue and lips form it in the ugliest manner possible, causing you to almost choke on the word as you speak it. soobin’s eyes darken in what you’ve come to know as concern, and it suddenly feels as if your lungs have been crushed too. the weight that had been on your chest earlier has done its job. you’ve fallen into the unknown with too great an understanding. 

“hypothetically i - i mean does this staff member -”

“- producer -” soobin interjects hurriedly.

“- producer,” you continue, pausing to gather your thoughts even somewhat haphazardly. “does this producer love you back, even hypothetically?” it’s only after you’ve let the words out that you realize soobin had never used the word ‘love’. by the way his eyes widen, so does he. the weight leaves you breathless entirely. you fixate on the way soobin’s teeth sink into his lower lip once more.

“you tell me,” he finally says, voice soft and laced with vulnerability. in the moment, his 6’1 frame looks the smallest it ever has been. your mouth is dry, and you suddenly wish you’d taken a beer right out of soobin’s hand when he’d walked in. his gaze is trained on you, expectant. you lick your lips once more. 

“hypothetically,” you say, the word harsher than it had been before. the true meaning of what you’re about to say does not escape you. your eyes meet soobin’s once more, and you know that the truth has never been so necessary before. 

“hypothetically, yes. the producer l-” your eyes are welling up, all of a sudden, and you pause to swallow back tears that don’t need to be shed. “the producer loves you back.”

“what if we love each other while my job is - is what it is? what then?” he asks, imploring you to say what he wants you to. neither of you miss the lack of the hypothetical. a tear escapes you, tracking its way down your cheek. soobin reaches a hand up instinctively, pausing with his thumb hovering over your face. he has never been so unsure before. neither have you. 

“we - they - we - we shouldn’t. we shouldn’t,” you gasp out, overwhelmed, before leaning your face into his waiting palm, tears flowing as your feelings wash over you. you curse yourself mentally, knowing that, under normal circumstances, you’d never be so immediately emotional. you’d be so much more cohesive, but it’s a quarter past 3 in the morning, there’s ramen in the microwave and beer in the fridge, you have a half finished track open on your desktop, and you’ve just essentially confessed to the love of your life when he’s one of the few people you should never love at all.

soobin gently swipes tears away as they come before finally drawing you into his chest entirely, pulling your body against his. you feel drops of wetness against your scalp, and you clutch him tighter as you realize that he’s crying, too. your heart aches. the last time you’d seen him cry was when he’d debuted. 

you wager that that was the last time anyone had seen him cry. if you were one to bet, you’d be right. 

“plenty of idols love, right?” he finally mutters into your hair, voice deeper and slightly raspier than it usually is. you strain to hear him before heaving your own shuddering sigh and nodding into his chest. as always, his hands run their route down your back. 

“love their jobs,” you finally say, pulling away but leaving your hands clutching his sweater. “love their fans and - and - and other idols, sometimes. i’ve never heard of an idol falling for someone who works for them.”

“with,” soobin corrects you on instinct, thumbing away a stray tear on your glistening cheek. “not for. we can be the first ones.” 

“we aren’t even dating,” you point out, brow furrowed as you process everything. “how can we be in love?”

“i love you,” soobin says easily, his hands pressing more firmly - and more protectively - into your back. you can feel his fingers shaking against the fabric of your - his, actually - sweatshirt, though, and you can see how heavily his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. he’s gotten better at feigning confidence and ease, you realize. a part of you is insanely proud of him. “i love you.” he repeats, voice slightly steadier, when you say nothing. there’s an unspoken ‘do you love me?’ in the air.

you can’t let him suffer when you’re both stuck at this cliff’s edge together. in your mind, you take another leap of faith.

“i love you too.”

“what do we do?” he finally asks, though only after exhaling heavily. it seems as if neither of you can bear to part from the other now that everything is laid out. you sigh, the last of your tears and gasps leaving your system as you do. 

“i don’t think anyone knows, least of all me,” is all you can find in way of response, and soobin gives a small laugh. you find yourself smiling back at him as naturally as ever. he leans over, pressing his lips to your forehead, and you find his warmth more comforting than anything else ever has been. you find yourself wanting more.

“soobin,” you start, cupping his face in your hands. he leans in, closer and closer until his nose bumps against yours. you smile, moving forward the last centimeter. 

his lips are soft. his palms against your jawline are rough. he tastes like the nearby bakery’s fresh bread and like beer, and you have the suspicion that you’ll find a crushed, empty can in the bottom of the bag he’d brought with him. the moment is over as quick as it had begun, and you both pull away naturally. 

“the ramen’s probably cold by now,” soobin finally breaks the silence, and you can’t help but smack a hand against his chest as he breaks into a grin. 

“you also only warmed one cup, dummy,” you point out, your smile mirroring his.

“figured we’d share,” he throws back at you, and you roll your eyes on impulse before fixing your gaze on his own. your voice is soft when you speak again. 

“are we putting this -” you gesture between your intertwined bodies. “- on hold?” your smile fades even as you ask, and soobin is quick to shake his head no. he leans his forehead against yours in reassurance for a moment before pulling away once more.

“after that kiss? not likely. besides,” he says, gently lifting your legs off of his as he does. he stands up, and you watch as he goes to the fridge. it’s only after he pulls its door open and grabs the two heinekens he’d brought that he continues his thought, closing the door with a well-aimed knee.

“i figured that this should be our first date.”

[lookunderfoot]

For the Sake of Symmetry

Read here on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24008317

Crowley, my dear, I think I may have been just a touch hasty with my response earlier...

…

Crowley, this situation is a veritable cornucopia of demonic opportunity and I must insist that you stay under my close observation.

…

Crowley, we are going to take it from the top and this time you will say your lines properly, yes?

…

Crowley, I really don’t like to use this kind of language, but…but… great mangled pustulent bollocks to blasted COVID-19!

---

 Aziraphale gazed morosely at his telephone and wiped gingersnap crumbs from his chin. This was all right, really. He had reading to do. He had a mildewed Mary Wollstonecraft to salvage. He hadn’t yet gotten the hang of stroopwafel (having run out of caramel on his first attempt, due to an overabundance of taste-testing during construction). There was plenty to fill the time.

It was just that…never, in recent memory, had Crowley given in so quickly. This was what they did, after all – Crowley suggested, Aziraphale refused, Crowley made a counter-offer, Aziraphale allowed himself to be persuaded, and before too long expensive scotch would be enjoyed by all. That had been the routine for thousands of years. Aziraphale liked that routine.

And goodness, one didn’t have to look far to see the loopholes in the objections he’d thrown up. They were occult– ethereal– well, supernatural beings. Neither one of them was going to get sick or pass the virus onto some poor human. There wasn’t a traffic cop in London who could catch Crowley in his Bentley, and Aziraphale had it on only slightly dubious authority (Crowley’s, four daiquiris deep) that demons could travel through phone lines (although when he’d asked Crowley back in the 90s why he didn’t avail himself of this option more often, Crowley had gone pink and mumbled about something called dial-up and incoming calls and “never again”). There were endless ways Crowley could come to see him without technically breaking the lockdown rules.

And what sort of demon dutifully followed a quarantine order? What sort of demon stayed home with his houseplants because he hadn’t the heart to kick humanity when they were already down?

Well. His sort of demon.

Probably best not to think too much about that.

The point was – the point was (here Aziraphale took an aggressive bite of a macaroon) that Crowley couldn’t just go about deviating from their routine with no warning. Aziraphale was part of this Arrangement too, after all. He really ought to be consulted before anything was allowed to change.

Crowley was always changing though. His hair, his clothes, his projects. Just as hard to pin down as his serpentine nature might suggest, throwing himself headlong into the latest that the world had to offer, as fast as humanity could invent something new and sometimes faster, always transforming, always moving.

A tiny sneaking voice from the back of Aziraphale’s mind whispered, too slow.

No. No. Not this time. Not with the world at such a crossroads – again – not when he couldn’t look out a window without feeling the eerie stillness of an empty Soho street, not when the fragility of what they had saved was so devastatingly clear. 

He snatched up the phone, inadvertently dislodging a blueberry scone from the top of a stack beside the receiver and causing a minor avalanche of baked goods, and dialed the only number he knew.

“…what now?” Crowley’s voice was low and a bit muffled.

“Ah, hello. It’s me again. I do hope I didn’t wake you?”

“Nah, ss’fine.” Crowley said. Oh, he had certainly been sleeping. Aziraphale wrung his hands and tried to keep his voice light.

“I just, um, wanted to check in again in case you needed anything. Before your nap.”

“Nope.” Crowley over-annunciated the “p”.

“Ah. Well, good. That’s good. Glad you’re all set.”

“That’s me, all set.”

“All, er, tucked in?”

“Was there anything else you wanted?” Crowley sounded waspish now. Aziraphale blinked, curling the telephone cord around his finger and staring at a profiterole without really seeing it. This wasn’t at all how it was supposed to go. Crowley was supposed to invite himself over again, insinuate himself into Aziraphale’s life as easily as if he had always been meant to be there, with a bottle of expensive wine in his hand and a flippant remark ready on his lips.

“You, ah, you’re sure you want to sleep until July? I’m sure the humans will sort this out in no time, they’re frightfully clever. I wouldn’t want to you to miss anything when it all starts up again.” Aziraphale paused hopefully. Crowley did hate missing things.

“Might make it longer, actually. Heard there might be a second wave in the fall. Might just write off 2020 altogether and give it another go after the new year.”

“Oh, but– but you--” The new year. Impossible. After all they’d– just when Aziraphale was feeling ready to— no, no this could not be. “But there’s a devil’s food cake too!”

“…Come again?”

“There’s a devil’s food cake, you know! It’s meant to be delicious! And chocolate! And…” Aziraphale flailed, “And moist!”

“You know the word moist is one of mine, angel.”

“Ah, right, yes, I’d forgotten.” Aziraphale shredded a croissant mindlessly, leaving flakes all down his waistcoat.

There was a silence. Aziraphale could hear rustling, and without warning his imagination presented him very rapidly with an image of Crowley curled up in bed like a snake. Or perhaps spread out, taking up as much space as he could, as he always seemed to do on the bookshop couch. Or perhaps…

“You have to watch me eat it!” Aziraphale blurted.

A longer silence now.

“Watch you…eat it.”

“The devil’s food cake. I’ve made the angel’s food cake, you see – delicious, so fluffy, like a cloud! – and it just wouldn’t do to have one without the other! For the sake of symmetry, of course.” Aziraphale was definitely babbling now. He stuffed a hazelnut truffle into his mouth to get himself under control.

“Right.” Crowley said, finally. “Symmetry.”

“And you did – you did offer.” Aziraphale said, his voice smaller now.

“I did.” Crowley agreed. “And you said it was against the rules.”

“As it happens… well, I took some time to think and I…you see there’s the cornucopia and…oh, oh bollocks.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley did not sound at all sleepy now. Aziraphale swallowed. So it was a different routine now. A different dance. He had once learned the gavotte, with its high kicks and sashays. What was one step forward? One step, and six thousand years, and the world. 

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale said. “You once told me that it would be easier if we both stayed home.”

“I did…” Crowley said cautiously.

“This is a very appropriate time for that, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Yes…” Still careful.

Aziraphale took a breath.

“Well, then. Please. Come home.”

---

 End note: Devil’s food cake is deeply rich and layered with chocolate ganache that can stick quite easily to angelic fingers. Fortunately, it can be just as easily removed with a serpentine tongue. This was only the first of the discoveries made that night in a Soho bookshop.

[thatfeanorian]

to the anon who asked for this one: ahhhh, I am so sorry I lost your ask!! it was posted earlier but somehow tumblr lost it, so I’m posting it again...

Anyways, here you go, 34 for the kidnap family

From this meme, send me a number and character(s) if you want one!

“I might never get another chance to say this,” the voice is quick and urgent through the heavy door, the words whispered, but Elrond —who has not been able to sleep at all since their arrival in the cold fortress three days ago— can hear every word in the heavy silence.

“But Maitimo, shut up. Think about them. We have… we have caused so much death and have lost so much. Don’t you think that maybe just this once we could stand to gain a little bit too?” The sound of footsteps stops and Elrond recognizes the harsh barking laughter of The Fëanorian, tall and red-haired with a face so frightfully scarred that at first Elrond did not even think he was an elf.

“What would we gain, Macalaurë? Two more mouths to feed? Someone else to rope into the eventual fate of painful death and suffering? No. It is better they are kept as hostages and nothing more. When Elwing comes back—“

“Elwing is not coming back, Maitimo. She isn’t. You saw her as clearly as I did. The jewel mattered more than her own sons, and if you don’t remember what that feels like than my name is not Macalaurë.” There is an odd shuffling, and Elrond shrinks back into his bed,

“It isn’t. Your name is Maglor. That was the first thing they stole from us. Our names, and now a jewel we will never get back.” He recognizes these names, even if at first the ones they used (Maitimo and Macalaurë do not even mean anything as far as he knows) were foreign to him. Maglor is a Fëanorian. Not The Fëanorian with his scary angry eyes and the stump of an arm that lifted him onto his horse when they travelled for endless hungry days across the cold land, but a Fëanorian none the less. Elwing is…

“Nana?” He whines, unable to control the sound, and whatever conversation might have continued halts. She is gone? She is not coming back?  Elrond doesn’t know how the Fëanorians know it, but they must. He has never heard them lie before, even if the lies would make others feel better.

It is always the truth, the blunt, painful, honest truth. His mother is not coming back.

“You see?” The Fëanorian’s voice hisses, low and angry, “What good would we do them, their mother’s pursuers, the ones who forced her off that cliff. I cannot believe, Macalaurë, that you are truly deluded enough to hope you might give them some comfort.” The other voice, Maglor’s voice, answers

“Someone has too. Clearly, their mother was too busy with the light of a forgotten world to be anything more than a selfish coward.”

“And we are any different? Oathbound and doomed? They provide no advantage over the enemy, and if Elwing will not come for them, they must be disposed of.” Another whimper leaves Elrond’s mouth involuntarily and he tugs the thick blankets up over his head, trying to block out the words.

When The Fëanorian disposes of people, it has always (in his limited experience) been bloody and Elrond has never seen those people move again. He does not want to be disposed of. Outside, one pair of feet start up again, heavy uneven steps that recede into the eery silence too quickly.

The lock on the door clicks and Elrond shivers beneath the covers, eyes squeezed shut and little fists clenched against his chest, but there is no metal whisper, only the sound of feet crossing the floor, and then a gentle hand carding through his hair,

“I know you are awake, little one.” Maglor’s voice is a soft melodious whisper Elrond does not recognize at all, and he opens his eyes in surprise, too scared and to desperate to move away from the affectionate gesture,

“Please do not be frightened. We —my brother and I— mean you no harm. You are safe here.” He promises, his calm voice soothing, settling a relaxed buzz over the raging fear Elrond had felt just seconds before. Still, he sniffs loudly, breaking the spell of silence that seems to hang over the fortress at night in a way even Maglor’s and The Fëanorian’s voices did not.

“I don’t want to be ‘sposed of.” He pleads, his fingers curling up in the covers, and Maglor lets out a long sigh, continuing his delicate massage of Elrond’s messy head.

“You will not be. Not as long as I am here. You and your brother are a gift to our people, a hope and a future. No one will lay a finger on you, however much my brother may threaten.” The soothing undercurrent of his voice makes Elrond sleepy, and he yawns, curling more comfortably in his bed and feeling peaceful for perhaps the first time since his arrival. It may not be a real assurance of anything, yet Elrond has never heard the Fëanorian’s lie and he somehow feels that the gentle light in Maglor’s eyes (so much softer and more welcoming than those of The Fëanorian’s) is truthful.

His hand in Elrond’s hair is careful and rhythmic, and he is humming softly, a simple toon that sounds much older than the lullabies Elrond’s mother used to sing.

As the twin (he is not sure which) falls back into dreams, Maglor stands, rubbing his eyes and attempting to understand why, of all times, this is the moment he has chosen to cry. The little face is so small, so innocent and clear, so full of potential.

“I might never get another chance to say this,” he whispers, vowing silently to himself that this oath —if no other— he will fulfil,

“But I will protect you. Both of you.”

[catsafarithewriter]

“Leave it to you to befriend some sort of wolf spirit.” - spoken to Haru, maybe a Mononoke-crossover or inspired situation?.

A/N: Princess Mononoke is a beautifully-crafted story, with complex motivations and entangled characters and gorgeous world-building, and now I’m going to throw all that aside so Haru can pet a wolf. Yes, I’m very pleased with myself. This fic is super short, only 800 words, but I just couldn’t resist that ending. Enjoy! 

x

One should, Baron was rapidly discovering, never underestimate the human capacity to spy an apex predator and immediately desire to pet it. 

Nor underestimate, he mentally added, the number of apex predators that loved to be petted. 

“We should tell her,” Toto said. 

“That’s she’s currently cooing over the very spirit that has been disrupting the supply route and attacking people?” Baron asked. “No. No, I think we should save that particular little discussion until after she’s done burying her head into its fur. Maybe when she’s not in immediate snacking range.”

“Good point.”

They watched on and tried not to wince as Haru ruffled the giantwhite wolf’s muzzle with delighted cries of “Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy!”

The wolf, at least, seemed equally delighted by the attention, and returned the affection by rolling onto its back with a happy whine. 

“Unbelievable,” Muta said. “Trust Chicky to befriend some sort of wolf spirit.”

“It really is… rather unbelievable,” Baron agreed. 

“Ya turn yer back on her for five minutes…”

“Hey, Baron! Toto! Come say hello! You too, Muta!”

The rest of the Bureau froze at the invitation, three identical overly-bright smiles hiding their horror. From the corner of his beak, Toto whispered, “So what’s the plan, Baron? We’re not actually going to go near that spirit, are we?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Baron whispered back. 

“It’s been terrorising Irontown for months!”

“And Haru is currently rubbing its belly,” Baron murmured. “So let’s not raise any cause for alarm.” 

“What are you whispering for?” Haru called. “I know he’s a wolf, but he’s a big softie, really.” She paused, and for a heart-stopping moment, Baron feared she had finally put together the stories of vengeful spirits and the oversized dog she was petting, but then she said in hushed tones, “Is this because you’re cats? Is this a cat-dog thing? I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it–”

Baron swept in, despite the hissed protests of the rest of the Bureau, and pretended that all his hackles weren’t rising. Thank goodness for the collar of his jacket hiding it. “It’s no problem, Haru. It’s simply that your newfound friend is… rather on the the intimidating side.”

“He’s adorable is what he is. Aren’t you? Aren’t you adorable?” she cooed and the wolf spirit whined again in agreement. “So, any developments on the case?” she asked Baron’s way. “The townsfolk didn’t give much description except in the way of ‘giant scary spirit monsters’ and, to be honest, I’m not sure how good we’d be at handling ‘giant scary spirit monsters’ if they’re not friendly.” She gave the wolf another pet.

“We’re still working on it,” Baron said, trying not to stare. There were times that having a human as part of the Bureau was an advantage, and other times it was a disadvantage, and Baron wasn’t sure which way Lady Luck was swinging today. “Perhaps we should move on and find some answers.”

“Sure, and we’re bringing our new friend along.”

Keep smiling, Baron reminded himself. No need to panic. 

Gently, but with a firm grip, he steered Haru away from the wolf. The creature whined and rolled over to stare balefully as his new best friend stepped away. 

“Haru,” Baron said, quietly and calmly but with a good dose of this-is-important tone added, “what do you think a giant scary spirit monster looks like?”

She frowned. “Is this a trick question?”

“It is frightfully sincere.”

She stared at him, and then at Muta and Toto who were halfway across the clearing and looked like they were expecting the sky to fall on their heads. Baron saw the lightbulb spark above her head. “Oh. Oh, you think he’s the spirit we’re looking for? That’s why you’re all being so weird?”

“Cautious,” Toto amended. “That’s why we’re being cautious.”

Haru laughed, which was pretty low down on Baron’s list of approved responses to discovering one was in mortal peril, in his experience, and it didn’t even have the edge of hysteria. “He’s not the spirit that’s been attacking Irontown–”

“Haru, he’s a giant spirit wolf–”

“I had noticed.”

“You can’t be sure–”

“Yes I can.”

“How?”

There was a monstrous howl, the kind that movie-makers only dreamed of; the type that sent small earthquakes down the spine and battle-hardened warriors to reconsider their life choices and apex predators to sympathise with their prey. It was, also, very, very close. 

A colossal white wolf padded into the clearing, and Baron realised he had been too swift in dubbing the first creature as giant.

Haru smiled. “Because his mother is who we’re looking for.”